Read Online The Bone Orchard: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) by Paul Doiron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Doiron
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naive young student. Even when I was no longer one of her district wardens, it had remained Kathy’s pet name for me. Its absence here affected me even more than the sarcasm in the text itself.
The Maine State Prison was located twenty minutes from the Gammons’ horse farm and not much farther from the hilltop where Kathy lived at the edge of a rolling field of blueberries. My promise to Aimee had committed me to revisiting at least one landmark from my past. I was still trying to decide about the others when Aimee’s sister burst through the door and rescued me from a house that had grown alarmingly quiet.
9
I spent the rest of that day reattaching the gutter and taking down a dead spruce that was threatening the Cronks’ roof. I used a chain saw to split the tree into lengths I could drag into the bushes. It was a white spruce: a species Mainers call “cat spruce” because the crushed needles have the ammonia odor of cat piss. Aimee wouldn’t want to put these fast-burning, smelly logs into her woodstove, not unless she was trying to clear the house of unwanted guests.
By the time I was done, I was coated in perspiration and sawdust. I’d applied a layer of bug repellent to every inch of exposed skin but had managed to sweat away the powerful chemicals, so my neck and ears were swollen with bites from the blackflies that follow you everywhere in the woods in May. I drank a gallon of rusty-tasting water from the hose, packed up my tools, and headed to Day’s General Store for a cheeseburger and a cup of coffee.
The store had been one of my regular stops when I was a game warden, and it wasn’t unusual to find other wardens, state troopers, and sheriff’s deputies sitting at the lunch counter. My friend Cody Devoe once explained to me why Day’s was popular among the law-enforcement crowd. “It’s the only place around where I know the guy in the kitchen doesn’t spit in my food,” he’d said.
The screen door snapped shut behind me on its too-tight spring as I stepped inside. Day’s was always dim—the fluorescent bulbs hadn’t been dusted in years—and the first odor to hit your nose was inevitably the oily starch of the deep fryer. I hated to contemplate the last time Bill Day had changed the grease in that contraption. Ratty taxidermy mounts—stuffed raccoons and fishers—stared down at you from the shelf above the register with glass eyes. The display of dead animals was Bill Day’s idea of interior decoration.
A state trooper was alone at one end of the counter, separated by two open stools from a redneck in the corner. I had to make up my mind where to sit. I chose the stool beside the cop.
His name was Belanger. We had worked together on a few occasions, but I couldn’t say that we were well acquainted. Like many troopers, he was an impressive physical specimen: a Greek statue in a powder-blue uniform. His eyes flicked sideways as I took a seat and then returned to watching the television mounted to the wall.
I had the feeling he didn’t know who I was. “Belanger? It’s Mike Bowditch.”
He put a paper napkin to his mouth and swallowed what he’d been chewing. “Didn’t recognize you under all that hair,” he said.
I rubbed my scruffy chin with my knuckles. “Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.”
“That’s a tough break you got,” he said.
“What’s a tough break?”
“I heard you were fired.”
“Actually, I resigned. I’m guiding up around Grand Lake Stream now.”
He nodded and took a sip of water. “Enjoying it?”
“Mostly,” I said. “You know, the grass is always greener.”
He nodded again and turned back to the TV. Now that I was no longer a cop, he had nothing to say to me.
The local news station was running a segment on the diluvial rain we had received. The weatherman was standing with an umbrella in a puddle while cars drove by, splashing his pants.
I studied Bill Day’s slope-shouldered back as he flipped burgers on the grill. He was
The Maine State Prison was located twenty minutes from the Gammons’ horse farm and not much farther from the hilltop where Kathy lived at the edge of a rolling field of blueberries. My promise to Aimee had committed me to revisiting at least one landmark from my past. I was still trying to decide about the others when Aimee’s sister burst through the door and rescued me from a house that had grown alarmingly quiet.
9
I spent the rest of that day reattaching the gutter and taking down a dead spruce that was threatening the Cronks’ roof. I used a chain saw to split the tree into lengths I could drag into the bushes. It was a white spruce: a species Mainers call “cat spruce” because the crushed needles have the ammonia odor of cat piss. Aimee wouldn’t want to put these fast-burning, smelly logs into her woodstove, not unless she was trying to clear the house of unwanted guests.
By the time I was done, I was coated in perspiration and sawdust. I’d applied a layer of bug repellent to every inch of exposed skin but had managed to sweat away the powerful chemicals, so my neck and ears were swollen with bites from the blackflies that follow you everywhere in the woods in May. I drank a gallon of rusty-tasting water from the hose, packed up my tools, and headed to Day’s General Store for a cheeseburger and a cup of coffee.
The store had been one of my regular stops when I was a game warden, and it wasn’t unusual to find other wardens, state troopers, and sheriff’s deputies sitting at the lunch counter. My friend Cody Devoe once explained to me why Day’s was popular among the law-enforcement crowd. “It’s the only place around where I know the guy in the kitchen doesn’t spit in my food,” he’d said.
The screen door snapped shut behind me on its too-tight spring as I stepped inside. Day’s was always dim—the fluorescent bulbs hadn’t been dusted in years—and the first odor to hit your nose was inevitably the oily starch of the deep fryer. I hated to contemplate the last time Bill Day had changed the grease in that contraption. Ratty taxidermy mounts—stuffed raccoons and fishers—stared down at you from the shelf above the register with glass eyes. The display of dead animals was Bill Day’s idea of interior decoration.
A state trooper was alone at one end of the counter, separated by two open stools from a redneck in the corner. I had to make up my mind where to sit. I chose the stool beside the cop.
His name was Belanger. We had worked together on a few occasions, but I couldn’t say that we were well acquainted. Like many troopers, he was an impressive physical specimen: a Greek statue in a powder-blue uniform. His eyes flicked sideways as I took a seat and then returned to watching the television mounted to the wall.
I had the feeling he didn’t know who I was. “Belanger? It’s Mike Bowditch.”
He put a paper napkin to his mouth and swallowed what he’d been chewing. “Didn’t recognize you under all that hair,” he said.
I rubbed my scruffy chin with my knuckles. “Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.”
“That’s a tough break you got,” he said.
“What’s a tough break?”
“I heard you were fired.”
“Actually, I resigned. I’m guiding up around Grand Lake Stream now.”
He nodded and took a sip of water. “Enjoying it?”
“Mostly,” I said. “You know, the grass is always greener.”
He nodded again and turned back to the TV. Now that I was no longer a cop, he had nothing to say to me.
The local news station was running a segment on the diluvial rain we had received. The weatherman was standing with an umbrella in a puddle while cars drove by, splashing his pants.
I studied Bill Day’s slope-shouldered back as he flipped burgers on the grill. He was
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