The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

have any suspects?”
    “Only two hundred or so pissed-off lease holders. You know the big controversy they’ve got going up there? How Wendigo bought up all that timberland and is planning to kick out the camp own ers? Well, there was some sort of public meeting last night, and I guess it got pretty hot. Brodeur was there as a bodyguard to this guy Shipman from Wendigo, driving him over to Sugarloaf for the night, and someone opened fire on their cruiser.”
    “Was Brodeur married?”
    “No, but the Wendigo guy had a wife and two little boys.”
    It had been years since a cop was murdered in Maine. Even so, it was something you always carried with you. The possibility of it, I mean. I glanced at the answering machine. The little red light wasn’t blinking anymore; my father’s voice was gone, erased. What had he wanted to tell me last night?
    “Mike? You still there?”
    “I got this weird message on my answering machine last night. It was from my dad. He lives up near Dead River.”
    There was a pause on the other end. “Weird in what way?”
    “Well, we haven’t spoken in a couple years.”
    “Maybe he heard what happened and was concerned about you, being a law officer and all.”
    I laughed, a single sharp laugh.
    “Or maybe not,” she said. “You said he owns a camp up there?”
    “Not exactly. Last I heard he was working for Russell Pelletier over at Rum Pond Sporting Camps. Wendigo owns all that land now. If they sell it, Pelletier will lose his business.”
    “You think that’s why he called you?”
    The suspicion in her voice made me uneasy, as if I’d somehow given her the wrong idea. “It’s probably nothing. He gets drinking late at night.”
    “My brother’s like that.” She paused long enough for me to hear a dog barking in the background. “So did you talk to him?”
    “I was out on a call.” I told her about my eve ning with Bud Thompson. “I think I know the bear that got his pig. The one I’m thinking of has a thing for greasy barbecue grills. Last month it was up on a patio licking some guy’s hibachi.”
    “Sounds kinky. You want me to bring over a culvert trap?”
    “What about Dick Roberge?” I said, referring to the local animal damage-control agent who assisted us trapping nuisance wildlife.
    “Dick’s getting his knee replaced.”
    “You don’t mind bringing over a trap?”
    “I’m headed to Division B, anyway. Where do you want to meet?”
    “How about that place where we caught that night hunter last month?”
    “Give me a couple hours.” We were both about to hang up when she came back on the line.
    “Maybe in the meantime you should give your old man a ring. Just a suggestion, but if it were my dad and I hadn’t heard from him in years, I’d be a little curious about the timing.”
     
    In the few months we’d been working together I’d learned to follow Kathy’s advice. Better to make the call than spend the day wondering what my dad was mixed up in.
    My father didn’t have a phone himself at his cabin but relied on the own er at Rum Pond Sporting Camps to take messages for him. The lodge itself was so remote no phone lines connected it with the outside world, and the surrounding mountains made cell-phone reception iffy at best. Instead, the own er, Russell Pelletier, used an old radio phone to make and receive calls. When no one picked up, I tried the in-town answering ser vice and got an earful of static until the machine came on.
    “Hey, you’ve reached Rum Pond Sporting Camps, and if we ain’t here, we’re probably out fishing.” When I was sixteen, I’d spent half a summer washing dishes at the camps. The only woman there had been Pelletier’s chain-smoking wife, but this pretty voice definitely didn’t belong to Doreen.
    The machine started to record. “This is Mike Bowditch,” I said. “Jack’s son. I don’t know if he’s still working there—Charley Stevens told me he was, but we haven’t talked in a while—I mean, my dad and I haven’t talked. Anyway, I got a call from him last night. I’m not sure what it’s about. Can you tell him I called?” I rattled off my cell-phone and pager numbers and hung up, embarrassed at my stammering incoherence.
    How come everything to do with my father left me feeling like I was nine years old?
     
    The sun had risen over the pines and the day was shaping up to be another steam bath. I had two hours to kill before Kathy showed up with the culvert trap, so I decided to stop in