Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(73)

After a while, I gave up trying to sleep and got up before sunrise to make coffee.

The kitchen windows were so dark, I could see my reflected self moving from sink to fridge to table. Until the doctor cleared me to return to duty, I was still in limbo. I couldn’t engage in any work-related activities.

I sat down at my laptop while I ate my cereal and checked my e-mail. Nothing from Stacey, but there was a message from Pulsifer, dated the previous afternoon, that I had missed seeing:

Heads-up. DeFord might be giving you a call. I didn’t tattle, so you shouldn’t have any problems unless you go out of your way to piss him off.

Wait, that means you’re definitely going to have problems.

Talked to Jim Clegg, too. He had been expecting you to call him. What happened there? Anyway, he spoke with Amber himself and she told him about the gun.

Another piece of news. Clegg said someone in the crime lab owed him a favor and expedited the test on the blood recovered from the Ranger. The type was AB positive, same as Langstrom’s. That’s a rare blood type, too.

Jim is headed back to Pariahville tomorrow. He has a couple more questions for Foss.

I scrolled down the list of other e-mails, most of which were department-related, until I came to a second message from Pulsifer posted later in the evening:

Just heard about the crash at Clayton Lake! How is it possible Stacey wasn’t on that chopper? Has she ever taken a sick day before?

I owe you an apology, too. Sorry I was so dickish this morning. I was mad at myself for slipping. It wasn’t you. I’d been building up to it for a while (ask Lauren). But I went to a meeting this evening and got my one day chip, which is the only one that ever matters.

I wasn’t ready yet to use the word friend to describe Gary Pulsifer. There was a dark side to the man that made me want to keep some distance between us. But he had made an effort at making amends, and I was grateful.

I checked out the Web sites of the Maine newspapers. The helicopter crash was the lead story on all of them, but there were no details in the reporting that I hadn’t already heard. The flying conditions had been close to ideal, so weather was unlikely to have been a factor. The pilot, Steve Cobb, was only fifty-six and had been flying since the Gulf War. His widow was quoted as saying he’d recently had a physical that showed his cholesterol was on the high side, but otherwise he was as physically fit as a middle-aged man could be.

At seven o’clock sharp, I called Stacey’s cell. There was no answer.

On a hunch, I tried the IF&W field office in Ashland, assuming that the crash investigation and recovery operations would mean someone was already in the office.

A woman with an unfamiliar voice answered. “Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.”

“This is Warden Mike Bowditch. Can I speak with Stacey Stevens, please?”

“Oh, hello, Warden. Stacey isn’t here.”

“Can you leave a message for me?”

“She might not get it for a while. She took a snowmobile out to the crash scene last night.”

“What?”

It was sixty-some miles from Ashland to Clayton Lake along the infamous American Realty Road, a gravel thoroughfare maintained by loggers and nicknamed the “Reality Road” by locals because it leads through the wildest stretch of Maine.

“We tried to talk her out of it, but you know Stacey.”

“She’s going to catch pneumonia!”

“All I can tell you is that she radioed in when she arrived at Clayton Lake. So you don’t need to worry about that at least. If she radios us again, I’ll let her know you called.”

I thanked the unnamed woman and restrained myself from punching the nearest wall. Did Stacey honestly believe the recovery team and crash investigators needed her help? She could be so selfish in her recklessness.

As I put my cereal bowl in the sink, I caught sight of myself in the kitchen window again.

“Don’t even say it,” I told my glowering reflection.





28

As I thought about the day ahead, I realized there was something productive I could do that wouldn’t violate my agreement with DeFord to refrain from rule-bending activities. I would make it my personal mission to find someone willing to adopt Shadow.

I started researching what Maine state law had to say on the subject of wolf hybrids. Like most legal language, it resisted clear interpretation. Title 7, Section 3911 gave game wardens six days to dispose of a wolf hybrid at large before ownership of the animal was transferred to a shelter for it to be put down. Did that mean I was still the legal custodian of Shadow as the warden who had confiscated him? After five minutes of scratching my head, I pulled up Kathy’s number and hit the call button.

My former sergeant picked up on the second ring.

“Mike! I heard about that crash up in the Allagash. Did you know Stacey was not on board?”

“Not until she called. I thought I was talking to her ghost.”

“Jesus! Is she all right?”

“Not remotely. I just called the field office in Ashland and a woman there told me Stacey took a sled out to Clayton Lake because she wanted to ‘help.’ She practically has walking pneumonia as it is.”

“And what’s this I heard about you being on the sharp end of a knife?”

“That’s another long story, but the short version is that I am fine. I’ll tell you all the gory details later, but right now I have a question. Do you know anyone who would adopt a wolf dog?”