The circuitous path taken by the lobster buoy suggested that Prester should have fetched up on the north side of the river-since there was no chance that he had swum even ten strokes before the cold and current overpowered his best efforts-but there was a slim possibility he might have lodged against one of the boulders midstream, so we turned our binoculars on every square inch of the Machias, recording our findings on maps and GPS, watching our counterparts on the opposite shore do the same.
I kept expecting to hear Tomahawk begin barking, indicating she’d found our drowned fugitive, but the only sound was the constant rush of water and occasionally a shout when someone spotted some bright shard of plastic or a flesh-colored branch. After a time, and despite all my willpower, my own mind began to wander. I couldn’t keep out the distractions.
I tried to keep my mind off Jamie-the thought of her in jail was too damned heartbreaking-so instead my thoughts drifted toward George Magoon.
If Rivard had left the coyote skin and the note on my door, then who had sent me that threatening e-mail? To the best of my knowledge, Brogan was unaware that a prankster calling himself George Magoon was harassing me. Leaving that skunk in my trailer was an independent act of vandalism on his part. So who else knew about Magoon? I’d recounted the incident to Kathy Frost and Charley Stevens. I might have mentioned the name Magoon to Jamie at some point, but I didn’t think so. That left Doc Larrabee and Kendrick. But what reason would they have had to send me a harassing note? Doc had a definite alcohol problem, and Kendrick seemed like a merry prankster in the Earth First! sense. It was possible one of them had sent the message. I had a hollow feeling in my stomach that I was overlooking some detail that might prove significant.
The search dragged on until my team had studied every square foot of water and shoreline between Grove Street and the Route 1A bridges. A Forest Service helicopter appeared over the horizon at one point. It hovered low above the river, its rotors whipping cold water at those of us gathered along the banks, while, inside the chopper, our lieutenant directed a spotlight down at the channel. The lieutenant spent a long time inspecting the pile piers in the center of the stream, but eventually he gave up and the copter moved down below the falls.
As the afternoon progressed-or failed to progress-I found myself growing increasingly angry. I was mad at Prester for falling through the ice, mad at Corbett for chasing him there, mad at Munro for whatever the hell he was doing on the Heath, mad at Rhine and Zanadakis for not taking the matter seriously, mad at Jamie for getting busted, mad at Rivard for being a dick, mad at Brogan and Cronk and Kendrick and even that sourpuss Ben Sprague for making my life so damned difficult when all I’d wanted was to do my job quietly for once. Mostly I was mad at myself.
Rivard was right: I really was an arrogant fuckup who thought he was the smartest guy in the Warden Service. And look at all the good my attitude did me. This emotion no longer felt like self-pity, but, rather, an accurate assessment of my questionable fitness to do the job I’d been hired to do.
I’d just emerged from the Salvation Army trailer that had showed up to feed the assembled searchers, balancing a bowl of chili in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other, when my cell rang. For some reason, I knew it was the sheriff. Rhine had spent a couple of foot-stomping, hand-rubbing hours on the scene before she’d decided to seek warmth back at her office.
“How’s the search going?” she asked.
“We haven’t found him yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“There’s a line of snow squalls moving through Bangor. You probably have another hour before they get here.”
Even light snow would ground our chopper, meaning that unless the guys below the falls got lucky, we would be forced to suspend the search until conditions improved.
Rhine hadn’t called to give me the weather report. “What can I do for you, Sheriff? I’m kind of busy.”
“How well do you know Jamie Sewall’s son?”
“Not very well. He’s a weird little kid, as you saw for yourself.”
I watched searchers in reflective vests milling in the parking lot. Steam rose from their open mouths and white coffee cups.
“Well, it seems he’s run away,” said the sheriff. “The sister, Tammi, called us, saying she was scared because Jamie hadn’t come home. Given her brain injury, I asked DHHS to send a social worker to break the news about Jamie’s arrest and assess the situation. I know Tammi’s not competent to care for a child, so I figured DHHS might need to find temporary placement for them both.”
If possible, the Department of Health and Human Services was even more widely disliked in Down East Maine than the Maine Warden Service. My fears about Jamie potentially forfeiting custody of both her sister and her son acquired a new intensity. Losing Lucas, especially, would be her worst nightmare.
“So what happened?”
“The social worker-her name is Magda Mueller and I’ve worked with her before, a real pro-shows up and the boy immediately freaks out. He won’t listen to the aunt. Instead, he locks himself in the basement and won’t come out. The aunt says there might be a gun down there, so Mueller does the smart thing and gets them both out of the building. I send an officer out to have a look-”
“Not Dunbar?”
“No,” she said. “Corbett.”
If anything, that choice seemed worse to me, given my misgivings about the chief deputy.
“So what happened next?”
“By the time Corbett got there, he found the bulkhead door open. He said there were new tracks leading from the basement off into the trees. He wanted to pursue, but I told him to stay put until I called you.”
“You want me to go over there?”
“I have more confidence in your finding him. My guys aren’t trained to look for a kid in the woods. Besides, you already have a relationship with the boy. Just remember, he may be armed.”
“I need to ask Rivard.”
“With the snow coming, he’s about ready to suspend the search. He thinks you would be better off looking for the boy.”
I felt like a prehistoric animal that had fallen into a tar pit. No matter how much I struggled, I couldn’t extricate myself from the mess the Sewalls had created. “I need to stop by the jail first,” I said.
The suspicion in Rhine’s voice came through the receiver. “Why?”
“To talk with Jamie. Something tells me that she might know where Lucas went.”
The opportunity to see her again was no small incentive, either.
32
From the outside, you might have mistaken the Washington County jail for a new building, but inside, the ceilings hung low and the air had the stuffy chill of a mausoleum. The brick walls were the color of curdled cream and showed signs of having been painted innumerable times for the sole purpose of keeping inmates busy. Men had died in this building, and it didn’t take much of an imagination to sense their presence in the flickering lights and the sudden drafts that moved through the halls.
The grizzled captain who ran the jail met me at the door, along with a couple of slack-jawed guards who seemed to have nothing better to do. The sheriff had a meeting with the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, the captain said in a tone that suggested the discussion would be an unpleasant event for everyone involved.
Jails tend to be loud, clanging places filled with shouts, echoes, and the slamming of metal doors. The guards made me secure my service weapon in a wall-mounted lockbox before they led me into the visitation room. The room smelled of disinfectant sprayed over every possible surface. A Plexiglas barrier running down the center of a table divided the inmates’ side from the visitors’. There was an intercom-type contraption in the glass to speak through.