The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

and then shook the can to see if she had missed a drop. She hadn’t. “You didn’t like me then, and you don’t like me now. I think I make you ner vous.”
    The sun slid out from behind a cloud and suddenly it became very bright and hot again on the porch.
    “You don’t,” I said.
    “It’s the thought of me and your old man doing the nasty.” The beer had given her voice a raspy edge. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
    “We’re not going to have a conversation about this.”
    She smiled as if this was the exact response she’d hoped for. “You get a picture in your head of us humping, and it freaks you out.”
    “Enough, Brenda.”
    “Or maybe,” she said, “it turns you on. Yeah, that’s what it is. It turns you on to think about us having sex.”
    “End of conversation.”
    She stood up from the Adirondack chair. “I’m getting another beer. You want one?”
    “No, thanks. And I don’t think you should have one, either.”
    “Yeah, well, you don’t get a vote on what I put in my body.”
    She opened the screen door and disappeared into the kitchen. Charley said to watch her—as if she might try something. Did he suspect Brenda of being the killer? And why had he asked her those questions about Brodeur? The suggestion was that she and my father might somehow have conspired with the deputy. Did Charley think they’d double-crossed him after he delivered Shipman to the ambush site?
    And what the hell happened with Truman that the police were now searching for him so intently? Was it really possible he and Pelletier had set my dad up?
    The door banged open, as if she’d kicked it, and she came out, holding two cans of beer. “I brought you one, anyway.”
    “I don’t want it.”
    She came over to me and set the beer down on the railing. Then she leaned forward on her elbows and gazed past me out at the lake. She was so close I could smell her sun-warmed hair. “You really do look like him,” she said, without looking at me.
    “Excuse me?”
    “You look like Jack. Younger, though, and without the beard. Thinner, too.”
    “What are you trying to do, Brenda?”
    She gave me a look of wide-eyed innocence. “What do you mean?”
    “Why are you playing games with me?”
    She didn’t answer at first but turned back toward the water. “I’m bored,” she said finally. “I get bored easily.”
    “Then find something to do.”
    With that, she straightened up and gave me a huge smile. It was as if a beautiful idea had arrived in her head like a dove from heaven. “I’m going swimming.”
    “Swimming? You’re not afraid Truman’s going to show up?”
    “If he does, you’ll protect me.”
    Don’t be so sure, I wanted to say.
     
    I waited outside the cabin for Brenda to put on her bathing suit. From moment to moment she seemed either much older or much younger than her actual age of twenty. She would look at me, and there would be a sad exhaustion in her eyes that reminded me of old people I’d seen in nursing homes. Then the next minute she would become this flirty teenager. Were these sudden shifts calculated or could she just not control herself?
    Pelletier said that my father loved her as he hadn’t loved anyone since my mother. The more I thought about it, the more I believed that this was the truth. Brenda was definitely attractive, and her emotions were just as volatile as my mom’s.
    So why had he left her behind when he turned fugitive? If he truly loved her, as Pelletier said, why did he leave her behind at Rum Pond?
    I was still trying to figure it out when the cabin door opened and she came out wearing a purple bikini top and cut-off blue jeans. Her arms and legs were tanned a deep brown and her skin was so tight across her stomach I could have traced the abdominal muscles with my finger. She had freed her black hair from its braid and now it spilled loose over her shoulders.
    “Let’s go swimming.” She grabbed a towel from the clothesline that hung between two of the pine trees nearest the porch and skipped down the stairs to the water’s edge. I tucked the shotgun under my arm and followed.
    She waded out until she was waist-deep, then dived headfirst into the water. I took a seat on a sun-heated granite boulder beside the canoe and waited for her to come up for air.
    But she didn’t.
    Half a minute passed, and then a full minute. I knew she was playing with me, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. I felt my pulse quicken in spite of