Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(33)

“What?”

“He had a black eye. It made me wonder about the guy who’d given it to him.”

I considered my next question carefully. “Did he say anything or do anything that made you think he might—”

“Kill himself? Yeah, I’ve wondered about it since that night. It was the reason I called his mom when I heard he’d run off. I was worried about him. But why would he have needed money if he was just going to shoot himself?”

That was an excellent question. “Have you told any of this to the police?”

He sat forward. “I’m telling you.”

Earlier that morning, I had promised myself that I wouldn’t cross any lines. But now I possessed information that Shaylene Hawken, at least, should know about. How the hell was I going to explain to Adam’s PO how I had come by it?

Informal inquiry, my ass.

*

Elderoy cranked up the music even louder than before on the ride down. He seemed in no mood to talk. Not that I cared particularly—I needed time to think.

I hadn’t expected to see Davidson suffering—literally suffering—from guilt. But his emotions had seemed heartfelt. It always boggled my mind that people could be so charitable to those who had hurt them.

That Adam had needed money was no surprise at all. What were the economic prospects of a convicted sex offender up here? Not bright, I was certain. Why not scrape together some cash and make a break for a better life?

My brother must have known he would be caught; must have realized that he was facing one of only two possible futures—prison or death.

My brother.

Did I keep repeating that word because I wanted to believe it or because I didn’t want to believe it? All I knew was that Adam Langstrom—whoever he was—had awakened a long-dormant sense of dread in me. Not since my father fired those shots into a police car had I felt such a fear of the truth.

My wounded arm jostled the center console as Elderoy took a couple of whacks with his plow at a drift that offended his sense of symmetry.

The week could have been worse, I realized. Carrie Michaud could have aimed for the jugular.

At the bottom of the mountain, Elderoy remained belted in and kept Bob Marley blasting and the engine running. He looked at me through his eyelashes and muttered something I couldn’t hear over the noise.

“What?”

He scratched his muttonchops. Then he snapped off the music.

“You got me to drive you up there under false pretenses,” he said.

“How do you figure that?”

“You’re looking to arrest that Langstrom kid if you find him. Admit it.”

Until that moment, I had never considered the question. If I did manage to locate my fugitive so-called brother—and was unable to convince him to surrender—what would I do?

I got out of the vehicle without answering my chauffeur and made my way through the thickening snow to the base lodge.





13

Amber was certain to press me for information. But there were details about my conversation with Josh Davidson that I preferred to keep to myself—at least until I could follow up elsewhere. Adam’s black eye, for instance.

I scanned the Sluiceway from the doorway but didn’t spot her circulating among the tables. The lunchtime tide had ebbed, but the three curious characters I had seen earlier—what had the bartender called them, the Night Watchmen?—were still hunched over their popcorn and beer. The British-looking fellow caught sight of me and said something to the others, who all looked my way again with the same mix of amusement and interest, as if I were the butt of some private joke among them.

The inky-haired bartender had her back to me and was watching the television screen above the luminous liquor bottles. The Weather Channel was showing a map with a deep trough of snow moving toward Maine. It looked like it had already touched the Clayton Lake area, where Stacey was flying her moose survey. I needed to come clean with her about what had really happened with Carrie Michaud. Every hour I delayed telling Stacey the truth just made it worse.

The cold had parched my throat. I let out a dry cough.

The bartender met my eyes in the mirror. “You’re back.”

“I am.”

She braced her arms wide atop the bar. “You want another coffee, or are you ready for a beer?”

“Water. Is Amber still around?”

The grin melted away. “She got a phone call a few minutes ago and hurried out of here without telling Gerald. I think she’s pretty much fired at this point.”

The call must have involved Adam, I thought. I couldn’t think what else would have lighted such a fire under her.

“Do you know who she spoke with or where she was going?” I asked.

“Amber and I aren’t exactly friends.” She picked up a clean dishrag and began playing with it as she studied me. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Mike.”

She looked at me with a sort of pity in her eyes. “Do you really need me to tell you that Amber is bad news, Mike?”

“Bad in what way?”

“How many ways do you require?”

I turned my back to the bar, leaned on the rail, and checked my phone for messages. Nothing at all from Amber. Somehow her unexplained departure seemed fitting. She had sent me urgently up the mountain and then forgotten I existed. Pulsifer had warned me about her selfishness.