The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

“Charley, what the hell are you doing here? I understand why the kid cares about this, but why are you defending a son of a bitch poacher like Jack Bowditch?”
    “I’m just trying to figure a few things out.”
    “I already talked to that Indian detective about this.” He coughed into his hand. “Frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my time than sit here playing a game of Clue. Jack Bowditch killed those two men. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. All I know is that I’m losing my business and my home and what happened last week won’t change that.” He rose to his feet and loomed over us. “If you want to talk to B.J., you know where she is. Now I’ve got a roof to fix.”
    Listening to that imperious tone, I couldn’t help remembering how he’d bossed me around eight summers ago—how he’d called me his “serf” and made my life hell. I despised him all over again. He was halfway to the door when I called out, “You tried to rape her.”
    Pelletier spun around. “What?”
    “Brenda says you tried to rape her three years ago.”
    “That’s a fucking lie!”
    “She said that after you and your wife split, you started coming on to her, and that my dad stopped you. She said he beat the shit out of you, and that you’ve been holding a grudge against him ever since.”
    Pelletier advanced on me, hands balled into fists. “Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that?”
    I stood up. Charley jumped between us. “Mike’s just repeating what the girl said.”
    “I never touched her!” said Pelletier.
    I didn’t care what he said. “That’s not all. She claims you and Truman Dellis conspired to murder Jonathan Shipman and blame it on my father.”
    “She what?”
    “She says she saw Truman out here the day of the shootings, talking with you behind the boat house.”
    “That’s bullshit! I haven’t seen that drunk since I fired his sorry ass.” Pelletier turned his attention from me back to Charley. “You don’t actually believe this crap?”
    It took the old pi lot a few moments to answer. When he did, his voice was soft. “No, but I do believe there’s a reason the girl hates you. Something happened between you two to make her this mad.”
    Pelletier became quiet.
    Charley’s tone was mea sured. “What happened, Russ? You can’t deny it was something.”
    Russell Pelletier ran his yellow-stained fingers through his greasy hair, looked away, and took a deep breath. “It was after I fired Truman—for being drunk all the time. Doreen and I were having problems. One night Brenda and I were here alone. I thought she was sending these signals. You don’t know this girl, Charley.”
    Charley folded his arms. “Go on.”
    “We started kissing. It just happened. The next thing I knew, she started freaking out. She said I was disgusting. She called me all kinds of names, and she ran off, leaving me lying there on the couch. All I did was kiss her.”
    “She was just a girl, Russell,” said Charley.
    He scowled. “Tell that to Jack Bowditch.”
    “What happened next?” I asked. All the contempt I felt for him came through in those three words.
    He ignored me and focused on Charley. “When I woke up, Jack was standing over me. She must have told him what she told you. We had a fight.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, found one, and lit it. “He beat the crap out of me, basically. I told Doreen I fell down the stairs, but she didn’t believe me.”
    We watched him tuck the plastic lighter carefully back in his pants pocket. Again I noticed the knife sheathed on his belt.
    Pelletier continued: “She started going over to Jack’s cabin after that. She’d go over there after dinner. She just seemed obsessed with him, and I wasn’t going to get in the middle of it. I had my own troubles with Doreen, by that time.”
    Charley nodded slowly. “What do you think she’s got against Truman?”
    “He didn’t mess with her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or I never saw any sign of it, anyway. After Truman’s wife died, all he cared about was getting drunk. Most of the time I think he forgot she even existed.”
    Charley absorbed this information. Then he asked: “You heard about Truman’s accident?”
    “With the chainsaw? Yeah, I wondered if Jack might have done it to him—whipped him across the face with the blade. Or the chain might have broken in the woods like he said.” He inhaled so deeply on his cigarette that an