Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(41)

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The sign included a number to call if you wanted someone to come let you onto the property.

“This isn’t your house,” I said. “This is Foss’s place.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have fibbed.”

I found myself wishing International Harvester had put ejector seats in their Scout IIs.

The plow had helpfully cleared a turnaround at the gate. I imagined the U-turn was well used by the locals who came here to gawk at the sex-offender colony. I began to reverse direction.

“What are you doing?” Mink asked in alarm.

“Leaving.”

“You don’t want to call that number?”

“I’m going to call it,” I said. “But first I’m going to drop you at home—or at the side of the road. I haven’t decided which.”

“But we’re already here!”

I had been planning on driving home after I had finished with Foss, but it was already getting late. With the snow piling up, the trip was bound to be a nightmare. My head ached, and my stitches ached, and the bruise on my back where Carrie Michaud had tried to impale me ached.

And Mink was right: I was already here.

I snatched my phone from the console and dialed the number visitors were instructed to call.

A recorded voice answered: “Please state your name and the purpose of your visit. If your business with us is legitimate, someone will be at the gate shortly to grant you admittance.”

“This is Mike Bowditch with the Maine Warden Service,” I said. “I would like to speak with Mr. Foss, please.”

I turned off the engine to wait.

“At least I got you here,” Mink said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “You’ve got to admit you never would’ve found it without me.”

At first, the snow melted the instant it touched the windshield, but as the warmth ebbed from the truck, a sheer white sheet began to form over the glass.

I kept the phone in my hand, ready for a callback. But none came.

After a while, I turned on the engine again and let the wipers clear away some of the snow. I wanted to be able to see the gate.

“About freaking time,” said my passenger. “My nuggets were starting to go numb.”

I turned off the engine again.

“Oh, come on!” Mink said.

Fifteen minutes passed before we finally saw headlights arcing through the trees. Then an enormous Ford Super Duty came rumbling down the hill to the gate. The driver left the engine running and the headlights blazing as he climbed down out of his oversized vehicle. The glare made it hard to see him clearly, but he appeared to be very large and was wearing a brimmed hat. He also happened to be carrying a shotgun.

I began to reach for the door handle. Mink followed suit. I closed my hand around his collarbone.

“You’re staying here,” I told him, tightening my grip. “I’m done kidding around.”

He gave me the familiar exasperated sigh, but he didn’t resist.

I stepped out into the falling snow. As the afternoon had waned, the sky had gone from a dull white to a sort of a lavender gray. I walked slowly toward the gate with my arms at my sides.

“Mr. Foss?” I called.

“What can I do for you?” He had a deep and resonant voice.

“My name’s Mike Bowditch. I’m a Maine game warden.”

“That’s what you said in your message. What can I do for you?”

Don Foss was a big man in every way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a big chest that merged seamlessly into a bigger belly. His head was the size and shape of a basketball. He probably could have throttled a horse with his hands. The only thing small about him was his wispy little mustache.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Adam Langstrom, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“He’s not here.”

“Yes, I know. His probation officer told me.”

“You spoke with Ms. Hawken, then?”

“She told me that Adam has been working for you since being released from prison,” I said. “I wonder if I can come in and you can answer some questions for me.”

“Such as?” The pump shotgun looked like a toy in his enormous hands.

“I’d like to know more about the nature of your facility.”

He let out a booming laugh. “I don’t offer tours of my property to strangers. I run a business, not a zoo. You identified yourself as a warden. In what capacity are you acting, exactly?”

“I’m not here as a law-enforcement officer,” I said. “Amber Langstrom is worried about her son and wants him to come back. She asked me to help find him, and I agreed to do so as a personal favor.”

I expected him to ask me for identification. The fact that he hadn’t seemed a bad sign.

“Langstrom is not a child in need of protection.” The man’s voice rolled out of him like distant thunder. “He is a man responsible for his own actions.”

“So you have no idea where he might have gone?”

“If I did, I would not tell you,” he said. “It was a condition of his release that he submit to regular searches and blood tests. I have made his room and his personal effects available to his probation officer. I have also answered all of Ms. Hawken’s appropriate questions. Beyond that, Langstrom has certain inalienable rights, which he did not forfeit upon his conviction. Unless I believe him to be a risk to himself or to others, I shall not violate those rights.”