Dead Creek

by Victoria Houston

  “So Herman goes out there on Thanksgiving Day and the place is real quiet. No smoke from the chimney. He just knows something’s wrong. First thing he sees going in is the wife hanging from an overhead beam. Chair kicked away—he’s always been convinced she did it herself. She looked like she’d been there a day or so, too. Then there’s his friend hunched over the kitchen table with his brains blown out. Put a shotgun in his mouth …”

  “And the babies?”

  “Sound asleep in a orange crate with blankets and clothing and a note from the father asking Herman to do something with them. The older child, maybe two years old, was sitting by the babies, not crying, Herman said, but just sitting and waiting and very calm. She held her arms up to Herman, too. She wasn’t afraid or anything. He said it was just like she’d been expecting him.

  “ ‘Cute as bugs, each one of ‘em,’ said Herman. Four beautiful children. The triplets were maybe five or six months old and real alert. So Herman takes the crate and drives into town. He goes first to Saint Mary’s and leaves the little ones with the nuns. While he’s there, they lift them out of the crate to check them over and change some diapers. That’s when they see a problem with two of the little ones….”

  Ray looked intently at Osborne as he leaned forward in the kitchen chair.

  “See, this is what I thought he told me years back, and I asked him this morning if I remembered this right. Those babies were fraternal triplets—one girl and two boys. Healthy except both boys had undescended testicles. Not just one, but both boys. The doctor told Herman that he might expect one child to have such a problem but not both. Also, triplets were highly unusual in those days.

  “Then, after I started working with Shanley, I trapped some mink a little to the south and west of Dead Creek that had malformed reproductive organs. Like that family, those animals could have been eating fish from the Crane River, south of Dead Creek.”

  “The only thing is, Ray,” said Osborne, “undescended testicles are not uncommon. Kids are born that way all the time.”

  “Yes, but don’t they descend within the first few months?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe I’m working it too hard, Doc, but Shanley asked me to flag any anomalies, and I think this is one, especially since this is an adult male. Now you find he went to a camp up here?”

  “A camp that is too expensive for local kids, which shoots your theory that the victim is from the area,” said Osborne. “Go back to your story. What happened to the babies?”

  “The note the husband left behind asked Herman to find help for the ‘evil angels.’ He couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t kill the babies,” said Osborne. “Sounds like he was as bad off as his wife.”

  “Herman said he couldn’t kill anyone except himself,” said Ray. “Herman figured they were both despondent, not just because of the situation with the kids but the water affected their heads. I agree. You know they sealed that whole area off for years in the fifties and sixties because of the wildlife kill?”

  “It was off limits when I moved up here.”

  “Well …” A sly look crossed Ray’s face. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that for a while the state thought that some chemicals found in the water table around Dead Creek had worked their way into the aquifer used by the town?”

  Osborne shook his head.

  “Yep, they’ve kept it quiet until they could be sure there was no problem. That’s how come Shanley arrived on the scene in the first place.”

  “Ray—the babies—after the convent?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s where Herman’s story comes to a grinding halt. He’s a good ninety-four, ninety-five years old, and his memory isn’t too terrific. He knows they were all adopted, but he was having a hard time recalling anything more.”

  “But it was years ago that he asked you not to say anything?” “Right.”

  “Why did he do that, I wonder?” “I don’t know.”

  “Ray, if he could remember all the details of finding those children, why wouldn’t he remember the rest?”

  “You’re right, Doc. I’ll tell ya something else. He started in to the story real strong, then right in the middle, he slowed down. As if he decided he had said too much.”

  “Did you tell him what we found?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought Sloan said—”

  “Doc, that old man is one of my closest friends.” “Maybe, but it sure sounds to me like he doesn’t trust you.”

  “Trust me? Or the people around me?” Osborne pondered that for a moment. “He’s a hermit for a reason.” “Yep.”

  In the middle of the night, Osborne woke to the sound of his own moans. The woods woman was leaning over him: white and swollen, her massive head fringed with wisps of hair. A towering fringed toadstool. She reached for him. She wanted him. She knew him. He sat straight up in bed, the nightmare woman still moving like a video in front of his sleep-dazed eyes. That’s when he knew he’d seen her before. But where? When?

  He turned on the small lamp to his right. He was wet with sweat. He got up, pulled on his robe, and padded out to the kitchen for a drink of water. The house was warm, not hot. Mike slept peacefully. Everything was fine. But where the hell had he seen that woman before?

  twelve

  I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful … and, finally not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally important—and not nearly so fun.

  Robert Traver

  At six-twenty-five A.M., Osborne walked into Saint Mary’s Church for early Sunday Mass. He took his seat, as he always did, on the right side of the church ten benches behind the choir. After receiving Communion, he circled back to his seat, as he always did, by walking down the center aisle toward the back of the church and past Judith Benjamin, kneeling in the last pew, her eyes downcast.

  Out of habit, he looked straight ahead at the reflection in the glass doors as he turned to pass in front of them and return to his seat. To his surprise, he saw Judith turn her head first to the left to watch him pass and then to the right to follow him as he walked behind the last row of pews. He turned to go down the side aisle back to his seat with the uncomfortable sensation that she was watching him every step of the way.

  He glanced back as he knelt in his own pew, his eyes traveling between bent heads to connect with Judith’s staring eyes. She looked away quickly. Osborne knelt very slowly. Knowing he was the target of such intense interest bothered him, and he wasn’t sure why. He found it difficult to concentrate on the Host and for the first time in years, he did not take five minutes to thank God for the property on the lake and the health of his children. Instead, as his tongue worked on the sticky little wafer, he wondered what it was that Lew knew about Judith.

  Ray was waiting in his old pickup outside the church at seven-fifteen. He motioned to Osborne and moved over to let him drive. Fortunately for Osborne, the driver’s side door was the one that opened. The other door was permanently stuck so you had to crawl through the window to enter.

  “Go-o-od morning, Doc,” Ray boomed, pulling happily at his beard as he slid over and angled his lanky frame into the passenger’s seat. “So why do the blind hate to sky-dive?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Osborne as he pressed the clutch, turned the key, and pulled the steering wheel to his left to back out of the parking space, “Why?”

  “Scares hell outta the dogs,” said Ray and laughed his old laugh: a silent bouncing of his body accented with twinkling eyes.

  “Feeling better, I presume,” said Osborne dryly, pulling into the temporary traffic gridlock generated by everyone leaving Mass.

  “Much better. Much, much better. You are driving with the champ, my friend.”

  “Any luck reaching your sister and brother-in-law?”

  “Not yet. I go
t their answering machine, and I left a message. I’ll try again around noon.”

  The two drove in silence. It was a phenomenally beautiful spring day with sunshine glistening on the dewy firs. Osborne didn’t even mind that the driver’s side window wouldn’t close all the way. It made for a comforting flow of yeasty smells: leaf buds and fresh-melted snow. The loamy Wisconsin soil, ploughed last fall and almost soft enough for planting, gave off a warm, fertile odor with just a tinge of cow manure. The pickup sped up Highway 51 toward Boulder Junction, and Osborne listened patiently as Ray told one of his long, long stories about old Doc Shanahan and his mistress.

  It seemed that about thirty years earlier, Ray and two young friends, one of them Shanahan’s grandson, witnessed a pleasurable though illegal act being performed on old Dr. Shanahan in the privacy of his very own home. The little scamps were watching from outside the living room window. Years later, the lovely lady engaged in the activity had walked into Loon Lake. Walked until she drowned. A suicide. Ray had his own theories on that, however, and Osborne heard them all in detail as they drove north. He listened with half an ear, keeping an eye out for the first buds on the tamarack and nodding whenever Ray paused for breath. They pulled into Boulder Junction twenty minutes before the festivities were to begin. Ray wound down his story with the punch line: “So y’see, the interesting thing is, Marsha was Judith Benjamin’s first girl.”

  “What?” Osborne finally tuned in, but it was too late.

  The one-street town was bustling as if it were a midsummer sidewalk-sale day. Banners hung from the gift shops, fly-fishing centers, and bait stores that lined the quarter-mile strip. Osborne felt good in the bright sun and crisp air. He swung the truck into a space near CoonSports, a sporting goods shop.

  A good crowd for the season, given it was too early to see many out-of-towners, had gathered for the loon-calling event. Most of the attendees were familiar to Osborne, and every one seemed to be a best friend of Ray’s: predominantly male, including members of the sponsoring Lions Club, local fishing guides scouting business, seriously addicted muskie fishermen, and lots of mothers with small children. Ray sure does know the world, observed Osborne as he witnessed a parade of encouraging handshakes and backslaps. He should run for office. The contestants took their places on the small stage set up in the CoonSports parking lot.

  Osborne sat down to wait patiently in a folding chair set toward the rear of the gathering. He was more than a little disappointed to discover the muskies hadn’t even been wrapped in their foil bakers and the charcoal was still cold. The fish wouldn’t be ready until late that afternoon. Darn! he thought. The news cast a pall over what had promised to be a fine day.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Osborne?” Someone tugged at his sleeve.

  He turned to see Winnie Grumbach, a former patient, and her husband, Walter, standing behind him. “I heard you asking about the muskie, Doctor,” said Winnie. “We’re going to be bringing some back to Loon Lake this evening for our son and his wife. Would you like us to drop some by for you?” She was a short, good-humored lady with a broad hook nose that made her look like a parrot. A parrot with dyed-black feathers and motherly eyes.

  “Really?” said Osborne, reaching for his wallet. “I sure would. That’s very nice of you. Here—”

  “No, no, Doc.” Walter put his hand out to push the two ten-dollar bills away. “Our treat.” Walter was all beige with a moon face and a very genial manner, which had served him well in the men’s clothing business. Osborne had known them since he arrived in Loon Lake. Nice people. Now that he could get some muskie, the day was good again. The obvious pleasure on his face must have served as an invitation.

  “Doctor …” Winnie, who had put on about forty pounds since Osborne last saw her, parked her khaki-clad butt in the seat beside him and motioned to Walter to sit beside her, “I want to talk to you about those bodies you found.”

  “Shush—after the contest, dear,” her husband said, patting her knee. “We need to include Ray, you know.” He pointed ahead.

  They all focused their attention on the stage then as the MC for the festival introduced the contenders. About twenty-five people had shown up. However, hand votes from the crowd winnowed the competition down to two in less than half an hour.

  Now the pros stood to challenge each other. The Canadian, a tall, handsome Metis, was good, very good. In fact, he was so good that Osborne had to applaud and felt sorry for Ray. He was sure the head injury was bound to take a toll on Ray’s wind if not his general well-being.

  Ray ambled his long torso up to the microphone. He was wearing a warm red plaid Pendleton shirt with clean Levi’s and a good-looking deerskin vest that Donna had given him for his birthday. His eyes were serious over the carefully brushed and trimmed beard that reached to his chest. The stuffed trout was cocked jauntily over his ears. Though he had rolled his way up to the mike, shoulders slightly hunched, now he seemed to remember Osborne’s advice to stand up straight and pull in his gut. He threw his shoulders back and looked out over the audience.

  Osborne closed his eyes and held his breath.

  The haunting call of the loon started low and distant as if far across lake waters at dusk. Then the bird swept closer, its dark tones echoing over the reeds and gentle waves. He heard the mate answer and the two call back and forth, each distinct in tone, one overlapping the other. No sooner had the crescendo risen than the birds fell still, and the male turned his noble head to a rising moon. Now a low flutter of sound, then mounting urgency, then a hush … and a final aching hymn to the wild winds that kill and maim. With exquisite control, Ray gave voice to the ultimate challenge: the call of the wounded loon. Osborne exhaled slowly. He opened his eyes.

  Walter and Winnie rose with him, the Lions Club members, the fishermen, the guides, and all the mothers and children to give Ray a standing ovation. He won hands down. He got the silver muskie to hang on the living room wall in his trailer for the next year. He also got coupons for free dinners at several restaurants, a gift certificate good at the men’s clothing store where Walter worked, and a case of Leinenkugel’s Original beer.

  And he got Winnie glued to his side the minute he broke free of his admirers.

  “Ray, about those bodies,” she said, looking up and tugging hard at his sleeve. “We need to talk.”

  “She needs to talk to you,” echoed Walter from behind her. “Maybe in private?”

  “Well, I dunno …” Ray’s eyes searched over their heads for Osborne, who nodded a silent okay.

  “We’re headed for Susan’s up in Saint Germain,” said Ray, “I need pancakes.”

  “We’ll follow you,” said Winnie.

  During the twenty-minute drive, Ray and Osborne decided how much to tell, and Osborne was assigned to alerting Lew to the nature of their sources.

  “I remember Mary Lee always looked down on Winnie for being a hairdresser part-time and for being an inveterate gossip,” said Osborne. “Not that Mary Lee wasn’t a vicious gossip herself when she had the chance.”

  “Yeah? Well, gossip works both ways,” said Ray. “You give and you get. I’d like to know exactly what Winnie has picked up. That old gal is wired better than AT&T.” Osborne nodded.

  With business covered, they drove in satisfied silence, Ray tickled with his success and Osborne pleased with the sunshine and the promise of a buttery muskie dinner.

  Susan’s was bustling. Every table and even the twelve chairs at the counter were full. Something about the sunny Sunday had everybody in for late A.M. pancakes.

  “Not to worry, Doc.” Susan, the proprietress, pushed her six-foot broad-shouldered frame through the crowded chairs and tables toward the doorway where Osborne, Ray, and the Grumbachs were standing. “I got a four-table opening up right now.”

  Even as she spoke, four fishermen whom Osborne didn’t recognize rose to wave them over and introduce themselves. They’d been in the crowd for the loon call contest. Handshakes and back pats were exchanged as they congra
tulated Ray. “Now, be sure you have that homemade bread toast,” said one to Osborne as they finally turned to leave. Then everyone took a chair except Ray, who continued walking about the restaurant, happily accepting congratulations or announcing his victory to the ignorant. Osborne figured he’d be working the room for a good ten minutes or so.

  “I never miss the homemade bread toast or Susan’s ham off the bone,” said Osborne as he pulled back a chair for Winnie. She plunked her chunky rear end down so fast, Osborne wondered if she thought someone was going to steal her chair. He was close. She certainly wanted to be sure no one stole his attention. Before their table was cleared, she had her purse open and had thrust a list of names in front of his face. It was clear Winnie had something to say.

  She moved dirty plates and glasses back so the list sat squarely on the table in front of Osborne. “See this?” she started, leaning forward and keeping her voice low. “Do you know what this is?” Walter had also leaned forward. “I think these are the men you found in the water.”

  “Winnie,” said Osborne, “I really can’t….”

  “No, no.” She waved her hands at Osborne’s protest. “The word is out, Doc, and I know about the bodies. Now, you listen to me for five minutes.” Osborne knew when he’d been given directions, so he shut up, wrapped both hands around his coffee mug, and watched, his eyes intent on Winnie as she spoke.

  “I’ve been working twenty hours a week as a receptionist at the Dairyman’s Association this year, and these are the names of four guests who disappeared six weeks ago. Everyone’s been frantic about it, but no one’s said anything to the police. In fact, we’ve only called one family so far. What’s weird is no one has called us. But these men are missing. I am ninety-nine percent sure they must be your bodies. So I want you to tell me what to do next, Dr. Osborne. Someone needs to know.”