The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

in my own Jeep and that it was parked halfway across campus.

 
     
    20
     
    I spent the rest of the day of Brodeur’s memorial service washing my patrol truck and completing the last of the paperwork I still owed the Warden service. In the morning I would report to Lieutenant Malcomb’s office, and unless I convinced him otherwise, he would almost certainly suspend me until a disciplinary hearing could be held concerning my recent behavior. Between the incidents with DeSalle, my confrontation with Bud Thompson, and my attendance at the funeral, I’d pretty well pushed the boundaries of acceptable conduct by an officer as far as they could go. If I still wanted a career as a Maine game warden, I’d need to throw myself on the lieutenant’s mercy and hope for the best.
    I said a prayer and turned in early.
    But just after I dozed off, I awoke with the terrified conviction that the escaped Nazi POW was standing over my bed in the pitch blackness. Heart hammering, I fumbled for the lamp. But, of course, no one was there.
     
    The phone rang while I was getting dressed for my meeting with Lieutenant Malcomb. I expected it might be Kathy Frost, warning me not to be late, but instead it was Detective Soctomah.
    “Mike, we need you to come up to Flagstaff and talk with your father’s girlfriend, Brenda Dean.”
    “Me? What for?”
    “We’ve been holding her as a material witness, but the A.G. says we don’t have enough evidence to make anything stick, so we’re kicking her loose. She claims she was with your father at Rum Pond at the time of the shootings and says she doesn’t know anything about his current whereabouts.”
    “But you think she’s lying?”
    “Pretty much.”
    I’d been looking for some way, any way, to participate in the investigation, and now, out of the blue, Soctomah was offering me exactly what I’d wished for. There had to be some sort of catch. “What makes you think she’ll talk to me?”
    “She says she trusts you.”
    “But I don’t even know her.”
    “That’s not the way she makes it sound.”
    Did Soctomah think I was lying, too? If he suspected me now, I wondered what he’d think if he learned of the phone call my dad made to me. In all likelihood that clandestine conversation would be the final nail in the coffin I was building for my career.
    His offer raised another problem. If I went to Flagstaff, there would be no way I could make my mandatory meeting with Lieutenant Malcomb at eleven. So this was the decision before me: Meet with Malcomb and lose my last opportunity to help my father before some hotheaded deputy gunned him down, or go to Flagstaff and kiss my career good-bye.
    I made my choice.
    “I’ll do it,” I said to Soctomah. “But it’s going to take me four hours to drive up there.”
    There was a pause on the other end, and I heard murmuring in the background. After a few seconds Soctomah came back on: “Charley Stevens says he’ll fly down to get you.”
    “Can I speak with him?”
    I waited for the phone to be passed along. “Hello, there!” said the old pilot.
    “You don’t have to fly all the way down here.”
    “It’s no trouble,” he said. “Besides, I thought you and I might have a chance to catch up a bit on the ride up. Now where should I meet you?”
    “What about the Owl’s Head airport?”
    “Don’t need an airport. All I need is a little calm water to put her down. Where might that be in relation to you?”
    “There’s the public boat landing over at Indian Pond.”
    “And I’ll have you back in time for supper.” He paused, and I heard more background whispering. “Seems the detective wants another word.”
    Soctomah came back on the phone. “Mike? There’s one more thing. Don’t wear your uniform. We want Brenda Dean to feel like she’s talking to a friend, not an officer of the law.”
    As I hung up, I wondered how many opportunities I’d have after today to wear the warden’s green.
     
    An hour later I was standing at the public boat landing at Indian Pond wondering if Anthony DeSalle and his muscle-bound buddy were going to drive up when I heard a faint drone that grew louder and louder. Suddenly, a white-and-red floatplane appeared over the trees. It banked hard and began a tight circle over the pond. Two canoe paddles were lashed to its pontoon cross braces. The plane appeared to be the same little Piper Super Cub I had seen Charley Stevens set down on Rum Pond eight summers ago.
    The airplane sent