The Bone Orchard: A Novel

“Politics,” I said.

Her eyes flicked in my direction. “That’s it?”

“I think it sums everything up.”

“I’ve heard you’re a hunting and fishing guide now. I suppose that job doesn’t have a political element at all?”

“Not particularly.”

“You’re not in competition with other guides, in terms of fighting for business?”

An SUV went speeding past, its taillights vanishing into the fog. “I understand what you’re getting at,” I said. “Every job is political. But it’s not like being a warden. Sometimes I used to think the first job requirement was kissing ass.”

“You sound angrier than I remember.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? My friend was just shot. Her dog was killed. I think sometimes anger is justified.”

She was quiet for a few minutes. “I can’t disagree with you. I’m struggling with angry feelings myself.” I saw the muscles beneath her jawbone working. “I’m not sure I should say anything. I want to, but I’m not sure I should.”

“So now you’re teasing me? Come on.”

“The colonel is resigning.”

“Harkavy?” I said. “Why?”

“There was an incident at his home between his wife and another woman who claimed to be a friend of the colonel. The police were called.”

“Jesus.”

Duane Harkavy had been the service’s chief commanding officer for as long as I could remember and was one of the last of the old-school wardens. He had been with the department for close to thirty years. He’d served alongside Charley Stevens, who’d once described him to me as “a cocksure son of a Montreal courtesan.” Not that I’d needed confirmation of this fact.

“How has this not been in the paper?” I asked.

“It will be soon,” Davies said. “The Bangor Daily News has two reporters on the story. I’ve heard it could happen any day. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have told you.”

I wasn’t sure what shocked me more: the prospect of Harkavy resigning in a public scandal or the idea of the self-righteous old bastard having a secret mistress.

“I didn’t see him at the hospital.”

“He wasn’t there,” she said, tightening her hands on the wheel. “I was appalled that he let Malcomb stand in for him last night. He’s still the colonel until he resigns. He knew the story was going around today, and he was too embarrassed to show his face.”

I couldn’t imagine a greater violation of the warden code.

“I appreciate your telling me the news.”

“Anger is sometimes justified,” she said. “It’s only wrath that’s a sin.”

“I’m not sure I know the difference.”

“You’ll know it when you feel it.”

If the colonel resigned, Major Malcomb would likely be named the acting commander until the commissioner hired a permanent replacement. “Now what’s going to happen?” I asked.

“I don’t have the faintest clue.”

Darkness had arrived prematurely with the fog.





18



We stopped at a gas station so that she could use the ladies’ room and I could grab a snack. I bought a canned energy drink and two slices of undercooked pizza, which she asked me to eat outside the car, given how much they reeked of garlic. The puddles in the asphalt reflected the moving lights of the passing traffic.

When I’d thrown away my greasy paper plate and buckled myself back in the car, I found Davies staring at me intently. “It was wrong of me to tell you about the colonel,” she said. “It’s been a long two days, and I’m very tired. That’s no excuse.”

“I was bound to hear it anyway.”

“Not from me, though. Minsters are supposed to keep secrets.”

“Are you apologizing to me for being human?” I said. “Because I’m the last person who should hear anyone’s confession on that score.”

She gave a sudden laugh, as if she’d just now remembered the funniest joke that she’d ever heard. There was no doubt in my mind that, deep down, Davies was truly a bit of a kook. But if your job is getting people to drop their guard and open up to you, it might help to come across as a charming weirdo. It had worked on me.

“That pizza was disgusting,” she said. “I hope you usually eat better than that.”

“You don’t want to know,” I said.

* * *

As we turned past Kathy’s dented mailbox and climbed the switchback up the ridge, the horror of the previous evening returned, and I found the muscles in my back and shoulders knotting up. There was yellow crime-scene tape strung between the maples. The mist was turning once again to rain. Up ahead on the hillside, the house seemed to be dissolving into the fog. From a distance, I could see the boxy green-and-white shape of my damaged Bronco.

“The police must have left a light on,” Deb Davies said.

She pointed, and I saw a faint glow in a second-floor window—one of the upstairs bedrooms.

“Wait,” I said. “Stop.”

There was a car parked on the other side my Bronco. It was a sedan of some kind, painted a dark color. The outline didn’t resemble that of any vehicle driven by law-enforcement officers. My first impression was that it was a very old and angular car.

“What’s going on?” Davies asked.

“There’s someone inside,” I said. “Turn off the engine. Turn off the lights.”

The chaplain had fast reflexes. When her headlights went dim, the darkness seemed to seep inside the Beetle. Then my eyes began to accommodate themselves to the night, and I noticed another light go on in the house, in a window adjacent to the first one.

“I don’t suppose you have a gun with you?” I asked, not really serious.

“There’s a revolver in the glove compartment.”

I thought she was joking. She wasn’t. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 Special. The handle was pink.

“I’ve been called to some pretty scary places over the years,” she said by way of explanation.

The pistol-packing pastor, I thought.

I popped open the cylinder to check if the gun was fully loaded—it was—and snapped it shut again.

“What are you going to do?” Davies asked me.

“I’m going up to have a look inside the house while you call nine one one.”

“I can’t convince you to sit here and wait with me?”

She already knew my answer.

I turned the collar up on Soctomah’s windbreaker and stepped out of the Beetle, closing the door quietly behind me until I heard the latch click shut. I crept to the side of the driveway so I could sneak up the road in the shadow of the maples. Why would someone be lurking in Kathy’s house, especially so conspicuously?

As I crept closer to the dooryard, I could see that the car was a battered Oldsmobile Cutlass. It had probably rolled out of the factory with a midnight black paint job, but twenty years of sitting in the sun and being driven along salted roads had weathered the vehicle a lead gray. There were dents in the driver’s door and the rear fender. The side mirror was bent back, as if it had recently clipped a telephone pole.

I didn’t recognize the car, but it had a Maine license plate. It was one of those Purple Heart specialty designs with the words COMBAT WOUNDED at the bottom. I remembered hotheaded Tommy Volk’s theory that the shooter might have been a crazy vet looking for revenge. I memorized the number in case it might prove important later. I saw a crumpled white Burger King bag on the passenger seat and a cardboard box full of recyclable booze bottles in the back. The car didn’t fit at all with my impression of the sniper as a cautious, methodical person.

Whoever it was had broken the police tape that had been strung across the door and found his way inside the house. I tried to avoid looking at the dark stains on the front steps but found myself unable to resist the impulse.

Slowly, I swung the door open and waited. I wasn’t sure if I expected shots to be fired from across the foyer, but the only sound I heard was the oil furnace humming a tune in the basement. Someone had turned on the heat.

The house smelled of dog. Pluto lived on after death in that distinctive canine odor that clung to every fabric surface. The hallway became pitch-dark when I closed the door behind me. I would have preferred to turn on a light, if only to avoid stepping in the blood that I had glimpsed on the carpet runner and the maple boards. I pressed my body against the wallpaper and slid along until I reached the staircase to the second floor.

When I peered up the stairs, I saw a bluish glow coming from the direction of the bedrooms. I took a careful step onto the first riser. The wood gave out a painful-sounding creak, which made me clench my back teeth together. The second step seemed even louder. I pointed the barrel of the revolver at the top of the staircase.

There was light coming from two rooms: the bathroom and the bedroom beside Kathy’s. I straightened up and drew in a deep breath. I took the remaining two stairs with one big step. Again, I pressed myself against the wall, keeping the pistol pointed in front of me in case the intruder leaped out of one of the rooms.

When I got to the bathroom, I paused to listen for the sound of running water or a toilet seat creaking, but I heard nothing. I poked my head inside. The shower curtain concealed the tub. I used my left hand to peel back the plastic liner. No one was there.