Free Massacre Pond: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) by Paul Doiron Page A

mouths.”
    It was no wonder she and Billy had ended up together. The world looked at him and saw only his wild hair and ice-blue eyes and the raw strength of that long body. But Aimee noticed the gentleness in the way her husband stroked a cat, and she saw the faint mist in his eyes when he looked at the sunset lighting up the mountain above their house. If she had graduated from high school, she might’ve made one hell of a psychologist—or a detective.
    “You’re right, Aimee,” I said. “I am kind of worried about him. Someone shot a bunch of moose last night on the Morse property and Billy feels responsible somehow. He’s worried Ms. Morse might blame him.” There seemed no reason to withhold this information, since her husband shared everything with her, as best I could tell. “He was supposed to be waiting for some wardens at the Sixth Machias Gate, but when I went by just now, I didn’t see his truck. I thought maybe Ms. Morse had sent him on an errand.”
    “Nah, that ain’t it.” The child’s crying petered out, diminished to a few poorly delivered sobs. And then Aimee Cronk said, “It’s more likely he’s gone for a drive. That’s what he does when he’s wrestling with something and ain’t sure what to do.”
    “If you hear from him soon, can you have him call me on my cell?”
    “I definitely will do that.”
    “I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you worrying about him, too, Aimee.”
    “Worrying never helped me none, so I just avoid it,” she said. “Besides, I got three loads of laundry to do, and there’s an apple pie in the oven.”
    *   *   *
    McQuarrie sent Jeremy Bard to photograph and collect the spent shell casing. He was Rivard’s favorite among my sergeant’s men: a rookie even younger than me, but with that hard-core attitude you often see in new cops. He wore his hair in a “high and tight” buzz cut and lifted weights twice a day. His neck was thicker than his head.
    “You didn’t touch it?” His suspicious tone implied I had.
    “The shell is lying where Stacey first spotted it.”
    “It is,” she confirmed.
    He scanned the leaf litter and clumped sand along the roadside, squinted into the alders beyond. The bushes were all tangled in shadows. “Hmm.”
    “There’s probably another shell along here somewhere,” I said.
    He had close-set gray eyes. “Why do you say that?”
    “Moose A was shot twice,” I said. “In the jaw and the lungs. Two shots, two shells.”
    “The shooter could have picked up his brass.”
    “That doesn’t seem to be his modus operandi.”
    Bard stared at me.
    “Method of operation,” I said. “Do you want me to help you search these alders or not?”
    “You’re supposed to be checking out gravel pits,” he said.
    “The pits will still be there an hour from now.”
    “No, I’ll find it.” Locating the brass on his own had become a point of pride now, and there was no reasoning with him.
    “Good luck, then.”
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Stacey asked me, pointing behind us. “There’s a Bud pounder can ten feet down the road there.”
    In truth, I had forgotten about the beer can—probably because I didn’t want to contemplate its association in my mind with Billy Cronk.
    Bard frowned at me. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”
    “You know what I know, Bard.”
    “Have fun in the pits,” he said, grinning at his own joke.
    I gave Stacey a vague smile and tried to keep all emotion out of my voice. “Do you need a lift back to McQuarrie? Because I can give you one—if you want.”
    She worked a kink out of her neck forcefully with one hand. “Shit, I didn’t think about that part. Mak’s going to be busy for a while now, which means I’m stranded here. I don’t suppose you’re headed toward Wesley. I need to pick up my truck.”
    “I could be,” I said. “Come on.”
    She followed me back to my dusty, battered GMC but hesitated at the door. “I’m not quite dry,” she said, touching