Bitch Creek

by Tapply, William

  When she’d asked him what he did remember, he tried to explain about the big holes in his mind, the odd clarities that came to him sometimes, the characters that flitted like ghosts into and out of his consciousness, people he’d once known whom he’d forgotten except when they dropped unexpectedly into his mind and who refused to stay around long enough to get reacquainted. He told her about his dreams, and how he knew they came out of what he thought of as his Life Before Memory, before ten thousand volts of electricity had zapped him on a mountain somewhere. He didn’t mention the phantoms that came to him when he was awake, the naked bodies that appeared in rivers and in the woods when his eyes were open, how they seemed real even after they’d disappeared. He wasn’t ready to tell her about them yet.

  “You know Frankenstein,” he’d said to Kate that first night in bed. “Well, that’s how I feel. Like some kind of monster that got killed and then brought back to life with a big jolt of electricity.”

  “I don’t think you’re a monster,” she said. “What about your family? Didn’t they help you remember?”

  “I guess I don’t have a family,” he said. “The folks at the hospital tried to fill me in. Told me some facts, which feel to me like they might as well’ve been about somebody else. Like somebody else’s biography. My parents aren’t alive. I know I grew up in Beaufort, South Carolina. I get flash-pictures of Beaufort sometimes. My mother’s name was Libby—Elizabeth—and my father was Daniel. I had a wife, they told me, but she divorced me some time before I got zapped. Nobody came to see me at the hospital except doctors and shrinks, who were all pretty interested in my case, but not necessarily interested in me, if you know what I’m saying. I guess if I’d had any close family, they would’ve come to see me in eighteen months.”

  She had pushed him onto his back, slid a leg over his, and laid her cheek on his chest. “I feel bad for you, Stoney,” she said.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, honey. It’s not so bad. The way I look at it, I’ve probably forgotten more bad stuff than good. Anyway, things keep coming back to me, and I’m getting some of it sorted out.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I guess one day you’ll probably wake up and suddenly remember there’s a woman somewhere who you love.”

  He’d stroked her hair and urged her mouth down to his. They held a long kiss, and then he peered into her eyes in the darkness of the bedroom. “I’m awake right now,” he’d said, “and I know exactly who that woman is and where she is and what she tastes like. And I know I’ll never forget any of that.”

  And in the five years since that first night, he’d never doubted that Kate Balaban was the first true love of his life.

  Shortly after sunrise, after a night when he didn’t sleep much, thinking about Lyle, Calhoun was sitting on the rocks beside Bitch Creek with Kate and Ralph, drinking coffee and watching three nice trout sipping March Brown spinners in the pool below the washed-out bridge. The biggest of the three—Calhoun guessed he’d go close to fourteen inches—had set up in a tricky eddy against the opposite bank. “You watch close,” he said to Kate. “See how he seems to be facing downstream? That’s because the current’s twisted around, bringing the food up to him. You try to stand downstream to cast to him, he’ll see you. Problem is, if you stand upstream and cast down into that eddy, the main current’ll drag your fly away from him. You need to make a quick mend in your line while it’s still in the air, throw a lot of slack into your tippet, and lay that fly about a foot from his nose . . .”

  He glanced at her. She was grinning at him.

  “What?” he said. “What’s so funny?”

  “You love that, don’t you?”

  “Love what?”

  “Problems. The harder they are, the better you like ’em. You’d ignore those two other trout there along the seam of the main current, because they’d be easy to catch. You’d just go for that tricky one.”

  “The point of fishing isn’t catching ’em, honey.”

  She hooked her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder. “What is it, then?”

  He shrugged. “Trying something you don’t know if you can succeed at. Working at it till you get it.”

  “And suppose you don’t get it?”

  “That’s good. That’s what keeps you coming back.”

  “You’re a strange man, Stonewall Jackson Calhoun,” she said. She tilted up her face, and he kissed her softly.

  Suddenly Ralph, who had been sitting there watching the fish, jerked himself to his feet, perked up his ears, looked back toward the house, and growled.

  “Shut up,” Calhoun said. He turned, shielded his eyes, and followed Ralph’s gaze.

  “I heard a car pulling in,” said Kate.

  Calhoun heard a door slam, and a moment later Sheriff Dickman appeared at the top of the slope. He waved and came down to them. “How they bitin’?” he said.

  “They’re pretty fussy this morning,” said Calhoun. “You just dropping in for coffee?”

  Dickman squatted down beside them. “Wish I was,” he said. He looked at Kate, then back at Calhoun. “Afraid I’ve got some news.”

  “Lyle?” said Calhoun.

  Dickman nodded. “Somebody shot him, Stoney.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Kate. She groped for Calhoun’s hand and gripped it hard.

  “What happened?” said Calhoun.

  “Well, of course, what happened is what we got to figure out, and I’m going to need some help with that.” He took off his hat and ran his hand over his bald head, smoothing back his imaginary hair. “I convinced Doc Pritchard to come in last night, give us a quick autopsy. It didn’t fit, drowning there in that little pond, big strong young man like that.” Dickman poked himself in the solar plexus with his forefinger. “Had a hole in him right here. Perfect center shot. Doc dug a twenty-two long-rifle slug out of him.”

  “So he didn’t drown,” said Calhoun.

  “Actually,” said the sheriff, “he did drown. That little slug tumbled around in there, tore him up some, and there was a good deal of bleeding. It accounts for why he didn’t get to shore. Poor bugger had to ’ve been in a lot of misery. But what killed him was drowning, all right.”

  “I carried him out of there,” said Calhoun. “I didn’t see any bullet hole.”

  Dickman shrugged. “A twenty-two makes a little hole less than a quarter of an inch in diameter. Not a hole you’d notice in a man’s fishing shirt. I guess any blood would’ve been washed away in the pond.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Fred Green,” he said.

  “Guess so,” said the sheriff. “We’ve got to find him, Stoney. The quicker the better. You’re the only one who saw that man.”

  Calhoun stood up and helped Kate to her feet. “Let’s go up to the house,” he said.

  The three of them sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee. “I need a good description of Mr. Green,” said the sheriff.

  Calhoun closed his eyes. “I can see him perfectly.” He looked up at Kate.“Honey, reach behind you, hand me that pad of paper and a pencil.”

  She did, and Calhoun frowned for a minute, then began sketching. As he did, he talked. “Five foot nine or ten,” he said. “I’d say about one-forty-five, one-fifty. Blue eyes. Pale, kinda washed-out, more gray than blue, actually. Wire-rimmed glasses. Big ears that stick straight out. Howdy-Doody ears. Like this.” He drew Fred Green’s ears, cocked his head, and nodded. “Little scar beside his left eyebrow, crescent-shaped, maybe half an inch long. Soft hands, liver spots. Tanned face, thinning white hair, widow’s peak. Wrinkles here”—he was sketching Fred Green’s face, filling in the details, watching it magically appear as the pencil moved over the paper—”and here, alongside his mouth. Perfect teeth. Capped, probably. If they’re dentures, they’re expensive ones. He was wearing casual clothes—short-sleeved cotton shirt, buttoned to the throat, chino pants with pleats in front, braided leather belt, shiny oxblood loafers—all new, clean, top-of-the-line. Gold Rolex on his left wrist. Manicured fi
ngernails. Nicest fingernails I’ve ever seen on a man.” He put down the pencil, cocked his head at the sketch he’d just drawn, then shrugged and turned it around for the sheriff. “That’s him. That’s how he looks.”

  Dickman glanced at it, then frowned at Calhoun. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Huh?”

  “I didn’t know you were a damn artist, Stoney.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “I’m not. This is just what I see in my head, that’s all.”

  “I think that’s what artists do,” said the sheriff. “They make pictures of what they see in their heads. It’s a gift.”

  “Well, I can’t say anything about that. I wasn’t thinking about it, Sheriff. I just did it. Saw it in my head and put it down there on the paper.”

  “This is a professional piece of work,” said Dickman. “And all that detail you remembered. You’ve been trained for this, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Calhoun said. And as he said it, he had one of those quick memory-flickers—a dark classroom, others in the room, sitting in rows, a desk that was a little too small for him, a projection screen, photographs flashing on it one after the other, changing every few seconds, a dozen of them, maybe more, squinting at them, concentrating, forcing himself to remember them, to line them up in his head, to see those photographs . . .

  Then the memory was gone. Calhoun shook his head. “I don’t know how I did that, Sheriff. But that’s him, all right. That’s Mr. Fred Green who says he’s from Key Largo, Florida, who was with Lyle when he got shot. That’s exactly what he looks like.”

  The sheriff picked up the paper, then stood up. “I’ve got to fax this back to the office right away. Stoney, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to come with me.”

  Calhoun nodded, then looked at Kate. “Can you handle the shop this morning, honey?”

  She nodded. “We’ve got no guide trips booked. I’ll be fine. You just keep me posted, okay?”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  CALHOUN RODE SHOTGUN AND THE SHERIFF drove to Millie Dobson’s house. He pulled into her driveway, parked beside her green Cherokee, and glanced at his watch. “It’s not even eight yet. I need to use her fax. Suppose she’s open for business?”

  “Millie’s always open for business,” said Calhoun.

  They climbed out of Dickman’s Explorer, and Calhoun followed him up onto Millie Dobson’s front porch. The sheriff rang the bell, and a minute later the door opened.

  Millie was wearing a silky white blouse with several of the top buttons undone, a string of pearls around her neck, a narrow black skirt that stopped several inches above her knees, and stockinged feet with no shoes. She was trying to hook a big dangly earring into her left ear. “Uh-oh,” she said when she saw the sheriff. “What’d I do now?”

  “I don’t know, Millie,” he said. “Something, I’m damn sure of that. I could arrest you just for the way you’re looking right now. But the fact is, it’s that fax machine of yours I’m after today.”

  She glanced over Dickman’s shoulder and caught Calhoun’s eye. “You’re keeping bad company, Stoney. Folks’re gonna start talking.”

  “I expect they already are,” he said.

  She pushed open the screen door. “Well, come on in, then. Make it snappy. I’ve got people who want to buy a house coming by any minute, and I sure don’t want a pair of derelicts like you two hanging around here scaring them off.”

  Dickman tipped his cap as he entered. “We’ll be out from under your feet in no time, ma’am.”

  “Coffee’s plugged in,” she said. “Help yourself. I’ve got to finish dressing. Think you can work the machine by yourself?”

  “I’ve done it once or twice before,” said the sheriff.

  She left the room, and Dickman found a piece of blank paper. “Now, Stoney,” he said, “you tell me all those descriptors of Fred Green again, so I can write ’em down and send ’em to the office along with this portrait you drew for me.”

  Calhoun shut his eyes, conjured up his mind-picture of Green, and told the sheriff everything he saw, right down to the man’s approximate shoe size.

  “Okay,” said the sheriff. “Now what about that car he was driving?”

  “White Ford Taurus,” he said. “Four doors. Maine plates. This year’s model. A rental, I’d say.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Calhoun shrugged. “He was from away. Said Key Largo. Maybe, maybe not—but definitely not a Mainer. So that wouldn’t be his car. Seems like all rental cars are new and white.”

  The sheriff smiled and shook his head. “You’ve got a cop’s mind, Stoney.”

  “I’ve got a weird mind, is what I’ve got.”

  “Same difference, I guess.”

  Dickman ran the papers through the fax machine. Then he pulled out his wallet and laid a ten-dollar bill on Millie’s desk. “We’re done, Millie,” he called in the direction of where she had disappeared to. “Thank you.”

  “Any time,” came her reply. “You boys clear out quick, now. I don’t want those nice people thinking I’ve got trouble with the law.”

  Back in the sheriff’s Explorer, Calhoun said, “Now what?”

  “Let’s drop in on Jacob Barnes. Then I want to take a look at the place where you found Lyle.”

  As they drove, Dickman said, “Millie’s an attractive lady, isn’t she?”

  Calhoun said, “You’re not tempted, are you, Sheriff?”

  Dickman laughed. “Not hardly. Jane and I’ve been married thirtytwo years, and I can honestly say I haven’t regretted a minute of it. No, I’m just saying it’s kind of odd someone hasn’t won her heart. She’s got about everything a man could want—including plenty of money.” He chuckled. “If Dublin had a mayor, no doubt she’d be it. Nobody’d dare vote against her. She knows everything about everybody, going back to their ancestors. Bet she gave you the entire history of that piece of land of yours.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “It used to belong to a family named Calhoun who got burned out in forty-seven, is all I know.”

  “Kinfolk of yours?”

  Calhoun shrugged. “Guess not. I’m not from around here.”

  “Ask Millie sometime,” said the sheriff. “She’ll give you the whole story.”

  Five minutes later the sheriff pulled up beside the little mom-and-pop store across from the church at the crossroads. Calhoun followed him inside.

  They found Jacob Barnes pouring water into the coffee machine in the back corner of the store. The old man either hadn’t heard them come in or else had decided to ignore them, and he didn’t turn until the sheriff said, “Morning, Jacob.”

  “Oh, mornin’, there, Sheriff. Stoney, how you doin’?”

  Calhoun nodded. “Not bad.”

  Barnes got the machine switched on, then gestured to the chairs that were gathered in a semicircle. “You boys come to make a purchase, or to set?” As if to express his own preference, he slouched into one of the chairs.

  “Neither,” said the sheriff. He handed Calhoun’s sketch of Fred Green to Barnes. “Wondered if you might’ve seen this man. He was driving a new white Taurus.”

  Barnes squinted at it, then looked up at the sheriff and shrugged. “Can’t say that I have. Who is he?”

  “A young man drowned up in Keatsboro the other day,” said the sheriff. “We think this man might know something about it.”

  Barnes nodded. “I heard about that. Up to the Potter place. Damn shame. What’s this fella got to do with it?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Well,” he shrugged, “afraid I can’t help you. Maybe Marcus knows something. Hey,” he yelled toward the door that opened from the back of the store. “Hey, Marcus. Come on in here, boy.”

  A minute later the door opened and Marcus Dillman, Jacob’s grandson, his daughter’s fatherless son, came in. Marcus was a hulking young man in his early twenties. He wore a bushy blond beard, overalls over a black T-shirt, a faded New York Mets base
ball cap with the visor tugged down low over his eyes, and a perpetually good-natured grin.

  Jacob had once confided to Calhoun: “Marcus ain’t too swift. Truth to tell, he’s numb as a hake. But he’s a good boy, strong as an ox, and he’ll work his ass off, so long as it don’t require spelling or multiplying.”

  Marcus looked at Calhoun and the sheriff and nodded. “Mornin’, gentlemen,” he said. Then he touched Jacob on the shoulder. “What’s up, Grampa?”

  “You ever seen this fella?” Jacob handed the sketch to Marcus.

  Marcus frowned at it, then shook his head. “Nossuh.” He looked up at Calhoun and grinned. “Funny ears, huh?”

  Calhoun smiled.

  Dickman took the sketch from Marcus. “Supposing I use that machine of yours,” he said to Jacob, “and leave a copy of this man’s face with you. Tack it up there beside the door.”

  Barnes shrugged. “Nickel a copy.”

  The sheriff went over to the photocopy machine, and Jacob said, “Help yourself to coffee, Stoney.”

  “I’m all set,” said Calhoun.

  “That was your friend, Lyle McMahan, wasn’t it? Who drowned himself up there at Potter’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “You found him, I hear?”

  Calhoun smiled. “Do you hear everything, Jacob?”

  Barnes nodded. “Suppose I do.”

  “Well, if you hear anything else—you, too, Marcus—you be sure to let the sheriff know.”

  Barnes squinted at him. “Sounds to me like this wasn’t no accident.”

  “I guess you’ll have to ask the sheriff about that,” said Calhoun.

  Dickman came back and handed a copy of Calhoun’s sketch to Jacob. “I wrote my number on the bottom,” he said. “You might point it out to folks who come in, ask them to take a look and feel free to call.”