ATV trail in the woods near Bud Thompsonâs farm. I was waiting for Kathy Frost to show up with the culvert trap, but all I could think about was that asshole DeSalle. Every time I pictured his kidâs frightened face, I just got madder.
My cell phone rang. It was the state police dispatch in Augusta.
The dispatcher told me a woman had just reported a nuisance bear, this time on the Bog Road, on the far side of the Catawamkeg Bog from where I was parked. âShe sounded pretty worked up about it,â said the dispatcher. âShe wanted me to call in the National Guard.â
Kathy was 10-76, or en route, when I caught up with her by phone. I told her to meet me at the address the dispatcher had just given me. She didnât apologize for being late.
The Catawamkeg Bog was a nearly trackless expanse of woods and wetlands, maybe ten miles in diameter, surrounded by some of the most prime real estate on the midcoast. Most people I met didnât even know this little postage stamp of wilderness existedâwhich was just fine by me if discovery meant trees being cut down and new subdivisions going up. There was no direct route across the bog, except by ATV or snowmobile, so it took me longer than Iâd hoped to circle around to the far side and find the address.
It was a neat and tidy little place that reminded me of a bluebird house. White trim and shutters, bright flower beds of chrysanthemums and geraniums kept alive in the heat by the regular application of generous amounts of tap water, a perfectly edged brick walkway leading up to the front door. No one seemed to be home. The windows were all closed; the shades were drawn. And no sign of a bear anywhere.
I knocked at the door.
No one answered.
I knocked again.
âWhoâs there?â whispered a womanâs voice.
âGame warden,â I said. âYou called about a bear?â
Slowly the door opened a crack. A chain was stretched across the opening. Through it I saw half of a very small womanâs face and the darkened interior of her house.
âItâs about time! I called nearly an hour ago.â She looked past me in the direction of my truck. âThey only sent one of you?â
âYes, maâam.â
âBut itâs still out there! The bear!â
âTell me what happened, Mrs.â?â
âHersom.â She looked to be in her late fifties, a pale, sinewy woman, with deep-set eyes and hair like a rusted Brillo pad. She closed the door, unfastened the chain, and swung the door open again. âCome in, quick!â
I stepped inside. Mrs. Hersom closed and locked the door behind me.
âYou donât need to do that, Mrs. Hersom. The bearâs not going to try to get in.â
âHa!â Mrs. Hersom literally threw her head back when she laughed, like the villain in a Hollywood B movie. âThatâs what you think. Well, take a look at this.â
She spun around and hurried off down a darkened little hall. The inside of the house looked as spic-and-span as the outside, not a hint of dust or disorder anywhere. But an acrid odorâlike burnt baconâhung in the air.
The smell was stronger in the kitchen where Mrs. Hersom stood waiting for me. She thrust her arm out, index finger extended at the back door.
I didnât notice anything.
âOpen it,â she said. âBut be careful!â
I unbolted the door and opened it. Beyond was an aluminum-frame screen door, nearly yanked off its hinges. The metal was bent, the screen shredded. âThe bear did this?â
Mrs. Hersom crossed her arms across her narrow breasts. âNo, I did it. Of course the bear did it.â
I straightened up. âTell me what happened, Mrs. Hersom.â
âI was cooking breakfast. I had the door open and that window there.â She pointed her chin at the window. âAnd suddenly I heard this noise behind me. It sounded like a knock and I thought it might be the little