The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

table and approached him, holding the .44 loose in one hand. “He’s just trying to confuse you. That’s why he’s saying these things.”
    “You said that cop was stalking you.”
    “He was!” She pressed herself against his chest and gazed up into his eyes. “Why would I help you kill him after that meeting? Why would I tell you where to ambush him if I didn’t want him dead?”
    “Because you were afraid,” I said. “You knew what my dad would do to you if he found out the truth about you and Brodeur.”
    “Screw you!”
    “She set you up, Dad. You killed those men because of a lie she told you, and now you’ve killed two more. All because of her. She’s played you, and she played me.”
    She pressed one hand flat at the base of his throat. “Don’t listen to him.”
    “She tried to seduce me, too,” I said.
    He shook his head as if he hadn’t heard me clearly. “What?”
    “Less than an hour ago in your cabin. She took her clothes off.”
    She spun around and aimed the handgun square between my eyes. “I swear to God I’m going to shoot you if you don’t shut your mouth.”
    Reaching out, faster than I could have imagined possible, my father jerked the Ruger from her hands. I was surprised it didn’t go off as he pulled it loose.
    He leaned his face close to hers. “Is that true?”
    “No! He’s lying again.”
    “I’m not,” I said. “I swear.”
    “You little bitch.” He raised his hand as if to pistol-whip her.
    “It wasn’t like that! I just wanted to keep him from coming over here until you had a chance to do what we said.”
    “So you spread your legs for him?” he said, his hand still poised to strike.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know I love you.”
    “You don’t!”
    “I do. I do. Please, Jack. I’ll be good, if you let me go. I’ll be a good girl for you. Please.”
    For an instant I thought he might punch the pistol grip into her face. But instead he tossed her down to the ground. She collapsed in a ball at his feet.
    My father and mother had fought like this. I remembered how many nights the threat of violence had hung in the air of our rented trailer. But, unlike Brenda, my mother had never been a drunk. There is no desperation like that of two alcoholics clinging to each other even as they drive each other to madness. I felt as if I was witnessing something between them that no third party ever should. Was this why he came back for her—because she shared his particular insanity?
    His eyes were wet with tears. “Why do you do this to me?”
    She shook her head and sobbed. “I don’t know.”
    I had been trying to wriggle my arms free, but it was no use. The ropes only tightened. The nerves in my hands began to tingle as the blood flow dammed up.
    He tucked the .44 into his belt. “Get up,” he commanded her.
    She crawled to the nearest bench and pulled herself up to a sitting position. She hung her head so that her dark hair hid her face and she rubbed her wrist with her good hand. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
    My father stood over her, breathing heavily. “I don’t, either.”
    Brenda raised her head suddenly. “What’s that noise?”
    At first I heard nothing but the refrigerator whirring in the kitchen, then I became aware of a faint drone, almost a whine, growing louder. I’d forgotten about Charley in all that was going on.
    “It’s that old game warden!” she said. “They were on the phone before.”
    “You didn’t tell me he was coming back.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “It’s not just Charley Stevens,” I said. “The police are on their way, too.”
    The plane was approaching fast. Through the plate-glass window we saw it zip suddenly into view, headed down the lake away from us—white and red against a smoke-gray sky. In a few seconds Charley would circle around to bring the plane down on the water, facing the camp.
    “Please, Dad,” I said. “You’ve got to give yourself up. It’s not too late.”
    My father twisted around, his mouth tight with rage. It was not the expression of a man about to surrender. I felt a shudder ride up my spine. Then he slid the hunting rifle off his shoulder and shoved aside the door.
    “No!” I said, rising to my feet.
    Brenda rushed to the window and pressed both palms to the glass.
    As Charley turned the Super Cub toward the camp I saw my father, standing with his back to the window, legs planted apart, lift the semiautomatic rifle