Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(46)

The location of the abandoned truck only added to the mystery.

To the extent that Dallas Plantation was known for anything, it was known for its semisecret navy base. On maps, the facility appeared under the acronym SERE. The letters stood for survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. SERE school was a camp where the military trained U.S. Navy and Marine Corps pilots in what to do if they were shot down behind enemy lines.

A cloud of folklore surrounded the mountain base. Some conspiracy theorists claimed that the military trained black-ops contractors on the grounds; they said the instructors waterboarded pilots to train them how to resist torture. Defenders of SERE said those accounts were slanders cooked up to discredit the navy.

All I knew was that the road I was traveling ended at a gate guarded by men with automatic weapons. And for some unknown reason, Adam Langstrom’s bloody pickup had been left in the forest outside the perimeter.

I followed the main branch of the road a mile, past cutoffs to Redington Ridge and Saddleback Lake, until I could go no farther because there was a heavy military vehicle blocking the way. As I came to a stop, a man in a camouflage uniform and black gaiters and boots stepped forward to meet me.

“You’re going to have to turn around,” he said, coming around to my window. He wore a black watch cap and fingerless green gloves. “The road is closed.”

I produced my wallet and badge. “I’m a game warden. Gary Pulsifer called me.”

He motioned me forward. “Drive through, Warden.”

Glancing through the trees ahead, I saw an eerie glow, as if the haze itself had been electrified. As I drew near, I saw that the strange illumination was coming from a construction light mounted to a trailer. Its bright halide lamps were all focused on a blue Ford pickup with a smashed window. I did a quick scan of the scene and spotted a second Humvee, a sheriff’s police cruiser, and a flatbed tow truck.

Thankfully, I saw no sign of Amber.

Pulsifer was standing beside his bright yellow snowmobile, speaking with an older man in a brown uniform. When he saw my Scout drive up, he paused and shook his head in a theatrical show of vexation. His vulpine features seemed more pronounced in the weird light. His nose and chin seemed extra pointed.

“That was fast,” he said.

“I told you I was in the neighborhood.”

Pulsifer was wearing his black-and-gray snowmobile suit. He had set his helmet on the seat of his sled. “I have a few questions about that, but they can wait.” He waved his hand at the older cop he had been speaking with. “Mike, do you know Jim Clegg? He’s a detective with the sheriff’s department. Jim, this is the infamous Mike Bowditch.”

I pressed my teeth together behind my smile. Infamous was not how I wished to be known.

The detective had chalk white hair and a red roll of fat under his chin. We exchanged greetings and handshakes.

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“You know most of it already,” said Pulsifer. “The truck’s registered in Amber’s name.”

“She bought it last month in Farmington at a private sale,” said Clegg, who seemed to have a runny nose. “Paid two grand for it.”

She had been overcharged. The truck was a battered Ford Ranger, manufactured well before the millennium and poorly maintained in the intervening years, to judge from the missing bumper, rust spots, and assorted dents and scratches.

“It was her get-out-of-jail gift for Adam,” said Pulsifer.

“She told you that?” I asked.

“She told Steve. I mentioned that they were old acquaintances.”

I was aware of people moving in the shadows outside of the glare of the construction light. “Where is she now?” I asked.

Clegg’s double chin grew a little redder with frustration. “After I had a chance to interview her, I asked officer Haines to escort her home.”

There was a warrant out for Amber Langstrom’s son, and some lovesick cop had violated every rule in the book by inviting her to the scene of what might well have been the young man’s murder.

“Tell me about the blood.”

“Splatter on the dash and the seat,” said the detective. “Consistent with a gunshot wound to the head, but not necessarily.”

“But there’s no body?” I said.

Pulsifer dug his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “The navy brought down one of their dog teams to do a sweep around the lot. But they haven’t found anything.”

“What about the glass?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“Is there any glass on the ground, under the snow? If not, it means the windows were broken someplace else and then the truck was moved here.”

“Get a load of Sherlock Junior!” Pulsifer almost sounded proud of me.

“Can I have a look?” I asked.

Clegg shrugged. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive before covering the vehicle, so now would be the time.”

“I explained to Jim that Amber had come to you for help,” said Pulsifer. “I suggested you might have some useful information that was worth waiting for.”

“I’d like to hear more about your involvement with Ms. Langstrom later,” said Clegg.

“Involvement is the wrong word.”

“I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re screwing her, too,” said the detective.