Paul Doiron - Massacre Pond

“I know what a game warden is.” She turned her golden head to me. “People seem to forget that I used to have a homestead in the woods around here. I wasn’t always the titan of industry that I am today.”

I couldn’t stop from myself from smiling, but the worried expressions never left the faces of Billy Cronk and Leaf Woodwind.

“You seem to be the only one who gets my sense of humor, Warden,” said Elizabeth Morse. “But you’re not here for my comedy routine. What’s this about? Not good news, obviously.”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s not. This morning, as Mr. Cronk was driving onto your property, he discovered evidence of a pretty heinous crime.” I held out my business card with my name, title, and phone number. I felt that she was measuring me from behind those shaded glasses.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat things for me, Warden Bowditch. I am tougher than I appear.”

“Someone shot a young moose near your Sixth Machias gate.”

She removed her sunglasses and let them dangle between her fingers. We locked eyes for a while; hers were almond-shaped and a spectacular shade of hazel. Then she said, “A poacher?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What, then? Some sort of vandal?”

“That’s what it looks like. The person-or persons-killed the moose for the sake of killing it. So you could call it vandalism.”

She waited. “Go on.”

“There were five others,” I said.

Elizabeth Morse’s brilliant eyes softened. I could tell that she was trying to absorb the impact of my words. She blinked several times before looking away. “I see.”

It was the young woman who spoke next. “Six moose! Oh my God!”

Billy had mentioned that Morse had a daughter by the odd name of Briar. I didn’t detect much of a resemblance. She was wearing bright red lipstick, and she had painted her toenails red to match. Her sleeveless smock was white-to show off her toned arms-and her shorts were made of some shimmering black material that looked expensive. Around her neck hung an elaborate wooden necklace that made me think of tribal people living in a distant jungle. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

When I turned back to Elizabeth Morse, I saw that she had put her sunglasses back on, and I had a sense that it was to conceal from the rest of us whatever emotions she was experiencing. Her voice turned blunt and businesslike again. She had shoved her momentary softness back beneath her rocky exterior. “So how do you plan on investigating this … atrocity? I assume there’s some sort of protocol.”

Yes and no, I wanted to say. The Warden Service was expert at wildlife forensics, but I wasn’t sure my organization had dealt with a crime of this magnitude before.

“I’d start by asking if you know who might’ve had reason to shoot those animals,” I said.

She turned to the ponytailed hippie. “Leaf, can you go fetch the folder?” Without pausing for an answer, she returned her attention to me. Her efficient manner suggested she was well practiced at running meetings. “If you’re looking for specific names, I can’t help you. Most of the people who hate me don’t bother to sign their death threats.”

“You’ve received death threats?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“I would like to see the bodies myself,” she said.

“Mom,” said the younger woman, “that’s gross.”

“This is my daughter, Briar,” said Elizabeth Morse.

I nodded her way. “I’d prefer to get a team of wardens on the scene first.”

“I don’t understand why I should have to wait,” Elizabeth said. “These shootings occurred on property I own and are almost certainly in retaliation for my recent land purchases.”

“I’d also prefer to hold off on making assumptions about motives,” I said.

“You haven’t read my mail, Warden.”

Briar Morse rose to her feet. As she stood beside her mother, I could see that they had similarly muscular builds. “You can’t keep us from driving on our own land.”

I took a deep breath and gave my attention again to the person who most deserved it.

“Ms. Morse,” I said. “I’m not trying to prevent your seeing the bodies for some frivolous reason. There’s evidence at each of the shootings that might lead us to identify-and prosecute-whoever did this. I don’t want a crowd of people contaminating the scenes, because I want very much to punish the perpetrator or perpetrators here.”

“What kind of evidence?”

My cell phone rang on my belt. “Excuse me a moment. I need to take this.”

I wandered across the patio, holding the phone to my ear. It was McQuarrie. “So we’re at the gate,” he said. “Where are you, kid?”

I dropped my voice. “I’m up at Morse’s house.”

“Queen Elizabeth’s?”

“I wanted to tell her what happened before she came blundering on the scene.”

“How did Her Highness take the news?”

“Not well.”

“I got word to the L.T., and he and a bunch of other wardens are on the way. So you’d better excuse yourself and get your keister down here to let us in the gate. This is going to be the perfect shit storm, Mikey boy. And you don’t want to be the one who catches it in the face.”

It would not be a new experience, I thought.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, and hung up. I wondered again who Mack had riding with him today. It could be any of a number of people.

I paused a moment, listening to the soughing of the pines as the winds ruffled their branches. When I turned back to the people on the patio, I found that Leaf Woodwind had returned with a file folder the size of the Manhattan phone book. “Where’s the letter we got Friday?” Elizabeth asked him.

“I just printed it.”

“Billy,” I said. “Mack McQuarrie needs you to open the gate.”

“We’re coming with you,” said Ms. Morse, as if the matter had been settled.

“That’s not a good idea-for the reasons I mentioned before.”

“Yes, your arguments were very sound and well put, but the fact remains that this is my land.”

“Here it is,” Leaf said, producing a piece of paper from the stack.

The letter was a photocopy of another document. The original had been printed in one of those generic fonts that are standard on all computers.

You Fucking Bitch-

You think you can just move in here and buy up our Land and our Heritage! How many good Maine people do you plan to put out of work? Do you even care about our families, or are you only concerned about baby ducks and bunny rabbits, you naive tree hugger? Well, we have news for you, you goddam slut. We don’t want your gates. We don’t want your park amp; we don’t want some out-of-state cunt deciding she’s our queen. You think your money will protect you? It won’t stop us from putting a.223 round through your ugly face anytime we choose. This is your Final Warning, lady. Leave now or leave in a coffin- your choice !

“I thought him calling me ‘lady’ was amusing,” said Morse with no trace of amusement in her voice. “It was as if he’d run out of expletives by the end.”

I handed the paper back to her. “Have you shared this letter with the state police?”

“The entire file.” She gave me a catlike smile. “So when you say you’d prefer not to make assumptions about the persons and motives behind this incident, how certain are you?”

I had a hard time coming up with an answer.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

We rattled along in a column of vehicles, with Billy leading the way and the Morse women and Leaf Woodwind trailing me in the Highlander. I wondered if I should call ahead to McQuarrie and warn him of the oncoming trouble, but I decided there was no point. The situation was escalating itself without my assistance. I only hoped that Elizabeth Morse would speed past the dead moose-the first one, near the gate-without noticing.