Read The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1) for Free Online Page B

back around on me. “Thanks for ruining my kid’s day.”
    “Don’t push your luck, sir.”
    I expected him to have a smart-mouthed answer for that, but instead he just strode off toward the parked SUV.
    The boy was standing knee-deep in the water, holding the boat line again in his fists. His mouth was clenched and his eyes were fierce. Whether his anger was directed at me, at his father, or at himself, I couldn’t say. Probably it was all three. Then the Suburban came roaring in reverse down the ramp, pushing the trailer expertly into the water.
    DeSalle hopped out of the cab of the vehicle, leaving the door open and the engine running. “Stay out of the way,” he told his son, snatching the nylon line from the boy’s hands.
    From the top of the ramp I watched while DeSalle winched the powerboat onto the trailer. It took him a few minutes to secure it in place. As he worked, he kept his eyes from drifting in my direction. He had made a decision to pretend I was no longer there. Maybe he realized how close he was dancing to the edge.
    My last look at the boy was through the window of the SUV as they pulled onto the road. DeSalle was talking to him—I could see his mouth moving, a flash of teeth. The boy was pressed down in his seat, chin tucked close to his chest, shoulders hunched against the barrage of his father’s words. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine what the rest of the day was going to be like for that kid.

 
     
    5
     
    H alf an hour later I was parked along an ATV trail in the woods near Bud Thompson’s farm. I was waiting for Kathy Frost to show up with the culvert trap, but all I could think about was that asshole DeSalle. Every time I pictured his kid’s frightened face, I just got madder.
    My cell phone rang. It was the state police dispatch in Augusta.
    The dispatcher told me a woman had just reported a nuisance bear, this time on the Bog Road, on the far side of the Catawamkeg Bog from where I was parked. “She sounded pretty worked up about it,” said the dispatcher. “She wanted me to call in the National Guard.”
    Kathy was 10-76, or en route, when I caught up with her by phone. I told her to meet me at the address the dispatcher had just given me. She didn’t apologize for being late.
    The Catawamkeg Bog was a nearly trackless expanse of woods and wetlands, maybe ten miles in diameter, surrounded by some of the most prime real estate on the midcoast. Most people I met didn’t even know this little postage stamp of wilderness existed—which was just fine by me if discovery meant trees being cut down and new subdivisions going up. There was no direct route across the bog, except by ATV or snowmobile, so it took me longer than I’d hoped to circle around to the far side and find the address.
    It was a neat and tidy little place that reminded me of a bluebird house. White trim and shutters, bright flower beds of chrysanthemums and geraniums kept alive in the heat by the regular application of generous amounts of tap water, a perfectly edged brick walkway leading up to the front door. No one seemed to be home. The windows were all closed; the shades were drawn. And no sign of a bear anywhere.
    I knocked at the door.
    No one answered.
    I knocked again.
    “Who’s there?” whispered a woman’s voice.
    “Game warden,” I said. “You called about a bear?”
    Slowly the door opened a crack. A chain was stretched across the opening. Through it I saw half of a very small woman’s face and the darkened interior of her house.
    “It’s about time! I called nearly an hour ago.” She looked past me in the direction of my truck. “They only sent one of you?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “But it’s still out there! The bear!”
    “Tell me what happened, Mrs.—?”
    “Hersom.” She looked to be in her late fifties, a pale, sinewy woman, with deep-set eyes and hair like a rusted Brillo pad. She closed the door, unfastened the chain, and swung the door open again. “Come in, quick!”
    I