The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

bed-headed and absolutely beautiful in the morning sunlight. “Fuck you.”
    Outside I heard tires rustling on dry leaves, a vehicle coming down the dirt drive.
    “Someone’s here.” I scrambled out of bed and lifted the curtain.
    A green patrol truck came to a stop behind mine. Kathy Frost climbed out. From her expression I couldn’t tell whether she was bringing me bad news or good.
    “Who is it?” Sarah asked, wiping tears from her eyes.
    I pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of boxers and hurried out of the room.
    Kathy did a double take when I yanked open the door. She looked me up and down, a smile spreading across her face at the spectacle of me in my underwear.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “Good morning to you, too. Isn’t that Sarah’s Subaru?”
    “She’s here. So what?”
    She cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
    I stepped outside quickly, forcing her to move back. Then I shut the door behind me. “What’s going on, Kathy?”
    “I just wanted to let you know I checked our trap this morning.”
    “You what?”
    “Yeah, I was up early. So I decided to drive over and have a look. No luck, though.”
    “I didn’t ask you to do that,” I snapped.
    “What’s the big deal?”
    “It’s my fucking responsibility.”
    “Cool down, Undershorts. I just figured you had enough on your mind without having to worry about a stupid bear. I thought I’d help you out.”
    The door opened behind me, and Sarah came out. She’d dressed quickly and hadn’t even bothered to put on her sandals but clutched them tightly to her chest. “Sergeant.”
    “Hi, Sarah. I didn’t know you were here.”
    “It’s all right. I have to leave, anyway.”
    “Sarah,” I said.
    She brushed past me. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, climbing inside her car. “I should never have come back.”
    “Don’t leave like this.”
    She started the engine and put the car in reverse. She backed up so fast I thought she was going to clip Kathy’s fender. I watched the dust rise behind her as she disappeared down the drive.
    “Ouch,” said Kathy.
    She was still standing there when I closed the door.
     
    I waited until I heard her truck leave before I sat down next to the telephone. I punched in the number and waited. The phone rang for a good two minutes before a man finally picked up. “Rum Pond,” he said.
    “Brenda Dean, please.”
    “Who’s this?” It was Russell Pelletier. I recognized the smoke-strained voice.
    “It’s Mike Bowditch.”
    “Mike,” he said. “How are you holding up, kid?”
    “Is Brenda there, Mr. Pelletier?”
    “Afraid not. The police wanted to talk with her, so she went in to Flagstaff first thing this morning.”
    “She’s with the police?”
    “Yeah. They sent a car out for her. Left me to wash all the fucking dishes.”
    So Detective Soctomah had brought her in for questioning. Presumably she’d given my dad an alibi for the night of the murders. But unless she had proof, there was zero chance of them believing her. In fact, based upon my testimony about that message my dad left on my machine, the one with the woman’s voice on it, they probably viewed her as an accessory.
    Pelletier broke the silence: “Your old man really fucked up this time.”
    “How come you didn’t tell me you were at that meeting at the Dead River Inn?”
    “How’s that?”
    “I saw your picture in the paper. You didn’t tell me you were there.”
    “The whole town was there. What the hell are you implying?”
    “Maybe you know what really happened that night,” I said.
    “I’ve got dishes to wash.” He hung up before I could say another word.
     
    Was Russell Pelletier one of the men my father suspected? I had no way of knowing. It was true that I’d always disliked the sporting camp own er with his drooping mustache and perpetual cigarette. And he certainly had cause to want Wendigo chased off—more cause than my father did, at least on the surface. He was facing the loss of his business, his way of life. He definitely had a motive to murder.
    Not that he would admit anything to me. Why had I provoked him? Any chance I might have had to get information out of Pelletier was gone now, and with Brenda Dean in police custody I was at a definite dead end. If I drove up there, Lieutenant Malcomb would have my badge, and without that, what good would I be to my dad?
    I had no choice but to go out on patrol. And hope that something happened that would map out