Gray Ghost

by William G. Tapply

  All Calhoun wanted was a little peace. He tried to keep his mind clear, but regretful thoughts about Kate and Paul Vecchio and the sheriff kept intruding, and he couldn’t shake that awful feeling he’d had in his stomach when he thought Ralph was never coming back. He remembered falling asleep in the bed of his truck, his disturbing thoughts becoming jumbled with disturbing dreams, and he remembered how amidst that mental chaos there had been another kind of thought, something analytical and objective, that he hadn’t quite been able to get a handle on.

  Now that same thought began buzzing around on the outskirts of his brain again. He tried to bring it into focus, to pin it down and see it clearly, but it was elusive, like a speck of dirt on the corner of your eyeball, so that no matter how you moved your eyes around, it was always on the periphery of your vision and you could never look at it straight on.

  After a few minutes, Calhoun let the thought slink away into his unconscious. He figured it would be back, and maybe next time he’d nail it down.

  As they sat there on the water, surrounded by the misty fog, Calhoun became aware of a new sound. It began as a soft mournful moan, rose into a keening wail, faded, died. Then the same sound rose again, answering, it seemed, from a different direction. It was a human sound, not words, just pure, raw emotion, an infinitely tragic sound that made Calhoun’s throat tight.

  He closed his eyes and let the rise and fall of the wailing cries wash over him, and in his mind’s eye an image began to materialize the way a photograph takes form in a darkroom tray. He saw a figure, a woman, standing atop a boulder with her arms raised and her gray robe flowing around her. It was, he realized, a nun in her gray habit. A hood covered her head, and her face was lifted to the sky, and she was moaning and wailing, a gray ghost calling to Stoney Calhoun.

  In his mind he saw the hospital on Quarantine Island ablaze, sooty orange flames burning holes in the black wintry night, and he saw the faces of a hundred souls crowded together inside, men, women, children, trapped, their eyes wide, their hands lifted in helpless horrified disbelief, and he saw the nuns in their gray habits, kneeling in prayer, their heads bowed, their palms pressed together under their chins, and he watched as the flames engulfed them all…

  When he opened his eyes, the mournful cries had faded away, and then he wondered if he’d really heard them or if they had just been another sputtering short-circuit in an undependable brain that had been zapped with lightning seven years ago.

  Ralph was curled up in the bottom of the boat. “Did you hear that, bud?” said Calhoun.

  Ralph opened his eyes, looked at Calhoun, let out a deep sigh, and went back to sleep.

  He continued to drift out there in the dark, silent fog, but the gray ghosts did not call to him again.

  After a while he started the motor, turned the boat around, and headed back to the harbor. He wasn’t sure if he’d interpreted the gray nuns’ message accurately, but now, at least, he thought he knew what he was supposed to do.

  It was close to eleven by the time Calhoun backed his trailer into its slot beside the house, got it unhitched, hosed out the boat, and gave Ralph his dinner. He figured he should wait until morning to call the sheriff at his office.

  Then he remembered that they were friends again, so he guessed it would be all right to wake him up.

  Jane answered after four or five rings. “Mm,” she mumbled. “Who in the world could be calling at this hour?”

  “It’s Stoney Calhoun, ma’am,” he said, “and I’m awfully sorry to wake you up.”

  “Stoney Calhoun,” she said. “I should have known.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I got to speak to your old man for a minute if you don’t mind.”

  “You got another dead body for him, Stoney?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Please don’t call me ma’am.”

  “Sorry. Can I talk to him?”

  “It’s okay by me. Hang on.”

  Calhoun waited.

  “Jesus, Stoney,” said the sheriff when he came onto the line. “I was asleep. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Me neither. I slept in my truck.”

  “Ralph?”

  “He came back.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Thank you. Me, too. Look, Sheriff. I’m ready to take that deputy’s badge if you still want to give it to me.”

  “You are, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Calhoun hesitated. He didn’t think the sheriff would understand about hearing the gray nuns calling to him out on Quarantine Island. “I’ve just been doing some thinking about it, that’s all.”

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “good. That’s good. I can use you, for sure. I’ll drop by in the morning. You gonna be around?”

  “I don’t have to be at the shop till the afternoon. I’ll be right here.”

  “Get some sleep, Stoney.”

  “I’ll try. You, too.”

  “I was doing pretty good,” said the sheriff, “before you called.”

  Calhoun was around back splitting firewood when he heard the Explorer pull into the yard. Ralph, who’d been sprawled beside him watching him sweat, pushed himself to his feet and went out to greet the sheriff.

  A minute later Ralph returned, and then the sheriff appeared. He was out of uniform. He was wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt and a Red Sox cap to cover his bald head. He stood there with his arms folded across his chest and a bemused smile on his face while Calhoun balanced a hunk of cordwood on the big oak stump he used for a chopping block and whacked it with his maul, sending two equal halves flying in opposite directions.

  Calhoun’s T-shirt was hanging from his hip pocket. He used it to wipe the sweat off his face and chest.

  “Splitting firewood,” said the sheriff. “Good exercise. What is it they say? Warms you many times over. Cutting it, then splitting it, then stacking it, then lugging it. All that before you even burn it.”

  Calhoun nodded. “It’s true.”

  “That kind of work helps a man think.”

  “Helps me not think,” said Calhoun. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  They climbed up onto the deck. The sheriff sat at the table. Calhoun went into the kitchen and came out a minute later with two

  mugs of coffee. He put one beside the sheriff’s elbow, then sat down across from him.

  The sheriff picked up the mug, took a swig, then said, “Let’s do this.” He fished the leather case that held the deputy badge from his pants pocket and put it on the table beside Calhoun’s elbow. “I’ve got to swear you in.”

  “Go for it,” said Calhoun.

  The sheriff smiled. “I forgot to bring the paper. It’s been so long since I did it, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say.”

  “I, Stonewall Jackson Calhoun, do solemnly swear I’ll uphold all the laws of the state of Maine that make reasonable sense,” Calhoun said. “I swear I’ll do whatever you want me to do provided it ain’t too dumb. I swear any time you want me to quit I’ll go ahead and quit without a fuss. I swear I’ll tell you the truth about most things. I swear to disagree with you when I think you’re being stupid. I swear if you ask for my opinion about something, I’ll give it to you even when I think it’ll hurt your feelings.” He shrugged. “That about cover it?”

  “I should’ve copied that down,” said the sheriff. “It’s a way better oath than the regular one. You are hereby and therefore and whereas my deputy, God help us both. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Calhoun. “Okay.”

  “Let’s get to work, then.” The sheriff took a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and peered at it. “Here’s what I know about Mr. Paul Vecchio so far,” he said. “He’d been an adjunct professor of history at Penobscot College up in Augusta for the past twelve years. Taught American studies and a course on the New Deal. Wrote a couple of books that kept him in royalty checks. He grew up in Rhode Island, went to U. Maine in Orono, got his d
octorate at Michigan. Lived in the town of Sheepscot.”

  “That’s just west of Augusta, ain’t it?” said Calhoun.

  The sheriff nodded. “Two towns over, to the southwest. Vec-chio’s divorced, one kid, a teenage daughter who lives with her mother, his ex-wife, in California. A few speeding tickets on the Maine Pike. That’s it.” He handed the piece of paper to Calhoun. “You take it, Stoney. It’s got his address on it.”

  Calhoun took the paper and glanced at it, which imprinted a photograph of it in his brain that he could look at any time he wanted to consult it. He didn’t need the paper, but he folded it and stuffed it into his shirt pocket anyway. He didn’t want to seem like was showing off. “We don’t really know anything about Mr. Vec-chio, then,” he said.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Nowhere near enough.”

  “What about that state cop, Gilsum?” said Calhoun. “He’s on the case, ain’t he?”

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “Gilsum sees himself as more of an administrator than a policeman. He thinks he’s too important to actually go around interrogating suspects and looking for evidence. He’s pretty big on delegating and appointing and coordinating and in general letting other people do the real work. Gilsum’s a politician. He’s angling to be a police commissioner somewhere.”

  “This is your case, then?”

  “It’s our case, Stoney. This one and the Quarantine Island case. I’ve got to report to Gilsum, and that DA, Enfield, he’s keeping his nose up my butt. But we got both cases. You and me.”

  “Just us?”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Not hardly. These are big cases, Stoney. There are lots of people on these cases, and I suspect that once we make some headway, maybe come up with a good suspect, Gilsum will take over. In the meantime, he wants us working on them, and that, by Jesus, is what we’re going to do.”

  Calhoun grinned. “Well, let’s hope all those others don’t get in our way. So where do you want to start? Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “According to that oath you just administered to yourself,” said the sheriff, “I’m not inclined to give you orders. But I’m thinking that we need to know more about Mr. Vecchio, and if you agree

  Calhoun nodded. “I agree. Why don’t I head on up to Sheep-scot, poke around, see what there is to be seen.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” The sheriff found another folded-up piece of paper in his pocket and gave it to Calhoun. “Directions to Vecchio’s house. From my computer.”

  Calhoun stuffed the paper into his pocket without looking at it. “So what’re you gonna be doing, while I’m up there investigating?”

  “Me?” said the sheriff. “Hell, Stoney. What do you think I need a deputy for? It’s Saturday. This is my day off.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Unfortunately, I am. I’ve got to hold down the office today. If things are quiet, I’ll play around on the computer, see what I can dig up. You can learn a helluva lot about a case these days just sitting at your desk.” He tipped up his coffee mug, drained it, put it down on the table, and stood up. “Soon as you finish up in Sheepscot, let me know what you find out.”

  “You want a report in writing?”

  “That’s how it’s usually done, Stoney.”

  “We haven’t talked about salary,” said Calhoun. “How much you paying me ?”

  “You’re a volunteer deputy. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “I didn’t volunteer to do paperwork.”

  The sheriff smiled. “You can submit your reports orally, if you prefer.” He reached into his pocket and placed a little cellular telephone on the table in front of Calhoun. “Just call me.”

  Calhoun pushed the phone away. “I hate these things.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I understand. But you’ve got to take it. I set it so it’d vibrate rather than ring. Keep it in your pocket. If you feel it buzz against your leg, it means I need to talk to you. Nobody else has the number, so it’ll always be me. Look.” The sheriff picked up the phone and pointed at a little green button. “If it buzzes, just press this button and say hello, and I’ll talk to you. Understand?”

  “It ain’t that complicated,” said Calhoun. “It’s just offensive.”

  “Now,” said the sheriff, “if you need to talk to me, all you gotta do is press this button here, on the side of it, and hold it up to your mouth and say ‘Dickman.’ Then put it to your ear and you’ll hear me say, ‘Hello, Stoney, what’s up?’ When you’re done talking, just poke that little red button. You got all that?”

  “Jesus Christ,” muttered Calhoun.

  “And if you want to call Kate or somebody, all you got to do is hit the numbers and then press that same green button.”

  “I doubt I could’ve figured that out for myself.”

  “So after you finish up there in Sheepscot,” said the sheriff, who was making a point of ignoring Calhoun’s sarcasm, “give me a call, tell me what you found out.”

  Calhoun picked up the phone and hefted it in his hand. It didn’t weigh as much as the little folding knife he kept in his pants pocket. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll try it out.”

  The sheriff reached into his shirt pocket and took out a little stack of business cards. “You might need these,” he said. “They got my name on ‘em, not yours. In case there’s somebody who might need to call us.”

  Calhoun stuck the cards in his wallet. “You got any other gear for me? Billy club? Handcuffs?”

  The sheriff smiled. “That’s about it for now.”

  “I ain’t going to wear a uniform, you know.”

  “I figured.”

  “You wouldn’t catch me dead in a hat like yours.”

  “My hat looks way better on me than it would on you anyway.” He held out his hand. “Thanks, Stoney.”

  Calhoun shrugged and shook his hand.

  The sheriff turned, went down off the deck, and got into his vehicle.

  Calhoun watched him drive away. Then he took the coffee mugs into the house.

  With Ralph riding shotgun, Calhoun followed the back roads north, avoiding the turnpike as he always tried to do. The countryside southwest of Augusta, the state capital, was laced with lakes with Indian names like Annabessacook and Maranacook and Sabat-tus and Androscoggin. They were long and skinny, as if some giant or god or great spirit had dragged his fingernails across the top of the earth. The implacable movement of glaciers, Calhoun remembered, speaking of history. Today, on this breezy, sun-drenched Saturday morning in September, the ripply lake surfaces glittered through the trees.

  The township of Sheepscot lay on the Sheepscot River, twenty-odd miles southwest of Augusta. It took a little over an hour to drive there from Dublin, following the sheriff’s printout of computer directions.

  The sheriff’s directions took them through the center of town directly to Paul Vecchio’s house. It was a little green clapboarded bungalow, old and shabby but well cared for, set back from the two-lane state highway in a grove of tall pines.

  Calhoun pulled his truck up to the doorway, told Ralph to sit tight, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and got out. The pine trees towered over the house and kept it shady. The yard was a cushiony bed of pine needles, nice for a man who objected to tending and mowing a lawn. A woodshed beside the house was filled with cut-and-split firewood. Next to the shed, an aluminum canoe and a kayak rested upside down on sawhorses.

  Calhoun tried the front door and found it locked. The back door was locked, too, but he found an unlatched cellar window that pulled open wide enough to slide through feet first.

  He turned on the flashlight. The cellar had fieldstone walls and a dirt floor and a low, cobwebby ceiling. It smelled of damp earth and mildew. In one corner, a dozen cardboard boxes were stacked up on a platform of cinder blocks and two-by-sixes. There was a hot-water tank and an oil burner, also mounted on cinder blocks.

  Since he was down there, Calhoun opened up the cardboard bo
xes. Three of them were filled with old college textbooks that were warping and threatening to fall apart from the damp. He figured he could learn something about Paul Vecchio by studying the kinds of books he stored in his basement, compared, on the one hand, to those he gave away and, on the other hand, to those he kept on his bookshelves. But he didn’t see how that information would help them figure out who had shot him three times in the chest.

  The other boxes held the usual stuff—a set of dinnerware, kitchen appliances, old clothes. Calhoun poked around in all of them and came up with nothing that interested him.

  A set of narrow wooden steps led up to the first floor. The door opened into the kitchen. Yellow linoleum floor, white refrigerator, matching electric stove, cheap pine table and chairs in front of a window looking out the back of the house into the pine woods. There were two mugs, one dirty saucepan full of scummy old water, and some knives and forks in the sink. In the refrigerator was a six-pack of Samuel Adams lager missing two cans, two half-empty bottles of white wine, a carton of eggs, half a loaf of twelve-grain bread, some leftovers in plastic containers, and the usual mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, and pickles.

  In other words, nothing that would tell Calhoun who had killed Paul Vecchio, or why.

  Nor did the kitchen cabinets yield anything.

  There was a small living room with a TV and a stereo system and, as expected, walls lined with books—English and Russian and American novels, art, history, politics. Calhoun opened a few of them at random and saw notes and underlines on almost every page. They were the books of an intellectually curious man.

  Off the living room was a small office. It, too, was dominated by bookshelves, more of the same kinds of books Calhoun had found in the living room. A big oak desk was pushed up to a window that overlooked some bird feeders hanging from a wire that was strung between two trees. On the desk were a telephone and a lamp plugged into a surge supressor. The rest of the desktop was bare except for a wire basket that held some slit-open envelopes. Unpaid bills and bank statements. Calhoun scanned the statements. No deposits or withdrawals or checks that caught his attention.