Widowmaker (16 page)

“My name's Mike,” I said.

“Mink.”

“I don't meet many people with that name.”

“I like to stand out.”

I knew the answer to my next question. “Did you grow up around here?”

“Nah, man. I'm from Jersey. What kind of antique vehicle is this? It rides rougher than Farmer Brown's tractor.”

“It's an International Harvester Scout Two.” I resisted telling him how much I had paid for the custom-restored four-by-four. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why stop now?” he said with a laugh.

“I'm looking for a business around here, but I can't seem to find it. Can you give me directions?”

“That depends. Where do you want to go?”

“Don Foss Logging,” I said. “Ever heard of it?”

He unsnapped his seat belt. “Stop the vehicle!”

I hit the brakes so hard, we began to slide. I wasn't sure what I should focus on: keeping the Scout from crashing into a telephone pole or protecting myself from the suddenly frantic man to my right.

I steered in the direction of the skid. “Hey, man. It's all right. Don't get upset.”

“I want to get out.”

“I'm going to let you out—as soon as we stop sliding.”

After a few tense seconds, the Scout came to rest with the passenger side pressed against a snowbank. Mink jerked the handle up and down and threw his shoulder against the door. I heard metal scrape against ice as he tried to pry it open, and groaned internally at the thought of my damaged paint.

“Stop! Let me pull forward so you can get out.”

He whipped his furry head around. Bright tears sparkled in his eyes. His voice had risen to a higher pitch. “It's not funny, you know? Playing jokes on people.”

“I'm not playing a joke on you.”

His mouth curled in disgust, and he slunk against the door. “I'm not going to blow you, if that's what you're after. I don't go that way.”

“What?”

His nostrils flared with disgust. “I'm not a freaking pervert. I am not like those creeps who live at Foss's.”

“Mink?”

“I'm a law-abiding citizen!”

“Mink?”

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and squared his luxuriant hat on his head. “What?”

“This is all a misunderstanding,” I said. “I just heard you needed a ride. I thought you might be able to give me directions. I don't know anything about you, and I don't care. I just need directions to Foss's.”

The windshield wipers beat steadily back and forth.

“Why do you want to go to that shithole?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“It doesn't matter,” I said.

“Does to me.”

“I'm a game warden.” I opened my wallet and showed him my badge. “There's someone I need to talk to at Foss's.”

He sat up in his seat, but he could still barely see above the dash. “Is it that piece of trash Butera? Because he doesn't live there anymore.”

“So you know where it is?”

“I know where it is.”

“Can you show me on the map?” I reached for the dog-eared DeLorme atlas under my seat. I opened to the page showing this corner of Franklin County.

Mink squinted at the coffee-stained page as if he desperately needed reading glasses. “It would be better if I guided you in person. You won't find it on your own.”

Clearly he hoped to ride along now that he realized I was a law-enforcement officer. He wanted to know who I was looking for, because the Rangeley Lakes region was essentially one big small town, and he was one of its snoops.

“I can't take you along with me,” I said.

He removed his fur hat and shook off some of the melted snow from the pelt. Then he ran his hand through his dyed hair, causing it to stand up. He had the face of a boxer, if there was a division below flyweight. “Why? Will it be dangerous?”

Now who is the one asking invasive questions? I thought.

“I just can't do it,” I said firmly.

He moved his tongue around his mouth so that one cheek bulged, then the other. “All right. You can drop me at my house first. The road to Foss's is just past that. I'll point you where you need to go.”

He snapped his seat belt back into the latch and made himself comfortable for the ride.

 

15

Mink hummed to himself as we drove back down Moose Alley. I didn't recognize the tune, but he carried it well.

“Do you know Charley Stevens?” he asked out of nowhere.

“He's a friend of mine.”

“I figured, since you are both wardens.”

“He's retired now.”

“That makes sense. Charley and his wife, Ora, used to have a place on Flagstaff Pond before Wendigo bought up all that land. Good people.”

It shouldn't have been so surprising. Flagstaff Pond was just down the road from Bigelow, and Charley had been a familiar and friendly presence in the woods around here for decades. I had plenty of misgivings about this character Mink, but if he liked and respected the Stevenses, he couldn't be too bad.

“Do you know their daughter Stacey?” I asked.

“Which one is she? The blonde or the brunette?”

“The brunette.”

“Yeah, I remember her. She's got great eyebrows.”

Those were not the features I personally would have identified as her best, but I supposed her eyebrows might have warranted the compliment.

Now that we had gotten over our initial misunderstanding, Mink seemed eager to chat again. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Bowditch.”

“Oh yeah, I know who you are now. Your dad was a scary guy. He used to come into the Bear's Den when I was washing dishes, and the whole place would go quiet. Even from inside the kitchen, I could hear the dining room go dead.”

It had been a long time since I had felt so defined by my father's reputation. But what had I expected, returning to his old hunting grounds? Jack Bowditch had been infamous, never more than in his last days.

“How did you end up in Kennebago?” I asked. “You said you were from Jersey?”

“South Orange. My dad had a hunting camp in Kennebago. He sent me up here to stay for a while. Wanted to make a man out of me. That was a long time ago. He's dead now. Heart attack. My mom moved up a few years ago. She hates it here, the old bird. Says there's no culture. Personally, I think she's lonely because she's too high-and-mighty to make friends.”

“Do you still work at the Bear's Den?”

He let out a laugh. “That dump? No way. Don't ever eat there. You'll get intestinal parasites.”

I had a bad habit of always asking one question too many. “Does the name Adam Langstrom mean anything to you?”

“The kid who raped the girl at ASA?” He swung his head around, dark eyes opening wide. “Is he the creep you're looking for at Foss's? I'd heard he was living with that freaking crackpot since he got out.”

We drove on for another five minutes without seeing a single vehicle. At no time did my speedometer top thirty miles per hour.

“Do they call you Mink because of the hat?” I asked.

“Nah. My real name is Minkowski. Nathan Minkowski.” He leaned against the dash suddenly. “Take a left here.”

I turned down a wooded camp road, unnamed and unmarked except for two signs at the corner. One was a
HOME FOR SALE
notice with an arrow pointing into the forest. The other said
DEAD END
. My tires made a crunching noise as we left the highway and crept into the woods.

“You actually live up here?” I said.

“Yeah.”

Fortunately, the plow had recently come through. It had scattered a gritty carpet of sand across the woods road to make the going easier.

“Who plows this road for you?” I asked.

“There's a guy who does it,” my passenger said.

Sparsely populated townships like Kennebago, which were part of Maine's Unorganized Territories, did not have public works departments. The handful of people who lived within its boundaries relied on the state to provide municipal services. Most of the North Woods consisted of remote plantations and townships whose residents were effectively serfs under the rule of distant czars.

A hundred yards in, we passed a homestead made up of a single farmhouse and assorted sheds and barns. It had seen better days—half a century earlier. There was a sign out front announcing that this was the property for sale and that the price had been reduced. But no one seemed to be at home.

“Who's your neighbor?” I asked, slowing down.

“Just some mook.”

Densely branched evergreens closed in around us. Snow pillowed the dark boughs and clung tightly to the electric line that stretched from pole to pole overhead: the only indication that anyone else might actually be living farther up in these woods. Little by little, we made our way up a hill, heading east. So far, we had passed only that single house.

I noticed that some of the higher branches had been broken by big trucks coming through. That should have been the tip-off.

We came around a corner and saw the gate with the sign. I read the notice in the glow of my headlights.

PRIVATE PROPERTY

ACCESS BY PERMISSION ONLY

24 HR VIDEO SURVEILLENCE

The sign included a number to call if you wanted someone to come let you onto the property.

“This isn't your house,” I said. “This is Foss's place.”

“Yeah, I shouldn't have fibbed.”

I found myself wishing International Harvester had put ejector seats in their Scout IIs.

The plow had helpfully cleared a turnaround at the gate. I imagined the U-turn was well used by the locals who came here to gawk at the sex-offender colony. I began to reverse direction.

“What are you doing?” Mink asked in alarm.

“Leaving.”

“You don't want to call that number?”

“I'm going to call it,” I said. “But first I'm going to drop you at home—or at the side of the road. I haven't decided which.”

“But we're already here!”

I had been planning on driving home after I had finished with Foss, but it was already getting late. With the snow piling up, the trip was bound to be a nightmare. My head ached, and my stitches ached, and the bruise on my back where Carrie Michaud had tried to impale me ached.

And Mink was right: I was already here.

I snatched my phone from the console and dialed the number visitors were instructed to call.

A recorded voice answered: “Please state your name and the purpose of your visit. If your business with us is legitimate, someone will be at the gate shortly to grant you admittance.”

“This is Mike Bowditch with the Maine Warden Service,” I said. “I would like to speak with Mr. Foss, please.”

I turned off the engine to wait.

“At least I got you here,” Mink said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “You've got to admit you never would've found it without me.”

At first, the snow melted the instant it touched the windshield, but as the warmth ebbed from the truck, a sheer white sheet began to form over the glass.

I kept the phone in my hand, ready for a callback. But none came.

After a while, I turned on the engine again and let the wipers clear away some of the snow. I wanted to be able to see the gate.

“About freaking time,” said my passenger. “My nuggets were starting to go numb.”

I turned off the engine again.

“Oh, come on!” Mink said.

Fifteen minutes passed before we finally saw headlights arcing through the trees. Then an enormous Ford Super Duty came rumbling down the hill to the gate. The driver left the engine running and the headlights blazing as he climbed down out of his oversized vehicle. The glare made it hard to see him clearly, but he appeared to be very large and was wearing a brimmed hat. He also happened to be carrying a shotgun.

I began to reach for the door handle. Mink followed suit. I closed my hand around his collarbone.

“You're staying here,” I told him, tightening my grip. “I'm done kidding around.”

He gave me the familiar exasperated sigh, but he didn't resist.

I stepped out into the falling snow. As the afternoon had waned, the sky had gone from a dull white to a sort of a lavender gray. I walked slowly toward the gate with my arms at my sides.

“Mr. Foss?” I called.

“What can I do for you?” He had a deep and resonant voice.

“My name's Mike Bowditch. I'm a Maine game warden.”

“That's what you said in your message. What can I do for you?”

Don Foss was a big man in every way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a big chest that merged seamlessly into a bigger belly. His head was the size and shape of a basketball. He probably could have throttled a horse with his hands. The only thing small about him was his wispy little mustache.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions about Adam Langstrom, if you don't mind,” I said.

“He's not here.”

“Yes, I know. His probation officer told me.”

“You spoke with Ms. Hawken, then?”

“She told me that Adam has been working for you since being released from prison,” I said. “I wonder if I can come in and you can answer some questions for me.”

“Such as?” The pump shotgun looked like a toy in his enormous hands.

“I'd like to know more about the nature of your facility.”

He let out a booming laugh. “I don't offer tours of my property to strangers. I run a business, not a zoo. You identified yourself as a warden. In what capacity are you acting, exactly?”

“I'm not here as a law-enforcement officer,” I said. “Amber Langstrom is worried about her son and wants him to come back. She asked me to help find him, and I agreed to do so as a personal favor.”

I expected him to ask me for identification. The fact that he hadn't seemed a bad sign.