Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(39)

The visibility was getting worse by the minute. It wasn’t the storm of the century; we were just being dumped on. Welcome to winter in the Maine mountains, I thought. At least the skiers and sledders would be celebrating.

I intercepted Mink a hundred yards down the road. He had his collar up against the wind and his bare hands dug into his pockets and was trudging determined in the direction of the crossroads. I rolled the window down as I pulled up beside him.

“Need a lift?”

He scrambled into the Scout so fast, I barely had a chance to clear the junk from the passenger seat.

“It’s colder than the North Pole out there.” There was not the faintest trace of a Maine accent in his speech.

“Where are you headed?”

“Kennebago Settlement.”

“That’s a long walk! Especially in this weather.”

“Usually, it’s not such a slog, you know. My mom has a place in Bigelow. I like to check in on the old bird every couple of days. She makes me dinner.”

Seen up close, his features appeared more unusual than when I’d briefly glimpsed them inside the store. Beneath his fur hat—which might well have been mink—he had jet-black hair that looked dyed, a nose that had been broken more than once, and a nasty scar on his chin. His fragrance was also distinctive. He smelled like he’d just emerged from a vat of cologne.

“My name’s Mike,” I said.

“Mink.”

“I don’t meet many people with that name.”

“I like to stand out.”

I knew the answer to my next question. “Did you grow up around here?”

“Nah, man. I’m from Jersey. What kind of antique vehicle is this? It rides rougher than Farmer Brown’s tractor.”

“It’s an International Harvester Scout Two.” I resisted telling him how much I had paid for the custom-restored four-by-four. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why stop now?” he said with a laugh.

“I’m looking for a business around here, but I can’t seem to find it. Can you give me directions?”

“That depends. Where do you want to go?”

“Don Foss Logging,” I said. “Ever heard of it?”

He unsnapped his seat belt. “Stop the vehicle!”

I hit the brakes so hard, we began to slide. I wasn’t sure what I should focus on: keeping the Scout from crashing into a telephone pole or protecting myself from the suddenly frantic man to my right.

I steered in the direction of the skid. “Hey, man. It’s all right. Don’t get upset.”

“I want to get out.”

“I’m going to let you out—as soon as we stop sliding.”

After a few tense seconds, the Scout came to rest with the passenger side pressed against a snowbank. Mink jerked the handle up and down and threw his shoulder against the door. I heard metal scrape against ice as he tried to pry it open, and groaned internally at the thought of my damaged paint.

“Stop! Let me pull forward so you can get out.”

He whipped his furry head around. Bright tears sparkled in his eyes. His voice had risen to a higher pitch. “It’s not funny, you know? Playing jokes on people.”

“I’m not playing a joke on you.”

His mouth curled in disgust, and he slunk against the door. “I’m not going to blow you, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t go that way.”

“What?”

His nostrils flared with disgust. “I’m not a freaking pervert. I am not like those creeps who live at Foss’s.”

“Mink?”

“I’m a law-abiding citizen!”

“Mink?”

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and squared his luxuriant hat on his head. “What?”

“This is all a misunderstanding,” I said. “I just heard you needed a ride. I thought you might be able to give me directions. I don’t know anything about you, and I don’t care. I just need directions to Foss’s.”

The windshield wipers beat steadily back and forth.

“Why do you want to go to that shithole?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Does to me.”

“I’m a game warden.” I opened my wallet and showed him my badge. “There’s someone I need to talk to at Foss’s.”

He sat up in his seat, but he could still barely see above the dash. “Is it that piece of trash Butera? Because he doesn’t live there anymore.”

“So you know where it is?”

“I know where it is.”

“Can you show me on the map?” I reached for the dog-eared DeLorme atlas under my seat. I opened to the page showing this corner of Franklin County.

Mink squinted at the coffee-stained page as if he desperately needed reading glasses. “It would be better if I guided you in person. You won’t find it on your own.”

Clearly he hoped to ride along now that he realized I was a law-enforcement officer. He wanted to know who I was looking for, because the Rangeley Lakes region was essentially one big small town, and he was one of its snoops.

“I can’t take you along with me,” I said.

He removed his fur hat and shook off some of the melted snow from the pelt. Then he ran his hand through his dyed hair, causing it to stand up. He had the face of a boxer, if there was a division below flyweight. “Why? Will it be dangerous?”