The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron

continuing the same light conversation, she said: “Did you end up calling your old man?”
    At first I didn’t know what she meant—I’d done such a thorough job of focusing on the job at hand—then it all came back to me like a remembered bout of nausea. “I tried. He wasn’t around.” I shivered as I stepped out of the sun into the shadows. I was sweating from the heat and the exertion, but a chill was rising from the forest floor. An odor of decomposition drifted up from the shadowed stretch of road leading down into the swamp. “You hear anything more about the investigation up there?”
    â€œJust that it’s got priority over everything else. I guess the attorney general wanted to see the crime scene himself. They have Soctomah running the investigation for State Police CID. You know him?”
    â€œBy reputation. He’s supposed to be good.”
    â€œBest in the state.”
    â€œGood,” I said, throwing the last doughnut into the bushes. “I hope he nails the son of a bitch.”
    She was quiet a long time, her eyes on mine. I had no idea what was going through her head. But her silence made me uncomfortable.
    â€œShould we put up the signs now?” I asked.
    â€œSure,” she said.
    The signs were bright yellow squares of plastic that we were required to tack to the trees surrounding the trap. On them was written: DANGER . BEAR TRAP . DO NOT APPROACH . When we had finished posting the last sign, we leaned against the fender of my truck and shared a bottle of warm, plastic-flavored water.
    From the front seat of my truck came the trill of my cell phone ringing. We both looked at each other. The phone trilled again. I opened the door and picked it up.
    â€œMike? This is Russ Pelletier. From Rum Pond.”
    A shiver went through me. “Yes,” I said. “Hello, Russ.”
    As a teenager I had spent a nightmare summer living in my dad’s cabin and working for Pelletier and his alcoholic wife at Rum Pond. The experience had not ended well.
    â€œIt’s been a long time,” he said.
    â€œEight years.”
    â€œThat long? Shit, I’m getting old. Your dad says you’re a game warden now.”
    â€œThat’s right. Down on the midcoast.”
    He paused. I got the impression he was smoking a cigarette. “Actually, your dad is the reason I’m calling. You left a message here this morning saying you wanted to talk with him. I suppose you heard about what happened up here last night—the shootings?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWell, the cops were just here looking for your dad.” He paused again to take another drag on the cigarette. “They arrested him, Mike. I don’t know how else to say it.”

6
    T he speedometer read seventy miles per hour, dangerously fast for this country road. Every so often I would catch myself and slow down, then minutes later I’d find myself flirting with seventy again.
    The cedar swamp lay miles behind me. An hour had passed since I’d crossed out of my district, headed first west and now northwest, toward the distant jail in Skowhegan where my father was being taken in handcuffs. But in my mind I was still standing under the cedars, the cell phone pressed against my ear, hearing Russell Pelletier say:
    â€œThey arrested him, Mike. I don’t know how else to say it.”
    I felt the ground slide suddenly beneath my feet. “Arrested? For what?”
    Pelletier said: “A deputy came out here this morning wanting to question him, and your dad lost it. I wasn’t around when it happened. But I guess there was a fight and your dad was Maced. Anyway, they’re taking him to the jail in Skowhegan. I’d drive down myself, but I’ve got a camp full of sports. Maybe you should call over there, find out what’s up.”
    â€œThe police think he killed those men? Is that what you’re saying?”
    Pelletier took his time