TROY GOT ABOUT FOUR HOURS’ sleep before the first call came in: drunken revelers shooting off fireworks at the Northshire campground. All consumer fireworks other than sparklers were illegal in Vermont. People intent on celebrating the Fourth the old-fashioned way drove over to New Hampshire, stocked up on the explosive devices, and then sneaked them back into the Green Mountain State. Law enforcement didn’t do that much to stop this smuggling activity; the priority was policing the roadways for drunk drivers.
Game wardens had to worry about drunk drivers, too. ATVers and boaters, mostly, speeding and crashing and hurting themselves and/or others in the process. But complaints for late-night fireworks disturbing the peace also came in, especially in the campgrounds, where rival groups would snipe at each other over all manner of issues, from extremely loud music to excessive marijuana smoke.
By the time Troy got there, the fireworks show was over and the complainants had gone to bed. The folks setting off the fireworks told the game warden that they didn’t have any more. But a domestic dispute at the campgrounds earlier that evening had prompted an inebriated husband to take off on his ATV, and he hadn’t been seen since. Troy and Susie Bear spent hours tracking the guy down, charging him with a DUI, and getting him back to the campgrounds in one piece to face his unhappy wife.
He may be lonely sometimes, but Troy was glad he didn’t have to go home to an unhappy woman anymore. Dogs were so much easier than people.
The sun was coming up when they got back to the fire tower. Another couple of hours on the couch, and he’d be ready to tackle that dead body and that missing baby.
More sleep was not to be. Long holiday weekends meant long hours on patrol. Troy got a text from Captain Thrasher. Time to get back to work. He showered quickly, put on a clean uniform, and headed out for the office with Susie Bear.
“Okay, girl,” he said. “Are you ready for Eggs Over Easy?”
The big dog barked and he laughed. This tiny breakfast place in the corner of an old building on Main Street was her favorite—and his, too. He called in their favorite order—triple servings of venison blueberry sausage, wild turkey hash, cornbread, and coffee—and barreled down the road toward town.
Main Street was pretty quiet at this hour of the morning, and that meant no long line of customers waiting yet at the tiny café, which technically didn’t open for half an hour, at seven, and was crazy busy by nine o’clock until they closed their doors in the early afternoon. But the cute if notoriously cranky hostess, Monique, had a crush on the captain, and all Troy had to do was say he was dropping by to pick up breakfast for Thrasher and she’d meet him right on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, food and drink packed and ready to go. By the time he pulled up to the restaurant, the slender brunette was there in a short yellow cotton dress, smiling and holding up his takeout like Vanna White changing letters on Wheel of Fortune.
“Now you be sure to tell the captain hello for me,” she said as she leaned into the open window of the truck and exchanged meal for money.
“Will do,” said Troy.
Monique patted Susie Bear before retreating. “And next time, bring him by for a real sit-down.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Troy smiled at her. She must have known that she was one of a long line of women waiting for the captain. But then, she was used to long lines.
* * *
CAPTAIN FLOYD THRASHER stood in the reception area and waved Troy into the small office. He scratched Susie Bear’s shaggy head and led the way to the conference room, which doubled as the operations room. They were the only people there today, which was the way Troy liked it, when he had to be in the office at all. Most of his time was spent in the field. One of the many reasons he loved this job.
Thrasher, on the other hand, seemed completely at home in every environment. A former Marine with the punctilious bearing of an officer and the gravelly voice of a blues baritone, he was the most self-possessed man Troy had ever known. He seemed much taller than his five-ten frame, due to his super-erect carriage and salt-and-pepper buzz cut. His eyes were the kind of blue-green that could melt a woman’s heart or nail a grown man to the floor with just a look. Of French, English, and African-American ancestry, he was movie-star handsome, at least by Vermont standards, and only grew more so with age.
Troy knew his extraordinary good looks were a sore subject for his superior officer, which made him the object of much teasing by fellow law enforcement—but only the dimmest of them dared to call him Pretty Boy Floyd to his face.
Troy was not dim. All he said when he and Susie Bear greeted the captain at the office was “Monique says hello,” and handed Thrasher his coffee.
The captain grunted an unintelligible response. When his beloved wife, Carol, died a year ago of cancer, the ladies of southern Vermont had gathered around him in folds of sympathy, delivering condolences and casseroles in equal measure. He ignored them all, and shared the casseroles with Troy, whose own wife had also departed—for Orlando, with the orthopedist—in a show of solidarity and support. They continued to eat meals together, even as many of the women (Monique aside) grew discouraged and the free food dwindled.
That often meant takeout, like today’s breakfast. Thrasher waited while he parceled out the sausage and hash and cornbread among the three of them: boss, junior officer, and dog. Dog got the lion’s share.
They ate in a companionable silence, the only sound the slurping of coffee by the men and the scarfing of the sausage by the dog. Troy appreciated the fact that while the captain could speak eloquently and effectively on virtually any subject, he was not a big talker here at work. Troy never felt obliged to shoot the shit with him, the way he sometimes did with his other colleagues.
“Dr. Darling has narrowed the time of death of the victim in the woods to about three years, give or take a couple of months.” Thrasher tossed the remains of his breakfast into the trash can under his desk. “Still no ID.”
“I can check the missing persons files from that time and see what comes up.”
“Do it.” The captain rose to his feet. “But make it fast. It’s really not our problem. And the unlicensed fishermen and drunk ATVers and pirate rafters will be waking up soon, and you’ll need to get back in the field.”
“Yes, sir.” Troy knew that the captain didn’t like the idea of people dying in their woods any more than he did. Whether by accidental death or murder didn’t matter. They wanted to make it right, for the victims and their families. Even if the state police objected.
“You’ve got an hour,” the captain said. “I’ll be in my office.”
Troy logged onto the computer in the operations room and began the sometimes laborious process of checking the crime records and missing persons reports filed around the time of the victim’s death. Fortunately only three adult males had been reported missing during the specified time period: Gary Bowles, a forty-five-year-old unemployed truck driver from Pownal; Jack Hess, a thirty-seven-year-old science teacher from Dorset; and Wayne Herbert, a thirty-two-year-old unemployed machinist from Rutland County. Troy dug deeper, combing the databases for more information on the three missing men.
“Interesting,” he told Susie Bear, who sprawled at his feet, her large head a dead weight on the toes of his boots. As it turned out, there was a story behind each of the missing individuals. Bowles turned out to be on a bender in Portsmouth, and spent a couple of nights in jail before taking off and showing up months later in Glastonbury. Hess ran off with his sister-in-law and sent his brother a postcard from Cabo featuring the happy couple on the beach. The wife eventually came home and reconciled with the brother, but the family didn’t like talking about it, and delayed informing the authorities. Hess never returned to Vermont. As far as anyone knew, he was still in Mexico.
Missing persons reports were often incomplete and inaccurate, if not forgotten altogether. Most were canceled, because the missing person showed up, sooner rather than later, the victim of nothing more than a misunderstanding. Or they were runaway teenagers or dementia patients or kids abducted by their noncustodial parents. Others were people who simply disappeared of their own free will. People who wanted to leave their old lives behind forever, for better or worse.
But then there were the victims of foul play. Like their victim.
Wayne Herbert, the last guy on the list, had never been heard from again. He was about the right age and disappeared at around the right time. He was known to be an avid hunter, and was suspected of poaching time and time again, but the game warden’s predecessors had never been able to catch him in the act.
Still, given the forty thousand known remains and God knows how many more unknown scattered across the woods and fields and meadows of this country, the bones of their victim could belong to anyone. But Troy had a feeling about this Wayne Herbert. At least it was a place to start.
He printed out the case files, missing persons report, and photos of the victim and the belt buckle, and then whistled for the dog. She padded along behind him as he knocked on the captain’s door and filled him in on Wayne Herbert.
“Oh, yes, the Herberts,” said Thrasher. “Quite the family. Drinking, disturbing the peace, poaching.”
They both hated poachers. Game wardens were pledged to protect wildlife—and poaching was one of the premier crimes against wildlife.
“Sneaky, though.”
“Yeah. We’ve only caught them at it once. Before your time. The Herbert boys were baiting bear with doughnuts. Out of season.” Thrasher smiled, showing his teeth. He had the look of a falcon, ready to swoop. “Anonymous tip. All three boys paid steep fines. And spent some time in jail.”
Baiting bears was illegal. Even leaving dog food outside where it could attract bears was asking for trouble. And bear hunting was very restricted: only one bear per year was allowed each licensed hunter. Violations cost poachers plenty. Fines began at $1,000, and jail time could add up to months behind bars. The tough regulations worked, though, and the warden service knew it. The population of black bears had doubled over the past twenty years. That meant six thousand bears roaming the state looking for food when they weren’t hibernating. Fierce temptation for the likes of the Herberts.
Troy smiled back.
“It’s true we haven’t heard much from Wayne in a while, not since his mother reported him missing. But I’m surprised that he might be our vic,” said Thrasher. “I always thought he hightailed it into Canada to get away from her.”
The widow Herbert had moved to Vermont with her grown sons from Maine after her husband died. Which was why Troy didn’t know them from school. But he did know that since he’d joined up, the Herberts had been suspected of running dogfights, not that they’d caught them at it yet. “Queen of the Pit Bulls.”
“Exactly. But we’ve never been able to prove anything.”
“We will.” The only thing Troy hated more than poaching was dogfighting. He found himself clenching his fists at the very thought of it.
Thrasher grinned. “Give her my regards.”
Troy wasn’t sure what he meant. It sounded like the captain wanted him to check out the Herberts on his own. The state police wouldn’t like that.
The game wardens of Vermont Fish and Wildlife were supposed to stick to, well, fish and wildlife. Everything else—even search and rescue—technically fell under the jurisdiction of the Vermont State Police. Oh, the staties could call the game wardens in to help when they thought they needed them. But too often they didn’t.
That arrogance had cost a hiker his life a few years back. When the young man failed to return from an early evening walk in the woods, his family reported him missing. The staties failed to notify even their own search-and-rescue unit in a timely manner—and the teenager died during the night.
Thrasher was convinced that his game wardens, who knew the woods better than anyone, could have saved him—would have saved him—if they’d only known. He was right—and everyone knew it. The staties were quicker to include game wardens in searches now, but that did not satisfy the captain. He didn’t trust them to handle what went wrong in his woods. Neither did Troy.
“I guess you’d better see about that anonymous tip,” said Thrasher.
Troy nodded in understanding. “Those Herberts are bear baiting again.”
“Indeed.” The captain paused. “Watch your back. And your dog.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then get on to the fishing license checks.”
* * *
WAYNE HERBERT’S MOTHER, Florence “Flo” Herbert, lived with her two younger sons north of the Lye Brook Wilderness in a double-wide manufactured home on twenty acres two miles off a hilly dirt road that angled off another hilly dirt road that angled off another hilly dirt road in southwestern Rutland County. Troy and Susie Bear bounced along in the truck, circumventing the bumpy backroads so typical of the state. Two-thirds of the roads in Vermont were unpaved—a whopping 8,600 miles—a nightmare in mud season but by this time of the year they were at least dry, if rutted.
Not that this could stop a game warden, for whom impassable terrain was often a given. The worse the road, the bigger the challenge. The Herberts’ road was a challenge.
Eventually the rough drive petered out at a six-foot-high chain-link fence, which surrounded the vinyl-sided manufactured home and its outbuildings on about a square acre of the family’s land. They got out of the truck. Susie Bear stood at his side, alert, tail wagging, snout up—ready to work.
Red and white Private Property/No Trespassing signs were posted every dozen feet along this rusted barricade. A new lock hung on the big gate fronting the road entering the compound, but the smaller lock on the slim, people-wide gate was busted. Troy let himself in through that gate, Susie Bear on his heels.
All was quiet at the house. It was after nine o’clock now; maybe the night-hunting Herberts were sleeping in. The yard—calling it a yard was a compliment—was cluttered with junk, an old broken-down wooden rowboat, a torn trampoline, a rusted swing set, and an assortment of snowmobile, ATV, and car parts. To the left of the Herbert home stood a chicken coop, chickens long gone, and to the right a metal toolshed, its door hanging loose and clanging in the strong wind that swept through the pines surrounding the property. The only bright notes on the compound were the twin blue Dodge Ram trucks and a two-story steel prefab barn. Considering everything in the yard, Troy had to wonder what they kept in the barn.
A murder of crows sailed over them toward the trees. Sure sign of a carcass somewhere nearby.
“There goes the captain’s anonymous tip,” he said to Susie Bear, who was poised to follow them. “Sorry, girl. Not yet.”
The makeshift porch, built of overturned split logs, held uneven piles of firewood. The path to the front door was strewn with timber in various stages of harvesting.
They had picked their way about halfway through the wreckage to the house when the front door swung open and two enormous snow-white pit bulls charged out, hurtling toward them.