Trespasser (Mike Bowditch Series #2)

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Overview

In Paul Doiron’s riveting follow-up to his Edgar Award–nominated novel, The Poacher's Son, Maine game warden Mike Bowditch’s quest to find a missing woman leads him through a forest of lies in search of a killer who may have gotten away with murder once before.

    While on patrol one foggy March evening, Bowditch receives a call for help. A woman has reportedly struck a deer on a lonely coast road. When the game warden arrives on the scene, he finds blood in the road—but both the driver and the ...

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Trespasser (Mike Bowditch Series #2)

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Overview

In Paul Doiron’s riveting follow-up to his Edgar Award–nominated novel, The Poacher's Son, Maine game warden Mike Bowditch’s quest to find a missing woman leads him through a forest of lies in search of a killer who may have gotten away with murder once before.

    While on patrol one foggy March evening, Bowditch receives a call for help. A woman has reportedly struck a deer on a lonely coast road. When the game warden arrives on the scene, he finds blood in the road—but both the driver and the deer have vanished. And the state trooper assigned to the accident appears strangely unconcerned.

    The details of the disappearance seem eerily familiar. Seven years earlier, a jury convicted lobsterman Erland Jefferts of the rape and murder of a wealthy college student and sentenced him to life in prison. For all but his most fanatical defenders, justice was served. But when the missing woman is found brutalized in a manner that suggests Jefferts may have been framed, Bowditch receives an ominous warning from state prosecutors to stop asking questions.

    For Bowditch, whose own life was recently shattered by a horrific act of violence, doing nothing is not an option. His clandestine investigation reopens old wounds between Maine locals and rich summer residents and puts both his own life and that of the woman he loves in jeopardy. As he closes in on his quarry, he suddenly discovers how dangerous his opponents are, and how far they will go to prevent him from bringing a killer to justice.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In Doiron's compelling sequel to his debut, The Poacher's Son, troubled 25-year-old Mike Bowditch, a Maine game warden, is still coming to grips with the realization that his estranged father—now deceased—has become known as the state's most notorious murderer. Bowditch finds solace in his job, but when he investigates a car accident involving a deer on a remote stretch of road, the driver, 23-year-old Ashley Kim, from Cambridge, Mass., has disappeared. Later, in an empty house, he finds Kim's naked body, bound with sailor's rigging tape, with the word slut carved into her chest. As Bowditch becomes increasingly obsessed with finding the killer, he puts his already tenuous career in jeopardy as well as his equally tenuous relationship with his possibly pregnant girlfriend. Doiron complements this thriller's decidedly dark tone with introspective existential and spiritual musings and atmospheric imagery (houses in a fishing village "clung like barnacles" around a harbor). 15-city author tour. (June)
Library Journal
It's mud season in northern Maine, no longer winter but not yet spring, and the grisly murder of a young woman raises questions nobody wants answered. Is the man serving time in prison for an identical murder innocent? Is there a serial killer on the loose? Game warden Mike Bowditch has a nose for finding answers and a penchant for getting in trouble. In just his second year on the job, he must combat the wicked weather, those in law enforcement who respect neither his profession nor him, and his personal demons. With the help of his friend Charlie, a legendary and now retired game warden, Mike doggedly pursues the truth as spring begins to show itself. VERDICT Doiron (nominated this year for an Edgar Award for his first book about Mike Bowditch, The Poacher's Son) serves up a tense thriller that stars a memorable main character and brings the rugged Maine landscape vividly to life. Highly recommended for lovers of mysteries, particularly those set outdoors or in New England. Fans of C.J. Box and Castle Freeman will not be disappointed. [15-city tour in New England.]—Nancy Fontaine, Dartmouth Coll., Hanover, NH
Kirkus Reviews

Seven years after a trial sent a police suspect up for murder, a disturbingly similar new killing reopens the case, dragging Maine game warden Mike Bowditch along for one hellacious ride.

Mike's nightmare begins with a call so routine he can't even respond to it. A passerby has phoned to say that a young woman's car has struck a deer out on Parker Point. Already busy responding to Hank Varnum's complaint that some lowlife on an all-terrain vehicle has vandalized his property, Mike passes on the call, but when Trooper Curt Hutchins has engine trouble, he ends up driving to the scene an hour later, only to find that both the deer and the driver have vanished. Sadly, it's not long before Mike finds the driver, Harvard Business School student Ashley Kim, raped and murdered in the Parker Point vacation home of her teacher, Prof. Hans Westergaard. Both before and after Mike contaminates it, everything about the crime scene reminds him of the seven-year-old murder of college student/waitress Nikki Donnatelli. And he's not the only one. Lou Bates, whose charismatic nephew Erland Jefferts was convicted of the earlier crime, is convinced that Mike can help clear him. Jill Westergaard is equally insistent that Mike can help find her missing husband. Since game wardens, especially if they've found dead bodies, aren't supposed to get involved in murder cases, Mike has quite a series of challenges ahead of him—not counting his stormy relationship with schoolteacher Sarah Harris and the self-destructive streak he showed in The Poacher's Son (2010).

If Mike's second appearance isn't quite up to his striking debut, it's still a complex, heartfelt, altogether impressive piece of work.

From the Publisher
“Doiron’s plot is heart-pounding, filled with startling twists and turns. The main characters, some lovable and others despicable, are all multidimensional. And the stylish prose is pitch-perfect, especially in its evocative descriptions of the beauty, and occasionally the ugliness, of coastal Maine in early spring. The story’s slam-bang ending leaves Mike’s life in tatters, and the reader anxious to know what the author has in store for him next.”—Associated Press

“Doiron delivers another perfectly plotted mystery peopled with multidimensional characters, but, in addition, his writing has matured. His descriptions of Maine’s midcoast are incredibly evocative of the sights, sounds, and smells of early spring, and the heart-pounding account of Mike’s fourwheeling chase through the woods is a masterpiece of high-octane narrative. Suggest this series to fans of C. J. Box and Nevada Barr.”—Booklist (starred review)

“Doiron serves up a tense thriller that stars a memorable main character and brings the rugged Maine landscape vividly to life. Highly recommended for lovers of mysteries, particularly those set outdoors or in New England. Fans of C.J. Box and Castle Freeman will not be disappointed.”—Library Journal (starred review)

“Doiron’s second thriller featuring Mike Bowditch makes effective use of Maine’s ‘mud season,’ that time when the weather is unpredictable and new life struggles to emerge from the snow, as a metaphor for Mike’s internal struggle to put his life back on track. Doiron’s sense of place, and of the people of Maine, adds lush nuance to this suspense-filled read. Well-paced, with an interesting array of elegantly rounded characters, this effort more than lives up to the promise of Doiron’s debut.”—RT Book Review (Top Pick, 4 ½ stars)

“A complex, heartfelt, altogether impressive piece of work.”—Kirkus Reviews

"Compelling."—Publishers Weekly

“Engaging . . . Doiron is clearly a talented storyteller. . . . The book is hard to put down.”—Portland Press Herald

“Doiron is an author to watch!”—Indiebound

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312558475
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 6/21/2011
  • Series: Mike Bowditch Series , #2
  • Pages: 320
  • Product dimensions: 9.30 (w) x 6.44 (h) x 1.04 (d)

Meet the Author

Paul Doiron

Paul Doiron is the editor-in-chief of Down East: The Magazine of Maine. A native of Maine, he attended Yale University, where he graduated with a degree in English, and he holds an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College.  Paul is a Registered Maine Guide and lives on a trout stream in coastal Maine with his wife, Kristen Lindquist. Please visit his Web site at www.pauldoiron.com.

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Read an Excerpt

TRESPASSER

Paul Doiron

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

1

I found the wreck easily enough. It was the only red sedan with a crushed hood on the Parker Point Road. In my headlights, the damage didn't look too extensive. The driver had even managed to steer the car onto the muddy shoulder, where it had become mired to its hubcaps.

I switched on my blue lights and got out of the patrol truck. My shadow lurched ahead of me like a movie monster. Right off, I saw the dark red pool of blood in the road—there must have been quarts of it, every ounce in the animal's body spilled onto the asphalt. I also noticed bloody drag marks where someone had moved the roadkill. But the deer itself was nowhere to be seen. The red smears just stopped, as if the carcass had been snatched up by space aliens into the night.

Flashlight raised high in my left hand, I approached the wrecked car. The air bags had inflated, but the windshield was intact. So where was the driver? Someone had phoned in the deer/car collision. The keys were still in the ignition. Had the driver wandered off with a concussion— or just gotten tired of waiting for a delinquent game warden to arrive? It was damned mysterious.

No driver, no deer.

I was all alone on the foggy road.

The call had come in an hour earlier, near the end of a twelve-hour shift.

My last stop of the day was supposed to be the house of a very tall and angry man named Hank Varnum. He was waiting for me in the foggy nimbus of his porch light: a rangy, rawboned guy with a face that always reminded me of Abraham Lincoln when I saw him behind the counter of the Sennebec Market.

Tonight he didn't give me a chance to climb out of my truck. He just let out a snarl: "Look what those bastards did, Mike!" And he started off into the wet woods behind his house.

I grabbed my Maglite and followed as best I could. When you are a young Maine game warden—twenty-five years old and fit—there aren't many occasions when you can truly imagine being old, but this late March evening was one of them. My knees ached from a fall I'd taken earlier that day checking ice-fishing licenses on a frozen pond, and the mud sucked at my boots with every step. Varnum had to keep waiting for me to catch up. The grocer walked like a turkey—long-legged, neck slightly extended, head bobbing as he went. But I was too exhausted to find it humorous.

Hank Varnum owned something like seventy acres of woods along the Segocket River in midcoast Maine, and he seemed determined to lead me over every hill and dale of it. Worse yet, I discovered that my flashlight needed new batteries. The temperature had been hovering around thirty-two degrees all afternoon, and now the thaw was conjuring up a mist from the forest floor. Fog rose from the softening patches of snow and drifted like gossamer through the trees.

After many minutes, we came out of a thicket and intersected a recently used all-terrain-vehicle trail. The big wheels of the ATVs had chewed savagely into the earth, splashing mud into the treetops and scattering fist-sized rocks everywhere. The ruts were filled with coffee-colored puddles deep enough to drown a small child.

Varnum thrust his forefinger at the damage. "Do you believe this shit?"

But before I could answer, he'd forged off again, turkeylike, following the four-wheel trail deeper into the woods.

I checked my watch. What ever chance I'd had of catching a movie with my girlfriend, Sarah, was no more. Since she'd moved back into my rented house last fall, we'd been making progress reconciling our lifestyles—Maine game warden and grade-school teacher— or so it seemed to me anyway. Tonight might be a setback.

My cell phone vibrated. The display showed the number of the Knox County Regional Communications Center.

"Hold up, Hank!" I answered. "Twenty-seven fifty-four. This is Bowditch."

"Twenty-seven fifty-four, we've got a deer/car collision on the Parker Point Road." Most of my calls were dispatched out of the state police headquarters in Augusta, but I recognized the voice on the radio as being that of Lori Williams, one of the county 911 operators. "Anyone injured?"

"Negative."

"What about the deer?"

"The caller said it was dead."

So why was Lori bothering me with this? Every police officer in Maine was trained to handle a deer/car collision. Nothing about the situation required the district game warden.

"Dispatch, I'm ten-twenty on the Quarry Road in Sennebec. Is there a deputy or trooper who can respond?"

"Ten-twenty three." Meaning: Stand by.

I waited half a minute while the dispatcher made her inquiries among the available units. Hank Varnum had his flashlight beam pointed into my eyes the whole time. "Are we just about there, Hank?" I asked, squinting.

"It's right around this bend."

"Show me."

We went on another four hundred yards or so, crossing a little trout stream that the ATVs had transformed into a flowing latrine. Then we turned a corner, and I understood the wellspring of Hank Varnum's rage. At one time, the trail had run between two majestic oaks— but no longer.

"They cut down my goddamned trees!" The beam of Varnum's flashlight was shaking, he was so mad.

The stumps stood like fresh-sawn pillars on either side of the trail, with the fallen trees lying, akimbo, to the sides. Yellow Posted signs were still nailed to their toppled trunks.

"First, I put up the signs," Varnum explained. "But they came through anyway. Then I dropped a couple of spruces across the trail. They just dragged those aside. So I said, 'All right, this is war.' And I strung a steel cable between the two oaks. You see how much good that did." In fact, the cable was still attached to one of the fallen trees.

I shined my light on the crosshatched tire tracks, feeling a surge of anger at the meaningless waste in front of me. They were beautiful red oaks, more than a century old, and some assholes had snuffed out their lives for no good reason. "Do you have any idea who the vandals are?"

"That pervert Calvin Barter, probably. Or maybe Dave Drisko and that prick son of his. There's a whole pack of them that ride around town on those fucking machines. I swear to God, Mike, I'm going to string up barbed wire here next."

Mad as I was, it was my job to be the voice of reason in these situations. "You can't booby/trap your land, Hank. No matter how much you might be tempted. You'll get sued. And you honestly don't want someone to get injured."

"I don't?" He rubbed the back of his long neck, like he was trying to take the skin off. "I never had any problem when it was just snowmobiles. It was always fine by me if the sledders used my land. They never did any real damage. But these ATVs are a different story. They want to tear things up. That's part of their fun." His eyes bored into mine. "So what can you do for me here, Mike?"

"Well, I could take some pictures of the tracks and the trees, but there's nothing to connect the ATVs with whoever cut down your oaks. If you could ID the riders coming through next time, we could file trespassing charges. Snapshots would help make the case."

"So that's it?"

I was about to say something about how I couldn't be everywhere at once, how I relied on citizens to help me do my job, blah, blah, blah, when I heard the roar of distant engines.

"That's them!" Varnum said.

I motioned him to get off the trail. We extinguished our fl ash-lights and crouched down behind some young balsams and waited. My cell phone vibrated again. Lori told me that a state trooper said he was going to respond to the deer/car collision, so I was off the hook. I turned the mobile off to be as silent as possible. The snow around me had crystallized as it had melted and become granular. It made a crunching noise when I shifted my weight.

The engines got louder and louder, I saw a flash of headlights through the fog, and then, just as I was getting ready to spring, the shouts and revving motors began to recede.

Varnum jumped to his feet. "They turned off down that fire road!"

My knees cracked as I straightened up beside him. "Will they come back this way?"

"How the hell do I know?"

In a few weeks, the spring peepers would begin to call, but right now the forest was quiet except for the dripping trees. "Look, Hank, I know you're angry. But I promise you, we'll do what we can to catch the punks who did this."

He didn't even answer, just snapped on his flashlight and stormed off toward home.

I took two steps after him, and then the ground slid out from under me, and the next thing I knew I was lying face-first in the mud. When I finally dug the mud out of my eye sockets, I saw Varnum looming over me, his jaw stuck out, his anger unabated. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and threw it at me. "Wipe the dirt off your face."

It wasn't until I'd left Varnum at his door and gotten back to my truck that I remembered I'd turned my cell phone off. Dispatch was trying to reach me on the police radio: "Twenty-one fifty-four, please respond."

"Twenty-one fifty-four," I said.

"Do you need assistance?" Lori sounded uncharacteristically animated. She was a good dispatcher in that she usually kept her emotions in check. That's an important skill when you deal with freaked-out callers all night.

"No, I'm fine."

"We couldn't reach you."

"Sorry, I had my phone off. What's going on?"

"Four-twelve had engine trouble. He couldn't take that deer/car."

"You mean no one's responded yet?" I already knew where this conversation was heading. "Can't a deputy take it?"

"Skip's dealing with an eighteen-wheeler that went off the road in Union, and Jason's bringing in a drunk driver."

It had been at least thirty minutes since the call came through. I was mud-soaked and exhausted, with an impatient girlfriend waiting at home. And now I had to go scrape a deer carcass off the road and take down insurance information. "All right, I'm on my way."

Parker Point was a narrow peninsula that jutted like a broken finger southward into the Atlantic. It was one of dozens of similar capes and necks carved out of the Maine bedrock by the glaciers during the last ice age. Ten thousand years might seem like an eternity, but in geological terms it was scarcely time enough to cover these ridges with a dusting of topsoil and a blanket of evergreen needles. Nothing with deep roots could thrive on Parker Point, just alders, beach roses, and bristling black spruces that blew over easily when the March winds came storming out of the northeast.

The houses on the point had once belonged to fishing families, but as waterfront real estate prices soared and the codfish stocks collapsed in the Gulf of Maine, these homes had been increasingly sold as summer "cottages" to wealthy out-of-staters. Or they had been torn down and replaced with new shingle-sided mansions with radiant-heat floors and gated fences. I could easily envision a time, very soon, when every Maine fishermen who still clawed a living from the sea could no longer afford to dwell within sight of it.

Because of all those no Trespassing signs, the local deer population had exploded. Without hunters to control their numbers, the animals multiplied like leggy rabbits, but their lives were no easier, and they died just as brutally. The difference was that death tended to come now in the form of starvation, disease, or, as in this case, a speeding car.

The fog had gotten so thick, it bounced my headlights back at me. As I drove, I keyed in my home number on my cell phone and readied myself. But when I told Sarah I'd be late, her reaction was not what I'd expected.

"That's all right, Mike," she said in a muted voice.

"It's just that a car hit a deer in this fog," I said.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Just the deer. Maybe we can see that movie tomorrow night."

"Amy said it wasn't a good film anyway."

Neither of us spoke for a while. Something was definitely bothering her.

"I'm sorry I missed dinner," I offered.

"It was just pea soup. You can heat it up."

I tried lightening the mood. "Why do they compare fog with pea soup anyway? It's not like it's green."

But she wouldn't play along. "I'll see you when you get home, all right?"

"I love you."

"Please be careful," she replied. It was the way she ended many of our calls.

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First Chapter

Trespasser


By Paul Doiron

Minotaur Books

Copyright © 2011 Paul Doiron
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780312558475

TRESPASSER
Paul Doiron

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

1

I found the wreck easily enough. It was the only red sedan with a crushed hood on the Parker Point Road. In my headlights, the damage didn't look too extensive. The driver had even managed to steer the car onto the muddy shoulder, where it had become mired to its hubcaps.

I switched on my blue lights and got out of the patrol truck. My shadow lurched ahead of me like a movie monster. Right off, I saw the dark red pool of blood in the road--there must have been quarts of it, every ounce in the animal's body spilled onto the asphalt. I also noticed bloody drag marks where someone had moved the roadkill. But the deer itself was nowhere to be seen. The red smears just stopped, as if the carcass had been snatched up by space aliens into the night.

Flashlight raised high in my left hand, I approached the wrecked car. The air bags had inflated, but the windshield was intact. So where was the driver? Someone had phoned in the deer/car collision. The keys were still in the ignition. Had the driver wandered off with a concussion— or just gotten tired of waiting for a delinquent game warden to arrive? It was damned mysterious.

No driver, no deer.

I was all alone on the foggy road.



The call had come in an hour earlier, near the end of a twelve-hour shift.

My last stop of the day was supposed to be the house of a very tall and angry man named Hank Varnum. He was waiting for me in the foggy nimbus of his porch light: a rangy, rawboned guy with a face that always reminded me of Abraham Lincoln when I saw him behind the counter of the Sennebec Market.

Tonight he didn't give me a chance to climb out of my truck. He just let out a snarl: "Look what those bastards did, Mike!" And he started off into the wet woods behind his house.

I grabbed my Maglite and followed as best I could. When you are a young Maine game warden--twenty-five years old and fit--there aren't many occasions when you can truly imagine being old, but this late March evening was one of them. My knees ached from a fall I'd taken earlier that day checking ice-fishing licenses on a frozen pond, and the mud sucked at my boots with every step. Varnum had to keep waiting for me to catch up. The grocer walked like a turkey--long-legged, neck slightly extended, head bobbing as he went. But I was too exhausted to find it humorous.

Hank Varnum owned something like seventy acres of woods along the Segocket River in midcoast Maine, and he seemed determined to lead me over every hill and dale of it. Worse yet, I discovered that my flashlight needed new batteries. The temperature had been hovering around thirty-two degrees all afternoon, and now the thaw was conjuring up a mist from the forest floor. Fog rose from the softening patches of snow and drifted like gossamer through the trees.

After many minutes, we came out of a thicket and intersected a recently used all-terrain-vehicle trail. The big wheels of the ATVs had chewed savagely into the earth, splashing mud into the treetops and scattering fist-sized rocks everywhere. The ruts were filled with coffee-colored puddles deep enough to drown a small child.

Varnum thrust his forefinger at the damage. "Do you believe this shit?"

But before I could answer, he'd forged off again, turkeylike, following the four-wheel trail deeper into the woods.

I checked my watch. What ever chance I'd had of catching a movie with my girlfriend, Sarah, was no more. Since she'd moved back into my rented house last fall, we'd been making progress reconciling our lifestyles--Maine game warden and grade-school teacher-- or so it seemed to me anyway. Tonight might be a setback.

My cell phone vibrated. The display showed the number of the Knox County Regional Communications Center.

"Hold up, Hank!" I answered. "Twenty-seven fifty-four. This is Bowditch."

"Twenty-seven fifty-four, we've got a deer/car collision on the Parker Point Road." Most of my calls were dispatched out of the state police headquarters in Augusta, but I recognized the voice on the radio as being that of Lori Williams, one of the county 911 operators. "Anyone injured?"

"Negative."

"What about the deer?"

"The caller said it was dead."

So why was Lori bothering me with this? Every police officer in Maine was trained to handle a deer/car collision. Nothing about the situation required the district game warden.

"Dispatch, I'm ten-twenty on the Quarry Road in Sennebec. Is there a deputy or trooper who can respond?"

"Ten-twenty three." Meaning: Stand by.

I waited half a minute while the dispatcher made her inquiries among the available units. Hank Varnum had his flashlight beam pointed into my eyes the whole time. "Are we just about there, Hank?" I asked, squinting.

"It's right around this bend."

"Show me."

We went on another four hundred yards or so, crossing a little trout stream that the ATVs had transformed into a flowing latrine. Then we turned a corner, and I understood the wellspring of Hank Varnum's rage. At one time, the trail had run between two majestic oaks— but no longer.

"They cut down my goddamned trees!" The beam of Varnum's flashlight was shaking, he was so mad.

The stumps stood like fresh-sawn pillars on either side of the trail, with the fallen trees lying, akimbo, to the sides. Yellow Posted signs were still nailed to their toppled trunks.

"First, I put up the signs," Varnum explained. "But they came through anyway. Then I dropped a couple of spruces across the trail. They just dragged those aside. So I said, 'All right, this is war.' And I strung a steel cable between the two oaks. You see how much good that did." In fact, the cable was still attached to one of the fallen trees.

I shined my light on the crosshatched tire tracks, feeling a surge of anger at the meaningless waste in front of me. They were beautiful red oaks, more than a century old, and some assholes had snuffed out their lives for no good reason. "Do you have any idea who the vandals are?"

"That pervert Calvin Barter, probably. Or maybe Dave Drisko and that prick son of his. There's a whole pack of them that ride around town on those fucking machines. I swear to God, Mike, I'm going to string up barbed wire here next."

Mad as I was, it was my job to be the voice of reason in these situations. "You can't booby/trap your land, Hank. No matter how much you might be tempted. You'll get sued. And you honestly don't want someone to get injured."

"I don't?" He rubbed the back of his long neck, like he was trying to take the skin off. "I never had any problem when it was just snowmobiles. It was always fine by me if the sledders used my land. They never did any real damage. But these ATVs are a different story. They want to tear things up. That's part of their fun." His eyes bored into mine. "So what can you do for me here, Mike?"

"Well, I could take some pictures of the tracks and the trees, but there's nothing to connect the ATVs with whoever cut down your oaks. If you could ID the riders coming through next time, we could file trespassing charges. Snapshots would help make the case."

"So that's it?"

I was about to say something about how I couldn't be everywhere at once, how I relied on citizens to help me do my job, blah, blah, blah, when I heard the roar of distant engines.

"That's them!" Varnum said.

I motioned him to get off the trail. We extinguished our fl ash-lights and crouched down behind some young balsams and waited. My cell phone vibrated again. Lori told me that a state trooper said he was going to respond to the deer/car collision, so I was off the hook. I turned the mobile off to be as silent as possible. The snow around me had crystallized as it had melted and become granular. It made a crunching noise when I shifted my weight.

The engines got louder and louder, I saw a flash of headlights through the fog, and then, just as I was getting ready to spring, the shouts and revving motors began to recede.

Varnum jumped to his feet. "They turned off down that fire road!"

My knees cracked as I straightened up beside him. "Will they come back this way?"

"How the hell do I know?"

In a few weeks, the spring peepers would begin to call, but right now the forest was quiet except for the dripping trees. "Look, Hank, I know you're angry. But I promise you, we'll do what we can to catch the punks who did this."

He didn't even answer, just snapped on his flashlight and stormed off toward home.

I took two steps after him, and then the ground slid out from under me, and the next thing I knew I was lying face-first in the mud. When I finally dug the mud out of my eye sockets, I saw Varnum looming over me, his jaw stuck out, his anger unabated. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and threw it at me. "Wipe the dirt off your face."

It wasn't until I'd left Varnum at his door and gotten back to my truck that I remembered I'd turned my cell phone off. Dispatch was trying to reach me on the police radio: "Twenty-one fifty-four, please respond."

"Twenty-one fifty-four," I said.

"Do you need assistance?" Lori sounded uncharacteristically animated. She was a good dispatcher in that she usually kept her emotions in check. That's an important skill when you deal with freaked-out callers all night.

"No, I'm fine."

"We couldn't reach you."

"Sorry, I had my phone off. What's going on?"

"Four-twelve had engine trouble. He couldn't take that deer/car."

"You mean no one's responded yet?" I already knew where this conversation was heading. "Can't a deputy take it?"

"Skip's dealing with an eighteen-wheeler that went off the road in Union, and Jason's bringing in a drunk driver."

It had been at least thirty minutes since the call came through. I was mud-soaked and exhausted, with an impatient girlfriend waiting at home. And now I had to go scrape a deer carcass off the road and take down insurance information. "All right, I'm on my way."

Parker Point was a narrow peninsula that jutted like a broken finger southward into the Atlantic. It was one of dozens of similar capes and necks carved out of the Maine bedrock by the glaciers during the last ice age. Ten thousand years might seem like an eternity, but in geological terms it was scarcely time enough to cover these ridges with a dusting of topsoil and a blanket of evergreen needles. Nothing with deep roots could thrive on Parker Point, just alders, beach roses, and bristling black spruces that blew over easily when the March winds came storming out of the northeast.

The houses on the point had once belonged to fishing families, but as waterfront real estate prices soared and the codfish stocks collapsed in the Gulf of Maine, these homes had been increasingly sold as summer "cottages" to wealthy out-of-staters. Or they had been torn down and replaced with new shingle-sided mansions with radiant-heat floors and gated fences. I could easily envision a time, very soon, when every Maine fishermen who still clawed a living from the sea could no longer afford to dwell within sight of it.

Because of all those no Trespassing signs, the local deer population had exploded. Without hunters to control their numbers, the animals multiplied like leggy rabbits, but their lives were no easier, and they died just as brutally. The difference was that death tended to come now in the form of starvation, disease, or, as in this case, a speeding car.

The fog had gotten so thick, it bounced my headlights back at me. As I drove, I keyed in my home number on my cell phone and readied myself. But when I told Sarah I'd be late, her reaction was not what I'd expected.

"That's all right, Mike," she said in a muted voice.

"It's just that a car hit a deer in this fog," I said.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Just the deer. Maybe we can see that movie tomorrow night."

"Amy said it wasn't a good film anyway."

Neither of us spoke for a while. Something was definitely bothering her.

"I'm sorry I missed dinner," I offered.

"It was just pea soup. You can heat it up."

I tried lightening the mood. "Why do they compare fog with pea soup anyway? It's not like it's green."

But she wouldn't play along. "I'll see you when you get home, all right?"

"I love you."

"Please be careful," she replied. It was the way she ended many of our calls.

 



Continues...

Excerpted from Trespasser by Paul Doiron Copyright © 2011 by Paul Doiron. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 26 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 26 Customer Reviews
  • Posted June 11, 2011

    A definite must read!

    I was so excited to win this book in a giveaway from the publisher! I haven't read the Poacher's Son, which is Doiron's 1st book, but I think I am going to have to read it soon!

    Even though I didn't read the 1st book, this story stood well on it's own. I loved the tone the author set and found myself completely immersed in this Maine small town. I really enjoyed Mike Bowditch and found him to be an extremely smart, multi-layered and strong lead character. All of the characters were well developed and became like living and breathing people to me. The story unfolded in a very natural progression and I found myself rapidly flipping the pages at the end to see how this story was going to end. I have to say, this is the first mystery in a VERY long time where I didn't have the end figured out and that is saying something. I thoroughly enjoyed this author's writing style and can't wait to read more of his future books.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 29, 2013

    Loved it!

    Totally disturbing story...a really page turner...has you wondering about the characters LONG after the book is done. Can't wait for the next book in the series.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 19, 2011

    Mixed Feelings

    It was a very good plot but I was a bit put off by the seemingly irrational decisions the main character frequently took. He seemingly was an intelligent, experienced warden yet in this murder investigation he continuously did stupid things. All in all it kind of ruined the story for me.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 21, 2011

    Read it!

    I received an advanced copy of Trespasser through a Goodreads Giveaway. This was an excellent read with rich characters and a riveting plot. It can be a standalone novel so if you haven't read the Poacher's Son, you can still jump right in! I am going back and reading the Poacher's Son though because I enjoyed Trespasser so much. Doiron is definitely going on my must-read list.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 14, 2014

    Enjoyable reading for the most part.

    However, writer seemed to lose focus toward end of book with an important scene which detracted from the reality of the story. In general, an interesting book with a nice twist.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 7, 2013

    All of his books are amazing

    All of his books are amazing

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  • Posted July 10, 2013

    Maine Game Warden, Mike Bowditch is just recovering from dealing

    Maine Game Warden, Mike Bowditch is just recovering from dealing with his notorious father in THE POACHER'S SON.  His girlfriend has decided to give him a second chance to spend more time at home, and to be "safe" in his job. Now negatively labeled as "the poacher's son", he is trying to live down this reputation, but this is difficult as he is once again fighting the current within his area. 




    Mike was called to the scene of an accident between a driver and a deer, but for some strange reason the girl has left the scene.  But did she really leave on her own, as she has been found brutally murdered in one of the Maine coast's "summer cabins"---huge summer homes for the vacationing rich. Her married lover is found in a four wheeler with his throat slit.  The authorities want to call this a murder/suicide, but Mike finds the girl's murder eerily like another murder that happened a number of years ago.  But since that murder was "solved" , with the perpetrated behind bars, things just don't add up, and Mike just can't leave well enough alone. 




    Mike is caught between those calling the convicted man innocent, and those who just want to close both cases, and they are not "playing nice".  Mike's girlfriend just wants him to consider his safety while investigating a crime that is NOT within the Game Warden's job description. 




    This book is definitely a thriller, but the play on atmosphere and the definite "Maine dialogue", adds a whole new dimension to the enjoyment of this book.  Once again, Paul Doiron has created a book of action so definitely within Maine, that the reader is transported to the seaside with the characters---multiplying the suspense for the reader twofold.  Definitely this series will continue to be on my reading list, going right on to the nest book--BAD LITTLE FALLS. 

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 9, 2013

    A great ride !!

    A great ride !!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 19, 2011

    I love this Book

    This a very good book and I think a lot of people will like it too!!!!!
    Ok ,Paul where is the next one? Anything to do with Mike and Charlie's New house guest?

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  • Posted November 30, 2011

    Superbly readable and compelling story

    Every 2 weeks I go to the libarary and challenge myself to try a new author. Jackpot! Can't wait for future books by this author. I jumped into this before reading the 1st book but no worries. This story stands up just as it is although no doubt it is even better if you've read the first book. Congrats to the author and looking forward to more from Paul.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 24, 2011

    Good, but not as good as #1

    In this second mystery to feature Mike Bowditch, game warden, Mike is much harder to like than in the first book. At the start and end of the book, he is a sympathetic character, but his motivation for most the book is hard to fathom so he comes across as awfully self-centered. In this book, he is investigating a new murder as well as looking into a past murder, perhaps perpetrated by the same villain, all while he is at home supposedly on leave. In the first book, Bowditch's reason for becoming a game warden make sense, and the effect this had on his and his girlfriend's relationship make sense. He seems to come to some understanding of himself in "The Poacher's Son." In "Trespasser," it appears that he's lost this self-awareness; the reasons he made the choices he made in this outing didn't always make a lot of sense to either himself or the reader. However, Doiron did a great job of evoking the Maine woods and seaside, and the plot line kept my interest.

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  • Posted August 9, 2011

    Trespasser

    I got this one as part of a goodreads giveaway. I'm glad I did. Solid characters (I think I liked the various bad guys more than the protagonist :) ), great plot with plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing, and fantastic climax. Wonderful read that I'd recommend to anyone who likes mysteries/thrillers.

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  • Posted July 10, 2011

    Another Winner From Paul Doiron

    I have been waiting with great anticipation for the latest installment of the Warden Mike Bowditch series from author Paul Doiron. His debut novel, The Poacher's Son, which was released last year was a fabulous thriller. Trespasser is just as good if not better. I love the character Mike Bowditch. He stumbles through life, a bit of a rebel, not really sure how to handle his relationship with his girl, but with a great need to do his job properly. His instincts are always dead on...he knew he should have tried harder to find the missing driver in the opening pages.

    This fast paced adventure thriller keeps you turning the pages! Doiron portrays the real Maine...the poverty of many of the citizens along side of the ocean-side summer homes of the wealthy. The obsession with ATVs that has gripped rural America and the new problems they've created. The characters in Doiron's Maine are realistic portrayals of its people. You don't have to have read The Poacher's Son to follow the story in Trespasser but a smart reader would read it first and would read it because it is an excellent book!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 17, 2011

    not at the nook price they are asking

    24.99 for a nook book. Is that a mistake? It doesn't matter how good it is at that price

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 13, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    fans will appreciate this exhilarating tense regional mystery

    In Maine, Game Warden Mike Bowditch receives a call about a deer-auto accident on an isolated road. By the time Bowditch arrives at the scene, he finds blood on the road and the car nearby, but the woman and the deer are gone. Soon afterward the corpse of the female is found elsewhere.

    Her case reminds Bowditch of one from several years ago when a jury convicted lobsterman Erland Jefferts of the rape and murder of a wealthy college student and sentenced him to life in prison. As Bowditch makes inquiries, State officials warn him to mind his business. However, his life is already in shambles as he has little hope to regain his lost relationship with his girlfriend Sarah so he does not care what happens to him or his in the tank career. However, what he failed to factor in is his below the radar investigation places Sarah in peril.

    The second Bowditch police procedural (see The Poacher's Son) is an excellent Maine "mud season" whodunit. As Mike tries to regain his muddied personal equilibrium, he works a murky case that his superiors tell him to back away from for his own good. With a strong support cast and a troubled but dedicated lead, fans will appreciate this exhilarating tense regional mystery.

    Harriet Klausner

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  • Posted June 9, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Another hit for Paul Doiron!

    Another hit for Paul Doiron! Game Warden Mike Bowditch still reeling from the events in The Poacher's Son (If you haven't read it what are you waiting for?) and once again steps into an investigation he should be staying out of, the murder of a young woman which has similarities to a decade old case for which someone is already serving time for. Is the right man in prison? Is this a copycat? And why does Mike seem to find trouble everywhere he goes??!!?? I so enjoy Paul's writing he kept me guessing all the way through this one, I didn't know who did it until the reveal! It was so great to be back in touch with the characters from the Poacher's Son including Charley & Ora. This is going to be a series I will stick with till the end because Mike Bowditch has a lot of work to do on himself, his relationship with Sarah and to try to stop getting in trouble with his superior officers so he keeps his job, but that's what makes this a great series, the characters are flawed and human ,he has so much growing to do it will be great to see his progress! I highly recommend starting with the Poacher's Son before you read this one just for the character background you will be hooked on this series just as I am! Full Disclosure: I received this from the GoodReads Giveaway Program 5 Stars

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 23, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 16, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 19, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 19, 2012

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