The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron Read Free Book Online

ATV trail in the woods near Bud Thompson’s 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 kid’s 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. “She sounded pretty worked up about it,” said the dispatcher. “She wanted me to call in the National Guard.”
    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 didn’t 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 didn’t even know this little postage stamp of wilderness existed—which 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 I’d 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.
    â€œWho’s there?” whispered a woman’s voice.
    â€œGame warden,” I said. “You called about a bear?”
    Slowly the door opened a crack. A chain was stretched across the opening. Through it I saw half of a very small woman’s face and the darkened interior of her house.
    â€œIt’s about time! I called nearly an hour ago.” She looked past me in the direction of my truck. “They only sent one of you?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œBut it’s still out there! The bear!”
    â€œTell me what happened, Mrs.—?”
    â€œHersom.” 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. “Come in, quick!”
    I stepped inside. Mrs. Hersom closed and locked the door behind me.
    â€œYou don’t need to do that, Mrs. Hersom. The bear’s not going to try to get in.”
    â€œHa!” Mrs. Hersom literally threw her head back when she laughed, like the villain in a Hollywood B movie. “That’s what you think. Well, take a look at this.”
    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 odor—like burnt bacon—hung 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 didn’t notice anything.
    â€œOpen it,” she said. “But be careful!”
    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. “The bear did this?”
    Mrs. Hersom crossed her arms across her narrow breasts. “No, I did it. Of course the bear did it.”
    I straightened up. “Tell me what happened, Mrs. Hersom.”
    â€œI was cooking breakfast. I had the door open and that window there.” She pointed her chin at the window. “And suddenly I heard this noise behind me. It sounded like a knock and I thought it might be the little