I was as lathered as a racehorse by the time I’d finally cleared a drivable path from the road to the garage. I parked the Scout inside and let the descending door plunge me into darkness.
I carried an armload of hardwood into the living room and dropped the logs beside the stove. I thought of the Pulsifers’ house, full of loud children and scampering dogs, and realized how tired I was of living alone. Stacey and I had avoided discussing the idea of moving in together because most of her work as a wildlife biologist needed to be done up north. But that was just a bullshit excuse. The truth was, we were both afraid of commitment.
After I had made a fire, I peeled off my dirty clothes and stood under the showerhead until the water began going cold. The stitched wound on my arm reminded me of a black centipede. I applied a clean bandage.
I was shaving at the sink, with a towel around my waist, when I heard my cell buzz in the hall. The phone was still in the pocket of my pants, which I’d tossed on the floor.
Even before I answered, I knew from the number on the screen who was calling me.
“Hi, Charley,” I said, glad to hear from my old friend.
From the background noise, I could tell that Stacey’s father was in an echoey space, surrounded by jabbering people.
“Mike.” His voice sounded strange—flat.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you and Ora for Christmas. You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble. And it was so nice of you to invite Aimee Cronk and her kids.”
“Mike,” he said again.
“What’s wrong?” I felt pressure beginning to build behind my eardrums.
“There’s been an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“A Forest Service chopper went down an hour ago near Clayton Lake. Some ice fishermen out on Lake Umsakis said they saw it crash.” He paused and I heard my pulse pounding in my head. “There are rescue teams heading to the scene. A buddy of mine out of Ashland just got through to me.”
I could only manage one raspy word. “Stacey?”
“The fishermen said it went down hard and fast in a pretty dense woods. There was no distress call.”
I rushed to my closet. “I can be on the road in five minutes.”
“It’ll take you seven hours to drive that far, Mike.”
“Then fly down here and pick me up!”
“I’m in Bangor, at the hospital with Ora. I brought her here for a colonoscopy. I can’t leave before she wakes up. I couldn’t do that to her. My Cessna’s back in Grand Lake Stream. But I’ll probably bum a ride with someone over at BIA. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do right now, young feller.”
“There’s got to be something.”
“Say a prayer for my little girl, and don’t give up hope. Stacey’s a tough one. Toughest there is.”
And then he was gone.
Not again. Not again.
Eighteen months earlier, one of the scariest men I’d ever met had held a gun to Stacey’s head, and I’d discovered, for the first time in my life, what it was like to feel helpless when someone you love is in mortal danger.
Not again. Not again.
I didn’t care if Clayton Lake was half a day’s drive from my house. I would race up there with lights blazing and siren screaming.
I grabbed my field uniform from the closet and my combat vest and my gun belt. I would call the Division G headquarters in Ashland once I was on the road. The IF&W office up there would have more information.
It felt as if the volume had been cranked up in my head. My thoughts were louder than normal. The last time we’d spoken together, we had argued over my having lied about my injuries: “You should have called me from the hospital. If you don’t understand how much that breaks my heart, there’s nothing more to say. I’m not interested in being with someone who’d rather be lonely than be loved.”
And then her final text message to me: “I am having trouble forgiving you.”
If that was it—if those were her last words to me—I couldn’t imagine what the rest of my life would be like.
I started up my patrol truck and I backed out so fast onto the road that the driver of an oncoming car had to slam on her brakes. I pulled forward to let her pass.
She gave me an annoyed toot on her horn.
I needed to calm down before I killed someone or myself. Slowly, I backed out onto the road and turned in the direction of Windham, where I could pick up the Maine Turnpike and begin my journey north.
Amber had said she’d felt the moment of Adam’s death as a physical blow. But she had been his mother.
Mink claimed to have psychic powers that forewarned him of bad things to come.
But I felt nothing except a buzzing in my nerves, as if they might short-circuit at any second.
I reached for my cell to push the autodial for Division G. Just as I did, the phone vibrated in my hand. The screen showed the number of the Ashland office.
“Yes?” It was more of a rattle than a word.
“Mike?”
I braked so hard against a snowbank, I heard ice scrape paint from the side of the truck. “Stacey?”
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m all right.”