The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

framed my father. Then they killed each other.”
    “I told you they did it! I told you Jack was innocent!”
    “Yes, you did.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t sound convinced.”
    “It’s what happened.”
    “Did Truman say that?”
    “We didn’t have a conversation. He grabbed the shotgun and it went off.”
    She didn’t smile exactly, but there was a look of glee in her eyes that shocked me. I had no idea how much she’d hated him.
    “What the hell did he do to you?” I asked.
    She bared her teeth. “He killed my mom.”
    “What?”
    “They were walking home from a bar one night, shit-faced. She fell down into a ditch. He let her freeze to death, he was so drunk. He just came home and crawled into bed, and he never remembered a thing. They found her the next morning lying in a snow bank. I was seven years old. We came to Rum Pond after that. So, yeah, I’m glad he’s dead.”
    I looked at her, stunned into silence for the longest time. Then I took another step forward. “I need to call Soctomah.”
    The Ruger came up, pointed at my chest. “Something’s wrong with you.”
    “I just killed a man.” I lifted the barrel of the shotgun slightly. “Now I need to call the police. So why don’t you put the gun down and get the fuck out of the way.”
    It was the wrong thing to say.
    The first shot from the Ruger tore through the air centimeters from my head. I heard the .44 slug smack into the cabin wall behind me as I hit the ground.
    “Don’t move!” she said.
    She fired the second and third shots into the air.
    When I raised my head, she shouted again, “Don’t fucking move!”
    I pressed my forehead to the dirt. “Take it easy.”
    She advanced on me until I could glimpse her dusty bare feet, the barbed-wire tattoo around one slender ankle. I had a jackknife in my pocket, but that was all by way of a weapon.
    “Shut up! Just shut up. Lie there and don’t do anything stupid.”
    So we waited, me with my hands folded behind my head, my heart drumming against the ground. Overhead, I heard the wind rising in the pine boughs and felt the shadow of clouds creep across the sky. Rain was coming.
    “What did Truman tell you?” she asked.
    “Nothing.”
    “He told you something.”
    “He didn’t have to.”
    “What do you mean?”
    But before I could answer, I heard another voice, a baritone: “What happened? Why did you signal me?”
    I raised my head a little and saw a tall man materialize, as if from nowhere, out of the bushes across the road. He was dressed completely in breakup camouflage, the brown-and-gray pattern used by turkey hunters. His pants were mud-spattered and tucked into rubber boots, and he carried a deer rifle on a sling over his shoulder. He wore gloves and a camouflage hat with a thin mask that hung over the face like a brown veil.
    “He knows!” Brenda said. “Truman must have told him.”
    The man pulled the mask loose, and for the first time in two years I saw my father’s face.

 
     
    31
     
    Y ou cannot describe betrayal. To someone who has never suffered it, there is no adequate way to communicate the sudden loss of balance that comes when you discover you’ve been played for a fool. Especially when the person who has betrayed you is someone you love. In a single heartbeat, betrayal throws everything else in your life into doubt. If this was false, what else is? Shame and second-guessing set in immediately. The signs were there all along, so how did you miss them? Sometimes the humiliation of being betrayed is so powerful you retreat back into disbelief. Denial, after all, is a pretty strong narcotic.
    But for me there was no escape back into self-delusion. When I discovered the marks around Truman’s wrists and found his rifle to be unloaded, it sent a surge of panic through me. Instinctually, I knew what these things meant, but I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge the full implications of what I was seeing. Now there was no looking away from the terrible truth.
    My father’s eyes seared me with the consequences of my folly.
    His face was deeply tanned with blue hollows beneath the eyes and more gray in the beard than I remembered—my face in twenty-five years, maybe, if I lived that long. He looked big, barrel-chested, and broad-shouldered in his camouflage shirt, but not as big as he had once seemed to me.
    “Truman must have told him,” Brenda said.
    “No,” said my father. “Mike shot him before he could say anything.”
    She