The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

shoulder with an expression that showed its disdain for me and then waddled down the dirt road toward the swamp. As it wobbled away, I was reminded of a very drunk man making a last shaky effort to preserve what remained of his battered dignity. I knew exactly how it felt.

 
     
    14
     
    T he only thing I could do was work, so that’s what I did. I patrolled my district from end to end. I checked fishing licenses and boating registrations. I responded to a call about a possibly rabid fox that had disappeared into some cattails by the time I arrived on the scene. The day got hotter and hotter until every road was shimmering with mirages.
    Somehow I managed to miss lunch at the Square Deal.
    The call finally came late in the afternoon. It was Lieutenant Malcomb. I pulled over onto a sand shoulder to speak with him. He said, “They found the ATV. It was hidden outside a camp in Eustis. The own er claims the place was broken into sometime last night. She says lots of stuff was missing—camping supplies, food, a rifle. She says your dad stole a car, too.”
    “So he could be anywhere,” I said, trying not to sound relieved.
    “We have an APB out on the vehicle. The Canadians say he hasn’t tried to cross the border today, but I doubt he’d try Coburn Gore or Jackman. He’d cross on foot in the woods.”
    “Are they still holding Wally Bickford?”
    “Yeah, they’ve got him over at Skowhegan, awaiting a bail hearing.”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Stay away from this, Bowditch,” he said. “You’ve got the sheriff pissed off enough as it is. Understood?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Focus on doing your job. It’ll get you through this. It always does.”
     
    His advice was easier said than done. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I chased my thoughts down every back road in the district and accomplished exactly nothing.
    If I were my dad, where would I run? He’d already managed to slip past the roadblocks, and with the kind of head start he’d had, he might be in New Hampshire, Vermont, or even Massachusetts by now. The town of Eustis was less than thirty miles from Canada, but there was no chance he’d risk the official border crossing at Co-burn Gore. He’d ditch the car soon, knowing it would be reported stolen. Which meant he’d have to find another vehicle or at least a secure hiding place.
    By the time I turned toward home, the light had softened to a shade of almost purple, and the fireflies had begun their slow dance in the fields along the road. I switched on my headlights for the drive back to my rented house on the tidal creek.
    Sarah was waiting for me when I got there. Coming up the dirt drive through the pines, I saw her little red Subaru parked beside my Jeep. It was all I could do not to pull a U-turn.
    On the June day when Sarah moved out we’d both told ourselves it was for the best. She was on the edge of tears that whole rainy afternoon, and if her sister Amy hadn’t come along to help, she might even have changed her mind. But Amy was resolute. She was convinced her gorgeous little sister could do better than a loner like me. And she was certainly right.
    Now, after nearly two months of giving Sarah the space she’d said she wanted, I found her sitting on the back steps of the house we’d once shared. She was looking out at the tidal creek slowly dissolving into the dusk. She was wearing shorts and a baggy green T-shirt, and she’d taken off her sandals and set them beside her bare feet.
    She slapped her leg, flattening a blood-swollen mosquito. She looked at her hand in disgust. “One thing I certainly don’t miss about this place is the bugs.”
    “Just let them bite you. That’s what I do.”
    “Always the stoic.” She stood up, appraising me, uncertain at first whether to attempt a hug and then deciding no. “You weren’t going to call me, were you?”
    “No.”
    “That’s what I figured.” Her short blond hair was cut even shorter since the last time I’d last seen her. “Have you heard anything about your dad?”
    “They’re still looking for him.”
    I motioned to the door. “Do you want a beer or something?”
    A big smile broke over her face. “God, yes.”
    We went inside and sat down at the kitchen table. She glanced around at dust-covered countertops, and the bare walls stripped of all those bright paintings she loved. “This place looks worse than I imagined,” she said. “It’s pretty pathetic, even for you.”
    “Let’s not get into my