giving the dials a spin for no good reason, as if I cared whether anyone got through here that wasn’t supposed to.
Charley turned south in the direction of Dead River Plantation. Even in broad daylight, this was a desolate stretch of road. How much creepier it must’ve seemed to Jonathan Shipman. I could easily imagine his emotional state, sitting in the police cruiser, having faced down a crazed pack of Maine rednecks, the eagerness he must have felt to escape these dark woods and see the bright lights of the Sugarloaf Mountain Hotel-civilization and safety in the form of luxury condominiums and an eighteen-hole golf course.
But he never made it out. Neither did Bill Brodeur.
I thought of my sergeant, Kathy Frost, speeding up here, propelled by anger. She was going to arrive at the Flagstaff town office and find Charley and me missing. Why was she so intent upon rescuing my doomed career? Didn’t she understand it was too late?
We crested a hill where the roadside pines and maples fell away and you could see the verdant farms along the Dead River. At the very top of the rise was a wood-frame structure-like a false-fronted saloon out of the Wild West, complete with a porch gallery and a watering trough in which were planted a few struggling geraniums. A big sign fastened on the roof proclaimed: NATANIS TRADING POST. What caught my eye, though, was the wooden Indian about twelve feet tall, rough-carved and cartoonishly painted, that loomed at the edge of the parking lot.
“There’s the FBI,” said Charley.
“FBI?”
“Fucking Big Indian.”
Natanis, I remembered, was the legendary Wabanaki Indian-the last of the massacred St. Francis tribe-who guided Benedict Arnold and his troops up the Chain of Ponds and across the Height of Land into Quebec.
Nice monument, I thought.
I searched for the barn behind the trading post and saw it standing off to one side, a chocolate-colored structure with a window where the hayloft should have been and a rickety external staircase going up to the top floor. There was no vehicle outside, though.
“Looks like Truman’s not home,” said Charley. “I guess we’re out of luck.”
“I want to meet this Vernon Tripp.”
Charley gave me a long look. “That might not be such a good idea.”
“I want to meet him.” I tugged loose my seat belt knot and opened the door.
“He’s a volatile character.”
“Yeah? Well, people say I am, too.”
There were flyers posted on the door of the trading post, pieces of colored paper with angry words in big type- SPORTSMEN! PROTECT YOUR RIGHTS! RESIST CORPORATE TERRORISM! DON’T TREAD ON U.S.! No wonder Jonathan Shipman wanted a police escort.
The inside of the Natanis Trading Post looked like a parody of an old-time North Woods general store. Deer antlers and animal pelts hung from pegs along the walls. There were dusty racks of camping and trapping supplies mixed with lots of cheap souvenirs.
Mostly, though, there were guns. I saw rifles and shotguns locked into wall racks and an L-shaped glass counter containing handguns and spotting scopes and ivory-handled buck knives. Behind this counter a squat man with a scarred, shaved head and a dark goatee stood talking to a customer. He looked just the same as he had two years ago, when my dad spoke with him at the Dead River Inn.
“Hi there, Vernon!” said Charley.
Tripp’s expression was none too friendly. “What’s this-a raid?”
“Good afternoon to you, too.”
“Government agents aren’t welcome in my store.”
“You know I’m retired.”
The customer who had been talking to Tripp slipped out the door. I’d seen his eyes get all shifty as soon as he heard the words
“I believe you just cost me a sale, Officer,” said Tripp. He had a strangely affected way of speaking, sort of a talk radio host’s grandiloquence and baritone. Not what I expected from the shaved and tattooed exterior.
“Doubtful,” said Charley. “Now why are you in such a sour mood, anyhow? I’d thought you’d be the happiest man in Flagstaff these days.”
“And why’s that?” He puffed his chest as he spoke and tucked his chin into his neck. I imagined him watching cable news in the dark and speechifying back at the set as if he were another pundit.
“With Jack Bowditch on the run, you’re in the clear again. You should be celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Tripp held up his hands, palms out. Raw marks encircled his wrists. “Look at what that bunghole McKeen did to me. I should sue him for false arrest and brutality. All hail the mighty police state.”
“Brutality? You threatened Jonathan Shipman-”
“Please.”
“You threatened him. I heard you, and so did two hundred other folks. Then half an hour later, you report a double homicide on your CB. The first cop on the scene finds you standing there with a loaded weapon in your pocket and three more in your truck. Now how do you expect him to react?”
“Point one, I have a concealed carry permit. And there were other people there, too.”
“But you were the first one on the scene, before anyone else-you said so yourself.”
“I’m a patriotic citizen who reported a crime. I deserved a medal, not shackles.”
“That’s only because you were chasing them. You were still pissed off. You were waiting for Shipman and Brodeur to come out, and when they didn’t, you realized they’d gone off the back way. So you gave chase.”
I stepped forward, unable to keep my mouth shut another second. “You mean he found the bodies?”
Tripp glared at me. “Who’s the greenhorn?”
“Mike Bowditch,” I said.
“As in Jack Bowditch’s son?”
“That’s right.”
“Mike’s with the Maine Warden Service,” explained Charley.
“Well, isn’t that ironic?” To my surprise, Tripp suddenly laughed, revealing a mouth full of amalgam fillings. “Jack the Poacher’s son is a game warden. He sure kept that a secret.”
“He told me about you, though,” I said.
“Is that so?”
“We almost met before. Two years ago at the Dead River Inn. You were drinking with him at the bar when I came in. He called you a paranoid militia freak.”
Tripp didn’t take the bait. “He’s called me worse to my face.”
“You’re saying there’s no bad blood between you?”
“Your old man can be quite a bastard when he’s smashed, but he’s a hero, in my book. As far as I’m concerned he deserves a gold star for what he did to that worm Shipman.”
“You’re forgetting a police officer was also killed,” said Charley.
“I’m not forgetting.”
“So why are you smiling?”
The humor was gone from Tripp’s expression as fast as it appeared. He began stroking his goatee. “It was unfortunate that deputy got shot. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“We can see you’re all broken up about it,” I said. “So the police arrested you when they found you at the scene. How come that didn’t make the papers?”
“Two reasons-one, they let me go without charging me, and two, they had no evidence against me.” Tripp backed up against a rack of guns and began squeezing his fists. “What’s with the third-rate third degree, Charley? You’re not a warden anymore. You’re just a lowly leaseholder like me. Last I heard, you were going to lose that nice camp. I’d think you’d be glad Wendigo got vamoosed.”
Something moved past the barred window at the side of the building. I heard an engine die and a door slam shut.
“Truman’s home,” said Charley.
“What do you want with my tenant?” asked Tripp.
