Widowmaker (28 page)

Stacey began to sob harder. “So I went back to my room. I tried to sleep, but the medicine made me jittery. When I walked through the door, people looked at me like I was a ghost. Everyone thought I had been on the chopper. I feel so horrible now. I should have been with them. It doesn't feel right that I'm alive and they're dead.”

I rubbed my forehead with my hand. “But you're not! You're alive, Stacey. I wish I could be there with you.”

“Why?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“To comfort you.”

“I'm not the one who needs comforting. I shouldn't be sitting here sobbing. My friends' dead bodies are still out there in the wreckage, and their families are sick with grieving. I need to do something.”

“You should think about your own family. When your dad finds out you weren't on the chopper—you need to call him. You need to call him right this second.”

“Right. Of course. Shit.”

“Call me later.”

“I'll call you when I have some news. I can't promise when that will be. Good-bye, Mike. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

A big eighteen-wheeler went barreling past and caught me up in its wake. For an instant, my truck rocked from side to side in the slipstream. I finally remembered to hit my hazard lights, but it seemed a little late at that point.

 

27

When I returned home, the house seemed altogether different. No one else had been there while I had been away. The temperature was more or less the same as when I'd taken off down the road.

And yet I found myself overcome with that paranoid feeling you sometimes get when you step into a favorite room and you perceive that some small item has been moved. You can't put your finger on what it is, but your subconscious can sense that something is different. The more you try to identify what has been changed, the more agitated you become. It is how some people end up pulling out their own hair.

I found myself wandering from room to room, unable to sit still. I removed my combat vest and gun belt again, changed out of my uniform and back into jeans and a T-shirt, then decided I should run a few miles on the treadmill in the basement to burn off some steam, which meant putting on my shorts and sneakers. But I had barely started running when my legs started cramping and I was overcome with exhaustion, and I found myself sitting down on the weight bench with a towel over my head.

It wasn't until I lifted the towel that I felt the fabric was wet. My hands slid down my cheeks when I touched them. I had been crying without even realizing it.

I made my way upstairs and removed the bottle of bourbon from the cupboard. I held the label up to my eyes for a long time, examining the elegant signature of James B. Beam, then dumped every last drop down the sink.

Eventually, I wandered into the living room and threw my sore body across the sofa. I closed my eyes, but the bulb overhead was so strong, it made the inside of my lids turn bloodred. I thought about getting up to turn it off, but I didn't really want to go to sleep, either. My nerves were still too raw.

I reached for the television remote and was surprised to find that the New England Patriots were playing a night game. It must have been the play-offs. I started to watch, but the loud voices of the announcers sounded like air horns in my oversensitive ears, so I hit the mute button.

I needed to talk to someone.

I tried Kathy first, but I got a voice-mail message. She had become an early riser in her late middle age.

I wanted to give Charley and Ora space.

Call Pulsifer? No way.

I scrolled through the list of recent calls and touched the name of Captain DeFord. It was as if my finger acted of its own accord. The phone began to ring.

“Mike?” he said. “What's going on?”

“There was a helicopter crash up near the Allagash. Did you hear about it?”

Why had I called DeFord, of all people? This man I was talking to was the captain of the Warden Service, not a chaplain or a grief counselor. He was my superior officer, and I barely even knew him.

“I was just on the phone with St. Pierre. He's coordinating the recovery operation. What a tragedy.”

I tried to keep emotion out of my voice. “The initial reports were that Stacey Stevens was on that helicopter. But it turns out she wasn't.”

DeFord knew Stacey was my girlfriend. He was also well acquainted with her parents. “Have you had a chance to talk with her?”

“A while ago.”

“How is she doing?”

“About as well as you'd expect.”

He paused. “How are you doing?”

The reason I had called DeFord, I now realized, was in the hope that he would ask me that question.

“Not great.”

“You've had a hell of week, haven't you?” he said quietly. “Are you sure you don't want to talk with Deb Davies?”

“Maybe, I don't know. Stacey was supposed to be on that chopper, but she was too sick to fly. It was dumb luck that saved her.”

The same way dumb luck had saved me from Carrie Michaud's knife, I thought.

“I am not so sure,” DeFord said. “I am one of those people who believe things happen for a reason. We just don't know what it is until later. Sometimes we never know. But we have to believe there was one. Otherwise, how do we keep going?”

I found myself chuckling.

“What did I say?” DeFord asked, sounding a little irked.

“No offense, but the Reverend Davies is in no danger of losing her job to you.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear you laugh,” DeFord said, and I could detect a smile in his voice. “How are your shoulder and arm?”

“Healing.”

“Even with all the running around you've been doing up around Rangeley?”

The television flickered from a beer ad back to the game. “You heard about that?”

“Pulsifer told me.”

I should have figured he would rat me out. Damn him.

DeFord went on: “Gary said you've been assisting Jim Clegg with information about that missing sex offender.”

“His name is Adam Langstrom.”

“How do you know him?”

I took a moment to consider my words. “I don't, really.”

DeFord had to mull over my unexpected answer. “So what made you take an interest in him?”

“Langstrom comes from a town where I lived when I was a kid. His background seemed so familiar to me. And I hadn't been back in those mountains since my dad died.” None of these statements was an actual lie, strictly speaking. “I wanted something to keep my mind occupied, and crossword puzzles aren't my thing. So I decided to drive up there.”

“Nearly dying is a traumatic experience. Everyone reacts differently to it. When I saw you in the hospital, I was worried about you.”

“Because of my history? I can't say I blame you.”

The captain paused. “Am I going to receive a complaint about you? Is that why you're calling?”

“What did Pulsifer say?”

“He said you're a pain in the ass but a hell of a good investigator.”

“Really?”

“He said you're wasting your talents, and I should assign you to the Wildlife Crimes Investigative Division.”

I was dumbfounded. Not in my wildest imaginings would I have expected Gary Pulsifer, of all people, to have vouched for me, especially after the way our day had started.

“I told him I agreed,” continued DeFord. “But if we're going to get the colonel on board, you're going to need to promise me something first.”

“Anything.”

“Stay out of trouble for a while.”

“I can't do that, Captain. It doesn't seem to be in my nature. But I won't knowingly violate any rules or regulations.”

“Or laws? It would be helpful if you didn't break any of those.” I sensed a smile in his voice again.

“Or laws,” I said.

He sighed. “I guess that will have to do.”

On the television, the New England Patriots had marched down the field to score a touchdown.

“There's one more thing,” I added quickly.

He laughed. “There's always one more thing with you.”

“I want to go back to work. It's only ten stitches, and they're healing fast. Can you clear me to return to duty?”

“You'll need to see a doctor first.”

“But I really do feel fine.”

“And if the doctor agrees, you can discuss the matter with your sergeant. Good night, Mike. Don't take this the wrong way, but this has been one of the more unusual conversations I have had in my career.”

When I hung up the phone, I realized the agitation I had felt before was gone. I no longer wanted to pull out my hair or scratch off my skin.

Using a package of frozen moose meat from the freezer, I made chili while I listened to the television in the next room. Even the obnoxious announcers no longer bothered me. The Patriots were moving on to the next round of the championships. It felt good to hear other people celebrating.

*   *   *

Stacey never called back that night, and I couldn't say it surprised me. She had never been forced by her superiors to see a counselor in the aftermath of a fatality or a traumatic event. No one had ever encouraged her to give voice to her grief and guilt. As a result, she maintained her heart as a sort of Pandora's box. Keep everything locked inside, and it will all be fine. The problem was that sooner or later, that box was going to open, and that was when her demons would come flying out.

All I knew for certain was that talking with Captain DeFord had helped me. I felt better for having asked for help.

Even so, the thought of having almost lost Stacey kept me awake late. My mind churned around and around, reliving those terrible minutes between my conversation with Charley, when I had feared she was dead, and the near coronary experience of having the phone ring and hearing her voice on the other end.

After a while, I gave up trying to sleep and got up before sunrise to make coffee.

The kitchen windows were so dark, I could see my reflected self moving from sink to fridge to table. Until the doctor cleared me to return to duty, I was still in limbo. I couldn't engage in any work-related activities.

I sat down at my laptop while I ate my cereal and checked my e-mail. Nothing from Stacey, but there was a message from Pulsifer, dated the previous afternoon, that I had missed seeing:

Heads-up. DeFord might be giving you a call. I didn't tattle, so you shouldn't have any problems unless you go out of your way to piss him off.

Wait, that means you're definitely going to have problems.

Talked to Jim Clegg, too. He had been expecting you to call him. What happened there? Anyway, he spoke with Amber himself and she told him about the gun.

Another piece of news. Clegg said someone in the crime lab owed him a favor and expedited the test on the blood recovered from the Ranger. The type was AB positive, same as Langstrom's. That's a rare blood type, too.

Jim is headed back to Pariahville tomorrow. He has a couple more questions for Foss.

I scrolled down the list of other e-mails, most of which were department-related, until I came to a second message from Pulsifer posted later in the evening:

Just heard about the crash at Clayton Lake! How is it possible Stacey wasn't on that chopper? Has she ever taken a sick day before?

I owe you an apology, too. Sorry I was so dickish this morning. I was mad at myself for slipping. It wasn't you. I'd been building up to it for a while (ask Lauren). But I went to a meeting this evening and got my one day chip, which is the only one that ever matters.

I wasn't ready yet to use the word
friend
to describe Gary Pulsifer. There was a dark side to the man that made me want to keep some distance between us. But he had made an effort at making amends, and I was grateful.

I checked out the Web sites of the Maine newspapers. The helicopter crash was the lead story on all of them, but there were no details in the reporting that I hadn't already heard. The flying conditions had been close to ideal, so weather was unlikely to have been a factor. The pilot, Steve Cobb, was only fifty-six and had been flying since the Gulf War. His widow was quoted as saying he'd recently had a physical that showed his cholesterol was on the high side, but otherwise he was as physically fit as a middle-aged man could be.

At seven o'clock sharp, I called Stacey's cell. There was no answer.

On a hunch, I tried the IF&W field office in Ashland, assuming that the crash investigation and recovery operations would mean someone was already in the office.

A woman with an unfamiliar voice answered. “Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.”

“This is Warden Mike Bowditch. Can I speak with Stacey Stevens, please?”

“Oh, hello, Warden. Stacey isn't here.”

“Can you leave a message for me?”

“She might not get it for a while. She took a snowmobile out to the crash scene last night.”

“What?”

It was sixty-some miles from Ashland to Clayton Lake along the infamous American Realty Road, a gravel thoroughfare maintained by loggers and nicknamed the “Reality Road” by locals because it leads through the wildest stretch of Maine.

“We tried to talk her out of it, but you know Stacey.”

“She's going to catch pneumonia!”

“All I can tell you is that she radioed in when she arrived at Clayton Lake. So you don't need to worry about that at least. If she radios us again, I'll let her know you called.”

I thanked the unnamed woman and restrained myself from punching the nearest wall. Did Stacey honestly believe the recovery team and crash investigators needed her help? She could be so selfish in her recklessness.

As I put my cereal bowl in the sink, I caught sight of myself in the kitchen window again.

“Don't even say it,” I told my glowering reflection.