The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron Page A

trouble?”
    â€œI don’t know. The only friends of his I met were Russell Pelletier and a guide named Truman Dellis. That’s a guy you should definitely talk to. He’s violent and alcoholic, and I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot a cop.”
    The detective ignored my suggestion. “Anyone else?”
    â€œThere was another guy. I’m not sure he was a friend exactly. I saw my dad talking to him at the Dead River Inn. He had a shaved head and a goatee. My dad called him a ‘paranoid militia freak.’ ”
    â€œWould your mother know about your father’s acquaintances?”
    The possibility hadn’t occurred to me before. “You’re not going to drag her into this.”
    â€œWhere does she live?” asked the agitated detective, Menario.
    â€œScarborough. She’s remarried. And she has a different name now, Marie Turner.” I gave them her phone number. “She’s going to freak out when you call her.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œShe’s got a new life, a new family. She doesn’t like to be associated with my dad anymore. It was a bad time in her life, and she’d rather forget it.”
    â€œShe’s an ex-wife.” Soctomah gave a knowing smile. “Mike, I understand how difficult this situation must be for you. You’ve dedicated your life to enforcing the law, and now your father’s a fugitive. But I don’t have to tell you that your dad’s a lot better off if we can find him quickly and get him to surrender. So if there’s anything else you can think of, any other piece of information that might help us, we need to know about it.”
    â€œOnly this,” I said. “He didn’t murder those men.”
    Soctomah blinked, clearly taken aback. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œBecause I know what’s in his nature. He may be a son-of-a-bitch—I know that better than anybody—but he’s too smart to kill a cop. I don’t expect you to believe that. But the man you’re looking for is some sort of terrorist kook. He killed that V.P. from Wendigo to send a message. My father wouldn’t do that.”
    â€œSo if he’s innocent,” asked Menario, “then why’d he run?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    A look came into Soctomah’s eyes that I didn’t recognize at first. Then I realized: He was embarrassed for me. He thought I was deluding myself, and he felt pity.
    â€œI know it looks bad,” I said. “But you’re mistaken about him.”
    Soctomah stood up in such a way as to make me stand up, too. “Thanks for taking the time to talk with us, Mike,” he said, escorting me to the door. “We’ll keep you posted.”
    â€œYou know where to find me,” I said, putting on my sunglasses to face the daylight again.

10
    T he search got under way and I had nothing to do. Lieutenant Malcomb said I’d be an observer, and that’s exactly what I was: a spectator forced to watch while a platoon of heavily armed officers was deployed into the wooded hills east of the Bigelow Mountains.
    When I was a teenager I used to have nightmares about being a ghost. In my dreams I’d float around like a phantom watching my family and friends, unable to speak to them, unable to interact. It was the worst thing I could imagine, and it was exactly how I felt now. Stuck in a crowded room, forced to follow the search on topographic maps, hearing the bloodhounds only in my imagination.
    The dogs had picked up my dad’s trail easily enough at the crash scene. But my father was a professional trapper, and he knew about scents and how not to leave them. His boots were always rubber-bottomed because leather and canvas leave a human odor. And he knew how to zigzag across streams and find paths of bare stone more or less impervious to smell. He scrambled through bogs so choked with fallen trees—spiked branches