The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

to be true. Even if he did have a part in the killings, why admit it over the phone? Truman was dumb, but not that dumb. Which raised again the question: How far should we trust Brenda? I remembered the humiliation on Russell Pelletier’s face as he told us about the night my dad beat him up. Brenda had accused him of trying to rape her. My father had believed her story, but I couldn’t shake my doubts.
    “You don’t believe me, do you?” she said.
    Charley gave a slight smile.
    She turned to me. “I swear to God, it’s the truth.”
    “How about handing over that shotgun?” said Charley.
    She gripped it tighter. “What for?”
    I put my hand out. “Come on, B.J., give me the damned gun.”
    “Don’t call me that!”
    This was the second time in two days I’d confronted an angry person with a firearm—like father, like daughter—and I was getting sick of that ner vous flutter in my stomach. “It’s hard to have a friendly conversation with you holding a loaded shotgun,” I said.
    “Fine.” She held out the gun for me. “Here.”
    It was an old New En gland Firearms one-shot: the kind you can buy for seventy-five bucks at a pawn shop. The safety had been switched off. I switched it back on. “Why were you hiding from us?”
    “I wasn’t hiding from you. I was hiding from Truman. What’s wrong with you people? Why won’t you just arrest him?”
    “Someone from the state police is talking with your father right now,” said Charley.
    “Are they searching his place, checking his truck?”
    “And why should they do that?” asked Charley.
    “To find proof that he did it, that he killed those men.”
    “What do you think they’ll find?”
    “I don’t know, evidence.”
    “The police already have evidence that Jack Bowditch killed those men.”
    “It was a setup. I told you that. Truman said he did it.” Her hands were shaking, she was so upset. “No one ever believes me!”
    We watched her storm back to the middle cabin, yank open the screen door, and disappear inside. The door clattered shut behind her.
    “What do you think?” he asked softly.
    “She’s lying about Pelletier,” I said, “but I’m not sure why. And another thing, why does she want the police to search Truman’s truck?”
    “Good question. Let’s see if we can get an answer.”
     
    We found Brenda in the kitchen cabin, standing with the propane refrigerator open. She’d grabbed a can of Budweiser and was gulping it down right there, with the fridge ajar. It wasn’t even ten o’clock.
    “Isn’t it a little early for that?” said Charley.
    “I had a rough night.” She was breathing hard from drinking so fast.
    “Why don’t we sit down and have a talk.”
    He gestured to the knife-scarred picnic table in the center of the cabin. It was the same table on which my father had butchered that deer he poached, the night I first met Charley Stevens. Brenda sat down across from us. I set the shotgun carefully beside me on the floor.
    “When did Truman call you?” asked Charley.
    “Last night, late.”
    “He called on the radio phone?” I asked.
    “Yeah. We can’t use a cell phone here on account of the mountains or something. You have to go five miles up the road to get a signal.”
    “And he was calling for you and not Pelletier?”
    “Maybe he was calling for Russell. I don’t know. He got me instead.”
    “Did Russ Pelletier hear your conversation?”
    “No, he was asleep.”
    “Pelletier said you’d moved over to this cabin after Jack Bowditch disappeared. What were you doing back over at the lodge?”
    “Getting my stuff.”
    “What stuff?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, boxes from when I was a kid, that sort of stuff. Jesus.” She took another sip of beer. “I waited until he was asleep to go over there because I didn’t want to see him—and that’s when I heard the phone.”
    “If you think Russell Pelletier conspired with Truman to murder those men, weren’t you afraid to go over there?”
    “I had my shotgun.”
    Charley pulled on his chin in a reflective way. “If Truman called you last night, why did you wait until this morning to contact Detective Soctomah?”
    “Because they already arrested me once. Those cops think I’m a liar. I didn’t think they’d do anything if I told them.”
    “So why call them at all?” I asked.
    “I don’t know. I guess I wanted someone to know in case.”
    “In case what?”
    “In case something bad happened.” She gazed directly