The Precipice (26 page)

“Do you know my brother, Trevor?” he said. “Oh yeah! You do. This is my uncle Trent, and my cousin Todd, and my other cousin, Terrence. Guys, this is that hard-ass game warden I was telling you about.”

I addressed the pack. “Gentlemen.”

Troy waved a finger at me. “Are you off duty? You look like you’re off duty.”

“I’m off duty.”

Old Roland downed his Pabst, slid off his stool, and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Five against one. I shook my head and started to laugh.

Troy’s bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about the woman who works at the gatehouse on the KI Road. You’ve really got that poor woman fooled. She said you weren’t like the rest of your family.”

“Come on, guys!” the female bartender said behind me. “This isn’t the O.K. Corral.”

“Maybe we should all go outside,” Troy said. “What do you think, Warden? How about some fresh air?”

The Dows would be on me the minute I stepped through the door. Two of them would pinion my arms while a third got me into a stranglehold. I would be at their mercy—to be choked unconscious, knifed in the stomach, or shot with a hidden handgun. Real-life brawls aren’t like the ones in movies. Brute force and a willingness to do whatever it takes—gouge an eye, kick in a knee—matter more than martial arts training. The dirtiest fighters are the ones who always win.

Glancing to my left, I saw an empty Heineken bottle on the bar. I might get one chance to break it over Troy’s skull before the others tore me limb from limb.

One of the Dow cousins—I wasn’t sure if it was Todd or Terrence—reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a ringing phone. He held it up to one ear.

“What are we waiting for?” Trevor snarled.

I placed my left hand on the bar, inches from the bottle.

The skinny Dow with the phone squeezed Troy by the shoulder. He brought his mouth close to his cousin’s ear.

Troy snapped his hairy head around. “What?”

“We’ve got to get back home!” his cousin said over the music.

Troy sucked one end of his mustache into his mouth. Now was my chance to coldcock him, but I had a feeling Lady Luck had just dealt me a new card.

He spit his mustache out. “To be continued.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

The five Dows piled out of the restaurant. Lindsey, the tattooed woman pouring drinks, picked up the empty bottle I had been planning to use as a weapon.

“Are you sure you don’t want that beer now?” she asked.

Roland emerged from hiding in the bathroom and returned to his stool. I recognized him now: He was the old man I’d seen buying beer at the store first thing in the morning. He tapped his glass.

“Another, please.”

“You don’t have to let the Dows bully you into taking down those oak trees,” I said.

The old man rubbed his eyes. “I’m not as brave as you.”

“Can I give you another piece of advice, then? Grab a ride home with someone. You’re in no shape to drive.”

Roland nodded, but I knew he wouldn’t voluntarily give up his keys.

I left the restaurant, mindful that the Dows could have been playing a game with me and might be lying in wait in the shadows. I decided to risk it. More smokers had joined the crowd on the porch.

“Bye, Warden!” It was the same woman as before.

If I had been wearing a cap, I would have tipped it to her. I made my way out of the lot and along the row of vehicles parked on Main Street. As I neared my patrol truck, I noticed that it seemed to be abnormally low to the ground. There was a reason for this. All four tires had been slashed.

30

The cuts were in the sidewalls, not the treads, which meant the tires were unfixable. I would need to get all four of them replaced. Because I was using my patrol truck for personal business, I couldn’t very well call the Warden Service for roadside assistance. I found only one garage listed for Monson. The man who answered the phone said he had to pull a car out of a ditch in Guilford, eleven miles to the south, before he could get to me. I sat behind the wheel and waited.

I took the opportunity to put my holstered pistol back on my belt. I wouldn’t be taking it off again soon. Then I decided to call Charley and fill him in on my unsuccessful attempts to locate his daughter. I could only conclude that he’d been sitting up beside the phone, he picked up so quickly.

“I’m still looking for her,” I said. “Has she called you?”

“No.”

“An old guy at the Cajun place outside Monson told me he saw her truck over in Blanchard a few hours ago.”

“What was Stacey doing in Blanchard?”

“It must have something to do with Samantha Boggs and Missy Montgomery.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Since she left the store, Stacey has been driving around, asking questions. She’s already found one piece of evidence the detectives missed. On the morning they left Monson, Samantha and Missy asked about local churches, and Steffi Ross mentioned the Lake of the Woods Tabernacle to them as a joke. Stacey had a hunch the women might have gone to services there. It turns out she was right. The creep who runs the tabernacle calls himself ‘Brother John.’ He said he made Samantha and Missy leave because they were laughing during the service and because he realized they were gay.”

“I thought the girls were keeping their relationship a secret.”

“Steffi Ross said they were open about it at dinner the night before.”

“But how did this Brother John know? What did those girls do—smooch in the church pew?”

I hadn’t thought to ask that question. “He must have heard about their being gay after the fact. It seems to have added to his sense of outrage. Brother John doesn’t exactly approve of same-sex couples. He thinks God sent coyotes to kill Samantha and Missy as a punishment for their wickedness.”

“The detectives will want to talk to everyone who was in the church that morning.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Four motorcycles roared past my truck, headed for Greenville at an unsafe speed.

“What’s that?” I said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“What if the person who killed those girls hears she’s sniffing around town?” Charley said.

“Stacey can take care of herself. You taught her well.”

“I’m flying up there as soon as it gets light.”

“You don’t have to do that, Charley,” I said.

“Yes, I do. She’s my daughter.”

Stacey would be livid when she learned that her father thought she needed rescuing. But what if Charley was right? The person or persons who killed Samantha and Missy were still at large and possibly in the area. So far, the murderer had benefited from the confusion and panic over killer coyotes. What would he do when he learned Stacey was asking questions that might expose him? I hadn’t wanted to admit to myself that she might be in real danger.

*   *   *

I went back into the restaurant, ordered a po’boy sandwich to go, and returned to my truck to wait. The diners began to leave the restaurant. I watched Roland climb into a dented Lincoln Town Car and drive away without turning on his headlights. I radioed in his plates to the Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Department. If he was lucky, the old drunk would end up in jail tonight instead of the morgue.

The woman in the apron and kerchief came outside. She folded up the blackboard sign with the specials. A minute later, the porch light blinked off.

In the silences between passing cars, I listened to the crickets playing their love songs in the weeds along the road. Soon the frosts of autumn would put an end to their music. When the temperature drops, survival takes precedence over romance.

The wrecker arrived just before midnight. The driver was a big man with a big head. He wore coveralls and sneakers, and his camouflage ball cap seemed to perch atop his hair. He made a circuit of my truck, prodding each of the punctures with his fat finger. Then he straightened up, looming over me like Goliath.

“You’re fucked all right,” he said.

“I know that.”

“Must have been the Dows.” He let loose with a chuckle. “Man, I should give those guys a cut of my profits for all the business they send my way.”

I crossed my arms. “What are my options here?”

“I can tow your truck back to the garage for the night. In the morning, I’ll order you some new tires. Should have you back on the road by afternoon. Do you got someplace to stay around here?”

I had been prepared to sleep in my sleeping bag in the bed of my truck, but the idea of camping out inside his garage held little appeal. “Can you drop me at Ross’s Rooming House?”

The tow driver winched my truck up onto the flatbed. He brushed candy and pastry wrappers off the passenger seat before I could sit down. The inside of the cab smelled of Lysol.

As we drove back into town, the driver murmured something to himself.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The store’s closed early,” he said. “Pearlene is usually strict about staying open until one
A.M.
so she can maximize beer sales. There’s always a rush before closing, since the store’s the only place to buy booze and cigarettes from here to Guilford.”

“It sounds like there will be some unhappy partiers tonight.”

“You think?”

As we passed the tabernacle, I noticed that the upstairs apartment was dark, but the sign was burning with a new message in my honor:
GOD’S JUSTICE IS NOT MAN’S JUSTICE.
I wondered how defiant Brother John would be when the detectives appeared. I might have to arrange to be there when it happened.

When we arrived at Ross’s, I removed my long guns—the shotgun and the AR-15—from the patrol truck and placed them in a big duffel. I dropped my spare uniform, state-issued laptop, and GPS unit into a rucksack. After having my tires slashed, the last thing I needed was for something valuable to be stolen out of my patrol truck while it waited to be repaired.

“You don’t have to unload all that shit, Warden,” the driver said. “There’s a lock on my door.”

“I’m not taking any chances with the Dows.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where else would I have my truck towed other than your garage?”

He let out another of his big-chested chuckles. “Fair enough.”

The driver gave me walking directions to his auto-repair shop—it was a mere four miles away—and said I should call him after nine. We said good night. I heaved the heavy bag over my shoulder, picked up my rucksack with my free hand, and made my way into the hostel.

A couple of hikers were still up, playing cards at a rickety table near the fire, and another was talking on her cell phone in the corner. She was speaking an Eastern European language I didn’t recognize. The Appalachian Trail drew trekkers from all over the world.

I looked for Steffi Ross in the office behind the bead curtain, but she must have gone to bed.

Everything was just as I’d left it inside Stacey’s room. I eased the bag with my firearms to the wooden floor and sat down on the bed. I looked at the dirty laundry bulging from the unzipped duffel.

Where the hell was she?

I lay back on the blanket and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. When I closed my eyes, I saw Troy Dow’s leering smile. I tried to bring up a more pleasant image, but the ugly face wouldn’t leave me alone.

*   *   *

I sat up with a start. The overhead bulb was still blazing. I checked my watch and saw that it was nearly five
A.M.

Stacey hadn’t returned while I was asleep.

It had been close to twelve hours since the old drunk, Roland, had seen her truck. Twelve hours unaccounted for. Both of us had spent plenty of nights in the pitch-black forest and knew there was no reason to fear the dark. But I couldn’t imagine what she might be doing out there. In spite of my confident assurances to Charley about his daughter’s ability to handle herself, I felt worry nibbling around my heart.

I tried her number again. The duffel bag at my feet began to buzz.

I rifled through the wrinkled clothes and found Stacey’s khaki uniform shirt—and of course her phone was in the pocket. She had never given me her pass code, but I didn’t have to look at the log of missed calls to know she hadn’t heard any of the messages I had left since the previous afternoon.

Out in the hall, someone got up to use the shower.

Roland had said he’d passed her truck when he was coming from Blanchard.

What was in Blanchard?

I set my laptop computer on my knees and pulled up a topographic map of the region. Blanchard Plantation was the next township to the southwest. The Appalachian Trail followed the looping course of the Piscataquis River. It was the route Samantha and Missy had taken on their way into Monson. I zoomed in, searching for any clue that might be hidden in the landscape.

The map showed an oblong elevation south of the river: Breakneck Ridge.

Nissen, I thought.

His business was named Breakneck Ridge Apiary. Stacey must have gone to Blanchard to speak with him. But why? Had she discovered that he was at supper with Samantha and Missy the night before they entered the wilderness? If so, she hadn’t gotten the information from Steffi Ross. Until I’d jogged her memory, the Teutonic innkeeper had forgotten about Nissen.

What about the Lake of the Woods Tabernacle? Kathy Frost had told me Nissen had served time in prison for cooking meth. She’d said he’d found Jesus in the joint. A religious zealot, motivated by blind hatred of homosexuals, determined to punish them for their sacrilegious behavior. The man in the red tent?

It made sense why Nissen would have volunteered to search Chairback Gap. If he had pursued Samantha and Missy there—if he had known they were dead—then he would have wanted to direct searchers away from their corpses for as long as possible. The more time that passed, the less evidence would remain for the forensic technicians to connect him to the murders.

It also explained his antagonism toward Chad McDonough. He was panicked that Chad remembered him from supper at Ross’s. What had McDonut said? “Good to see you again, sir.”

After Nissen and I had showed up at Hudson’s Lodge with news of Samantha’s and Missy’s disappearance, McDonough might have put the puzzle pieces together. He might’ve realized who the mysterious man in the red tent had been. Instead of telling the authorities what he knew, McDonut had taken off in the dark.