The Bone Orchard: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) by Paul Doiron Read Free Book Online Page A

can be difficult.”
    “That’s not what I meant. I’m just wondering why you think it’s a smart move, following in my footsteps. You planning on getting sent to prison, too? What the hell’s wrong with your head, Mike?”
    “There’s nothing wrong with my head.”
    “So why’d you quit being a cop? You were one of the best I ever met.”
    “You have low standards,” I’d said, trying to make a joke out of it.
    “I guess I do.”
    I’d put off visiting Billy in prison for too long. Part of me was reluctant to revisit the Midcoast, where I’d once been a warden. The other part was afraid of seeing my friend in an orange jumpsuit, knowing I’d helped put him in it.
    By the time I stepped inside my cabin, the front of my jeans was soaked through, and I needed another sip of Jim Beam to shake off the chill. I hoped that Mr. Mustache and his friend were getting thoroughly drenched out on Bump Island. I took another swig of whiskey, then another. When the bottle was empty, I went back outside to the Bronco and retrieved my Walther PPK/S from the locked glove compartment.
    I found my gun-cleaning kit in one of the cardboard boxes I had piled in the corner. I took a yellowed newspaper from the wood box and spread the pages out across the granite bar that separated the kitchenette from the living area. The PPK series is an old-fashioned design, originally favored by the Nazis—a holdover from the days when firearms were made of steel and not high-tech polymers. It weighs more than it should. If you grip it the wrong way, the slide bites viciously into the webbing of your hand between your thumb and index finger every time you fire a shot. I disassembled the gun, poured bore solvent on a rag, then pushed an oiled patch inside the barrel to remove the carbon buildup.
    It bugged me that Jeremy Bard hadn’t returned my calls. We had worked together as wardens in adjoining districts for more than a year. I had come to his assistance when he’d needed me in emergencies. What the hell was his problem?
    I decided to phone his house from the landline in the cabin, knowing he wouldn’t recognize the number if he was screening his calls.
    Sure enough, he picked up. “Game warden,” he said, not even bothering to give his name.
    “Bard. It’s Bowditch.”
    He reacted with the same friendliness he might have shown a telemarketer. “What’s going on?”
    “I left you two messages today.” I wasn’t going to go through the charade of asking if he’d received them. “I wondered what you did about those two guys camping on Bump Island?”
    “I didn’t have a chance to get out there.”
    That figured. “One of them flashed a pistol at me and my clients. Displaying a firearm in a reckless manner is criminal threatening. You didn’t think that was worth following up on?”
    “Fuck you and your attitude, Bowditch.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You heard what I said. I am not at your beck and call anytime you see somebody breaking a law. You think being an ex-warden gives you special privileges? You should have thought of that before you quit.”
    Bard had been one of the wardens who couldn’t resist telling me how ill-suited I was for the job, so his giving me a lecture on resigning from the service was pretty rich.
    “My sports are staying at Weatherby’s,” I said with as much calmness as I could muster. “Can you meet us there in the morning to take our statements, or should I call the sheriff’s office instead?”
    He paused, and I could practically hear the sound of cogs laboring to turn in his rusty brain. “Did the guy actually wave his gun in your face?”
    “No.”
    “Then what the fuck, Bowditch? You know the DA isn’t going to bring a criminal-threatening case, especially if I go out there tomorrow and find they’ve cleared off the island.”
    Bard’s argument had the virtue of being the truth. The police in Washington County were too thinly stretched to chase down every third-rate complaint. But I was