Wood theft was, in fact, a widespread crime in the most forested state in the nation. I had heard of summer people who closed their camps in the fall, went south to Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New Jersey for the winter, and then returned to find their sheltering pines missing. That said, it was not a common occurrence for thieves to steal wood in plain view, in the light of day, half a mile from the landowner’s house.

“Call the man and find out,” the young rebel suggested.

“I don’t have his number.”

“I do.”

He shouted seven digits at me.

I keyed the number into my phone.

The voice that answered was, unmistakably, Jewett’s. “For Christ’s sake, what do you want now?”

“Mr. Jewett, this is Mike Bowditch.”

He fell silent. Clearly, he’d assumed I was someone else or he might not have answered. “Where did you get this number?”

“A young man on an ATV gave it to me. I came upon him and two associates scalping the hillside above your house. He says he’s cutting here with your permission. Is it true you hired these amateur lumberjacks to cut your woodlot?”

The ATV rider expelled another stream of tobacco juice.

Jewett made a noise that I took to be an affirmative.

“Have you been up here to see it?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re fine with their forestry practices? You don’t mind your woods looking like no-man’s-land?”

“What I mind and don’t mind is none of your business. Now are you going to leave me alone or am I going to have to file harassment charges against you with your superiors? I Googled your name and it won’t be the first time.”

“Bruce,” I said, “you and I both know you’re not going to do anything that results in more officers paying you a visit.”

“Don’t call this number again!”

The kid grinned at me as I put away the phone. “What did I tell you? We got permission. Now me and my cousins got work to do. Money ain’t gonna make itself, man.”

With a smug grin, he started the engine and revved it so loudly he must have damaged his ear drums. I watched the kid ride off, wondering where I’d seen his cocky face before.

19

Snow blows in waves across the frozen channel. The far side is hidden in darkness. The vegetation at the near edge suggests the water beneath might be shallow, perhaps even frozen down to the mud. Ice needs to be only two inches thick to support the weight of a man. I might be able to walk safely across.

But if I am wrong in my calculations, if I go through the ice again—even if it’s only up to my knees—I am doomed. I won’t be lighting another fire, not tonight.

What choice do I have, though?