Dead Creek

by Victoria Houston

  “Whatever,” said Ray with a wide grin.

  “Now, what would anybody besides you be doing back here?” asked Lew, her attention back to the dense brush around them. “You got no houses, not even trailers back here. I don’t have a thing on my fire maps. I checked after we found you, Ray.”

  “Place is desolate,” said Osborne a little crossly as a branch whipped across his face and nearly poked him in the eye.

  Ray stopped suddenly and thrust his arms out to his sides so that Osborne and Lew bumped into him from behind. “Wait a minute…. I know where we are! I know this place. It’s coming back to me. Lew, you won’t find anything on your maps. C’mon, I’ll show you why.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, slow down,” said Osborne. “Are we on private land? I don’t want to get into any trouble back here.” Lew looked relieved he’d asked the question.

  “Trust me,” said Ray, “we’re safe.”

  Osborne and Lew glanced at each other. Neither with confidence. “So far, I think we’re on state land,” said Lew to Osborne. “We’re okay.”

  “We are not on state land,” said Ray to his partners. “This is the old Cantrell place.”

  “Cantrell?” said Osborne. “Where the mill used to be?”

  A look of deep satisfaction crossed Ray’s face. “Yep. I drove over here after I saw old Herman that morning to check out exactly where he said he found those little babies years ago. That’s what I was after, all right. Just foolin’ around really. I haven’t been back this close to Dead Creek since I was a kid.”

  “Oh my God, duck!” Lew shouted, crouching suddenly. From over his left shoulder, Osborne felt rather than saw a huge shadow sweep up from the brush alongside the trail. A sickish, sweet odor had just drifted into the air around them as the magnificent bald eagle spread its wings, hovering momentarily as if to shelter the three of them, then rose in a simple elegant spiral to disappear over the tips of the Norway pines guarding the narrow trail.

  “Now what the heck road kill would you get way out here?” said Ray, marching toward the spot where the bird had obviously been feeding on something. He stepped off the trail and moved forward slowly, brushing the tall, dried grasses away with his hands. Lew and Osborne remained rooted where they were, waiting.

  “So that’s what they didn’t want me to find,” said Ray. He stopped and looked down. “Don’t move too fast, folks. We’ve got a ripe one here.”

  “What is it?” asked Osborne, happy to stay back.

  “You mean what was it.” Ray’s voice was calm as his eyes studied whatever it was at his feet. Dead grasses hid it from Osborne’s view.

  Then, as Lew strode toward him, Ray looked up at her. “Walk carefully, my friend. You’ll be looking for evidence in them thar briars.”

  Then his tone turned serious. “Ted Bronk,” he said. “I recognize the boots. He got those up in Alaska last year when he did some heavy construction work for his brother-in-law. Nobody else in town’s got boots like that. Boots and bones, Lew. That’s all the Wausau boys’ll have to go on with this one. The fox and the eagle have done their job on old Ted. Too bad, too. There’s a lotta folks would’ve liked to have had a piece of Ted before he checked out, ya know?”

  Osborne watched Lew nod her head solemnly. He knew she knew what an evil guy Ted had been, doing way too much damage over his thirty-four, maybe thirty-five years. He’d been a bully, a wife beater, and a man who was suspected of raping an eleven-year-old girl on her way home from the ice rink. The parents of two classes of junior high boys had been appalled ten years ago when they found out Ted had been running an after-school porno film club for the kids, charging two bucks an afternoon. No, thought Osborne, few would mind Ted’s departure from Loon Lake, and many would be pleased if he’d suffered on the way out.

  As if she was reading his thoughts, Lew looked over at Osborne. “I just wish I’d been able to ask him about those parties he was driving the dancers to,” she said. “I am sure he knew what happened to that English girl. Well, let’s keep going. I’ll call this in on our way back.”

  Ray had moved past the carcass to the woods behind. He seemed to know where he was going, though Osborne could see no evidence of a trail. The front line of brush and shrubs gave way to a darkly lit and vast, silent space. The forest floor was wall-to-wall pine needles, the ceiling broad branches of Norway pine, spruce, and tamarack. The skeletons of fallen, dead trees lent an eerie cavelike quality. But it wasn’t absolutely quiet. They could hear a soft burble of water, even if they couldn’t see it.

  Osborne leaned forward to peer over a massive fallen log and spotted a stream running just behind it. Five feet wide, maybe three feet deep at its deepest. And hidden from view behind the same log, neatly tucked under dead limbs so no winds could shift it, tipped over to protect the interior, was Ray’s canoe. Ray leaped over the fallen log and ran to his boat. He smoothed his hands over the cedar-strip surface and gently turned it over, his eyes rapidly scanning the interior. Two paddles lay on the ground beneath it.

  “Not a scratch,” he breathed with relief.

  Lew put her hand on his shoulder, “Ray, is this where you left it?”

  “No, I didn’t. I know I didn’t because I always store my paddles up inside the gunwale on these racks, see? Someone else put this boat away. I am absolutely sure I didn’t leave it here.”

  “Then you have a guardian angel,” said Osborne.

  Lew and Ray looked at him a little oddly. But Osborne barely noticed. It was the mushroom woman, he thought. Now the expression on her face made perfect sense, she had been watching over Ray, waiting to make sure he was okay.

  “Does Ted Bronk have a sister?” asked Osborne.

  Ray looked over at him as he carried the canoe toward the stream. “Nope. He had a brother who was killed in a knife fight a few years back, but no sister that I know of. Why?”

  “Just a thought.”

  The canoe slipped downstream with Lew in the front, Osborne in the center, and Ray at the back. It was a beautifully proportioned, steady canoe that moved across the water like a mother duck, serene and perfectly silent. The creek grew wider and deeper, which Osborne could judge from the dark shadows of rocks below the surface. As Lew and Ray dipped their paddles, the boat glided forward. Twice they ducked below ancient railroad ties carrying rusted rail.

  “Some of this forest was clear cut in the late 1800s, and no one’s been through here since,” said Ray, “not even the beavers. But the water looks okay. It used to have a gray-green tinge to it. Now it’s clear.”

  Suddenly, he pulled his paddle back, halting the canoe and forcing its nose into the brush to hold it in place. He handed his paddle to Osborne as he raised a finger to his lips, signaling quiet. He scanned the water running under the canoe, then leaned forward and thrust his arm down. He brought it up immediately, a muddy-colored creature, about twelve inches long and looking like a cross between a dog and fish, twisting in his hand. He held the thing down on the floor of the canoe with his knee, turning it onto its back and pulling the legs away so he could see the torso.

  “That’s a mud puppy, for you,” said Osborne, backing away. He hated the slimy bottom-eaters. They looked like something God detested.

  “Let’s take a look,” Ray said, “if we’re on Dead Creek right here—and I’m pretty sure we are—then this little mother’ll show us just what shape the water’s in.” He examined the underbelly of the creature closely, then held it out toward Osborne and Lew. “Looks okay to me.”

  “Be interesting to know what the hormone count is,” said Osborne. “Shanley’s got me spooked. My fish intake is going to be minimal until we know what’s going on around here.”

  “Dead Creek is a special situation,” said Ray. “They say it’s another twenty years before anybody should be eating fish or even living around here.”

  “Too bad,” said Osborne, “I’ve always heard that once upon a time Dead Creek had some of the biggest browns and rainbows—”


  “You betcha,” said Ray, “I had an old, old geezer—I’ll tell ya this guy fished here around 1920 or so—he told me he took a twenty-two-inch brown trout out of here. Called it Crescent Creek in those days.”

  “Wow,” said Lew, “what was he using? Did he say?”

  “Worms,” said Ray, “plain old nightcrawlers.”

  “Hey, guys,” said Lew with an edge of concern in her voice, “it’s going to be dark pretty soon. Shouldn’t we go back?”

  “Hell, no,” said Ray, “I want to see where it takes us. We got an hour until it’s dark, and I promise we’ll be back at the car by then.”

  “But—” Lew protested.

  “Five minutes,” said Ray, “I know we’re close—” “Now how the hell do you know that?” Lew thrust her paddle into the water with obvious exasperation. “I see no sign of this creek ending anytime in the next century.” She was right. Below the canopy of branches, they could easily see the creek winding ahead through the woods several hundred feet at least.

  Slowly, Ray pulled back on his paddle. “O-o-kay,” he said, “I’ll show you.” He pointed with the paddle to a flat-topped rock along the bank. A branch of Norway pine hung over the boulder. Strewn across the top of the rock were small, hairy pellets, smaller than a fingernail. “See those? Owl poop. Northern hawk owl. Where do they like to sit? On power lines and metal fence posts. I spotted the first of these pellets about three minutes ago, and now they’re everywhere. Look.” Ray pointed the paddle four times.

  “We are very close to where the owls are roosting, and that means we’re close to people. They only retreat in here during storms. This is a good sign that we’re coming out somewhere very soon, and we’ll find some sign of life when we get there. Trust me, Lew.”

  The canoe continued swiftly downstream.

  “Say, Lew,” said Ray as they passed over a deep hole, “When does trout season open? If I were you, I’d try a weighted nymph in here just to see if the trout are back. But …” He looked up into the dense canopy of Norway pine. “… with so little sunlight, I’ll bet it’s at least another three to four weeks before this water gets close to sixty degrees. What do you think? Maybe a little black stone fly? Just to see what happens …”

  Lew looked back at Ray in surprise. She set her paddle down. “Ray, I had no idea you fly-fished.”

  “Years ago. Many years ago—with the old man. Didn’t go often enough to really feel comfortable with it. Dad was always on call, so his time was limited. Bein’ I was a kid who loved to fish, I was damned if I’d wait for him.

  That’s how come I talked my way into fishing with a couple of the old guides. You remember Quigley and Kirsch, Doc? I learned everything I know from those guys. They fished everything—muskie, walleyes, bass, panfish—everything except trout. Of course I paid dearly. I had to clean the catch.

  “I fly-fished just a couple a times with my dad in my teens, and I never did go again after I started guiding.”

  “Well … that’s very interesting,” said Lew. “I’m glad to hear this, Ray. Restores my faith in humanity now I know you have one redeeming quality.”

  “Oh yeah. What’s that?”

  “Some familiarity with a trout fly or two. Means there’s hope, y’know?”

  “Just don’t go telling anyone. You’ll destroy my image.” Ray lowered his voice and hunched his shoulders to ape a wrestler: “Me tough guy. B-i-i-g fish man. Muskie hunter.”

  “So how ‘bout you, Lew? How is it you fly-fish?” asked Ray.

  “Ah …” said Lew slowly, as if debating whether she wanted to give up a secret. Sweeping her paddle with a sure, steady stroke, she kept her eyes straight ahead as she spoke. “I fly-fish because it’s just me and the water. No boat, no motor running, no gas fumes. Just me, the riffles, and a canny old trout.

  “Maybe …” She paused, resting her paddle on the edge of the canoe. “Maybe I like trout fishing for all the same reasons I like my job: takes a predator to know a predator. Right, fellas? As true for muskies as it is for trout: a good fisherman thinks like a fish. Law enforcement isn’t catch-and-release, of course, it’s catch-and-arrest.”

  With that, Lew chuckled, dipped her paddle deep into Dead Creek, and the canoe sped forward.

  Ray was right. In less than two minutes, the canoe poked its nose out from a cove on the edge of a small lake. Lew stopped paddling as they emerged, and Ray pulled back on his paddle immediately so the canoe would remain hidden in the shoreside brush.

  “Looks like the beavers made a lake out of Dead Creek,” he said. “This is very interesting. I know this little lake wasn’t here fifteen years ago.”

  At first glance, there was no sign of human life along the lakefront to their right or to their left. Insects buzzed, the water was glassy and still, even under a light breeze. To the right they could see the entire perimeter of the lake and no sign of people. Ray let the boat glide forward so they could see farther to the left.

  “Smoke,” whispered Osborne softly. A dark plume lifted above a dense patch of tamarack, still golden with their winter needles, that guarded the lake across from them and to the left. It was black smoke with a touch of gray brown color along the edge, visible even in the darkening sky. “Someone’s smelting,” said Osborne very, very softly, keenly aware his voice could travel across the lake.

  “How do you know?” asked Ray. Lew shifted in her seat and looked over at Osborne.

  “I know because I used to sell the silver scraps from fillings I made, along with old silver and gold fillings that I replaced, to a fella in Crandon who melted them down. He had his own smelting oven. He smelted on Saturdays, which is when I would drive over to drop off my silver scraps. I was always struck by the strange color of the smoke it produced. Somebody’s smelting silver, I’m sure. You get a different color when you smelt gold.”

  Lew and Ray nodded and studied the smoke.

  “I see where it’s coming from,” said Ray, and he pointed even farther to the left as he let the boat drift out onto the lake.

  Sure enough. As the boat swung out and made a sharp left turn, they got an angle on a house set far enough back from the shore that it was nearly, if not purposely, hidden from view by towering pines. The smoke came from a distance still—somewhere behind the house. They could see just a corner of the house but enough to make out that it was a large, dark, log home with a wide porch on that corner, at least. It appeared to be recently built.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Osborne softly. “If you weren’t looking for something, you’d never see that, would you? Now, who on earth would want to live out here—on this water?”

  Suddenly, Ray whipped his paddle into the water and yanked the canoe back into the brush with one rude thrust.

  “Duck,” he hissed as he grabbed branches and thrust the boat deep under the brush hanging over the water. Osborne bumped his head hard on a large branch as the boat swung back, but he resisted the urge to curse. He hunkered down in the boat, right behind Lew.

  Within seconds, they heard a soft purring that all three recognized instantly: the well-oiled motor of a small seaplane. They pulled the branches down around them to further hide the boat, but all three eased their way up so they could watch as the small craft cut its motor to land quietly on pontoons. A soft purring was all that could be heard as it motored toward the house to their right.

  “Do you think the pilot saw us?” asked Lew softly.

  “Hell, no,” said Ray. “He flew in from behind, and I had us deep under these trees in plenty of time. If this was an aluminum canoe, we’d be seen, but we’re nicely camouflaged right now. I’m keen on who’s arriving, aren’t you? Dinner at Dead Creek—now there’s a social event not to be missed.”

  They were too far away to identify who was in the plane as it drifted gently toward the house, but they didn’t miss the narrow dock that suddenly, silently moved out over the water as the plane got closer. As the dock was electronically extended, a literal wall of trees and brush opened up t
o reveal a boathouse, into which the plane slipped with ease. The wall of brush slid back over the boathouse, the dock retreated, and the shoreline was still.

  “State of the art,” commented Osborne. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  “Well, I’ll be….” Lew was puzzled.

  “Saves on ice damage during the winter,” said Ray, pulling at his beard. Then he chuckled. “And it’s great for smuggling.”

  “Smuggling?” asked Osborne.

  “Into Canada?” Lew added.

  “And beyond,” said Ray.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” said Lew.

  But Osborne’s mind had started to race with what he knew from Kansas City. “Let’s see what we hear from Bowers’s lawyer tomorrow,” he whispered. “Let’s just see—and, Ray, let’s get out of here.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” said Lew, raising her arm as if to stop them from going anywhere. “Ray, can you get us out of here in the dark if we hang around a little longer to find out if we can’t see more when they turn their lights on?”

  “No problem,” said Ray. “Here’s something that might help.” He handed a pair of binoculars to Osborne to pass to Lew.

  “Where did these come from?” whispered Osborne.

  “Here,” said Ray, pointing behind him, “I had a little cabinet built in to hold a few things: the binoculars, a couple beers, and some extra lures.”

  For the next half hour, they sat silent in the canoe. No one even whispered. As it grew darker, a fog bank rolled in from behind them, and Ray eased the canoe into the fog, using it as a cover. They moved in close to shore right in front of the house. No one moved. Osborne knew they were all thinking the same thing: the slightest sound would carry, clear and sharp, straight to any accomodating ear in the house or on the property around it. And that was one thing no one wanted to happen, even if they were desperately curious to know who was inside.

  But the trees were so close that even though they could catch glimmers of light through the branches and between patches of fog, they could neither see nor hear much of anything. At one point an outside door slammed shut, sounding like a screen door. But then a loud motor went on and drowned out any hope of hearing slighter sounds. After five minutes of gentle rocking close to the shore and with no sign the motor would be turned off, Lew motioned to Ray to pull back.