The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

with him.”
    “Shut up, Kathy.”
    “Sarah said you inherited your dad’s self-destructive gene. I guess she was right.”
    “Leave Sarah out of it. You had no business calling her, anyway.”
    “She still cares about you, even though you treated her like shit. God knows why.” She stood close enough that I could smell the bug repellent on her—the familiar sweetness of Avon Skin So Soft. “If you think throwing your life away is going to help your old man, then you’re beyond hope. Give me your wallet.”
    “My
what
?”
    “Your wallet.”
    I handed it to her without asking why. She removed my warden service identification card and stuck it in her breast pocket. “You don’t have your badge on you, I’m assuming. And I hope to God you weren’t so stupid as to bring your sidearm up here?”
    “Everything’s at home,” I admitted.
    “Lieutenant Malcomb will expect you to surrender the badge and pistol.”
    “So you’re accepting my resignation?” My surprise surfaced in my voice. I thought we both understood my offer was just another bluff.
    “It sure looks that way,” she said. “But if you’re any kind of man, you’ll have the balls to tell Malcomb in person.”
    I stood there in disbelief as she got back into the truck. The engine roared, and the pickup backed up abruptly, brake lights shining. But she must have thought of one more thing because she stopped suddenly and rolled down the window. “It wasn’t rabid, by the way.”
    “What?”
    “Your bear. The tests came back, and there was no sign of rabies. But I suppose you don’t care about that anymore.”
    Of all the things she’d said, that comment stung the most.
    As we watched her taillights disappear through the trees, Charley said to me, “I’m sorry that I contributed to this situation.”
    Without a word to him, I turned and walked down to the end of the float and stared into the black water. I was thinking about the first time Kathy took me out to “work” night hunters. She’d staked out a Jeep trail in Burkettville, where poachers were reportedly jacklighting deer. We set up an artificial deer decoy by the side of the road and hunkered down in some brush to wait. Then, just after nightfall, the skies opened up, and it began to pour. Kathy and I spent six hours crouched in the rain and never saw a single vehicle. The poachers had the good sense to remain indoors, but we were drenched to the skin. Afterward Kathy had only to say “Bucket-ville” and we’d both crack up laughing.
    Now I was no longer a game warden. The realization just wouldn’t sink in.
    Sarah had called me self-destructive. The label certainly seemed to fit. In the past few days I’d lost a last chance with my former girlfriend, my career, and a friend I hadn’t truly appreciated. And what had I gained?
    I felt the dock sway beneath Charley’s feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    “You’re sure Ora won’t mind putting me up for the night?”
    “When I was a game warden,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “I brought home injured coons, foxes, and bear cubs. If there’s anything Ora’s used to, it’s me bringing home strays. As long as you don’t start gnawing the furniture, we’ll both be fine.”
     
    The floatplane skipped across the water, ten feet above the waves. Charley lifted the nose just enough to become airborne and then brought us down with a ducklike splash on the opposite side of the lake.
    As we taxied toward shore, I saw a log cottage with a shingled boat house at the water’s edge and windows glowing gold through the pines. I felt my heart lift at the sight, as if I were returning to a place I’d once visited in childhood and then forgotten. It was a surprising sensation considering how depressed I was.
    Charley brought the Super Cub up against the dock beside the boat house, opened the door, and jumped out. He fastened the floatplane to cleats on the dock. I stepped down onto the riveted metal pontoon, holding on to one of the struts to keep my balance.
    A dog came bounding from the cottage, a gray-and-brown German shorthaired pointer with a quick-wagging stub of a tail.
    “Hey, Nimrod.” Charley fell to his knees and let the dog lick his face.
    I ran my hand along his coarse back while he sniffed my legs. “Good-looking dog.”
    “Dumb as a post.” He slapped me on the back, trying to rouse some good cheer in me. “Come on, let’s see what the Boss has got cooking.”
    A strip of rough tar