Widowmaker by Paul Doiron Page B

Mike.”
    And then she hung up.
    Being told I had a lot in common with a statutory rapist did not lift my spirits.
    My father had had a thing for attractive, calculating women. If I was going to be honest with myself, I had to admit that even my mother had fit the pattern. She was young when they married and naive at first. She had tolerated his absences and heavy drinking, put up with the rumors about other women, bandaged his bloodied knuckles—she had endured these indignations until she no longer could. The divorce had been her idea, and she had laid the groundwork carefully, planning exactly how she and I would make our escape, before she delivered the news to him.
    When she was free of my dad, she had immediately set out to improve her station. She had gotten a temporary job as a receptionist in a law office in Portland, and wouldn’t you know, six months later she was engaged to one of the partners.
    I wouldn’t be manipulated by Amber Langstrom into driving three hours. In the morning, I would call Adam’s probation officer, and maybe follow up with the mysterious Don Foss, but that would be the extent of my efforts.
    But as I finished my second drink, I found myself drawing a mental map about the specific roads I would drive to get to Widowmaker.
    A fool for scheming women? Like father, like son.
    After a while, I plugged the phone into the wall to recharge and went heavily up the stairs to bed.

 
    9
    The next morning, I was awakened by a throbbing in my arm. My head hurt, too, and the inside of my mouth was parched from breathing out alcohol fumes all night long. I should have listened to the nurse.
    I had to put a bread bag over my bandaged arm in the shower so it wouldn’t get wet. After I had toweled myself off, I stood with my back to the mirror, looking at the stab mark. Knives are supposed to slice right through Kevlar. How had that not happened?
    The previous night hadn’t been my first brush with death. I had come closer to being killed many times in the past. And yet I felt shaken in a way I never had before. Maybe it was because, for the first time I could remember, I felt as if I had something to lose. As a rookie, I’d been willing to risk my life, as if it had no value; I had naive ideas about the nobility of self-sacrifice, which were premised on my own dispensability. I hadn’t considered the possibility of being mourned by people who loved me. People like Stacey and her parents. People like Kathy Frost. I hadn’t felt afraid of death because I had mistaken selfishness for selflessness.
    I found myself shivering, even though the bathroom itself was still warm from the steam. I returned to my bedroom, put on jeans and a commando sweater, and went downstairs to have breakfast.
    I had slept late. The day looked like it was going to be cold, with one of those milky skies you get during the winter in Maine, when it might snow at any minute.
    Stacey had sent me an e-mail message before dawn.
    Hey, Mike,
    Glad you’re OK! I want to hear the details.
    That sucks about the poor wolf dog. Can’t you find someone to take it?
    It’s a helicopter day! We’re going up in the Forest Service chopper to spot moose, since the forecast looks good. I wish they’d let me fly the thing. How hard can it be? Maybe I’ll get my helo license next summer. When are you going to let me teach you how to fly, anyway?
    Love,
    S.
    PS. Did you call Pulsifer? Have you decided what to do about your brother? He looks just like you.
    I had plenty of reservations about my connection to Adam Langstrom, but clearly the photo I’d sent had convinced Stacey.
    I replied:
    Hey, Stace,
    Your father says, “Friends don’t teach friends to fly.” I bet that goes double for girlfriends.
    How’s your cold? I hope it’s better.
    I spoke with Pulsifer and he apologized for sending that woman my way. I’m still deciding what I’m going to do about Adam