“Really? What kind of conversation did you two have, anyway? Somehow she seemed to sense that Randall was no longer among the living.”
I tried to keep the guilt from showing on my face. “She stuck me as a perceptive young woman.”
“Perceptive young women don’t climb into bed with drug dealers.”
“She seems like she’s trying to get her act together,” I said.
“If so, that’s a news to me,” said the sheriff. “I just spoke with one of my deputies, and he said he’d been at her house a few times last year, mediating various nocturnal disputes.”
“So what happens now?”
“As soon as my deputy gets here, I’m going back to the jail. The state police detectives are going to want a statement from you. If you want some motherly advice, I’d suggest you get some sleep. You look like hell.”
I had no doubt she was right about my appearance. The adrenaline that had carried me through the night had evaporated from my bloodstream. I would need to dose myself with caffeine just to drive home.
I said good-bye to Sheriff Rhine and then stopped in the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. I decided to call Rivard from my truck and see what was new, but as I left the Skylight Cafe, I came across an unexpected sight.
Lucas Sewall was waiting outside the admittance desk, and I knew at once that the person he was waiting for was me.
“Mister, can you help my ma?” he asked.
“Sure, Lucas. What’s wrong?”
“We’re locked out of the van.” And then he spun around and marched back through the automatic doors and across the parking lot. Puzzled, I followed him.
Jamie was bent over, looking at the snowy asphalt around a gray Toyota Sienna. A cold wind was ruffling the hair around her face.
“Did you lose something?” I asked.
“I can’t find the goddamned key,” she said.
“Did you check inside the hospital?”
“Yes, we checked inside the hospital,” she said, her voice rising. “We checked inside the waiting room and inside the med-surg unit and inside the ladies’ room. We checked all over the goddamned parking lot.”
“Take it easy,” I said.
Lucas watched his mother. He was silent, but he seemed to grow more visibly distraught as Jamie lost her composure. The boy had his notebook tucked inside his orange vest. I saw the yellow corner protruding from the collar. He wrapped his arms across his chest to hold it in place.
“We just want to go home,” she said. “We’re cold and tired, and we just want to go home.”
“I’ll help you look,” I said.
But the keys were nowhere to be found. Finally Jamie Sewall began to sob again, and I felt a compulsion to console her. “How about I give you a lift home, Miss Sewall?”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s no trouble,” I said. “I’m off duty anyway.”
Jamie looked at Lucas. The boy made a show of shivering, but it was a poor acting job on his part.
“OK,” she said hoarsely.
I had to completely rearrange the contents of my patrol truck to make room for passengers. I removed the laptop computer mounted on its adjustable arm in the center console and zipped it into my briefcase, then moved a bunch of extra blankets and a toolbox in which I kept my evidence-collection kit. Somehow I found room for Lucas in the backseat.
His mother sat quietly beside me, looking out the window at the shining landscape. I felt self-conscious. The inside of my truck smelled of stale coffee. I started the engine and idled to the edge of the parking lot.
“So where am I going?” I asked.
“Whitney,” she said without meeting my eyes. “The Machias Road. I’ll tell you where.”
And with that, she fell silent again. She started to chew on a bothersome cuticle. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Lucas was writing in his notebook again.
How could such a bright and alluring woman get involved with a tattooed creep like Randall Cates? Best-case scenario: She was a former addict with lousy taste in men but had sobered up and was seeking to repair her life. Worst-case scenario: She was a pretty little liar who was about five minutes away from a relapse.
We drove for about twenty minutes on greasy back roads until we came to a two-story frame house, set back about a hundred feet from the roadside snowbanks. It had once been white with red shutters, but the clapboards were rotting and the paint had begun to flake. A poorly carpentered ramp-assembled out of two-by-fours, plywood, and asphalt shingles-angled up to the front door. The windows were heavily curtained and dark; they reminded me of an addict’s hollow eyes.
The entire place was snowed in. No plow had cleared the drive; no shovel had liberated the door.
“Do you need a hand shoveling out?” I asked.
She unlocked the door and dropped down to the ground. “No, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“We don’t need anyone’s help. Come on, Lucas.”
Jamie pushed down the passenger seat and the boy slid through the opening. As he did, he gave me the strangest look, and my immediate thought was: That kid just stole something from my truck. I turned around to see what might be missing as his mother slammed the door.
I watched the two of them labor up the snowy driveway, plodding along through snow as deep as the boy’s waist, until they reached the ramp. Then Jamie stopped and looked back at my idling truck. I saw her mutter something to her son and then she came trudging in my direction.
In spite of myself, I felt a buoyant sensation in my chest.
Jamie came around to the driver’s side. I rolled down the window.
“I want to apologize,” she said. “It’s been a bad night. I know you were just trying to be helpful. I’m sorry to be such a royal queen bitch.”
I smiled back at her. “When you’re a game warden, getting yelled at goes with the job,” I said.
“I bet it does.”
“If you want to grab your extra car keys, I can take you back into Machias to get your van.”
She laughed her pretty laugh. “I’ve left my sister alone too long as it is. I got a friend who can drive me later. But thanks for the offer. What’s your name anyway?”
“Bowditch.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your first name.”
“Mike,” I said.
FEBRUARY 14
A game warden came through the hospital door. At first I thought he was a ranger, on account of his uniform, but he says rangers only work in parks. That ain’t the way it is in NORTHWEST PASSAGE.
I wonder if the warden’s the one who found Uncle P.
The game warden comes up to me and says that Ma asked him to check on me. He is tall and has a crew cut and a scar on his head.
I ask him if I can see his gun, and he gives me a lecture about how guns ain’t toys.
He don’t know that I got a rifle! It ain’t mine really, but it will be now if Prester dies. He showed me how to shoot beer cans from the picnic table once, but Ma made him stop.
I ask the warden for money for a Coke, and he gives me the money. Ha!
Then he starts asking me all these questions about Randle, which means Randle’s DEAD, because he ain’t here in the hospital. If he was in jail, they could interrogate him themselves.
Yes!!!
He asks me how I know Randle is a drug lord, but I don’t tell him about the secret stash in the sewing room.
Instead I tell him, “I’m a detective.”
Then Ma comes out of the emergency and she’s crying and crying because she’s seen Uncle Prester.
I guess he ain’t dead.
