When I got back to my truck, I tried Pinkham’s cell, but he didn’t answer. I left a message, saying I had new information about Samantha and Missy. In the past, I’d found my offers of help rebuffed whenever I’d tried to assist a major crimes investigation. Detectives never took me seriously. Pinkham seemed different in that regard. The warden investigator hadn’t been so quick to dismiss my insights. Had I found a new ally in the department? I would know the answer to that question when and if Pinkham returned my phone call.
In the meantime, my search for Stacey continued.
Steffi Ross had said that the Cajun restaurant on the edge of the town was the place for nocturnal entertainment. I decided to stop in, figuring she might have come here earlier, since she hadn’t had dinner at the inn. Besides, I was running out of places to look for her.
A bayou bistro in the North Woods? The idea wasn’t so far out. The Appalachian Trail serves as a natural conduit for southern culture to the wilds of New England. And Mainers have a deep love of country music, which always surprises visitors who expect—I don’t know—sea chanteys. The way I had always thought of it was that we were just hillbillies with a different accent.
As expected, the place was packed. All I’d had to eat since lunch was some trail mix. Maybe I’d get myself an oyster po’ boy.
I locked my SIG in the glove compartment and dropped my badge in my pocket. In my hooded jacket, jeans, and work boots I looked like just another backwoods barfly. The smell of roasting ribs greeted my nose when I opened the truck door. Lady Antebellum wailed through the window screens, and I saw the orange embers of cigarettes waving in the hands of smokers lined up along the porch rail.
A woman spoke from the darkness. “Hey, Warden!”
She was nobody I knew, just one of the half-drunk smokers. Then I realized that they’d seen me drive up in my patrol truck. So much for anonymity.
I went up the steps.
Every seat seemed to be taken inside. The crowd was a cross section of the North Woods in late September. The AT thru-hikers were recognizable by their flowing braids and beards, tanned skin, and hiking apparel. The locals tended to go for flannel, leather, and denim. I elbowed my way to the counter. A woman wearing an apron and a kerchief around her head was ladling dirty rice onto paper plates. Her face gleamed with perspiration. I took out my phone and pulled up a photograph of Stacey to show her.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“The bartender will take your order.”
At the bar, I watched a woman with tattoos on her forearms fill a pint glass with Pabst Blue Ribbon. She set it in front of a familiar white-haired man who looked like he had been there so long that he was becoming one with the stool. The bartender seemed to sense my presence without having to look at me.
“What can I get you?” she shouted above the music. Toby Keith had begun to growl over the speakers.
I showed her Stacey’s picture. “Have you seen this woman here tonight?”
She glanced at the phone for all of two seconds, then returned to washing glasses. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
The old man reached a liver-spotted hand toward my outstretched arm. He was a little fellow, wearing a plaid shirt and blue Dickies held up by suspenders. “Can I see that?”
I turned the screen to him.
“She’s the woman who’s been at the store this week,” he said. “The biologist tagging the coyotes.”
“Have you seen her today?”
“Not here.” The odor of alcohol leaked from his pores. “I passed her truck on my way into town. I waved at her, but she didn’t wave back.”
He sounded offended. In the Maine woods, it is considered a politeness to wave at drivers going in the opposite direction, even if they are strangers. It was unlike Stacey to ignore this unwritten rule of the road.
“Which way was she headed?” I asked.
“Over to Blanchard.”
What was Stacey doing in Blanchard Plantation? It was even more of a ghost town than Monson. “What time did you see her?”
“Five o’clock or so. Before dark.”
I felt a strong arm wrap itself around my shoulders. A man pressed his unshaven cheek against mine and exhaled a blast of beer breath. “Warden Bowditch! Hey, Lindsey, get my friend a PBR!”
Troy Dow’s eyes glowed like chips of amber with prehistoric bugs trapped inside. His copper-brown hair was pushed away from his forehead and tucked behind his ears. He was wearing a denim jacket over a long underwear shirt, duck pants, and steel-toed boots.
I peeled his dirty fingers off my coat. “No, thanks. How are you doing, Troy?”
“It’s Friday night, and I’ve got a buzz on. Life is good.”
Four men—Trevor Dow and three others—stood behind him. They all had the same light brown eyes and copper-colored hair, but their bodies ran the gamut from spindly to bruising. Pearlene had told me the Dows were legion. I thought about the SIG pistol locked in my truck and the Walther PPK/S I sometimes wore at the small of my back but which was currently secure in my gun safe at home.
The old man on the stool tried to shrink away, but Troy clapped him hard between the shoulder blades.
“Roland! How goes it, bud?”
“Good.”
“When you gonna let us take down those white oaks near your house? Those things are fucking hazards. The next nor’easter is going to knock those trees right through your roof. We’ll cut them down and haul the wood away, no problem. Five hundred bucks.”
“I’ve been planning on logging those trees myself, Troy,” Roland said.
White oaks were one of the most valuable species in the forest.
Troy stood with his feet apart, as if balancing on the deck of a ship in heavy seas. “An old guy like you? You’ll just hurt yourself, bud. Let us take care of it. Peace of mind is worth the money. How about we come over tomorrow?”
“I don’t—”
“We’ll be over around seven.” Troy leaned in close again, close enough that I could see potato chip crumbs in his mustache. “Hey, I heard about that hitchhiker. I can’t believe someone just ran the poor guy down and took off. What kind of son of a bitch would do that?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Troy took a staggered step backward so the others could crowd around me.
“Do you know my brother, Trevor?” he said. “Oh yeah! You do. This is my uncle Trent, and my cousin Todd, and my other cousin, Terrence. Guys, this is that hard-ass game warden I was telling you about.”
I addressed the pack. “Gentlemen.”
Troy waved a finger at me. “Are you off duty? You look like you’re off duty.”
“I’m off duty.”
Old Roland downed his Pabst, slid off his stool, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Five against one. I shook my head and started to laugh.
Troy’s bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking about the woman who works at the gatehouse on the KI Road. You’ve really got that poor woman fooled. She said you weren’t like the rest of your family.”
“Come on, guys!” the female bartender said behind me. “This isn’t the O.K. Corral.”
“Maybe we should all go outside,” Troy said. “What do you think, Warden? How about some fresh air?”
The Dows would be on me the minute I stepped through the door. Two of them would pinion my arms while a third got me into a stranglehold. I would be at their mercy—to be choked unconscious, knifed in the stomach, or shot with a hidden handgun. Real-life brawls aren’t like the ones in movies. Brute force and a willingness to do whatever it takes—gouge an eye, kick in a knee—matter more than martial arts training. The dirtiest fighters are the ones who always win.
Glancing to my left, I saw an empty Heineken bottle on the bar. I might get one chance to break it over Troy’s skull before the others tore me limb from limb.
One of the Dow cousins—I wasn’t sure if it was Todd or Terrence—reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a ringing phone. He held it up to one ear.
“What are we waiting for?” Trevor snarled.
I placed my left hand on the bar, inches from the bottle.
The skinny Dow with the phone squeezed Troy by the shoulder. He brought his mouth close to his cousin’s ear.
Troy snapped his hairy head around. “What?”
“We’ve got to get back home!” his cousin said over the music.
Troy sucked one end of his mustache into his mouth. Now was my chance to coldcock him, but I had a feeling Lady Luck had just dealt me a new card.
He spit his mustache out. “To be continued.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The five Dows piled out of the restaurant. Lindsey, the tattooed woman pouring drinks, picked up the empty bottle I had been planning to use as a weapon.
“Are you sure you don’t want that beer now?” she asked.
Roland emerged from hiding in the bathroom and returned to his stool. I recognized him now: He was the old man I’d seen buying beer at the store first thing in the morning. He tapped his glass.
“Another, please.”
“You don’t have to let the Dows bully you into taking down those oak trees,” I said.
The old man rubbed his eyes. “I’m not as brave as you.”
“Can I give you another piece of advice, then? Grab a ride home with someone. You’re in no shape to drive.”
Roland nodded, but I knew he wouldn’t voluntarily give up his keys.
I left the restaurant, mindful that the Dows could have been playing a game with me and might be lying in wait in the shadows. I decided to risk it. More smokers had joined the crowd on the porch.
“Bye, Warden!” It was the same woman as before.
If I had been wearing a cap, I would have tipped it to her. I made my way out of the lot and along the row of vehicles parked on Main Street. As I neared my patrol truck, I noticed that it seemed to be abnormally low to the ground. There was a reason for this. All four tires had been slashed.