The Bone Orchard (Mike Bowditch Series #5)

The Bone Orchard (Mike Bowditch Series #5)

by Paul Doiron


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"The Bone Orchard [is] both a rich exploration of character and a satisfying mystery." —Bruce DeSilva, Associated Press"Excellent . . . Thoughtful plotting and strong characters raise this above the crime novel pack." Publishers weekly

In the aftermath of a family tragedy, Mike Bowditch has left the Maine Warden Service and is working as a fishing guide in the North Woods. But when his mentor Sgt. Kathy Frost is forced to kill a troubled war veteran in an apparent case of "suicide by cop," he begins having second thoughts about his decision.

Now Kathy finds herself the target of a government inquiry and outrage from the dead soldier's platoon mates. Soon she finds herself in the sights of a sniper, as well. When the sergeant is shot outside her farmhouse, Mike joins the hunt to find the mysterious man responsible. To do so, the ex-warden must plunge into his friend's secret past—even as a beautiful woman from Mike's own past returns, throwing into jeopardy his tentative romance with wildlife biologist Stacey Stevens.

As Kathy Frost lies on the brink of death and a dangerous shooter stalks the blueberry barrens of central Maine, Bowditch is forced to confront the choices he has made and determine, once and for all, the kind of man he truly is, in The Bone Orchard by Paul Doiron.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781250067425
Publisher: St. Martin''s Publishing Group
Publication date: 06/16/2015
Series: Mike Bowditch Series , #5
Pages: 336
Sales rank: 70,844
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

Bestselling author Paul Doiron is the editor in chief of Down East: The Magazine of Maine. A native of Maine, he attended Yale University and holds an MFA from Emerson College. His first book, The Poacher's Son, is the winner of the Barry award, the Strand award for best first novel, and a finalist for the Edgar and Anthony awards. Paul is a Registered Maine Guide and lives on a trout stream in coastal Maine with his wife, Kristen Lindquist.

Read an Excerpt

The Bone Orchard

By Paul Doiron

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2014 Paul Doiron
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-03488-5


When I think of Jimmy Gammon now, I remember the way he was before the war: a redheaded, freckled-faced kid with a body like a greyhound, all arms and legs, with a jutting rib cage he'd gotten running up and down the hills of midcoast Maine.

Jimmy had just graduated from Dartmouth, the alma mater of his father, James Sr., and, like his father, he was planning to make a career in the law and politics. The elder Gammon had been decorated for bravery as an infantry lieutenant in Vietnam and belonged to a generation that believed military service was a necessary prerequisite to holding higher office. Maybe it still was. In a state with the highest percentage of Afghanistan war veterans in the nation, having worn a uniform overseas carried an undeniable political advantage.

On his father's advice, Jimmy had joined the Maine Army National Guard. He chose the 488th Military Police Company, which I find odd, considering what I came to know about his gentle temperament. I was the new game warden in the district, less than six months on the job, and I met the father and son one autumn day in the field. The Gammons were hunting for grouse and woodcock in a pocket of woods outside their estate and both had bagged their limits when I came upon them. We spent a few minutes comparing notes. I marveled at their handmade European shotguns and the sleek springer spaniel that James Sr. had brought over from the UK: honestly the best-trained hunting dog I'd ever seen.

Their estate occupied something like a hundred acres of rolling fields and broadleaf forests in the Camden Hills. There were birch groves and fast-flowing streams, apple orchards and hard granite ridges like the fossilized spines of dinosaurs protruding through the turf. From the hilltop above the Gammons' palatial farmhouse, you could watch the sun rise over the ink blue waters of Penobscot Bay.

To his credit, Jimmy knew how wealthy his family was. You might even say he possessed an overdeveloped sense of noblesse oblige, or he never would have volunteered to go to Afghanistan as an E4 enlisted man. He could have avoided the conflict entirely, the way most men of my generation had. As I myself had done.

In college, I had decided that the best way for me to serve my country, given my own interests and abilities, was by becoming a cop. More precisely, I chose to become a game warden, which in the state of Maine is pretty much the same thing.

Game wardens here are full law-enforcement officers, with all the powers of state troopers. They are the "off-road police," in the language the service uses to market itself to new recruits. This special status comes as news to many urban and suburban people who mistakenly equate the job with that of a forest or park ranger. While wardens are charged primarily with enforcing hunting and fishing laws, the rural nature of the state means that a warden is often the nearest officer to any given crime scene. Call a cop in Maine, and you just might get a game warden.

It was just as well that I'd steered clear of the military. In the years since I'd joined the Warden Service I'd learned a number of uncomfortable truths about myself, the first of which was that I am a malcontent by nature. I was certain I would have been a troublemaker as a soldier, even more than I was as a warden, and it was unlikely I would have had as forgiving a field training officer as Sgt. Kathy Frost to save me from the stockade.

I admired Jimmy Gammon for his readiness to put himself at risk for the good of the country, though.

My last memory of him was shortly before he shipped out for six months of basic and police corps training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. The Gammons had invited me to the private pheasant club they'd helped create on some scrubland over near Sebago Lake. Consisting of twenty acres of trails and coverts, it was a place designed to hold birds whose sole purpose in life was to be spooked into the sky and shot with twenty-gauge shotgun pellets.

On the hunt, Jimmy let me borrow his over-and-under. He told me that a British gun maker had handcrafted it out of walnut and steel. I had never handled such an exquisite firearm. I was hesitant to hold the gun after Jimmy told me the price his father had paid for it — more than three times my yearly salary — but when the springer flushed a pheasant out of the alders, instinct took over. I brought the butt up to my shoulder, squeezed the first trigger, and watched as the bird fell, limp and lifeless, from the air.

"Great shot!" said Jimmy in a high voice that would intimidate none of the Taliban or alQaeda prisoners being held at the Bagram prison.

As a prospective military policeman, he viewed me as a colleague of sorts, a fellow officer only a little older than himself — and potentially a friend. It was a time in my life when I wasn't making friends, and so I was willing to put in the effort, although I had my doubts about the Gammons.

"You should join our pheasant club, Mike," he said.

The idea was ridiculous. As a rookie warden, I was hard-pressed to pay my college loans and the rent on the ramshackle house I was sharing with my girlfriend at the time. "It's a little rich for me."

"What if I told you we have a special rate for law-enforcement officers, Warden Bowditch?" said his father, studying me through yellow shooting glasses.

I found James Sr. to be an imposing presence. He was a lobbyist now but had served in two Republican administrations in mysterious positions that seemed to come with basement offices in the Pentagon. He had the bushiest red eyebrows I had ever seen and a foxlike grin that suggested he could read my thoughts at will.

"We're serious, Mike," Jimmy said.

"I'll save my pennies for when you get home."

"Jimmy's going to Harvard Law after his deployment," James Sr. pronounced, as if his son's admission was a foregone conclusion, which it was probably was.

"You're going to have lots of stories to tell there," I said.

"He certainly will," said his father.

The truth was, I was worried about Jimmy Gammon. It wasn't just his voice, a boyish tenor that seemed ill-suited to breaking up riots in a war zone; it was his absolute inability to gain muscle no matter how many barbells he lifted. His resemblance to Howdy Doody didn't help matters, either. I had just gotten to know the family, but I'd already begun wondering if joining the MPs had been the father's idea of toughening him up for a future in bare-knuckle politics.

That evening, Jimmy and I exchanged e-mail addresses over glasses of Macallan on the south-facing porch of their home back in Camden. We watched his mother train a Morgan horse in the darkening field below. When the sun had finally set behind Bald Mountain, we went inside to eat the pheasants we had shot, prepared by a woman the Gammons hired to cook for special occasions.

Jimmy later sent me a few messages from Bagram. I still have one of his first e-mails, telling me that he had been stationed at Camp Sabalu-Harrison and his duties were different from what he'd imagined:

Hey, Mike:

Thirty days in-country and I haven't set foot in the prison! I figured I'd be guarding terrorists. To be honest I'm glad I'm not.

I'm part of a Quick Reaction Force, or QRF. We're in charge of perimeter security around the prison. There are three of us in the M-ATV. Donato is the CO, Smith is the gunner, and I'm the driver. The truck weighs 40,000 pounds! It makes a Humvee look like a frigging Matchbox toy. Some days it's like driving an eighteen-wheeler through a maze with all the T-walls and Jersey barriers, and there's basically nothing between us and the Afghans.

The guys in my truck are all first-class. Donato is a correctional officer at the Maine State Prison. Smith is a potato farmer up in The County. The guy's the size of André the Giant. Our interpreter calls him "Monster." He's an E4 like me.

We just had a missile attack, and I'm kind of on edge. Also, my back is all fucked-up from the weight of my kit. Helmet, Kevlar vest, plus ceramic plates, M4, full combat rounds (210), Beretta M9 with three clips, boots, etc., etc. Even with all the armor, you feel exposed out there. There's this garbage pile across from one of our battle positions. Every day we have to go out there and break up a riot because the people fight over whatever we throw out. Not just food, but bits of plastic — anything they can use.

The best part of the day is the time we get to spend with the dogs. We use them at the entry-control posts and sometimes for crowd control. I envy the dog handlers, wish I could be one, but they're all contractors. The Afghans are terrified of dogs, for some reason. My favorite is Lucille. She's a Belgian Malinois.

Playing with the dogs is the only "normal" thing we do here at the camp.

I miss all the normal stuff.

You don't know what you've got till it's gone, right?

Take care, bro.


I remember thinking that it was meaningful that he'd signed his name "Jim" instead of "Jimmy." The war was already turning him into a different person.

I wrote him back a few times, telling him about the ten-point buck I had shot on my day off, the five night hunters I'd arrested in a single evening, the lost child whose body we searched for but were unable to find because we believed the abusive father had expertly dismembered and hidden it. My then girlfriend, Sarah Harris, encouraged me to keep sending Jimmy messages "to keep his spirits up." But they failed to have the desired effect. His e-mails in reply became shorter and edgier — laced with profanity he had never used in my presence — and then, finally, he stopped responding altogether.

We lost touch six months after he deployed, and I never heard about the explosion that left him without a nose, scarred across his face and shoulders, and half-blind in one eye.


The truth was, I was too busy circling my own drain.

While Jimmy was busy patrolling the twenty-foot walls outside the Bagram prison, the Maine Warden Service saw fit to redeploy me as well. After two years stationed in Sennebec, my supervisors politely encouraged me to swap my pleasant coastal district for a rugged outland on the border with the Canadian Maritimes. It was a transfer that I viewed (correctly) as a punishment for various insubordinate acts, not the least of which was going AWOL after my father was accused of committing a double homicide.

The reassignment was painful, since it meant leaving a landscape I had grown to know and love, as well as a supervisor who was a friend and mentor to me. I owed my career — such as it was — to Kathy Frost, who had been my first sergeant and defended my habitual misbehavior for reasons that baffled both of us. My supervisors had long viewed me as a know-it-all and a meddler. They had pushed me to rethink my choice of professions, and after nearly four years of being resented and criticized, I got tired of pushing back. I had made the decision they'd always hoped I would make.

And so, on the night in question, I was nearly two hundred miles away, making a halfhearted attempt to study for the LSATs while raindrops ricocheted like BBs off the hard metal roof of my cabin.

At the time, I experienced no premonitions. When the people we love are in danger, we like to think psychic powers will kick in and that we will somehow sense their peril. Maybe this is true of mothers and children — my own mom claimed she'd felt a jabbing pain in her chest the day I was shot in the line of duty — but Kathy Frost wasn't a blood relative. In some ways, she was as close to me as a family member, though, which is why I can imagine so clearly how events must have unfolded on the night of the shooting.

The Gammons' farm, for instance.

On that rainy evening in late May, a curtain of falling water must have hung between the road and the distant farmhouse as Kathy's patrol truck turned onto the quarter-mile drive. The long stretch of wet weather had brought with it a plague of frogs, which hopped every which way through the blurred beams of the headlights. Earlier, Kathy and her passenger, Warden Danielle Tate, would have slowed to avoid the amphibians — I can imagine Kathy making biblical jokes — but the mood in the truck would have turned serious after the wardens received the call from the Knox County dispatcher:

An Afghan war veteran, a former military policeman, had barricaded himself inside a horse barn and was threatening to blow his head off with a shotgun.

Frost and Tate were the first to respond.

The two wardens were soaked to the skin from having spent a bug-bitten day checking turkey hunters who were either too determined or too dumb to let the rain keep them from setting up their blinds and decoys, often illegally on posted property. They'd had a bad encounter with a man from Maryland — a military contractor — who had claimed any criminal conviction would jeopardize his government clearances. They had written half a dozen summons and been on duty for close to twelve hours.

Physically, the women were a study in contrasts. Kathy was past fifty, although she looked ten years younger, and was tall enough to have played college basketball. She wore her sandy hair cut in a shoulder-length bob and was considered attractive by male wardens, not because she was good-looking in any conventional sense, but because of her good humor and sheer likability.

Danielle "Dani" Tate was newly graduated from the Advanced Warden Academy, and she was half Kathy's age. At five-four she was also the shortest warden in the service. Her body was solid and square, and her shoulders were as wide as her hips. It was rumored that she held a black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu. She had flat gray eyes and a flat face that rarely displayed any emotion except seriousness of purpose. Every morning, she shined her patrol boots before zipping them up and pulled her blond ponytail through the hole in the back of the brimmed service cap all wardens are required to wear.

In the rain, the lighted windows of the farmhouse must have looked fuzzy, as if seen through smudged eyeglasses. The clapboard building had been erected in the mid-nineteenth century, but the original structure was unrecognizable beneath the extensive renovations and additions that James Gammon had made when he'd purchased the property. The four-car garage was entirely new, as was the barn where Lyla Gammon kept her Morgan horses and taught riding lessons to the wealthy children of Knox and Lincoln counties.

She was waiting for the wardens behind the misted glass door, a skeleton-thin silhouette around which the interior light had gathered like an angelic aura. As the patrol truck pulled up, Lyla Gammon stepped outside, wearing a waxed-cotton Barbour raincoat, riding pants, and knee-high wellies. Despite the rain gear, the wardens could see that she was thoroughly drenched.

Kathy checked the time on the clock and radioed in that they had arrived at the scene. Then both wardens pulled up the hoods of their olive jackets and climbed out of the truck for the hundredth time that day into a raging downpour.

"Thank God you're here!" Lyla Gammon said. She'd come from Virginia originally, and she spoke with a Tidewater accent that was as out of place in midcoast Maine as the Chanel cosmetics smeared across her face.

"You're Mrs. Gammon?" Kathy asked.

"I'm Jimmy's mom. Yes."

"We received a report that your son was threatening to harm himself," Kathy said. "Where is he now?"

"Still in the barn." Lyla stretched out her arm to indicate the long red structure behind the house. Its external floodlights had been turned off, and there was no glimmer visible through the windows. The double doors in front were both shut. "He locked himself in with the horses."

The two wardens exchanged glances. The bitumen smell of rain falling on asphalt hung in the air. The night was neither particularly warm nor particularly cold — just unrelentingly wet.

"We understand that he is armed," Danielle Tate said.

"I believe so."

Kathy wiped her forehead. "You don't know for certain?"

"I found the case he keeps his shotgun in open on the dining room table. It was empty."

"Do you know what kind of shotgun it is?"


Excerpted from The Bone Orchard by Paul Doiron. Copyright © 2014 Paul Doiron. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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The Bone Orchard 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
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gloriafeit More than 1 year ago
With this, his fifth novel, Paul Doiron seems poised to join the few outstanding authors, headed IMHO by William Kent Krueger, who bring to vivid life the landscape, beauty and inhabitants (both the human and wildlife variety) of the northernmost parts of the United States, the states bordering Canada - - a lofty perch, to be sure. In this instance, that means Maine, ‘the most rural state in the country.’ The protagonist is Mike Bowditch, 27 years old and a former game warden [who in Maine have all the powers of state troopers], now working as a hunting and fishing guide in the North Woods. The book opens in a rainy month of May, when a a tragedy has just taken place: Mike’s friend, Jimmy Gammon, scion of a powerful and politically connected family, not long after returning home from Afghanistan with horrific injuries, has been fatally shot in a “suicide by cop” scenario. To make matters worse, one of the two cops involved is Mike’s friend and mentor, Sgt. Kathy Frost. In a state with the highest percentage of Afghanistan war vets in the nation, sympathies are decidedly against the cop, who says she acted in self-defense. When Mike goes to Kathy’s house to offer his support, he comes upon a scene where a sniper has shot Kathy as she exited her house, leaving her grievously wounded and clinging to life, and Mike himself is wounded when he interrupts the encounter. Mike, who has two such incidents in his past where he had no choice but to fire his weapon in self-defense with lethal results, is determined to track down the perpetrator. Mike had served 3 years as a game warden but had resigned his position two months earlier, a decision he second-guesses on nearly a daily basis. His former colleagues are wary of trusting him now, making his investigation that much more difficult. In a well-plotted tale, the author makes Mike a very human and conflicted protagonist, about whom the reader comes to feel great empathy. I loved the writing, e.g., “I’d never believed that our destinies are predetermined. If you look back on your life, you might see what looks like a meaningful progression, but it’s no different from gazing at the moon and seeing a man’s face. Just because you perceive a pattern doesn’t mean it’s really there.” The novel is highly recommended.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Corbski More than 1 year ago
The title was intriguing but that was about it for me. I was disappointed in the level of writing. I found the main character rather flat, too many descriptions of Maine, generated no excitement for the reader nor any suspense.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved this book.....have read all of Paul's books and they are fantastic...having worked at the Maine State Prison for 40 years, I can appreciate his depiction of the place and some of the people that work there! Great book! Need another one!
ConR More than 1 year ago
I've read all the Bowditch books and I continue to enjoy the development of the characters. Paul Doiron writes as if he's dissecting an onion. Layer by layer we are witness to the growth(or lack of it) in Mike Bowditch and all the characters. I appreciate the knowledge of Maine that Doiron uses to describe this vast state. I'm from "away", as they say here, and like the snippets of information tucked into these books. I'm a fan, and can't wait for the next installment in the life and times of Mike Bowditch.