The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

lighted a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter identical to the one my dad brought back from Vietnam. “So how exactly are
you
helping the investigation?”
    “The police wanted me to talk to someone here in Flagstaff. They thought she might know where my dad is.”
    “Brenda Dean.”
    My reaction gave me away.
    She laughed, a parched, whiskey-voiced laugh. “I bet you didn’t have any luck, either. She must have loved talking with you, though.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “She likes giving every guy she meets a hard-on. The good-looking ones especially.”
    I let that comment go unremarked. “I heard she was here the night of the public meeting.”
    “She was here. She comes in by herself sometimes. Sits at the bar and lets guys buy her drinks. She gets hammered and then drives all the way back to Rum Pond. How far is that—forty miles? I tell her she’s lucky she hasn’t lost her license by now or crashed into a moose or something. I guess some people have more luck than they deserve.”
    “I think most people have less luck than they deserve.”
    “Another barroom phi los o pher. Just what we need around here.” She raised her eyebrows as if she was about to say something, but at that second she was called away by a man at the other end of the room wanting to order a beer. When she’d poured it for him and taken his money, she returned to the spot in front of me and looked directly into my eyes again. “You know that deputy your old man murdered?”
    “I’m not so sure he murdered anyone, actually. But that’s just my opinion.”
    She bared her teeth in a smile. “Let me guess, the real killer was a one-armed man.”
    I kept my head down and sipped my drink. Where the hell was Charley?
    “Let me tell you about that deputy,” she continued.
    “I knew Bill,” I said quickly. I wasn’t looking for a fight. “We went to the academy together.”
    “Then you knew he was a good kid. And a good cop. And he didn’t deserve what happened to him.” She filled a shot glass for herself. “If I had somebody in the bar—your friend Brenda, for instance—who was too shit-faced to get behind the wheel, I’d give him a call so he could set up his cruiser at the end of the road. Some people might say I shouldn’t do that to my own customers, but I say you don’t have a right to kill yourself or anyone else.”
    The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them: “Maybe you should just tell your bartenders to stop serving drunks.”
    “That’s cute,” she said, giving me the blue glare again. “Another thing about Bill Brodeur is that he volunteered to drive Shipman back to Sugarloaf. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t like what Wendigo is planning on doing—evicting the leaseholders. But he believed the guy had a right to be safe, and when the sheriff asked for someone to drive this asshole, Bill volunteered. That tells you the kind of cop he was. He put his life on the line for someone he didn’t even like.”
    “He sounds like a good cop.” I meant the praise to sound sincere, but she didn’t take it that way.
    “He died in the line of duty. I’d say that made him a good cop.”
    Charley, fortunately, picked that moment to return. He came, whistling, back to the bar as if all was right with the world.
    Sally crossed her leathery arms. “I was just about to tell your young friend here what I was doing in Skowhegan today.”
    “What were you doing?” I asked, unable to stop myself from goading this woman who was so intent on goading me.
    “Visiting my cousin in jail. Maybe you know the name—Wallace Bickford?”
    “How is Wally?” Charley sensed something was amiss, I could tell from the caution in his voice.
    “Scared, sick, confused. He doesn’t even remember the night he was arrested. He just woke up in jail with the dt’s. And now he’s facing felony charges for firing a gun at police officers.” She was sneering at me now, not trying to hide her contempt anymore. “And you know the saddest part? That sweet, brain-injured man still thinks Jack Bowditch is his friend. The jerk who got him into this trouble and nearly got him killed.”
    I stood up suddenly. “I’ve got to take a leak.”
    In the bathroom I leaned against the wall over the urinal and wondered how this day could get worse. With my father on the run, I was the closest thing people had to a punching bag around here. Well, at least I was performing a public service.
    One thing was certainly clear: