The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

on,” I said, turning my back to her.
    “Jack was right,” she called after me. “You are a faggot.”
     
    The unopened can of beer she’d brought me before was still on the railing. It was warm, but I opened it and drank it down.
    How many beers had she had, anyway? Sally Reynolds had said she was a regular at the bar at the Dead River Inn. I could easily believe it. With each drink she seemed to grow more aggressive: conversationally, physically, sexually. Back in Flagstaff she’d seemed so helpless, so much in need of my protection. Now all that tamped-down anger inside her was coming out.
    I heard the door open behind me.
    She’d put on a T-shirt and the same damp cut-off denims she’d worn on the beach. The look she gave me when our eyes met showed nothing but disdain.
    “Let’s go,” I said.
    She didn’t budge. She shook a cigarette out of a pack and put it between her lips and tried to light it, but the lighter wouldn’t flame. “Shit.”
    Just then, I heard a single, sharp, cracking noise in the distance.
    “That sounded like a gunshot.”
    “It’s Pelletier hammering again. He’s been doing it all day.”
    “I don’t think so.” The truth was I had been distracted and wasn’t sure what I’d heard. But I had a bad feeling. “Come on, let’s go.”
    She gestured toward the kitchen. “I need to get a match.”
    I removed the cigarette from her lips and dropped it on the porch. This time, she didn’t fight me.

 
     
    29
     
    B renda refused to paddle. She sat in the front of the canoe with her arms crossed and her back rigid as a wall. When we reached the opposite shore of the cove, she surprised me by jumping into the shallows and hauling us up onto the beach beside Pelletier’s other boats.
    “I thought you were going to stay in the canoe,” I said.
    For an answer she gave me a stone-faced look. I swapped the paddle for the shotgun and followed her up the dirt path. The plate-glass windows of the main lodge were mirrors reflecting a backward image of the lake and the mountains. The sky had been neon blue all morning, but now I saw tall, cumulus clouds piling up to the west of Holeb Mountain. I didn’t like the look of them. I didn’t like how deserted the sporting camp felt, either.
    We paused outside the screen door. “Russell?”
    There was no answer.
    Again, Brenda startled me by forging ahead. Inside, a bitter smell hung in the air. In the dining room the blackened coffeepot was beginning to smoke. I switched the machine off and followed her through the kitchen and pantry. Pelletier was nowhere to be found.
    We backtracked out to the great room and tried a different hall. The door to the camp office was ajar and I peered in. The radio phone sat on a shelf beneath the only window.
    “I wonder where he is,” I said.
    “Probably jerking off in his cabin.”
    Not an image I cared to have in my head. “Maybe he went into town.”
    “He’s probably in his cabin.” Brenda took a step in the direction of the kitchen door. When I didn’t move, she said, “Come on.”
    “I’m going to call Charley.” I entered the office and sat down behind the desk.
    She hung in the doorway as if a spell prevented her from entering the room. “Pelletier doesn’t like people in his office.”
    I ignored the warning and dialed Charley’s cell-phone number. He answered almost immediately: “Charley Stevens!”
    “It’s Mike.”
    He spoke loudly above the noise of his plane: “I tried calling Rum Pond a while ago but didn’t get any answer.”
    “I don’t know where Pelletier is. I’m here with Brenda and we can’t find him.”
    “That’s queer,” he said.
    “He was hammering before, but I haven’t heard him for a while.” I glanced out the window, but the office faced the lake, not the cabins. “He’ll probably turn up. What’s going on?”
    “The detective got an anonymous tip this morning to check Truman’s apartment. When they showed up they found he’d vamoosed. The door was open, though, so they had a peek inside. I can’t tell you what they found, but it’s changed their minds about a few things.”
    So Truman had vanished, too. What the hell had Soctomah found in his apartment? “If they’re looking for Truman now, what does that mean for my dad?”
    “He’s still a fugitive. . . .” His voice trailed off. “Listen, I want you to ask the girl something for me.”
    My eyes flicked from the window back to the doorway. Brenda was no longer there.