Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(66)

Then, three months later, I had heard the news that Peter Hamlin had burned his mother’s house down with himself inside. His charred skeleton had been found inside a bedroom closet, of all places. There were no signs that his death had been anything but suicide, and as vicious as Volk could be, I couldn’t imagine him plotting such an elaborate and brutal death for the Pied Piper. On the other hand, I had little doubt that the pedophile had felt driven to take his own life.

What I had tried so hard to repress was my emotional response to the fire. Some of it was guilt. I’d wondered if I should have told someone in command about Volk’s campaign of harassment. There had also been a sense of relief. I was glad that one evil man, at least, was no longer at large upon the earth. But there was something else, too: a buoyant feeling in my chest. It was satisfaction, I realized.

I had never felt that emotion before at the death of another human being.





25

“Do you ever look at the registry?” I asked Pulsifer as we neared the Bigelow crossroads.

He flicked the wipers to clear the windshield of the salt and dirt being splattered on us by every passing vehicle. “The sex offender registry?” he said. “No, but I know where the local predators live, if that’s what you’re asking. If one of them moves into the area, I hear about it around town. People spend hours on that site, looking to see if they know anyone. It qualifies as a recreational activity up here.”

That hardly surprised me. In my experience, rural people, having few distractions, especially enjoyed prying into one another’s business. Without gossips and grudge holders, Maine game wardens would be out of business.

“I’ve been wondering about Nathan Minkowski,” I said.

For the first time all morning, Pulsifer burst out laughing. “Mink! That’s right. You were supposed to tell me about your close encounter.”

“I gave him a ride home yesterday from town.”

“What was he wearing?

I closed my eyes and summoned his image. “Fur hat, lumberman’s coat, jeans, pack boots.”

“That makes sense,” Pulsifer said. “Yesterday was an even day.”

An even day? I didn’t understand what that meant. “There was something off about him,” I said. “I wondered if he was on the registry or something.”

“Not yet.” Pulsifer turned the steering wheel suddenly in the direction of the village. “Let’s see if he’s out on display this morning.”

Up ahead was a gas station. It had old-style signs that needed to be changed manually when the price of gasoline rose or fell, and vintage pumps that wouldn’t take credit cards. Because it was such a beautiful morning, there were lines of vehicles in both directions. Not many places to fill up in Bigelow, evidently.

“There he is,” said Pulsifer with a broad grin.

I saw a few men pumping gas, and a short blond woman in a fur coat using a squeegee and paper towels to clean a windshield. But no Mink.

Then the realization dropped on me with the force of a Texas hailstone.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Pulsifer swung into the lot and hit the brakes. “I honestly don’t know why Erskine puts up with Mink, looking like that. You’d think it would hurt sales to have a cross-dresser standing at your gas pumps all day, offering to clean your windshield for a buck. It’s not the kind of thing your average tourist expects to see in Bigelow, Maine. Erskine told me about one old lady who stopped in and asked about the nice blond woman who used to wash windshields. The funniest part was that Mink was standing there the whole time in his men’s clothes.”

The gas station owner might have had a tolerant heart, but I was beginning to understand why Mink might have been banned from the general store.

I popped open the door. “I want to say hello.”

Mink had quite the winter wardrobe going: waist-length fur coat, black ski tights, fur-lined boots. His wig was long, blond, parted in the center, and feathered at the ends.

“Mink!” said Pulsifer. “You’re looking lovely today.”

“Up yours,” Mink said in his normal deep voice. His cosmetics were, if anything, even more elaborate than his clothes: fake eyelashes, mascara, rouge, scarlet lipstick, layered over a foundation thicker than pancake.

“How’s it going, Mink?” I asked.

“Fine until you ass clowns got here.”

The car Mink had been cleaning took the opportunity to drive off. He swung the squeegee back and forth in the same irritated manner a cat flicks its tail.

“How did you get into town this morning?” I asked.

“Walked, same as usual.” I didn’t know if he changed his voice with strangers, raised it a couple of registers, but he didn’t seem to be actively trying to fool anyone into thinking he was a woman. “I don’t get many rides when I dress this way.”

“I thought this was a brave new world,” said Pulsifer. “Isn’t transgendered supposed to be the hot new thing?”

“I ain’t transgendered.”

“I don’t know the politically correct term.”

“I don’t give a shit about politics. I wear women’s clothes sometimes because I like it. Did you guys just come here to give me the prod? Because I got work to do.” He pointed with the squeegee at the line of cars.