Trespasser by Paul Doiron Read Free Book Online Page B

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    After the Revolutionary War, the Boston-born Knox had set himself up as a British-style aristocrat—one of the so-called Great Proprietors—and eventually built an empire in the Maine woods the size of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. His original Montpelier was one of the inspirations for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s
The House of the Seven Gables,
and supposedly the character of Colonel Pyncheon was based on Knox himself. The general held his impoverished Maine “subjects” in contempt—he accused them of “idleness and dissipation”—and they responded by vandalizing his mills, burning down the homes of his agents, and even killing a few of his hired goons.
    He eventually died after choking on a chicken bone.
    I could never pass the Montpelier mansion without reflecting that the conflict between Maine’s well-to-do newcomers and people like the Barters had deeper roots than most people understood. Life really is like a tree that way: No one considers how much history is hidden underground.
    Driving home through a flurry of snow showers, I thought again of my morning confrontation with the Driskos, men whose ancestors had probably been among Knox’s original rebels. I was positive that when the DNA results came back from the University of Maine laboratory, the blood I’d found at the crash scene would match the blood I’d found on their flatbed. Stealing game was a small-stakes offense, but it would justify a broader search of their property, and who knew what else we might find.
    My encounter with Dave and Donnie reminded me of an event I’d witnessed as a teenager at Rum Pond; late one evening, Charley Stevens had confronted my father about a suspected poaching violation and had received an equally menacing response. The warden pilot had had the good sense to back down from the conflict. Was it a sign of personal growth that I’d managed to do the same with the Driskos?
    I looked forward to sharing the mysteries of the past few days—my ATV vandals and missing deer—with Charley at dinner. I was certain the wise old owl would also have insight into the disappearance of Ashley Kim.
    Without really intending to, I found myself detouring yet again to Parker Point. Why was this place pulling me like a magnet? This time, I bypassed the accident scene and drove to land’s end. There was a little turnaround at the tip with a spruce-obstructed view of the Mussel Shoals islands. I got a glimpse of gray waves and gulls wheeling close to the surf, but that was it by way of a scenic vista. All of the better views lay down the end of private drives.
    I’d once read that the State of Maine’s coastline, measured in a line from Kittery to Eastport, is just a few hundred miles long. But if you were able to straighten out all the inlets and peninsulas—like pulling a tangled string straight—you’d have five thousand miles of shorefront. Parker Point was like dozens of exclusive necks north of Portland. From one main road, numerous private drives fanned out to the edge of the water. There you’d find mostly shuttered homes.
    So where had Ashley Kim been going? I’d assumed she was visiting someone or had just taken a wrong turn. Was it possible that her family owned a house on the point? I doubted that Hutchins had followed this particular line of inquiry very far.
    Who else might know the answer?
    The town clerk, MaryBeth Fickett, had access to all the local property maps. And I knew her a little. She and her chubby hubby had shared a thermos of coffee with me while I was checking licenses out on Indian Pond. I dialed the number for the town office. After the seventh ring, I was transferred to voice mail. Maybe MaryBeth was out sick. Seal Cove was such a dinky little town that entire municipal departments could be immobilized by a bad case of the sniffles.
    I left a message, saying a woman named Ashley Kim had hit a deer the night before. Her official residence was listed as Cambridge, Massachusetts, but I