He settled into a chair, saying, "I've heard from several different people that you know how to stop Audee Netishen from shooting the deer and moose he lures onto his property."
"It's always something with that old fucker," I muttered. "I bet he's telling you it's legit because he's not hunting outside the state's season and bag limits, but protecting his home."
The sheriff nodded. "That's correct."
"And I bet he also has a peck or two of apples piled up on his property."
Another nod. "Also correct."
"He does that," I said, reaching for my glass of water. "He hires high school kids to harvest his apple trees every autumn, but then he leaves them in his damn barn three or four months. Because he's a crazy old fucker, he carts them all out in December and January, leaves a peck right in front of his house, and bags some deer from the comfort of his recliner. His wife sells the jerky at one of those big farmers markets up in Orono."
"Sounds like a lot of work," he said.
"Sounds like you don't know much about hunting," I replied. "I don't have an interest, but I grew up with it and I can tell you it's much easier to cart some apples out from a barn than it is to get geared up and sit in the woods all day."
"And that's how you know the magic word to getting Netishen in line?"
I barked out a laugh. "We used to be neighbors. My family lived next door to the Netishens for twenty years. My father planned his entire year around the season. He loved hunting, but he was a lot like you, sheriff. By the book." I paused, ran my tongue over my teeth. "He worked as a game warden until the day he died. Every time he saw Audee dragging those apples out of his barn, he told him he'd permanently lose his hunting license if he bagged so much as a goose. They had the same conversation two or three times each winter."
"That's all it takes?" the sheriff asked. "A warning?"
With as much patience as I could muster, I gestured at his sheriff's garb, saying, "From a game warden. Guys like Audee know the system better than the state does and they know you"—I pointed at his badge—"aren't pulling his license. Call the Augusta office and fill them in. They'll send a warden down."
He bobbed his head as he took in this information. "There are moments when I forget I'm still a newcomer here." He glanced up at me with the barest of smirks. "But then I'm sent here to get a history lesson and a shove in the right direction."
"No one in this town will give you a simple answer when the complicated one makes more sense to them," I said, laughing. "Give it a few years, you'll be doing it too."
"I suppose I should thank you for that lesson as well," he said.
"That one is on the house," I replied.
Jackson rested his hands on his thighs and took a moment to sweep a gaze over my office. It was piled high with boxes and crates, decades' worth of accounting ledgers, and an assortment of items branded with beer logos. Hats, t-shirts, paper coasters, frisbees, you name it. I meant to clean it out every time I couldn't find something, but never remembered to get it done.
"Since I'm here," he started, "I'm interested to hear how Nate is progressing."
And since you're here, I'm interested in hearing everything you can tell me about your fiancée's best friend."You'd have to ask him that yourself," I replied. "You could, but he's not here right now."
The muscles in his jaw twitched. "Where is he?"
"I got enough problems of my own. I don't keep track of the kid's calendar too."
I shuffled the documents on my desk, looking for nothing but an exit from this conversation. I didn't care for the routine check-ins on Nate's recovery or the constant questions about his conduct and habits, and the sheriff wasn't the only one asking. The reemergence of Nate Fitzsimmons was something of a local legend now. It wasn't uncommon for customers to ask him highly personal questions or gape at him while he bused their table. Others gave him sobriety advice after ordering their meals and a special few made it their business to watch his every move and report back to me about behavior they found suspicious.
"Got it, got it," Jackson murmured. "I'd have to assume he's doing well enough if you've kept him on this long. Knowing how you operate, he would've been on the curb if there was an issue."
I didn't like the sheriff. We were cut from different cloth. But I couldn't deny that he was suited for his job. "What do you want? A performance review? He comes in on time, he does the work, and he puts up with all the assholes this town has to offer. He's fine. Leave him alone."
He nodded thoughtfully, as if this information put everything in a new light. "I see him at the gym in the morning." He shared a laugh with himself. "The mornings I manage to drag myself out of bed early enough to hit the gym."
I gave him a blank stare. "Ha."
"He seems to like the six a.m. yoga and meditation class," Jackson continued. "The weight room too. All the times I've stopped by, he's been very focused on the weights."
"Maybe if you shared your protein shake recipe with him, he'd share his workout plan," I replied. "I'm sure you'd hit it off once he forgets he's on probation and handing in a cup of urine every week and you're the head of the local law enforcement agency receiving those piss reports."
He blinked at me. "Point taken."
"Leave the kid alone. Let him work out without the sheriff spotting him." I took another sip from my water. "Don't you have better things to do? You're engaged, you're building a house, and you're in a power struggle with Audee Netishen. Isn't that enough?"
