Bad Little Falls by Paul Doiron Page B

was like a NUCLEAR BOMB went off and killed everybody or maybe turned them into zombies.
    Now we’re in the hospital parking lot.
    I wonder how many people die at the hospital every year. Probably a lot.
    All hospitals must be haunted.

 
     
    10
     
    I was inside the Grand Am, shivering, my teeth clenched to keep from chattering. The gym bag lay open beside me on the seat. I was trying to reconstruct in my imagination the drug deal that had taken place in this frozen swamp when I heard a loud scraping sound. I clambered out of the car and stood knee-deep in the snow, watching as powerful lights tore through the storm.
    There were two vehicles: a hefty pickup outfitted with a V-shaped plow and a green warden’s truck following behind. I hoped the trucks hadn’t just flattened the buried body of Randall Cates in an attempt to reach me.
    Over the idling engines I heard truck doors bang open. Three silhouettes came toward me through the headlights.
    “Bowditch!” It was Rivard, wearing his green warden’s parka with the hood up.
    Behind him came a shorter, thicker man: the plow driver.
    And then another person with a dog.
    Kathy Frost? No, she was two hundred miles away tonight in Greenville. It was her protégé from the K-9 team, Cody Devoe. He had been the warden in my old district before being transferred to Washington County at his own request. Devoe is one of those natural woodsmen whose idea of heaven is being stationed in the wildest, least populated outposts imaginable, the kind of warden who spends his vacations fishing for arctic char in Labrador. He is a big bruiser with a perpetual five o’clock shadow even at five o’clock in the morning. His friends call him Fred Flintstone. His German shepherd is named Tomahawk.
    The plow driver—I assumed it was Ben Sprague—was a short but solid guy. He had a hooked, beaklike nose and small, rapidly blinking eyes set close together. He wore a blue snowmobile suit covered with iron-on patches from various clubs, and a New England Patriots cap with a fuzzy pom-pom on top.
    “So what’s going on?” Rivard asked.
    “We’ve got a lost man out here,” I said. “It’s Randall Cates.”
    “That’s what Kendrick told me. I didn’t believe it until I saw Prester Sewall lying in that bed.”
    “I thought his name was John.”
    “Everyone calls him Prester.”
    “I think Cates and Sewall were out here on a drug deal.”
    “Is that a hunch, or do you have more specific reasons for saying that?”
    I showed them the gym bag full of money, and the gun. I told them about the map inside the car with our location marked in pencil. My lips were so numb, I sounded like I had a speech impediment. “I think Cates is lost out here somewhere, wandering around in the dark or collapsed in a snowbank.”
    “I’m not sure how we’re going to find him in this storm,” Rivard said.
    “I’d like to try running a track.” Devoe squatted down beside his dog and adjusted the little orange vest she was wearing. “Tomahawk’s pretty good in the snow. We did some avalanche training last winter up at Baxter State Park.”
    “Christ, it’s cold out here.” Rivard rubbed his gloved hands together and stamped his feet, first one and then the other. The Grand Am had almost disappeared again inside the white mound of snow.
    “How’s Sewall doing?” I asked.
    “The paramedics were putting him in the ambulance when Devoe and I showed up,” said Rivard. “He looked pretty bad to me, but maybe he’ll pull through. They won’t be able to get him to Bangor in the storm, so they’re taking him to Machias to stabilize his condition.”
    “Where’s Kendrick?” I asked.
    “I left him at the house,” said Rivard. “I told him to direct assistance to our location, and I thought someone should stay with Mrs. Sprague.”
    Ben Sprague stared hard at me with a trembling lip and a knitted brow, as if I’d just insulted his mother. “My wife’s had a terrible shock!”
    What was up