The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

he was looking for, but his father paid no attention to him.
    Finally, DeSalle turned back to me. “No. That’s it. So write your fucking ticket and get it over with.”
    “I need to see your driver’s license, Mr. DeSalle.”
    For a second, I think he expected me to wade out to get it, but when I didn’t budge, he splashed back to the boat ramp. I summonsed him for having insufficient personal flotation devices, wrote down the date he would need to appear at the District Court in Rockland if he wanted to contest the fine, and handed him the ticket to sign. Throughout it all, he managed to keep his mouth shut, and I began to think he had smartened up, but as he thrust my pen back at me, he said, “So what happened? Did you wash out of real cop school or something?”
    “Mr. DeSalle, you better think carefully before you say another word.”
    I tore off the summons and handed it to him, and he crumpled it into his fist. For an instant I thought he might toss the paper into the pond, but instead he shoved it deep into his pocket.
    “You’re going to have to find another PFD before I can let you onto the water,” I said.
    “You’re fucking kidding.”
    “No, sir. And I asked you to watch your language.”
    We stared at each other a long moment, his eyes looking redder and redder, and then he snapped his head around to face the boy. “Get out of the boat.”
    “Dad?” the boy said.
    “Get out of the boat! Ranger Rick says we can’t go fishing.” De-Salle swung back around on me. “Thanks for ruining my kid’s day.”
    “Don’t push your luck, sir.”
    I expected him to have a smart-mouthed answer for that, but instead he just strode off toward the parked SUV.
    The boy was standing knee-deep in the water, holding the boat line again in his fists. His mouth was clenched and his eyes were fierce. Whether his anger was directed at me, at his father, or at himself, I couldn’t say. Probably it was all three. Then the Suburban came roaring in reverse down the ramp, pushing the trailer expertly into the water.
    DeSalle hopped out of the cab of the vehicle, leaving the door open and the engine running. “Stay out of the way,” he told his son, snatching the nylon line from the boy’s hands.
    From the top of the ramp I watched while DeSalle winched the powerboat onto the trailer. It took him a few minutes to secure it in place. As he worked, he kept his eyes from drifting in my direction. He had made a decision to pretend I was no longer there. Maybe he realized how close he was dancing to the edge.
    My last look at the boy was through the window of the SUV as they pulled onto the road. DeSalle was talking to him—I could see his mouth moving, a flash of teeth. The boy was pressed down in his seat, chin tucked close to his chest, shoulders hunched against the barrage of his father’s words. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine what the rest of the day was going to be like for that kid.

 
     
    5
     
    H alf an hour later I was parked along an ATV trail in the woods near Bud Thompson’s farm. I was waiting for Kathy Frost to show up with the culvert trap, but all I could think about was that asshole DeSalle. Every time I pictured his kid’s frightened face, I just got madder.
    My cell phone rang. It was the state police dispatch in Augusta.
    The dispatcher told me a woman had just reported a nuisance bear, this time on the Bog Road, on the far side of the Catawamkeg Bog from where I was parked. “She sounded pretty worked up about it,” said the dispatcher. “She wanted me to call in the National Guard.”
    Kathy was 10-76, or en route, when I caught up with her by phone. I told her to meet me at the address the dispatcher had just given me. She didn’t apologize for being late.
    The Catawamkeg Bog was a nearly trackless expanse of woods and wetlands, maybe ten miles in diameter, surrounded by some of the most prime real estate on the midcoast. Most people I met didn’t even know this little postage stamp of wilderness existed—which was just fine by me if discovery meant trees being cut down and new subdivisions going up. There was no direct route across the bog, except by ATV or snowmobile, so it took me longer than I’d hoped to circle around to the far side and find the address.
    It was a neat and tidy little place that reminded me of a bluebird house. White trim and shutters, bright flower beds of chrysanthemums and geraniums kept alive in the heat by the regular application of generous