The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

“She’s gone.”
    “What?”
    “She was just standing here. I looked away for a second and she disappeared.”
    “You need to find her.”
    A door slammed inside the lodge. I closed my hand around the shotgun resting on the desk before me. Suddenly Brenda appeared in the door again. Her chest was rising and falling. “Come quick!”
    “What is it?”
    “Pelletier!” She dashed back down the hall without waiting for me.
    “What’s going on?” Charley asked.
    “I don’t know, but it’s something to do with Pelletier. She wants me to follow her.”
    “Do you still have that shotgun?”
    “Yes.”
    “Hold on to it. I’m going to head over your way. Should I get a patrol car out there?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll call you right back.”
    “All right, but don’t let her out of your sight.”
    “She already is.”
    “Be careful, son.”
     
    I reloaded the shell and switched off the safety. Then I moved cautiously down the hall and out the back door. I wasn’t sure which way she’d gone, but Pelletier’s truck was parked behind his private cabin, so that was where I started.
    When I came around the corner of the building I saw the door standing open. I saw something else, too: a trail of blood that led from the porch into the undergrowth at the edge of the forest.
    “Brenda?”
    I found her standing just inside the door, holding both hands over her mouth.
    On the floor lay Russell Pelletier.
    He was lying on his back with his arms out. His head rested on a big bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. A pool of blood spread out beneath him like red wings. Near one hand lay a hunting knife with a bloody blade. Both of his eyes stared up at the raf ters.
    I knelt down and checked his pulse with two fingers, but I felt nothing. The body was still warm, but the skin had begun to take on a waxy look and a faint grayish color around the lips.
    Don’t touch anything
is the first lesson you learn about crime scenes. Brenda’s bare feet had left bloody smears along the floorboards. Her toes were painted red with it. But there were other tracks as well—the prints of a man’s heavy boots. Not Pelletier’s.
    I scanned the floor. The shell casing from the murder weapon had rolled partway under the paw of the bearskin rug. The brass came from a rifle, but not being free to pick it up, I couldn’t say what caliber.
    “There’s no sign of a knife wound,” I said aloud. “Which means the blood on the knife isn’t his. Before he died, he must have stabbed the person who shot him.”
    “Truman,” she said, speaking slowly and softly. “Truman did this.”
    I rose to my feet and closed my hand around her bare arm, trying to move her toward the door. But her whole body was dead weight. “We have to call the police.”
    “But he’s still out there.”
    “I think he’s wounded. He won’t get far.”
    “You have to find him—before he kills us.”
    “We’ll sit tight and wait for help. We’ll be fine.”
    “What was that?” She turned her head sharply in the direction of the open door. “I heard a noise!” She pulled loose of me and darted outside.
    “Brenda!”
    I saw her sprint around the corner of the cabin, headed for the main lodge. Then, taking a step into the open, I heard a sharp metal-on-metal sound come from somewhere in the trees. The noise put me in mind of a car door slamming. The killer was still here. And I was letting him escape.
    The blood trail showed brightly in the sunlight, a wet red path leading into the bushes. When Pelletier stabbed his murderer, he must have severed an artery, there was such a spray of it. A man couldn’t bleed like that and live, not without medical attention. My heart was seized with a perverse hope: It was Truman trying to get away, Truman dying from loss of blood. But what if it wasn’t him? What if it was my father? I couldn’t leave him to die in the forest. I had to know for certain.
    I took the first few steps without realizing what I was doing. Then a cloud drifted across the sun and the fear hit me. I entered the woods, following the blood trail.
    I put my feet down softly, as I had learned stalking deer, heel first and then toe, avoiding dry leaves and fallen branches where I could, pausing every few steps to listen. Young birches and poplars had sprouted up along the forest edge, and the green of their leaves showed the red of the fallen blood.
    The trail could have been made by a drunken man. It staggered left and