Widowmaker (26 page)

The state of Maine doesn't have laws dictating how close a sex offender can live to a school, day-care center, or playground, but I knew that some towns had passed their own ordinances. Whatever statutes Pondicherry might have put into place wouldn't have applied here anyway. Hamlin had no proximate neighbors.

“How long has he been out?” I asked.

“Five months,” Volk said, growing redder. “I have made him my personal project. I come over at all hours. Blast my siren. I want him to know he's being watched. I want him to think I'm a crazy motherfucker who doesn't give a fuck about the law. I want him to have a heart attack from fear.”

The inside of the truck smelled of Volk's sickly wintergreen dip.

“So he's called the Pied Piper because he was a music teacher?” I asked. “Or because of the Hamlin/Hamelin thing.”

Volk seemed confused; I don't think he was familiar with the locale of the German folktale.

“Hamlin wanted those girls to play his skin flute,” he said simply. “That's how the fucker got his name.”

In my career as a law-enforcement officer, I had accompanied regular police on bail-compliance checks, and I'd seen firsthand the damage child molesters can inflict on the most helpless of victims. I had seen horrible things that had torched whatever faith I'd once had in the essential goodness of human beings. So, however much I disliked being made his unwitting accomplice, I wasn't about to rat out Tommy Volk.

Then, three months later, I had heard the news that Peter Hamlin had burned his mother's house down with himself inside. His charred skeleton had been found inside a bedroom closet, of all places. There were no signs that his death had been anything but suicide, and as vicious as Volk could be, I couldn't imagine him plotting such an elaborate and brutal death for the Pied Piper. On the other hand, I had little doubt that the pedophile had felt driven to take his own life.

What I had tried so hard to repress was my emotional response to the fire. Some of it was guilt. I'd wondered if I should have told someone in command about Volk's campaign of harassment. There had also been a sense of relief. I was glad that one evil man, at least, was no longer at large upon the earth. But there was something else, too: a buoyant feeling in my chest. It was satisfaction, I realized.

I had never felt that emotion before at the death of another human being.

 

25

“Do you ever look at the registry?” I asked Pulsifer as we neared the Bigelow crossroads.

He flicked the wipers to clear the windshield of the salt and dirt being splattered on us by every passing vehicle. “The sex offender registry?” he said. “No, but I know where the local predators live, if that's what you're asking. If one of them moves into the area, I hear about it around town. People spend hours on that site, looking to see if they know anyone. It qualifies as a recreational activity up here.”

That hardly surprised me. In my experience, rural people, having few distractions, especially enjoyed prying into one another's business. Without gossips and grudge holders, Maine game wardens would be out of business.

“I've been wondering about Nathan Minkowski,” I said.

For the first time all morning, Pulsifer burst out laughing. “Mink! That's right. You were supposed to tell me about your close encounter.”

“I gave him a ride home yesterday from town.”

“What was he wearing?

I closed my eyes and summoned his image. “Fur hat, lumberman's coat, jeans, pack boots.”

“That makes sense,” Pulsifer said. “Yesterday was an even day.”

An even day? I didn't understand what that meant. “There was something off about him,” I said. “I wondered if he was on the registry or something.”

“Not yet.” Pulsifer turned the steering wheel suddenly in the direction of the village. “Let's see if he's out on display this morning.”

Up ahead was a gas station. It had old-style signs that needed to be changed manually when the price of gasoline rose or fell, and vintage pumps that wouldn't take credit cards. Because it was such a beautiful morning, there were lines of vehicles in both directions. Not many places to fill up in Bigelow, evidently.

“There he is,” said Pulsifer with a broad grin.

I saw a few men pumping gas, and a short blond woman in a fur coat using a squeegee and paper towels to clean a windshield. But no Mink.

Then the realization dropped on me with the force of a Texas hailstone.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Pulsifer swung into the lot and hit the brakes. “I honestly don't know why Erskine puts up with Mink, looking like that. You'd think it would hurt sales to have a cross-dresser standing at your gas pumps all day, offering to clean your windshield for a buck. It's not the kind of thing your average tourist expects to see in Bigelow, Maine. Erskine told me about one old lady who stopped in and asked about the nice blond woman who used to wash windshields. The funniest part was that Mink was standing there the whole time in his men's clothes.”

The gas station owner might have had a tolerant heart, but I was beginning to understand why Mink might have been banned from the general store.

I popped open the door. “I want to say hello.”

Mink had quite the winter wardrobe going: waist-length fur coat, black ski tights, fur-lined boots. His wig was long, blond, parted in the center, and feathered at the ends.

“Mink!” said Pulsifer. “You're looking lovely today.”

“Up yours,” Mink said in his normal deep voice. His cosmetics were, if anything, even more elaborate than his clothes: fake eyelashes, mascara, rouge, scarlet lipstick, layered over a foundation thicker than pancake.

“How's it going, Mink?” I asked.

“Fine until you ass clowns got here.”

The car Mink had been cleaning took the opportunity to drive off. He swung the squeegee back and forth in the same irritated manner a cat flicks its tail.

“How did you get into town this morning?” I asked.

“Walked, same as usual.” I didn't know if he changed his voice with strangers, raised it a couple of registers, but he didn't seem to be actively trying to fool anyone into thinking he was a woman. “I don't get many rides when I dress this way.”

“I thought this was a brave new world,” said Pulsifer. “Isn't transgendered supposed to be the hot new thing?”

“I ain't transgendered.”

“I don't know the politically correct term.”

“I don't give a shit about politics. I wear women's clothes sometimes because I like it. Did you guys just come here to give me the prod? Because I got work to do.” He pointed with the squeegee at the line of cars.

Pulsifer reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar. “This is for the last car.”

Gary could be a true dick when he wanted.

“Go jump in the lake,” Mink said. But he still took the dollar.

I followed Pulsifer into the station, where a graying, bespectacled man stood behind the register.

“Morning, Erskine.”

“It was until five seconds ago,” the owner said.

“Erskine, I want to introduce you to Mike Bowditch. He's a warden down in north Massachusetts.”

“He means southern Maine,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

The old man scowled. “I know who you are.”

He must have been another person my father had made an enemy out of. I could imagine my dad on a bender, driving off from one of those old gas pumps without paying, daring the old man to give chase or call the cops on him.

Pulsifer and I filled Styrofoam cups with coffee and returned to the counter.

“This used to be A. J. Langstrom's station,” Pulsifer said, “before A.J. got sick of his wife's escapades and moved out of state. You ever hear from A.J., Erskine?”

“Why the hell would I?”

“I thought you two might be Facebook friends.”

“Isn't it a little early in the morning to be a pain in the ass, Gary?” Erskine said.

“I was trying to explain to Mike here why you let Mink hang out at your pumps,” said Pulsifer. “Don't you get complaints?”

“Sure I do. But so what? It's my store. I can do what I want.”

“You're a better man than me,” said Pulsifer.

“That goes without saying.” The old guy kept a deadpan expression, but I was beginning to sense that maybe they really didn't dislike each other, but that this was a skit they performed regularly. “I heard Jim Clegg was up at Don Foss's place this morning.”

“Where did you hear that?” Pulsifer asked.

“One of John Cabot's drivers saw his cruiser turn up that road.”

I hadn't considered the idea that Cabot and Foss might have been business rivals, but it made perfect sense; they were both loggers.

Pulsifer took a sip of coffee. “Erskine, you're better than Google when it comes to information around here.”

“I suppose it has something to do with Amber's son?”

“Don't you mean A.J.'s son?”

“I mean exactly what I mean.”

Another belated revelation: Adam's questionable parentage was a topic of conversation. I wondered if anyone had ever fixated on the strong resemblance he bore to Jack Bowditch.

The old man scratched one of his hairy ears. “I don't know who they thought they were fooling, passing that boy off as A.J.'s son all those years. He looks no more like A. J. Langstrom than I look like George Clooney.”

“When was the last time you saw Adam Langstrom around, Erskine?” I asked.

“Last time I saw him was before he went to prison. That prick knows he's not welcome here. I caught him stealing gas once. Can you believe that? Stealing gas from the same store his own ‘father' used to own?”

A woman, dressed from head to toe in expensive Moncler ski apparel and carrying a five-dollar bottle of water, cleared her throat behind us. We paid for our coffee and stepped aside so Erskine could ring up the sale.

“Have a good day, Erskine,” said Pulsifer.

“Yeah, yeah,” said the old man.

We found Mink enjoying a cigarette outside the door. The filter was red with lipstick. He made no secret of having been waiting for us.

“And another thing,” he said.

Pulsifer said, “Mink, have I ever told you how hard it is for us to have a conversation when you're dressed like that?”

“That's your issue,” he said. “So what's this I hear about Langstrom's truck?”

“What did you hear, exactly?” asked Pulsifer.

“I heard someone found it over near the SERE school. The window was busted and there was blood inside.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that report.”

Mink sniffed up a line of clear snot that had begun to run from his nose. “So did he kill someone or did someone kill him?”

“Maybe he just hit a deer,” said Pulsifer, winking at me.

“And it landed in the seat beside him? You dopes don't really believe that.”

“Stranger things have happened. Besides, didn't I hear once you had psychic powers? Maybe you can help Detective Clegg with his investigation.”

“Laugh if you want, but I got a sixth sense about things. My mom is half Roma. That's what Gypsies call other Gypsies.”

“Maybe you should dress as a fortune-teller sometime,” said Pulsifer. “You know, with the red kerchief and the bangles.”

“Go jump in a lake.”

Mink dropped the butt on the wet ground. He smacked his bright lips and readjusted his wig. When the woman in the Moncler ski suit stepped out the door, he wasn't shy about checking out her rear end.

*   *   *

Lauren Pulsifer's Ford Explorer was gone when we arrived back at their farm. She must have let the goats out of the barn, since several of them were making trails through the snowy pasture. They had heavy, hairy coats.

I shaded my eyes with my hand against the sun. “Are those Angoras?”

“Cashmeres. You wouldn't believe what we get for their wool. You sure you don't want a tour of the farm?”

“I should head home.”

Seeing Mink in women's clothes seemed to have lifted his spirits. Either that or his hangover had worn off. He helped me dig out my Scout at least.

“You should call DeFord this morning and tell him you've been up here,” he said, “Didn't he tell you to keep a low profile to help the AAG make a stronger case against that Michaud bitch?”

“Too late for that.”

“You are exceptionally bad at following helpful advice, Bowditch. It's almost a gift.”

“So you've told me.”

As I backed out of the dooryard, he waved like a beauty queen riding by on her float: limp-wristed, with a pasted-on smile. Always the comedian, Pulsifer.

Heading back into town, I turned left at the blinking light and took my second tour of the day through beautiful downtown Bigelow. Mink was back at the gas pumps, but he was too engrossed in his work as a freelance service station attendant to notice me.

Wait until I told Stacey that my hitchhiker had turned out to be the town drag queen. She would insist on us driving up here again to see Mink in the flesh. Stacey was, if anything, a more curious person than I was.

First, she needed to accept my apology, of course. She had given me no guarantees that she would.

I knew that at this very moment she must be up in the Forest Service helicopter. The stubborn woman couldn't take a single day off from work to rest in bed and recover. It took me a few seconds to realize who she reminded me of in that regard.

I passed the apartment complex where Amber lived but didn't see her Jeep. Had she recovered enough from her grief to return to the Sluiceway and beg for her job back? Her manager didn't seem to be a sympathetic sort.

I decided to take the long way home. I followed Route 27 southeast through Stratton and Wyman Township, skirting the edge of the Bigelow Range. As I approached the Sugarloaf ski resort, I saw the first trails, across the valley, white against the dark green of the mountain. From a distance, I picked out the skiers and boarders, small as specks, and I thought of lines of ants exploring a bowl of sugar. I crossed the bridge over the Carrabassett River and came to the village at the base of the mountain. It reminded me somewhat of the string of businesses outside Widowmaker, the difference being that these seemed to be thriving.