The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron Page A

thing I’ve seen in a long time. I’d be even more pissed except for the fact you probably saved that man’s life.”
    I didn’t feel particularly noble. I’d been trying to save my father, not Wallace Bickford. I looked up at the cabin, which was lit up now from the inside as the state police evidence technicians searched it for signs of my father having been there. “I didn’t exactly follow what the sheriff was saying about Bickford being a squatter.”
    â€œHe built this cabin without permission a decade ago, but APP never made him move it.”
    â€œYou mean they just let him squat here.”
    â€œBickford used to work for APP. Letting him stay here was cheaper than a lawsuit. Whose fault do you think it was that a tree fell on that poor man’s head?”
    And now Wendigo Timber had bought the land from Atlantic Pulp & Paper, and like all the legal leaseholders, Wallace Bickford was facing eviction from his home. Was it possible that he killed Shipman and Brodeur for just that reason? And what did it say about my father that he sought out this brain-damaged man and basically stole his four-wheeler? It certainly didn’t look good that he’d put Bickford at risk. On the other hand, I told myself, being desperate didn’t necessarily make him a murderer. He did what he needed to do to escape.
    â€œI’m going to see how they’re doing with those tire tracks,” said the lieutenant.
    I started to follow him, but Malcomb held up his hand. “Sorry, Bowditch. It’s a crime scene now and it’s off limits for you. Why don’t you take my truck back to the hatchery?”
    There was a different mood at the command post. The faces were longer, the energy had drained out of most of the bodies, but still the search continued. In his plane Charley Stevens called in locations where he saw headlights, but this was August in the Maine woods and ATV riders were commonplace across the region. Unless the task force got lucky, there was no way to pick him out. It was only a matter of time until the search was suspended, at least for the night. I sat in the corner and ate a ham sandwich.
    I wondered what kind of luck Kathy was having with our bear trap. She’d probably just checked it for the first time or would be checking it soon. I considered calling her, but I didn’t have the heart to face her questions.
    â€œHey, Bowditch.” I looked up into a cherub face atop a deputy’s paunchy body. He had a big bandage on his forehead and a cut on his lip. The name tag above his belly said TWOMBLEY. For some reason he was now handing me a cell phone. “It’s your lieutenant.”
    I pressed the phone to my ear. “Sir?”
    â€œI want you to go home, Bowditch. I spoke with Carter and there’s nothing more for you to do here tonight. The sheriff said one of his men will give you a ride back to Skowhegan.”
    â€œI’d prefer to stay.”
    â€œIf anything breaks, we’ll get you back up here. But we’re looking at a new timetable for this thing now. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
    â€œLieutenant—”
    The cherubic deputy held out his hand for his phone. “Let’s go,”he said.
    I followed Twombley to a patrol car and we got going. “I heard what happened, this morning,” I said. “How are you holding up?”
    â€œHow the fuck do you think I’m holding up?”
    I knew then that I was in for a long ride back to Skowhegan.
    After what Twombley had been through, I was surprised the sheriff hadn’t sent him home earlier—or at least to the hospital. I could only assume that he’d insisted on taking part in the manhunt in order to repair his damaged reputation. At the command post I’d heard more than one officer laughing about the embarrassing predicament my dad had left him in. He already had a new nickname: Treehugger.
    I studied the