Bad Little Falls (19 page)

I leaned forward, shaded my eyes, and squinted into the middle distance, uncertain that I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

That numbskull out on the ice was wearing an orange life jacket.

If you have to wear a personal flotation device out on the ice, then maybe, just maybe, the conditions are unsafe for fishing.

Did that joker really think a PFD would prevent the river current from pulling him under the ice? The rule of thumb with ice thickness is: It takes a foot of ice to support a medium truck, eight to twelve inches to support a car, five inches to support a snowmobile, and four inches to bear the weight of a person. But those guidelines don’t take into account moving water, not just actual rivers like the Sabao but also the inlets and outlets of larger bodies. Most people assume lakes and ponds are still waters; they don’t realize that strong currents can move beneath their placid surfaces. And wherever the water is flowing, the ice tends to be thin, even when the temperatures collapse in the middle of February. Countless vehicles and people fall through the ice because they have no appreciation of Mother Nature’s treacherous side.

On some other morning, I probably would have ventured across that unsafe surface to box that idiot’s ears. Not that he was violating any laws by being out there. Kathy Frost had always reminded me that taking stupid chances isn’t illegal. A good thing, too, or else I would already have been serving a life sentence.

20

I felt self-conscious entering a public space, smelling even faintly of skunk. As I pushed through the double doors of the McDonald’s, I passed an old geezer on his way out. He gave a noticeable wince, which made me even more nervous than I already was about speaking to Jamie.

It took her a while to notice me in line. She was busy assembling orders, salting hash browns, and bagging breakfast sandwiches. She was dressed in that ridiculous referee uniform with its indoor sun visor, using a radio headset to converse with someone in the drive-through. When she finally spotted me, she paused briefly and then let the teenage boy at the register take my order.

“What can I get you?” The kid had a cowlick that stuck up like the stem on a pumpkin.

“I’d like to speak with the shift leader, please.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Tell her I’ll be seated around the corner.”

I stepped out of line and made my way to the rear of the narrow restaurant, settling down in one of the booths to wait. The satellite radio broadcasting through the restaurant speakers was playing “Low Rider” by War.

After about five minutes, she appeared, carrying a plastic tray. She had removed the headset but not the visor. It gave her a vaguely sporty look. I noticed the puffy circles beneath her eyes from ten paces away.

“What’s this?” I asked as she set the tray down in front of me.

“The usual,” she said. It was an egg McMuffin and a large cup of coffee with cream and sugar.

“Please, sit down,” I said.

“I’m working.”

“Just for a minute so I can apologize.”

As she slid partway into the seat across the table from me, her nose twitched. “Did you get sprayed by a skunk?”

“Sort of.”

“Shouldn’t they all be hibernating?”

I didn’t want to get into the whole sordid George Magoon story with her. “They should be. One got into my house and polluted the place.”

“That’s horrible.”

“I had to get a room at the Blueberry Bunch Motel until I can clean everything.” I took a breath. “Look, I owe you an apology.”

She crossed her arms and glanced toward the frosted window.

“As a warden, I’m not allowed to share information about ongoing police investigations. In the eyes of the attorney general, we’re both material witnesses to a homicide. Technically, we shouldn’t even be talking.”

She started to stand up, but I put my hand on her arm and eased her back down.

“I should never have agreed to take you to the hospital.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“Because I wanted to get to know you. I still do.”

“Why? So you can get me to say something that will incriminate Prester? Thanks but no thanks.”

“That’s not it. You’re right that I am attracted to you. Who wouldn’t be? But there’s more to it than that.”

She sensed a truckload of bullshit headed her way. “Like what?”

“My mom was a single mom. She and my dad split up when I was nine. My father was a son of a bitch—worse than Randall. For a few years, it was just the two of us, bouncing around from apartment to apartment in Portland. My mom never worked at McDonald’s, but she waited tables at a pub.”

“What are you saying—that I remind you of your mother?” A look of disgust appeared on her face.

“Not at all!” I said. “I just remember how difficult those years were for both of us. It must be that way for you and Lucas.”

She grew quiet and seemed to settle into the booth, as if the urge to flee had passed.

“In my truck last night, you told me how you were trying to change your life. If I were in your shoes, I’d feel pretty desperate, too.”

“You wouldn’t have become an alcoholic and a drug addict.”

I pictured that tantalizing can of Foster’s in my refrigerator. “I don’t blame you for not believing me, but I hope you will accept my apology. I wish you and your family the best, Jamie. I really and truly do.”

Her posture had softened while I’d been speaking; her shoulders no longer seemed so tense and she was holding my gaze. Finally she said, “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for coming in here? The whole town knows I’m bad news.”

“Let me worry about that,” I said. “I’d like to drop off Lucas’s notebook tonight.”

“I’m going to try to see Prester later, if they’ll let me. Then I have a meeting at seven. My sponsor is already pissed that I missed two days in a row. Come by after eight-thirty. I should be home by then.”

“Is there any chance Lucas might have taken a pair of binoculars from my truck?”

She gave a sigh that made me think it wasn’t the first time Lucas had stolen something. “There’s a one hundred percent chance he did. I’ll find them when I get home tonight.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“He has this idea of becoming a ranger someday. That’s probably why he took them. If you want, you can have dinner with us. I’m sure Lucas would like that. He’s sort of infatuated by you.”

“Thanks for the invitation, but it’s probably best if I just drop off the notebook.”

“There will be extra food, if you change your mind. I’m making American chop suey. Please take a shower before you come over, though. You really do stink.”

I smiled and reached for my wallet. “How much do I owe you for breakfast?”

“It’s on the house,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

She gave me the kilowatt version of her usual megawatt smile. “Didn’t you see my picture by the door? I’m the Employee of the Month. I can do anything I want in this place.”

*   *   *

From McDonald’s, I drove downtown to the Wash-O-Mat, where I spent the next two hours watching my clothes do somersaults in the dryer.

There was a college student behind the counter when I entered, jawing into a cell phone about her “lame” professor. I got coins from the machine and various boxes and packets of detergents and softeners, anything with a perfume to mask the stench of my clothes.

I brought my laptop from the patrol truck. After everything I’d learned over the past forty-eight hours, I had plenty of people whose names I wanted to feed into the secure databases that law-enforcement officers can access in the state of Maine.

I typed the name Randall Cates and the date of birth from his car registration into the search fields and brought up his fish and wildlife and motor vehicle records. There was a conviction for night hunting, and another for operating a snowmobile under the influence, citations for speeding and driving unregistered vehicles. Fewer than I’d expected, frankly. Up until someone killed him, he’d been very careful to maintain a Teflon coating around himself.

Not so Prester. The string of Title 12 and driving convictions was as long as Corbett had claimed: practically the entire Maine Criminal Code from A to Z. No violent offenses, however.

Barney Beal had incurred speeding tickets on the road, on the trail, and on the water. I couldn’t access his criminal records, but the kid was definitely a speed demon, if nothing else.

Who else? I’d need a date of birth or license number to check Kendrick’s records in the database.

I did locate the article about him in the
New York Times Magazine,
and as Doc Larrabee had suggested, the tone was as breathless as a teenage girl posting on her Facebook page about her favorite pop singer:

MAN, OUT OF TIME

By Ariel Evans

Kevin Kendrick is a teacher, an environmental activist, and, he’ll tell you, the best woodsman left in America. He believes that the nation’s survival depends on relearning forgotten skills, from building a fire with nothing but sticks of wood to making a boat out of sealskins. It might sound far-fetched, but spend a week with him in the wilderness of eastern Maine, which he calls home, and you just might decide he’s right.

The article was long but well-written and interesting. It repeated the stories Larrabee had mentioned of Kendrick’s amazing adventures living among the headhunters and paddling across the Labrador Sea.

It also laid out his philosophy in depth, of which I’d sensed only the vaguest outline the other evening. It was, verbatim, the credo of Earth First! “The Earth is currently experiencing the fastest mass extinction event in its history and the perpetrators of this holocaust are none other than ourselves, the human race. Much as addicts have no hope of a cure until they admit to themselves that they have a problem, so must we admit to one in our relationship with the Earth.”

Kendrick, the article said, had collected an almost cultlike following among young people who came to the University of Machias to study with him or attend his Primitive Ways survival school. I wondered if Trinity Raye had been one of these youthful devotees, but when I searched her name, all I found were some brief news stories in the
Bangor Daily News
and the
Ellsworth American
and an obituary that claimed she had “died unexpectedly” in her dorm room.

I bought a Snickers bar from the vending machine to gnaw on while I folded my clothes. My diet, never great to begin with except when I’d been living with Sarah, had deteriorated in recent weeks. Thinking about her made me melancholy. I wondered what man she’d woken up with this morning while I was stuck in a suffocating Laundromat washing the skunk smell out of my T-shirts.

On my way out the door, I stopped at the counter and was startled to find the teen blabbermouth gone and Ben Sprague, of all people, standing in her place. He wore a starched white shirt, which showed the undershirt beneath it, blue Dickies held up by red suspenders, and an expression of inexplicable hostility.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I tried to project good fellowship. “Laundry. I was in town and had an emergency load to do. Is this your Laundromat?”

“We own one in Machias and another in Calais.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?”

I continued the charm offensive. “That was quite a night we had, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How’s Doris doing?”

“The same. We heard the other one survived.”

“He’s still in the medical-surgery ward at the Down East Community Hospital, but the doctors expect him to pull through.”

Sprague blinked at me a few more times. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a lot of laundry to do, and I was wondering about wash, dry, and fold service.”

“We don’t offer that.”

Glancing at the wall behind him, I noticed a sign advertising the prices for laundering shirts, dry cleaning, stain removal, and basic tailoring repairs. “The sign says you do.”

“We’re not currently offering that service. We can’t afford the staff.”

There were also framed photographs on the wall: pictures of Rotary Club members selling Christmas trees, a studio portrait of Doris and Ben. Several of the pictures included a young man with a beaklike nose wearing a UMaine sweatshirt.

“Is that Joey?” I asked.

Sprague blinked rapidly, started to turn his head, then stopped. “Yes, that’s my son.”

“He goes to UMaine?”

“No, he’s down in Boston now. Is there anything else I can do for you? Because I’m fairly busy here.”

The two of us were the only ones in the Laundromat.

*   *   *

I was pushing my duffel bag into the backseat of my patrol truck when I spotted a familiar figure heading in the direction of the Wash-O-Mat. He was wearing a wool sports jacket instead of a buckskin parka, and he was carrying a battered leather briefcase instead of a shovel. But the dashing bearded man was unmistakably someone I knew.

“Hey, Kendrick!”

The dog racer stopped in mid-stride and peered down the street, shading his eyes with his hand. It seemed strange to see him suddenly, having just read at length about his adventures; it was as if I had conjured him up somehow. In his tweedy professorial garb, he looked like a person wearing a costume. He didn’t seem to belong in the outfit he had on; he reminded me of one of those old paintings of a Carib Indian, who, having been snatched from the New World, was being presented in pantaloons and a doublet at the court of Queen Elizabeth I.

I slammed the truck door and slid the keys into my still-damp pants pocket. I needed to find a bathroom where I could change into my newly dried clothes. The cold, wet fabric made me shiver now that I was out in the polar air again.

“Laundry day?” Kendrick asked as he came toward me.

“I didn’t realize the Spragues own this place.”

“Ben and Doris have another one in Calais,” he said.