Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(43)

“We’ll both be walking if this mook doesn’t back up.”

Half-blinded by the glare, I saw movement as the driver’s door opened. The silhouette of a man appeared, clinging close to his vehicle. He moved toward us. I had a flashback to that damn video again, one cop after another being gunned down as they made what should have been a routine traffic stop.

I leaned across Mink’s lap and got another big whiff of his cologne as I opened the glove compartment. The Walther pistol was hidden under a stack of auto-service receipts. I checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

“What do you need that for?” Mink asked.

“It’s my Binky.”

“Some Binky!”

The man stepped into the headlights finally, giving me the look I had been waiting for. He had brown hair that needed cutting and a stubble beard that needed shaving. He wore a ripped long underwear shirt beneath a black snowmobile suit unzipped nearly to his navel. His mouth was thin and drawn as taut as a garrote.

“Oh shit,” said Mink.

“Why? Who is he? Do you know him?”

The driver advanced toward my door. I tucked the gun between my legs, keeping my right hand tightened around the textured grip, my finger close to the trigger. With my left hand, I rolled down my window.

The man leaned his body weight against my side mirror and stared at me.

“Hey, I know this vehicle.” He seemed to have a speech impediment: a difficulty hearing or a problem fully manipulating his tongue. “This is a ’76 Scout, right? Nice ride. I saw you up on the mountain this afternoon.”

He was the young man Elderoy had been speaking with, I realized. The man with the hounds.

“Who’s that with you?” he asked, peering past me. “Is that Mink?”

“Hey, Logan,” said my passenger in a tone that went out of its way to cover up the fear he seemed to be feeling.

The driver, Logan, said to me, “Can you back up, so I can get by?”

Technically, it was a question, but it felt more like a demand. He seemed to have the drained complexion and sunken eyes of an insomniac, although it might have been a trick of the light.

“I could,” I said. “But it would be easier if you did it. The highway’s just right there behind your truck.”

Without glancing back, he said, “Yeah, it is. You been up at Foss’s just now?”

“That’s right,” I said.

I couldn’t see hearing aids in his ears, but there was definitely something off about his voice that made him hard to understand.

“One of the perverts get loose or something?” he asked.

“Or something.” I kept my handgun between my thighs. “I take it you live in the house for sale back there.”

“You want to buy it? Make me an offer. I’m willing to let it go cheap.”

“Your name’s Logan?”

“That’s right. Logan Dyer.”

“You work over at Widowmaker with Elderoy?” I said.

The snow melted almost immediately when it touched his head. “He’s my boss. I shovel snow. He said you’re a game warden. Is this Twenty Questions we’re playing?”

Suddenly, a loud, unearthly noise started up inside his truck—the baying of hounds.

“Yikes!” said Mink.

“I noticed your dogs at Widowmaker before,” I said. “They’re beautiful. What breed are they?”

“Plott hounds.” He kept his eyes locked on mine, but I had a prickly feeling he had noticed I was hiding my gun hand. “You ever heard of those before?”

“No.”

“They’re from down south, bred for wild boars. I use them for bobcats and coyotes mainly. Sometimes bears.” He swung his head around to his idling truck and baying hounds. “Shut the f*ck up!”

The dogs went instantly quiet.

“You want to show me your hunting license, Logan?” I asked in a soft voice.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Carefully, I removed my badge from my parka pocket with my left hand and held it out, making sure not to lose the grip on my gun.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the big hero. I saw you in the news. You were getting medals.”

I had been honored by the Warden Service a couple of years earlier for apprehending the man who had ended Kathy Frost’s career. I received the Meritorious Service Award for conduct above and beyond the call of duty at a danger to my own life, and, to the surprise of nearly everyone in the room, Warden of the Year honors. I had gone from zero to hero in the span of a single awards banquet.

“What’s it like to get a medal?” he asked. “You got it on you now?”

I ignored the question and held out my left hand. “Now, how about showing me your license?”

Dyer looked me over without haste, as if he was taking his time making an important decision. Eventually, he produced a folded piece of paper. His hunting license said his name was Logan Dyer and that he was twenty-eight years old. I would have guessed thirty-eight, but hard living can age a man well past his actual years. He had purchased special permits to hunt every big-game species in Maine in every manner possible.

I was aware of how Mink seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible in the seat beside me.