The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

No one appreciated my poking around the shootings. It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Maybe the whole damn town was in on Shipman’s murder. I could almost picture the scenario: All of Dead River was involved in a conspiracy to drive off Wendigo Timber with Brodeur somehow getting shot in the crossfire. I laughed to myself at how fast the booze had gone to my imagination.
    I found Charley waiting for me outside the door, hat on and ready to leave. I wasn’t so eager to stick around myself. “You’ll have to forgive Sally,” he said.
    “Why’s that?”
    “She sees your face, and all she thinks about is your dad.”
    “That’s not my fault.”
    “It’s not. But just so you know, it was her idea for Deputy Brodeur to drive his passenger out the back way from the inn. She feels responsible for what happened. She thinks they’d both be alive today if she’d never suggested the idea. And maybe she’s right.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I just called Ora, and she said she’d be heartbroken if you didn’t spend the night with us.”
    “All right.” I couldn’t imagine Sally Reynolds would ever rent me a room at this stage. And I dreaded the ride back south with Kathy Frost if my sergeant should ever find me.
    “I thought you might reconsider.”
    In the parking lot I saw two teenagers making out, and the truth came to me in one bright bolt. “Sally and my dad had a thing, didn’t they? That’s one of the reasons she hates Brenda. That’s why she’s bothered by my face.”
    Charley didn’t say a word in response, but he didn’t have to, either.

 
     
    25
     
    A t the boat launch on Flagstaff Pond Kathy Frost was waiting for us. She was seated in her green patrol truck, watching the lights come on in the distant cottages across the lake. Tied to the dock where we’d left it, Charley’s little floatplane bobbed on the darkening waves.
    We’d just dropped the old Plymouth off at Flint’s garage, and I was having second thoughts about imposing myself on Charley and Ora. The bourbon had left my insides feeling scorched. Or maybe it was just an aftereffect of all the confrontations I’d endured that day. Seeing the brittle expression on my sergeant’s face didn’t make me feel any better. She hitched her thumbs in her gunbelt—her usual tough-gal pose—and spat a wad of chewing gum into the dirt.
    “Now, how in the hell did you find us, Sergeant?” Charley asked with a delighted smile.
    “I called your wife. She told me you were headed back this way.”
    “That’s good detective work.”
    My sergeant was in no mood for the old pi lot’s jauntiness. “Jesus Christ, Charley. It’s bad enough Mike’s fucking up his career without your helping him. I told Malcomb I’d have him back to Sidney this afternoon. Where the hell were you two?”
    “Mike wanted to see the scene of the crime.”
    “So you decided to play tour guide? It’s a goddamned homicide investigation.”
    “It’s not his fault,” I said. “I told him I wasn’t going to wait around for you. He came along to keep an eye on me.”
    She exhaled sharply and rubbed her nose, which was peeling from a recent sunburn. “Well, it doesn’t matter, at this point. It’s probably too late, but maybe we can still salvage your job.” She gestured at her truck with her thumb as if hitchhiking a ride.
    I stood still. “I’m not going, Kath.”
    “What?”
    “I’m staying in Flagstaff.”
    She looked from me to Charley, found what ever confirmation she needed in his sheepish expression, then swung back around on me. “So you’re just going to disobey Malcomb’s order?”
    “I guess so.”
    “You
guess
so?” She gaped at me as if she had never truly seen my true self before. “You ungrateful, turd-brained, son-of-a-bitch. You understand what this means?”
    Her anger was creating an echo in me. You reach a point where you’re just tired of people second-guessing even your worst decisions. “Do you want my resignation?”
    “No! But I’m not going to stand for this insubordinate bullshit, either. Forget second chances. You’ve already had your third and fourth.” She turned and paced away ten yards, trying to get a handle on her fury, than came back with fists clenched. “I don’t know what kind of rescue fantasy you’ve got playing in your head,” she went on, “but it’s seriously twisted. Your old man’s a fucking cop killer. And all you’re doing with this crap is taking yourself down