“Any sign that the shooter was wounded in the exchange?” I asked.
“No,” said Gordon. “This guy knew what he was doing. He made sure to walk on the road and keep to the heavily traveled paths. It’s going to be wicked tough picking out his boot prints from all the others.”
“What about tire tracks?”
Pulsifer removed his glove and used his index finger to trace a wavy line on the snow-dotted map. “My guess is he took a snowmobile up here. There’s a spur trail a quarter mile away that goes across a bridge over the Dead River and up past Kennebago Settlement. It connects with Route Eighty-nine of the ITS on one end and the Black Fly Loop on the other. I can ride from my house here and cross only two paved roads.”
“Which means he could have gone anywhere,” said Gordon. “And he has a full day’s start on us, too.”
“What did he use for rounds, .223’s?” I asked.
“No, .300 Blackouts,” said Jeff White.
Now that was interesting. I hadn’t come across many hunters who used that particular cartridge. “Aren’t .300 Blackouts supposed to be a good fit for a gun with a suppressor?”
“Quieter than a vulture’s sneeze,” said Pulsifer.
“His choice of cartridges is distinctive,” I said. “Maybe the detectives can use that.”
Jeff White turned his head toward me, blinding me with his headlamp. He was a veteran officer who worked out of Kingfield and was one of the wardens my father had bested time and time again. “Maybe you should go up there and help them out.”
I tried to pretend I hadn’t heard the insult. “Has anyone spoken with Logan Dyer yet?”
“Can’t find him,” said Gordon.
“I heard his dogs baying inside his house.” I turned toward Pulsifer. “Doesn’t that seem strange to you? That he would leave them alone?”
Pulsifer adjusted the strap of his headlight. “Yeah, I’m sure we’re going to get word that he’s a person of interest. Adam Langstrom, too.”
“Langstrom?” asked Jeff White. “Isn’t he dead?”
“Someone with his blood type bled a lot in his truck,” I said.
“I heard he and Foss had a fight,” said Pulsifer. “Maybe he came back looking to even the score.”
“By massacring everyone?” The disbelief in my voice seemed strident in my own ears.
And where had Pulsifer heard that Adam had tussled with Foss? Gary hadn’t been in the room for my conversation with Wallace Bickford. And I had never mentioned the black eye to him.
“For all we know,” I said, “what happened to Langstrom could have been a dry run for what happened here last night.”
“You mean someone’s on a rampage, executing sex offenders?” said Pulsifer. He sounded more excited than horrified.
“Just once I wish things would happen like they do on TV,” said Jeff White. “You know, the killer leaves a partial thumbprint on the dead man’s eyeball.”
“Except Foss doesn’t have eyeballs anymore,” said Pulsifer.
“There is that,” said Gordon.
32
What was so surreal was that it had become a beautiful night: the snow drifting through the beams of the headlamps, the frosted boughs of the evergreens, the pools of violet shadows at the edge of the light. The dreamlike scene reminded me of a Japanese woodblock print I had seen at the Colby Museum when I was a student there. Those college days seemed so long ago now. I had traveled so far since then.
I had to remind myself of the horrible event that had brought us all here. Up the hill, out of sight, evidence technicians were snapping photographs. A K-9 and its handler were running tracks between the buildings, searching for something, anything. Some unlucky cops had been given the task of bagging the dead bodies. The senior officers were on their phones with state police headquarters and the FBI, planning next steps. Because of the darkness and the absence of leads, the manhunt hadn’t yet begun.
But down at the gate, the woods seemed eerily serene. There was not a hint of wind. Fat flakes of snow floated nearly straight down. We were all waiting for orders, and there was nothing to do until the instructions came down from on high.
Not everyone was as spellbound as I was.
Jeff White stamped his booted feet to drive blood into them. “This waiting around is bullshit. What if this maniac is on a killing spree? He could be headed to Sugarloaf or Widowmaker next.”
“This wasn’t random,” said Gordon. “Our guy has a hatred of sex offenders.”
“Who doesn’t?” said White. “You might as well add half the people in the county to the suspect list, including me.”
“Are you confessing, Jeff?” asked Pulsifer, giving White one of his grins.