Amber was certain to press me for information. But there were details about my conversation with Josh Davidson that I preferred to keep to myself—at least until I could follow up elsewhere. Adam’s black eye, for instance.
I scanned the Sluiceway from the doorway but didn’t spot her circulating among the tables. The lunchtime tide had ebbed, but the three curious characters I had seen earlier—what had the bartender called them, the Night Watchmen?—were still hunched over their popcorn and beer. The British-looking fellow caught sight of me and said something to the others, who all looked my way again with the same mix of amusement and interest, as if I were the butt of some private joke among them.
The inky-haired bartender had her back to me and was watching the television screen above the luminous liquor bottles. The Weather Channel was showing a map with a deep trough of snow moving toward Maine. It looked like it had already touched the Clayton Lake area, where Stacey was flying her moose survey. I needed to come clean with her about what had really happened with Carrie Michaud. Every hour I delayed telling Stacey the truth just made it worse.
The cold had parched my throat. I let out a dry cough.
The bartender met my eyes in the mirror. “You’re back.”
“I am.”
She braced her arms wide atop the bar. “You want another coffee, or are you ready for a beer?”
“Water. Is Amber still around?”
The grin melted away. “She got a phone call a few minutes ago and hurried out of here without telling Gerald. I think she’s pretty much fired at this point.”
The call must have involved Adam, I thought. I couldn’t think what else would have lighted such a fire under her.
“Do you know who she spoke with or where she was going?” I asked.
“Amber and I aren’t exactly friends.” She picked up a clean dishrag and began playing with it as she studied me. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Mike.”
She looked at me with a sort of pity in her eyes. “Do you really need me to tell you that Amber is bad news, Mike?”
“Bad in what way?”
“How many ways do you require?”
I turned my back to the bar, leaned on the rail, and checked my phone for messages. Nothing at all from Amber. Somehow her unexplained departure seemed fitting. She had sent me urgently up the mountain and then forgotten I existed. Pulsifer had warned me about her selfishness.
Maybe the time had come to end my fool’s errand and return home before the snow made the road through the mountain pass even more treacherous.
Someone loomed beside me. “Sir?”
I looked up into the face of a man in a blue uniform. At first, I assumed he must be a police officer. He was wearing a gun belt with a holstered .45 and pouches for handcuffs, a flashlight—all the usual tools of my trade. He had a badge, too: Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. But the cap on his head was emblazoned with the trademark Widowmaker logo. Was he a cop, a security guard, or what?
“Yes?” I said.
“Can I ask you a couple of questions real quick?” It was the same verbiage I had been taught to use whenever I began a conversation with a potential suspect that was serious and not likely to be quick.
“What about?”
The officer was a tall man in his early twenties with a nondescript face I might have had trouble describing to a sketch artist: dull brown eyes, mousy hair, lips on the thin side, a few moles on his pale neck. He wasn’t overweight, exactly, or at least not obese, but he seemed to carry an extra layer of fat over his entire body the way seals do. It made him appear soft, but I had a sense that the muscles were solid under that coating of blubber.
“Were you in this bar an hour ago?” he asked.
“Yes, I was.”
“We had a report of a man matching your description having an altercation with a kid.”
“The ‘kid’ was old enough to drink. Who ‘reported’ this altercation?”
“That’s not important. Can you come with me, please?”
What the hell was up with this half-assed inquisition?
“Where?” I asked.
“I have an office downstairs.” The officer kept a blank expression that made it impossible to read his emotions. “I’m just trying to straighten some things out.”
“Russo, leave the guy alone!” said the bartender.
“Lexi, you do your job, and I’ll do mine.” The words themselves had an edge, but he managed to keep his tone even.
“The guy’s a fucking forest ranger. Show him your badge, Mike.”
“Is that true?” the man named Russo asked.
“I’m a game warden.”
“Are you on duty here today, Warden?”
“No, I’m not.”
“And have you been drinking today?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Can I see your badge real quick?” Russo had the patter down, that was for sure.
Whatever this guy was, he was no ignorant rookie following a script he’d just learned. He had shown up here for the deliberate purpose of hassling me, and I had no idea what it was about.
I reached slowly—very slowly—into my inside chest pocket.