Free The Precipice by Paul Doiron Page B

silent while he had his conversation.
    I leaned my head close to Kathy and whispered, “You should be home in bed, getting your strength back.”
    “Now you’re the one giving lectures?”
    DeFord ended his call and put the phone back on the table.
    “Samantha’s and Missy’s parents are on their way up here from Georgia,” he said. “They’re flying into Greenville tomorrow morning on a private plane. The commissioner wants us to meet them at the airstrip.”
    I didn’t envy the lieutenant. Searches were difficult enough to manage without having powerful people second-guessing every decision.
    “Do you want me to call Deb Davies?” asked Kathy.
    “I think you’d better,” said DeFord.
    The Reverend Davies was one of the Warden Service’s two chaplains. Whenever we got word that an Alzheimer’s patient had wandered off into a blizzard, or a canoe had overturned on a lake and the paddlers were missing, or a snowmobile had crashed into a tree and the driver had been found lifeless, his limbs bent in impossible directions—whenever death, in other words, had become more than just a possibility—she would be summoned.
    Samantha and Missy might yet turn up alive, but someone would need to stand vigil with the waiting, worrying parents, and it made sense for it to be a minister. I was just relieved it wouldn’t be me. My prayers so rarely came true.

 
    9
    Lieutenant DeFord took me aside and rested a hand on my shoulder. It felt as heavy as lead.
    “You look exhausted, Mike. We’ve booked rooms at Ross’s. Go get yourself a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see you back here in the morning.”
    It was the same boardinghouse where Samantha Boggs, Missy Montgomery, and Chad McDonough had spent their last night in Monson. All I knew about the place was that it catered to thru-hikers this time of year. As long as the beds were free of bugs, I’d happily accept whatever was offered.
    “Hope you don’t mind having a bunk mate,” said Kathy with a shit-eating grin I didn’t understand. I’d lived in a dormitory at the Maine Criminal Justice Academy and shared cabin bunkhouses with wardens over the years. I had no expectations of privacy in my job.
    She followed me out into the humid night, closing the door of the RV quickly behind her to keep the bugs out. There was a bright halogen spotlight on the back of the fire station, but otherwise the parking area was pitch-black except for the glowing tents set up by the searchers along the perimeter of the lot. In the dark I couldn’t read her expressions at all.
    “What was that about?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “The comment about the bunk mate.”
    “Oh, you’ll see.”
    I decided to let the matter slide. Whatever her private joke was, she could tease me about it in the morning. A mosquito landed on the meaty part of my hand, but I squished it before it bit me.
    “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here,” I said. “You should be at home recovering.”
    “There are two young women out there who seem to be lost,” she said, but she was unable to disguise her weariness. “I’m pretty good at finding people. And DeFord could use my help.”
    I couldn’t deny that the search would benefit from her expertise. Kathy had headed up the Warden Service’s K-9 team almost since its inception; for years she’d tracked down missing persons with her coonhound, Pluto, and schooled other wardens in the mysteries of dog handling. But Pluto had died earlier that spring, shot by the same psycho who’d wounded Kathy, and she hadn’t yet adopted a puppy to train. Kathy claimed she was waiting until she had returned to full health, since teaching a young dog to follow a human scent across all kinds of terrain is physically demanding, but secretly I suspected she was still mourning the loss of her longtime companion.
    “So the lieutenant has you supervising the K-9 teams?” I asked.
    Kathy slapped at a mosquito on her neck. “I’m coordinating with