Gray Ghost

by William G. Tapply

  “And you haven’t seen Errol Watson since that one time?”

  “That’s right. Just that once.”

  “Have you talked to your ex-wife about him since then?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t talk to her that much about anything. Mostly, she just wants to know where her child support is. That’s mainly what we talk about. I’m pretty sure if there was still a problem with that Watson, though, she’d’ve told me.”

  “What about Mattie? Do you talk with her?”

  “Sure,” said Perkins. “She’s my little girl. We get together once or twice a week, have a clam roll and ice cream, maybe go for a boat ride or something. I talk with her on the phone, too.”

  “Has she mentioned Watson?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. She hasn’t said nothing and I sure haven’t asked. It’s not a subject I want to talk about. I don’t even want to think about it.” He looked at Calhoun. “How come you’re asking about this Watson? Hey, he didn’t do something to Mattie, did he?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “Nothing like that.” He took out his wallet, removed one of the sheriff’s business cards, and gave it to Perkins. “If you remember anything else about Errol Watson, give us a call.”

  Perkins took the card, looked at it, shrugged, and stuffed it into his pants pocket. “So, we done?”

  Calhoun nodded. “We’re done for now. Thanks for your time.”

  Lawrence Perkins nodded and said, “Sure. Okay.” Then he turned and trudged back in the direction he had come from, his big arms swinging at his sides like clubs.

  When they got home, Calhoun found a Coke in his refrigerator, and he and Ralph went down to the brook. It was about fifteen degrees cooler in Calhoun’s piney woods down by the running water of Bitch Creek than it had been in the boatyard in Kittery. Ralph waded into the pool below the old bridge abutments and dog-paddled around, snorting and lapping the water as he swam.

  Calhoun fished the sheriff’s cellular telephone from his pants pocket, pressed the button on the side, said, “Dickman,” and pressed it against his ear. It rang five times, and then the sheriff’s recorded voice said, “It’s Sheriff Marshall Dickman. Leave your number and a brief message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you.”

  After the beep, Calhoun said, “It’s Calhoun. I talked to Perkins, if you want to hear about it. Anyway, you’re coming by my house to pick me up, right? We can talk then, I guess. What time? Seven?”

  He pressed the red button, then sat there on the rock, sipping his Coke and holding the phone in his hand and listening to the gurgle of Bitch Creek. Sometimes he imagined he could hear Lyle humming one of his Beatles tunes in the rhythmic babbling music of the brook.

  After a few minutes, Ralph hauled himself out of the water, shook himself dry, and came over and sat beside Calhoun. He gave Ralph’s forehead an absentminded scratch. He had to fight the urge to use the cell phone to call Kate. All he had to do was poke her numbers and hit the green button.

  He wasn’t looking for some heavy conversation about love and loyalty and responsibility and guilt. He just wanted to tell her about talking to Lawrence Perkins, how the man was split from his wife and daughter but it was obvious that he still loved them, how he’d ripped the sleeves off his T-shirt so you could see these big apocalyptic tattoos on his giant biceps.

  He thought Kate would enjoy that. They always used to talk about such things, interesting people they met, clients and customers, or about how she’d spotted a mixed school of bluefish and stripers crashing bait near the mouth of the Presumscot River by the B&M bean factory and how she threw every fly she had at them and couldn’t get a hit, or about how the guys from Boston were asking Calhoun about buying property up near Moosehead, just sharing unimportant stories, knowing what amused each other …

  He stood up and shoved the phone into his pocket. He couldn’t imagine having one of those conversations with Kate now. Things were too intense. There was too much going on. He, for one, couldn’t stop wondering if it really was all over with her, if she’d decided that loving Walter meant she couldn’t love Calhoun after all, if she never again would come to his house at night in her swirling dress wearing her turquoise jewelry.

  And if that was the case, what the hell was he supposed to do for the rest of his life?

  You couldn’t tell stories about some guy’s tattoos when you had things like that on your mind.

  He was mixing dry dog food with half a can of Alpo in Ralph’s bowl when his pants vibrated. This time it only took him a second to realize it was his cell phone.

  He fished it out, hit the green button, and said, “Hey, Sheriff? That you ?”

  He heard the tinkle of a woman’s laughter. “No, Stoney. Sorry to disappoint you. It’s Sam. Sam Surry.”

  Before he could help himself, he said, “I ain’t disappointed at all. How’d you get ahold of this number?”

  “Just got out of a meeting,” she said. “Sheriff Dickman was there. I mentioned that I needed to get ahold of you and he gave it to me.”

  “Who else did he give it to?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You mad?”

  “Mad?” he said. “Nope.”

  “You sound mad.”

  “The sheriff told me he was the only one who’d be calling me on this damn telephone, that’s all. So I didn’t expect it to be somebody else.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be too mad at him,” she said. “I kind of wheedled your number out of him. Blame me.”

  “I ain’t mad,” said Calhoun. “So what’d you want?”

  She laughed again. “You’re fairly blunt, aren’t you?”

  “You saying I’m rude? I didn’t mean to be rude. I apologize.”

  “Not rude, no. You’re straightforward, and it’s refreshing. What I wanted was, I wondered if I could hire you to take me fishing in your boat.”

  “Sure,” said Calhoun. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking of, like, half a day? Take your boat out on the bay, see if we can catch a fish? Do you do that? Half a day, I mean? Just because I never get a whole day off.”

  “We can do that,” said Calhoun. “Four hours, give or take. That’s half a trip. I don’t put you on the clock. Half a tide. Best bet is the two hours on either side of a high tide. When’d you have in mind?”

  “Friday?” she said. “I can get out of the clinic around three, could meet you by four ? Would that work ?”

  Calhoun did a quick calculation. “On the water by four thirty. That’ll give us a turning tide. Not ideal for catching fish, but I know a few tricks. We’ll have a few hours before sunset, but if you’re up for it and the weather’s okay, we’ll fish into dark. Sometimes it really heats up after the sun’s off the water.”

  “We could stay out all night,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Let’s stick to the half day,” said Calhoun. “Consider yourself booked. Meet me at the shop Friday afternoon. I’ll have my boat trailered up and ready to go.”

  “Oh, that’s excellent,” she said. “What should I bring?”

  “Long sleeves, long pants, wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses. Something warm for after the sun goes down, something waterproof in case it rains. I got everything else.”

  There was a hesitation. “Hey, Stoney?” she said.

  “Yup?”

  “I’ve fly-fished like maybe five times in my whole life. I know it’s fun, but I’m not that good at it.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I just wanted you to know, if we don’t catch a bunch of fish, I won’t blame you. I won’t even mind. I don’t care that much about catching fish.”

  “It’s better to catch ‘em, though.”

  She laughed. “It’s always better to catch ‘em than not catch ‘em. Fish, and anything else you’re after.”

  “We’ll see what we can do,” he said, wondering what the hell she was trying to say.

  “Okay,” she said. “See you Friday.”
/>   He said good-bye to Dr. Sam Surry, pressed the red button on the phone, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  He finished mixing Ralph’s dinner and put it out on the deck for him. Then he poked around in the refrigerator, looking for something he could make a sandwich out of, and found a wedge of extra-sharp Vermont cheddar. He put the cheese on a cutting board, grabbed a knife and a loaf of crusty Italian bread and a can of Coke, and took his supper out on the deck with Ralph.

  So Dr. Sam Surry wanted to go fishing. From the sound of it,

  she’d be happy with a nice quiet boat ride around the bay. Busy person like her, all that responsibility, getting out on the water on a Friday afternoon after a long week of work would be the perfect way to relax. He could show her some of the islands, tell her their stories. Maybe they’d see some seals lying on the rocks. If it didn’t rain, they’d watch the sun set behind the city and the moon rise over the bay, and with any luck they’d spot a crazy bloody frenzy of birds and baitfish and predators, and Sam Surry would find a big bluefish or striper bending her rod, and maybe that would teach her the difference between catching fish and not catching fish.

  Calhoun was pouring himself a travel mug of coffee when he heard the sheriff’s Explorer come rumbling down his driveway. He filled a second travel mug and took them both out onto the deck.

  Ralph scampered down the steps to greet the sheriff when he stepped out of his truck. The sheriff bent down, gave Ralph’s ears a rub, then looked up at Calhoun. “We ought to get going, Stoney. Why’nt you come on down?”

  “I got some coffee for you,” said Calhoun.

  “Wonderful.”

  Calhoun took the two mugs of coffee down the steps and handed one to the sheriff.

  “Thanks, Deputy,” said the sheriff. “You drive, I’ll navigate. Okay by you?”

  “The deputy should do the driving and all the other menial tasks,” said Calhoun. He went around to the passenger side of the sheriff’s vehicle, opened the door, gave a little bow, and said, “Sir?”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes, muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and got in.

  Calhoun shut the door, went around to the other side, opened the driver’s door, and snapped his fingers at Ralph.

  Ralph stood there with his stubby tail wagging, looking at Calhoun.

  “You coming?” said Calhoun.

  Ralph sat on the ground.

  “Come on. Get in.”

  Ralph didn’t move.

  “Looks like he doesn’t want to come along,” said the sheriff from inside the truck.

  “I want him to,” said Calhoun, “and I’m supposed to be the boss.”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “Last time I left him home, he ran off.”

  “He probably ran off for a good reason,” said the sheriff. “Anyway, he did come back. You’ve got to trust him.”

  “I thought he was gone,” said Calhoun. “It was the worst feeling.” He went over and scootched down beside Ralph. “If you want to stay, you better be here when I get back.”

  Ralph licked his hand.

  He gave Ralph’s muzzle a scratch, then climbed into the sheriff’s Explorer. He turned it around and headed out the driveway. In the rearview mirror, he saw Ralph get up and saunter over to the deck.

  He didn’t know what he’d do without that dog.

  After they’d turned onto the two-lane road heading southeast to Biddeford, Calhoun turned to the sheriff and said, “So who else did you give my phone number to?”

  “What do you mean, who else?”

  “Dr. Surry called me on my damn cell phone a little while ago.”

  Calhoun had his eyes on the road, but he sensed that the sheriff was smiling.

  “Police business, I assume?” said the sheriff.

  Calhoun shrugged.

  “Actually,” said the sheriff, “that’s my cell phone, which I asked you to carry with you to facilitate our work together. I explained to everybody at the meeting today how you were involved in this case, working closely with me. They all have the number. In case they need to transact police business with you.”

  “Your phone,” said Calhoun. “In my pants.”

  “I’ll ask Dr. Surry not to pester you, if you want.”

  “She asked me to take her fishing.”

  “That,” said the sheriff, “doesn’t sound like police business. I’ll speak to her.”

  “A little late for that,” said Calhoun. “I’ll handle it.”

  “She is kinda cute,” said the sheriff.

  Calhoun grunted. “Big meeting today, huh?”

  “Gilsum, Enfield, Dr. Surry, me, couple of Portland detectives. Comparing notes.”

  “Any progress on Paul Vecchio?”

  The sheriff blew out a breath. “Not really. They’ve questioned people who knew him, mostly at the college where he worked. About the only thing we know for sure is that he had a computer in his house that he did his writing on, and now it’s gone.”

  “His killer stole it,” said Calhoun.

  “Most likely.” The sheriff paused to sip some coffee. “The picture is of a quiet man, respected teacher, no scandal in his background. Married once, divorced years ago, ex-wife remarried and living in Arizona. Vecchio lived alone, kept to himself. No current girlfriend, or boyfriend, for that matter. No love affairs that anybody would mention. No close friends, apparently. Into his writing and his teaching. Kind of a typical professor.”

  “Nobody’s typical,” said Calhoun. “Was he working on a story ?”

  “If he was, he was pretty secretive. Nobody seemed to know anything about it.”

  “In other words, that investigation is going nowhere.”

  “Gilsum’s got some people on it,” said the sheriff. “We’re assuming it’s connected with the Watson case. We’re doing a little better with that one.”

  “I wouldn’t have said we were doing all that well,” said Calhoun.

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “the ME in Augusta estimates that Watson had been dead between nine and ten days when we found him. That narrows the time of death down to about forty-eight hours. That’s something.”

  Calhoun thought for a minute. “We found him last Tuesday morning. Today’s Monday. That makes it… two weeks ago this past weekend. So it probably happened sometime on the weekend.”

  “That’s exactly right,” said the sheriff. “Saturday would be ten days, Sunday nine, and given that, we can pin down the time of death even closer, because Watson worked his shift in the lumberyard that Saturday. He was scheduled to work Monday morning and didn’t show up.”

  “Sometime Saturday night, Sunday, or Sunday night, then.”

  The sheriff grunted. “They couldn’t find anybody who’d seen him after he left work on Saturday. None of the neighbors could remember seeing him that Sunday.”

  “Would they’ve seen him?” said Calhoun.

  “Not necessarily,” said the sheriff. “Anyway, for lack of anything more specific, I’m figuring this happened Saturday night. Last time he was seen alive, as far as we can tell, was Saturday around six in the afternoon.”

  “Any complaints about Watson since he got out?” said Calhoun.

  “Gilsum checked that very question. The answer is no. No formal complaints were filed, anyway, if you don’t count the one Miz Perkins made about his dog. Not to say he behaved himself, but if he didn’t, nobody reported it, nor did any of the people the cops talked to mention it.” The sheriff paused. “I got something you’ll find interesting, I think.” He reached around into the backseat and hefted a briefcase onto his lap. He opened it and pulled out a manila folder. “Transcript of Watson’s trial.”

  “Yes,” said Calhoun. “I’m interested.”

  The sheriff riffled through some papers. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “Here we go. Cast of characters. Mr. Acworth—that is, the late Mr. Acworth, now deceased from a Jet Ski accident. He’s the ADA who prosecuted the case, questioning his witness, Mr. Dunbar, who is
the father of the alleged victim, Bonnie Dunbar. Mr. Maxner, of course, is our friend the public defender. Judge Roper is, well, the judge who we talked with. Got all that?”

  “Got it.” Calhoun was holding down his speed. He was interested in what the sheriff had to say, but he was trying to concentrate on his driving, too, keeping a careful watch on the narrow road. It wound through the rolling countryside, past swamps and woodlands, pastures and cornfields, in the general direction of Biddeford on the coast just south of Portland. Darkness was settling over the landscape, and he wanted to be alert for deer leaping in front of the vehicle, or for a skunk or cottontail rabbit or raccoon frozen by his headlights in the middle of the road. He didn’t want to run over any small innocent creatures, and swerving to avoid a deer—or colliding with one, for that matter—could get him and the sheriff killed. So he drove attentively.

  “Okay,” said the sheriff. “So Franklin Dunbar, the father, is on the stand. Acworth, the prosecutor, says’I’m reading this here’he says: ‘Sir, please tell the court how your daughter has been doing since the incident.’ And Dunbar says, ‘She’s lost weight. She barely eats anything. She won’t go to school. She won’t even leave the house. Whenever I’m home, she goes to her room and closes the door, because she can’t bear to look at me, never mind talk to me or … or let me hug her. I’m her father, and just seeing me makes her sick. Physically sick, I mean. I understand. Her therapist explained it, and my wife keeps telling me. It’s not me. It’s any man. All men. So I’m not supposed to take it personally. I’m supposed to be patient and hope my dear Bonnie gets better. It’s because of what that man did to her. That man right there. He ruined her. She’ll never be the same. He’ he might as well have killed her. He killed the girl she was, do you see? She’s practically dead. Her spirit is dead. Do you understand, you son of a bitch? Are you listening to me? Yes, you. Look at me, damn you. That’s what you did. You killed my little girl’s spirit. You might as well have shot her or stabbed her. She was a sweet, trusting child, all the time singing. Loved animals. Loved people. Trusted people. She was just an innocent child. Wanted to be a doctor so she could cure sick children. Now … I can’t imagine her having a boyfriend, getting married. Having any kind of normal life. You. I said look at me. You deserve to die. You are a horrible, disgusting animal. You are evil. You should burn in hell forever and ever. I pray for that. You should have that… that evil penis of yours cut off with a dull knife. Somebody should hack it off slowly, and’’ Here,” the sheriff said, “a bit tardy, I might say, our friend Otis Maxner, the public defender, objects, and Judge Roper grants the objection, and Acworth, the ADA, no doubt quite pleased with his witness’s testimony, says, ‘No further questions.’ And the judge says, ‘Your witness, Mr. Maxner,’ and Maxner says, ‘I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor.’“