Widowmaker by Paul Doiron Page A

the overhead light. Everything looked so cheerless and lonely. I reached for my parka on the couch, and my father’s dog tags fell onto the floor. The poltergeist was having fun with me again.
    I stuffed the bewitched tags into my pants pockets and sat down to finish my drink.
    Adam Langstrom’s photograph was faceup on the coffee table, where I had left it. I tried to resist looking at the picture, but the pull was too strong. I threw back the rest of the bourbon and waited for the heat of the alcohol to spread outward from my stomach to my heart.
    I held the snapshot by the edges, pinched it between my thumbs and index fingers, as if afraid to leave prints.
    Did I want this man to be my brother? Did it matter what I wanted?
    Adam and I were far from being twins. His hair was wavier than mine. His nose was longer. His brow was heavier. But there was something there. The word I would use is that I recognized this person I had never met.
    And I resented him, too, I realized.
    To have thought for years that I was the last of a bloodline and then to learn suddenly that I had a younger brother—a brother who just happened to be a statutory rapist, a convicted felon, a pariah forbidden to live in polite society, another irredeemable fugitive in need of my help—what kind of cruel joke had God decided to play on me?
    I had made so much progress in repairing my reputation and rebuilding my life since my dad blew a hole in it. After years of wavering, I had committed myself at last to my vocation as an officer of the law. I had earned the respect of my peers and superiors (most of them, at least). I had a woman who loved me and whom I loved. The last thing I needed now was to be sucked into a thankless quest to find a missing person whom no one seemed to be missing.
    Except his mother, of course.
    I had begun to feel the alcohol in my head: It manifested itself as a softening of my thoughts.
    I turned Adam’s photograph over and read aloud the telephone number that Amber had scrawled on the back. It almost felt as if I were speaking an incantation, uttering an irrevocable spell. Before I could change my mind, I reached for the phone.
    *   *   *
    Amber Langstrom picked up on the second ring.
    â€œIt’s Mike Bowditch,” I said.
    â€œOh, thank God.”
    â€œI’ve thought about it, and I’m willing to make some phone calls—”
    â€œIt would be better if you came up here.” Her voice had its familiar rough smokiness.
    â€œI’m willing to make some phone calls.”
    â€œDon Foss won’t talk to you. I had to drive out to his gate because no one would give me his number, and even then he wouldn’t let me inside.”
    â€œWhat makes you think he’ll talk to me, then?”
    â€œWear your uniform when you go see him.”
    Her assertiveness shouldn’t have caught me off guard. Pulsifer had told me she could be manipulative. I had seen evidence of it myself.
    â€œI can’t do that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause it’s one thing for me to make some informal inquiries about a fugitive I saw listed in the WatchGuard database. It’s another to do so in an official capacity, especially if Adam is my brother.”
    â€œHe is your brother!”
    â€œI could get myself into serious trouble.”
    â€œYou still need to come up here.” She was as hard to shake off as a terrier.
    â€œAmber—”
    â€œCome to Widowmaker first,” she said. “You should talk to Adam’s friend Josh. He was the last to see Adam before he disappeared, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened. Josh works on the ski patrol. Stop at the Sluiceway when you get here. I’m working lunch.” She spoke so quickly, I couldn’t find a pause to break in. “I knew you would help me. You’re going to like Adam when you find him. You have so much in common. Thank you so much! You’re my hero,