The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron

“He said he’d give me half the meat if I let him borrow it,” the old man said. He said if I didn’t let him take it, he’d tell the wardens the deer meat in my freezer was from poaching—which is a lie.”
    â€œSo Bowditch took the ATV.” Major Carter removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm; sweat shined along his high forehead. “But I still don’t understand how he got through the perimeter. The dogs scented no exit trail leaving the cabin. Even if he was riding an ATV, the dogs should have winded him.”
    â€œThe smell,” I said. “That bad smell inside the house. Didn’t you notice it?”
    â€œI thought that was just Mr. Bickford’s natural aroma,” said the sheriff.
    â€œIt’s deer lure,” I said. “Hunters make it out of the urine and tarsal glands of bucks. It’s used to cover human odors and bring deer into a tree stand.”
    â€œHe doused himself with it,” said Lieutenant Malcomb.
    â€œYou smelled how strong that stuff can be,” I said. “He knew it would cover his scent and throw off the dogs. He must have known Bickford had some of the stuff. That’s why he headed this way.”
    â€œSo we’ll just key the dogs in to the deer lure,” said the sheriff. “And they’ll follow the new scent. All it does is delay us a little.”
    â€œDo you know how many deer are in these woods?”
    â€œIs there any way we can track the ATV tonight?” asked the FBI agent.
    â€œUnless one of our planes spotted him from above, I don’t see how,” said the lieutenant. “There’s almost as many ATVs on these logging roads out there as deer. He might be ten miles away by now, and with a full tank he might get thirty more miles before he runs out of gas. We’ll take tire prints to match if we can, but unless someone spotted him, I don’t see how we follow him tonight.”
    â€œSo why the hell did you start shooting when the troopers arrived?” the sheriff demanded of Bickford. “Do you have a death wish?”
    â€œI was scared,” said the old man. “I looked out my window and all I see are soldiers. You didn’t give me no chance to explain myself. I figured you was going to burn me out—like Waco. This is my property, and the Constitution says I have the Second Amendment.”
    â€œThis isn’t your property,” said the sheriff. “This property belongs to Wendigo Timber. You’re squatting here illegally.”
    His eyes blazed. “It’s my home! They can’t take it. I won’t let them.”
    â€œSo you agree with what Bowditch did—killing that man from Wendigo Timber? Maybe you helped him do it.”
    Bickford paused, mouth open. Then he wiped his runny nose and looked away. “I didn’t do nothing. It was an accident. Just like I said.”
    â€œWhat’s going to happen to him?” I asked Lieutenant Malcomb. The adrenaline had left me and I was crashing fast—I felt like the blood in my arms and legs was transmuting to lead.
    â€œIt’s up to the attorney general, but I’d say he’s facing a mess of charges—misdemeanor and felony—from obstruction of justice to accessory to homicide after the fact. Plus we’re going to have a look in his freezer as soon as Hatch is done taking tire tracks, so that’s not counting poaching violations.”
    I shivered. “It doesn’t seem like he knows what he’s saying. The guy’s clearly brain injured.”
    â€œDon’t be fooled,” said the lieutenant. “He knows right from wrong. Anyway, that’s not for us to decide.”
    â€œDoes the major know which officer fired at the cabin?”
    â€œOne of the sheriff’s men.”
    â€œThat second shot nearly hit me.”
    He looked at me hard. “What you did, Mike—running up like that—was the stupidest