The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

made me think he knew the family well but the young man not at all. He asked that everyone remember the other man killed that night, Jonathan Shipman, of Wendigo Timber, whose family must also be grieving, and he ended with a prayer for the assembled law enforcement officers, asking God to “protect these brave men and women, grant them your almighty protection, unite them safely with their families after duty has ended. Amen.”
    “Amen,” we all said.
    The service went on like that. Family and coworkers of the dead man talked emotionally about him, but the shapeless anecdotes they told—of his love of snowmobiling and NASCAR—left me without a sense of who Brodeur had been as a man. I realized, too, that no one had mentioned a girlfriend. The picture that emerged was of a quiet, responsible, yet unremarkable young man. His death seemed senseless and unlucky—he truly was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    The service drew to a close. While a bugle and bagpipes played taps, the pallbearers lifted the flag from the coffin and folded it in military fashion into a tight triangle and presented it to Brodeur’s mother. She clutched it to her breast. Then, along the aisle, an honor guard formed a corridor of uniformed bodies. Everyone stood as the dead man’s coffin floated on the shoulders of the pallbearers down the aisle and outside into the sunshine.
    I watched the auditorium empty. I knew that Brodeur would be given a twenty-one-gun salute as his coffin was loaded into the hearse. Then uniformed officers would line the roadway down Mayflower Hill. Outside, afterward, there would be a crowd of familiar faces. My gut felt like a knot of worms.
    “Warden Bowditch!”
    I hadn’t realized anyone was behind me. I spun around and came face-to-face with a wiry old man in an ill-fitting black suit. He had a hawk nose and fierce green eyes that held my own without blinking. I almost didn’t recognize him without his warden’s uniform.
    “Warden Stevens,” I said.
    He held out his hand for me to shake. “Call me Charley.” He held my hand a long moment, looking straight into my eyes. His grip was like a blacksmith’s vise. “You going outside?”
    I nodded, hesitantly. “Yes.”
    “I’ll come with you then, if you don’t mind the company.”
    It had been a while since we’d seen each other; I knew that he and his wife lived somewhere near Flagstaff. I wondered if he’d driven the two hours to get here or whether he had flown his airplane across the miles of forests and lakes. According to Lieutenant Malcomb, Charley Stevens never drove anywhere when he could fly.
    Outside, I fumbled for my sunglasses. Charley just turned his face to the sun and smiled. He must have been in his late sixties, but he had the vitality and physique of a backwoods farmer: strong hands, flat stomach, and no chest to speak of. His grizzled hair stood up like the bristles of a horse brush.
    The honor guard was preparing to fire their rifles in the field across the parking lot.
    “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said casually.
    “No?”
    “Your dad isn’t the most pop u lar feller around now, is he?”
    I felt my skin flush red. “I guess not.”
    “I told your lieutenant he’d give us the slip in those woods. I said Jack Bowditch is as woods-smart as they come.”
    Twenty-one rifles fired within seconds of each other. I felt my heart stop and resume beating. Silence rushed in to fill the vacuum created by the bullets.
    Charley said: “Did you know Deputy Brodeur?”
    “We were at the academy together.”
    “So you were friends?”
    “Not really.”
    “Did he strike you as a good cop?”
    “Yeah, sure. I mean, the man is dead. I’m not going to speak ill of him.”
    The crowd began breaking up. Other uniformed officers were moving their vehicles to line the pro cession route.
    Charley squinted over my shoulder. “There’s a familiar face. Hey, Russell!”
    Russell Pelletier stood alone smoking a cigarette. He wore a corduroy jacket, too heavy for the weather, and a loud tie that didn’t match his plaid shirt.
    “How’s it going, Charley?” Pelletier’s voice was like a public service warning for throat cancer.
    “It’s a sad day. I guess I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Deputy Brodeur.”
    “I saw him around. You know how it is.”
    Charley placed his big hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember this young man?”
    “I remember.” Pelletier didn’t offer to shake hands. After our