The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

starting to give way. I don’t know whether it was the long day catching up with me at last or hearing Sarah’s voice again. But I feared that I might break down in the hospital corridor if I continued this conversation.
    “I can’t,” I said. “I will when I get back, OK?”
    “I’ll be here,” she said, and I knew it was a promise.
     
    At 11:45 the following morning, Charley opened his eyes. It seemed like half the members of the Maine Warden Service had come by during the night, as well as assorted other law enforcement officers and citizens of Flagstaff and Dead River. Sally Reynolds was there, and so was Donna, the mousy waitress from the Dead River Inn. Most everyone left me alone. I was dozing in a corner of the waiting room when Charley woke up. He asked to see me almost immediately.
    He smiled weakly at me when I came around the movable screen.
    Ora sat beside the bed, as did their oldest daughter, Anne. She was an attractive brunette, about thirty, with her mother’s high cheekbones and her father’s strong jaw. She had a cup of ice chips she was feeding him to quench his thirst.
    “They won’t give me water,” he told me.
    “The bastards,” I deadpanned.
    He grinned again, and I saw some of the old impishness in him return. “You look like shit.”
    “I guess no one’s shown you a mirror.”
    “They did, but darned if it didn’t crack.”
    “How’s the leg?”
    “Still attached to the rest of me.”
    “That’s something.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “He’s going to need a lot of physical therapy,” said Anne.
    Charley rolled his eyes.
    “I’m so sorry about your father,” Ora said to me.
    I was too stunned to respond. My father was the man who had shot her husband, who had brought us all to this place of fear and waiting for death, and here she was expressing her condolences to me over his selfish and cowardly suicide.
    People disappoint you so often. I hardly knew how to react when they surpassed all your hopes.