Paul Doiron - Trespasser

“Guffey? That guy was way before my time. Why do you ask?”

“His name came up in conversation. I realized I’d never met him.”

“That’s no surprise. I hear he’s kind of a hermit now.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s a wood-carver. He makes sculptures of birds, I think. They’re supposed to be very realistic. He’s won awards.”

“Do you have any idea why he quit being a cop?”

“I think he quit after his first year, after that Jefferts stuff. I guess he figured he wasn’t cut out for the work.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Now you’ve got me curious. What are you fishing around for, Bowditch?”

“Just tell me, Skip.”

“He lives down in Seal Cove with his father. I guess the old man has Parkinson’s or something. Dane takes care of him and carves his wooden birds.”

“Can you give me a street address?”

Skip paused to look up the information on his laptop. “Now this is interesting. Guess who Guffey’s neighbors are? It’s your friends the Driskos.”

I wasn’t sure how Dane Guffey would react to my showing up unannounced at the door of his sick father’s house, but it didn’t strike me as a coincidence that he had resigned after Erland Jefferts’s trial. He knew something dangerous.

I cracked the window for the drive down the peninsula to Seal Cove. The wind whistled like a panpipe in my ears. A week earlier, the landscape had looked thoroughly drab, but now I noticed a blush of color in the swelling buds of the birch trees and maples. I saw turkey vultures wheeling, in the company of eagles and ravens, in high circles above the poultry farm where the farmer dumped piles of chicken guts behind the barn. As I’d told Sarah last week, vultures were harbingers of spring in Maine, whatever else they were. On a day like today, with crocus spears poking up through the dirty snowbanks, you could almost convince yourself that this godforsaken world could rise from the dead.

The drive took me off the major roads and down a few winding country lanes. In every thicket I noticed gallon milk jugs hanging from the gray trunks of sugar maples. Early spring is sugaring season in Maine. Because we’d had so many freezing nights and thawing days, the sap was running well this year. A big tree can pour out buckets a day, but it takes something like thirty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup. A stand of sugar maples is called a “sugar bush,” a bawdy term that always brought out my inner eighth grader.

I’d just passed one of these stands and was driving through a more densely forested lowland, thick with shaggy spruces and firs, when something Jefferts had said came back to me: “the big tree with all the initials carved into it.”

I hit the brakes of the Jeep hard and slid to a squealing halt in the middle of the road. I unhitched my seat belt so that I could contort my body to grope around behind the passenger seat. It took me a few moments to find what I was looking for: a weather-stained topographical map of the quadrant around Seal Cove.

When I’d first been assigned to this district, I’d spent hours roaming around with that green-and-brown map, exploring every marked road and dirt trail, trying to get my bearings. A game warden has to know every path a poacher might use, every sand pit where teenagers might smoke pot, every boat launch where closeted gay men might sneak into the woods for anonymous sex. I’d made pencil notes all over this document, but rain and time had smudged some of them past the point of readability. When the new topo maps came out, I’d consigned this wrinkled artifact to the back of my Jeep.

On these maps, a line of dashes indicates an ATV trail. The one I wanted lay half a mile behind me, near the end of an unimproved road-the place where Deputy Dane Guffey had discovered Erland Jefferts passed out behind the wheel of his truck. I was tracing it with my left index finger when I heard a horn blare behind me and felt the Jeep shake and shudder as a seafood delivery truck came barreling past at warp speed.

The driver had a right to be pissed. What kind of moron stops in the middle of the road?

Taking better care, I made a quick three-point turn-or as quick a turn as I could manage with one hand-and headed back from whence I’d come. The trail had been marked with an X on Ozzie Bell’s photocopied map. I remembered it was the same place I’d once found a bearded flower child running naked in a mushroom-induced euphoria. His trip ended in a puddle of vomit at the Knox County Jail. So much for the magical mystery tour.

Near the paved road, there were a few ranch-style homes and a squalid house trailer, but as I crept farther down the dirt lane, the going got rougher. The frost had pushed big rocks to the surface and the rain had spooned out deep furrows filled with water the color of milk chocolate. I couldn’t tell whether anyone else had driven a vehicle on this road recently; the sleet and drizzle had washed away all evidence of human activity. But I could see that a big buck had wandered through. His cloven prints meandered down the lane awhile before something scared him and he bounded suddenly into the evergreens. If I’d cared to look, I probably would have found the place where he’d landed about thirty feet away. A stag is nature’s champion long jumper.

Eventually, it became clear that if I ventured any farther, my Jeep was likely to become a permanent fixture in the landscape, at least until the end of mud season.

I stopped, turned off the engine, and got out. The day had felt warm in the light of the resurgent sun, but here beneath the spreading spruce boughs, the temperature was probably ten degrees colder. I shivered and reached behind the seat for my green wool jacket. I had a hell of a time getting my splint down the sleeve.

The air carried the aroma of balsams, like those muslin sachets you sometimes find in the bottom of steamer trunks. The Maine woods smell different-duller, you might say-in winter than in spring, or at least the human nose has a harder time discerning scents. But as I breathed in, I detected a faint fecund odor, which told me the season was turning. In a few weeks, this same trail would reek of skunk cabbages.

It felt good being outside after days cooped up in bed. Despite the Vicodin numbing my nerve endings, I could remember my former self again. The tree Jefferts had mentioned, an ancient sugar maple in which generations of teenagers had carved hearts, initials, and occasional profanities, loomed over my head. Down the road, I heard the white noise of a rushing stream.

The ATV trail left the dirt lane just before a washed-out bridge and ran roughly parallel to the creek about a mile into the woods. The mushy ground would be baked to a hard crust by mid-July, hard enough for a pickup truck to drive on.

I could tell from the depth of the prints that an SUV had struggled to make it this far. The storm had washed away most of the tracks, but Kathy Frost had tutored me in the fine art of reading tire treads. I spotted the serpentine pattern of a pickup or SUV in a sheltered spot, where the arching tree boughs had functioned like an awning to keep out the rain.

I couldn’t say it shocked me to find the sand-colored vehicle. What surprised me was that, given the similarities between the Ashley Kim homicide and the one seven years earlier, no one else had thought to investigate the place in the woods where Dane Guffey had apprehended Erland Jefferts. I crouched down and studied the SUV from a distance, trying to make out the license plate. Was it his or hers? Ruth Libby had said that both Westergaards drove the same model.

I remembered that the wife had a vanity plate-WGAARD, or something like that. But this plate was just a meaningless string of letters and numbers. So that report Skip Morrison had given me-that Hans Westergaard’s SUV had been sighted in Massachusetts-was a case of mistaken identity after all.