Free The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron

assessment, too,” he said at last. “The guy’s choice of language didn’t win any points with me, either. Maybe that kind of talk works down in Massachusetts.”
    â€œSo what happens now?”
    â€œI’m not inclined to do anything for the moment, but if this DeSalle makes a complaint in writing, we’ll have to do some sort of investigation. The colonel wants us to make internal affairs a priority these days. We can’t appear to be covering anything up.”
    The day was increasingly become surreal. In the context of what was going on, this thing with DeSalle was almost comical—almost. Unfounded or not, a citizen complaint could dog me for months. I didn’t need any more distractions.
    â€œDo you know anything about Deputy Twombley’s condition?” I asked.
    â€œJust some cuts and bruises,” he said.
    â€œThe sheriff didn’t tell me what happened.”
    â€œA trooper found the cruiser off the road. It had gone off into a pretty deep ditch. That fool Twombley was handcuffed with his arms around a tree. He said your father attacked him, forced them off the road.”
    â€œWasn’t my dad handcuffed? How did he get loose?”
    â€œGood question.”
    â€œHe can’t have gone far on foot,” I said.
    â€œThe trooper who found the crash saw a blood trail. Twombley says your dad was injured. He says your dad stole his shotgun and sidearm.”
    So my father was armed, bleeding, and on the run. Was there an outcome to this situation that wasn’t bad?
    The lieutenant’s cell phone rang. The person on the other end was the colonel of the Maine Warden Service—that much I could figure out. But the lieutenant was so monosyllabic, I couldn’t follow the rest of the conversation at all. Not until my name came up. “I’ve got Mike Bowditch with me,” he said There was a long pause. “Yes, sir. I will.”
    Will what? I thought. Will take responsibility for him? Will keep him out of trouble?
    After he finished with the colonel, the lieutenant checked in with the state police and Division B. I watched our speed increase with each new conversation. But we were still too far away from the scene—a solid half hour, at least—for blue lights and sirens.
    â€œThey’re calling in the reinforcements,” he said at last. “I guess they’ve got Charley Stevens up there in his plane already. You know Charley?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I said uneasily.
    Charley Stevens was the retired warden pilot who showed up at the Dead River Inn on the night of my father’s arrest two years earlier. He was something of a legendary character in the history of the Maine Warden Service—one of those people who is always smaller in person than you expect, given the size of his reputation. I knew he’d retired up around Flagstaff Pond and still helped out the department with his Super Cub, searching for missing hikers, doing overflight moose surveys, that sort of thing. So it was no surprise he was assisting with the manhunt.
    What I didn’t tell the lieutenant was the Charley Stevens and my dad had a long history together, or that the retired pilot, more than anyone, was probably responsible for my joining the Warden Service. It was a long story and a bad memory, especially under the circumstances.
    Lieutenant Malcomb reached into his breast pocket for a piece of gum but didn’t offer me any. I watched him pop it out of its foil packet and stuff it in his cheek.
    My mouth was very dry. “You don’t have an extra stick of that, do you?”
    He smiled at me, the first time that day. “It’s nicotine.”
    â€œI don’t care,” I said.

9
    T he State of Maine is the largest in New England, roughly as big as all the others combined. From Portland, on the coast, you can drive to New York City in five hours, but it takes more than six to reach the town of Madawaska, where