The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron Page B

everywhere—that the dogs cut their pads to shreds trying to follow. He knew he probably couldn’t outwit the hounds, but he could definitely exhaust their handlers and gain himself some time.
    The reports came back by radio. Trail lost. Trail found again.
    The tension got to people in different ways. I drank coffee until my stomach burned. The officer in charge, Major Carter, of the state police tactical team, kept checking his watch. The sheriff left the room every fifteen minutes to piss. Lieutenant Malcomb found a pack of Lucky Strikes on a desk and stepped outside.
    I found him behind the building, standing beside a bubbling spillway, lighting a cigarette. “Lieutenant,” I said. “I know what we talked about before, but I’d like to be posted into the field. Let me direct traffic or something. I can’t just stand around like this, waiting.”
    â€œWe’re all waiting.”
    â€œBut you need more men out there.”
    â€œThe governor’s got the National Guard on standby.” He dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot. “I think we can spare you, Bowditch.”
    There was nothing to say to that. Overhead I heard a faint drone and then saw a small airplane flash in the sun. It banked and swung westward into the deepening shadows beneath Little Bigelow and disappeared from view.
    â€œThat’s Charley Stevens,” said the lieutenant, as if identifying a species of bird. He left me staring up at the darkening peaks. In the mountains you really do run out of daylight early.
    The Bigelows were named for Major Timothy Bigelow, who came through here with Colonel Benedict Arnold on his march to Quebec in 1775. It was a chapter of the Revolutionary War nobody talks about much anymore, but I remembered how jazzed I was as a kid to learn that my hometown was near a site of historic significance. My dad told me that Arnold brought a thousand men from the sea up the Kennebec River in leaky bateaux, portaging the heavy boats over Pleasant Ridge to the Dead River, then along the Chain of Ponds, heading overland again across the Height of Land that fences the border with Canada, and finally down the Chaudiere to storm the ramparts of Quebec. It was a daring plan and a complete disaster. Hundreds of soldiers deserted, drowned, starved, or froze to death along that long march. More died on the Plains of Abraham in the snow beneath of the walls of the city. It was the first major defeat of the revolution, but I was captivated by the story anyway—the courage of the men fighting their way through a wilderness of impassable forests and wild rivers—and I remembered how crestfallen I was to hear afterward about Arnold’s treason at West Point. How could my hero have become a traitor?
    I watched the sun dip below the summit—the colors changed in an instant as it dropped from view—and I thought about all the lessons we fail to learn from history.
    I was still outside half an hour later when officers came pouring out of the command post. Suddenly the parking lot was awash in blue lights and sirens. The sheriff made a beeline for me. Behind him were Lieutenant Malcomb and Major Carter, who was fastening on a Kevlar vest.
    â€œWe’ve got a situation,” growled the sheriff. “Your father’s gone barricade.”
    â€œHe’s taken a hostage,” explained the lieutenant.
    He motioned me to come with him in his truck, and I did.
    â€œWho’s the hostage?”
    The lieutenant cranked the engine. “An old recluse named Bickford. The dogs tracked the scent to his cabin. And when troopers approached the door, they were fired at.”
    â€œShit.”
    â€œI hope we can talk your old man out of there, Bowditch.”
    He’s dead if we don’t, I thought.
    It was like a high-speed caravan. As we raced through the woods, our emergency lights turned the roadside trees blue and red—carnival colors that had no place