Bitch Creek

by Tapply, William

  “Are you in some kind of trouble for this?” said Calhoun.

  “Nope,” he said. “They don’t like it, but the hell with ’em.”

  “Can’t blame them,” said Calhoun. “You dragged them out here in the middle of the night for nothing. They think I’m some kind of whacko, I bet.”

  Dickman chuckled. “That they do, Stoney. I guess if you’d seen yourself on your hands and knees digging in the dirt like a wild dog, you probably would, too.”

  They drove in silence for a while, then Calhoun said, “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “You think I’m a whacko?”

  The sheriff let out a long breath. “Tell you the truth, Stoney, I don’t know what to make of it. It’s peculiar, you’ve got to admit that. Those other fellas covered all that ground down there behind that hillside, and they didn’t find a single foot sticking up. Folks who’re buried hardly ever change their minds, undig themselves, crawl out of their holes, shovel the dirt back in, cover it all over with leaves, and walk away in the middle of the night. Unless we’re dealing with some kind of ghoul or something here.”

  “You’re a good man, Sheriff,” said Calhoun, “and I appreciate your tolerance. But this isn’t a joke.”

  “I know. I’ve got to admit it. You got me worried.”

  “Me, too,” said Calhoun. “That foot . . .”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” said the sheriff. “Finding Lyle like that, lugging him out of the woods—pretty damn upsetting for a man.”

  Calhoun said nothing.

  “Stoney, don’t get me wrong—”

  “It’s okay,” said Calhoun. “I don’t blame you. Sometimes I wonder about it myself.”

  They arrived back at the restaurant where Calhoun had left his truck. He slid out of the sheriff’s vehicle, opened the back door for Ralph, then leaned in. “So now what?” he said.

  “Now you go get yourself some sleep. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll get ahold of you tomorrow. We’ll take it from there. I’ll call you.”

  Calhoun stood there looking in at the sheriff. Dickman met his eyes for a minute, then turned to look out the front window. “I’m beat, Stoney. Give that door a good slam. It doesn’t latch right.”

  Calhoun closed the door and the Explorer pulled away. Calhoun watched its taillights disappear around the corner.

  Then he whistled in Ralph, and they got into the truck and drove home.

  It was almost three in the morning. Calhoun had promised Kate he’d open up, and since it was a Sunday, another busy weekend day at the shop—a day when folks tended to stop in on their way to the water to check the tides, pick up some extra leader material, buy a few flies, and ask for advice—he should have the OPEN sign hanging on the door by six.

  Going to bed didn’t make much sense.

  So he and Ralph sat out on the deck, with the kitchen lights glowing from inside and Bitch Creek gurgling peacefully in the darkness down at the bottom of the hill, and he waited for the time to pass. Calhoun never needed much sleep. Some nights he hardly slept at all, and it didn’t particularly affect him the next day. He figured it was just another thing that getting struck by lightning did to a man.

  Anyway, on this night he feared sleep and the dreams it would likely bring. He’d seen a foot buried in the woods—except now he found himself questioning it. Maybe it had been another one of those mind-tricks, another phantom drifting down a trout stream.

  The sheriff doubted him, doubted his sanity. Kate was generally pissed at him, and Lyle was dead, and the Man in the Suit was apparently setting about to alienate those who knew him. That left him with nobody, which put him back to where he’d started five years ago when he’d left the hospital—alone and rootless, a man with no past and no clear vision of the future, only some vague unanchored mind-flashes that seemed to connect him to the Maine woods.

  When he’d seen it, Calhoun had believed it was a real foot sticking out of the ground. Ralph had been whining. He didn’t whine for no reason.

  But Calhoun had to confront the possibility that this was another apparition, another ghost. Or a ghost’s body part, anyway. He knew he’d found the place where he’d seen it, and it was pretty clear that there was no foot.

  When he’d seen that dead body floating in Bitch Creek, it meant that he was going to find Lyle’s body in the water.

  So what did this foot apparition—if an apparition it was—mean?

  Out there on the deck, the diffuse light from the kitchen made the woods absolutely black around him. Calhoun reached down and gave Ralph a scratch on his ribs. Ralph had whined. He knew that.

  The rain on his face awakened him. The woods were still dark, but the sky had begun to brighten. His watch read a little after four-thirty. He stood up, stretched, went inside, and took a long hot shower. Then he put the coffee together, slipped on his windbreaker, and went out onto the deck.

  He checked the sky and the wind, as he did automatically every morning. Weather, wind, tide—crucial variables for the saltwater fisherman. Today a layer of gray clouds hung thick and heavy over the woods, and the damp easterly breeze riffled the leaves at the tops of the oaks. The air smelled salty and wet, and the rain was soft and misty.

  He figured it was already raining hard along the coast.

  Well, Calhoun knew exactly what he’d say to the fishermen who’d come stomping into the shop shaking the rain out of their hair and looking for advice. “Don’t forget your foul-weather gear,” he’d tell them, and the smart ones would nod solemnly and share his joke. Then he’d explain to them how the wind would stir up the bait and drive it against the shore, and how a gray, rainy day emboldened striped bass, how even the big ones, normally nocturnal predators, might hang around inshore on a day such as this one.

  It promised to be a tough day for fly casting, a miserable day to be on the water—but a good day to catch some fish.

  He went back into the kitchen, filled his travel mug with coffee, whistled up Ralph, climbed into the truck, and headed for Portland.

  In the five years that he’d been in Maine, Calhoun had explored the coast from Casco Bay to Boothbay, sometimes with Lyle or Kate, sometimes on his own. On a Sunday in June, even a cool, rainy Sunday, dozens of fishermen would drop into the shop looking for guidance, and Calhoun had learned how to spread them out, point them in a direction where they might find some fish without bumping into too many other fishermen.

  Put them onto fish, make them believe they’d been directed to a special, secret place, and they’d come back to the shop, and next time they’d buy something. Send them off on a wild goose chase and they’d never return. That, Kate had repeatedly told him, was the essence of the fishing-shop business.

  Fishermen didn’t spend a lot of money on weekends. They got geared up during the week, stopping in on lunch breaks and on their way home from work to study the merchandise, maybe pull the trigger on that expensive Billy Pate reel or the latest-generation graphite fly rod. A fishing shop such as Kate’s donated goodwill on weekends and made money during the week.

  So Calhoun gave away free advice all morning while the east wind skidded clouds across the sky and blew a steady soft rain against the windows of the shop and Ralph snoozed on the sweater in the corner, and he was too busy to think very much about Lyle’s murder or a foot buried in the woods.

  Kate came in around noon, which happened to coincide with the first time the shop had been empty of customers all morning. She was wearing sandals and jeans and a pale blue T-shirt under an ancient yellow oilskin poncho.

  She shucked off the poncho in the doorway, ran her fingers through her long black hair, and smiled at Calhoun.

  God, she was beautiful.

  “Morning, Stoney,” she said.

  “That,” he said, “is the first smile you’ve given me in a couple days.”

  She came over to him and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

 
; He touched the place on his cheek where he could still feel the hot imprint of her lips. “I thought about calling you last night,” he said. “Then I figured, hell, if she’s still pissed with me, I’d rather not know it.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t start on me, Stoney.”

  He shrugged. “How’s Walter?”

  “Suicidal, I think, though he tells me he’s fine, not to worry. This morning when I left, I made sure the bottles only had enough pills in them to get him through the day. Brought the rest with me.” She let out a long breath. “I can’t live this way, and neither can he.”

  “You didn’t need to come in,” he said. “I can take care of it.”

  “I had to come in, Stoney. I’ve got to live my life. Hell, you know the last time I went fishing?”

  “You went out with Lyle a couple weeks ago.”

  She nodded. “And before that it was another couple of weeks. You and I, we’ve got to fish, Stoney. That’s our business. We can’t let ourselves turn into goddam merchants. We got a fishing shop here, not a grocery store. What about tomorrow morning?”

  Monday was the slowest day in the shop. In the off-season, they didn’t open at all on Mondays, and during the season they opened at noon.

  “I’d love it,” said Calhoun. “Tide’s just right. Get out there five-thirty or six, we’ll catch the last three hours of the outgoing, first three of the incoming. Should be good after this weather we’re having.”

  Kate smiled. “It’s a date, then.” She touched his arm. “I hope you can bear with me for a while here. Things aren’t easy. I know I’ve been taking it out on you. I’ve got nobody else.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay, honey. It’s what friends are for. I’ve got stuff on my mind, too.”

  She nodded. “I know you do, Stoney.”

  He wanted to tell her about finding that foot sticking out of the ground in the woods near where Lyle died. But then he’d have to explain about going back and not finding it, and then wondering if he’d actually seen it in the first place. So he just said, “We’ll work it out,” and then three men in slickers came stomping into the shop.

  Toward the middle of the afternoon, Sheriff Dickman showed up. He chatted with Kate for a minute, then caught Calhoun’s eye.

  They went out onto the porch.

  “Nasty day,” said Dickman.

  “Good day for fishing,” said Calhoun.

  The sheriff nodded. “Got a little news.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. We found the motel Mr. Green was staying at. Little place on Route 1 up in Craigville called The Lobster Pot.”

  “He’s not staying there now, is he?” said Calhoun.

  “He checked in Sunday night a week ago, checked out on Tuesday morning. That was the day he showed up here. His room had already been cleaned and rented out again, so there was nothing to be learned from it. He paid with that same stolen credit card. It’s peculiar, Stoney.”

  “What is?”

  “The forensics boys went over that rented Taurus and Lyle’s Power Wagon. Not a damn thing in either of them. No suitcase, no briefcase, no airplane ticket, nothing. Not even a useful fingerprint. Nothing in the motel room. There isn’t a trace of the man anywhere.” The sheriff shook his head. “I want to find him.”

  “What’d the motel keeper have to say?”

  “Not much. One of the Lincoln County deputies talked to the woman who was at the desk. She checked Mr. Green in and out, said only that he was an old fella with a southern accent who stiffed them with someone else’s credit card.” Dickman shook his head. “Got the feelin’ that it wasn’t a very thorough interrogation. Like to go on up there, talk to her myself. But Lincoln County’s out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Do it anyway,” said Calhoun. “The hell with jurisdiction.”

  “Can’t,” said the sheriff. “I got to get along with those fellas. We’re all pretty protective of our territory. I don’t care for it when someone from another county starts hornin’ into ours. I mentioned it to Bellotti, that state cop who was with us last night. Got the feeling that he’s kinda soured on our case here.” Dickman shrugged. “Somebody ought to talk to that woman.”

  “Last night I had the feeling you were a little soured on me,” said Calhoun. “So I want to be sure I’m understanding you.”

  Dickman smiled. “I’m just thinking, a fella like you doesn’t need to concern himself about jurisdictions. If you had a mind to wander up towards Craigville, happened to drop in on The Lobster Pot Motel and found that woman at the desk—Mrs. Sousa’s her name—well, it wouldn’t bother anybody, I don’t think.”

  “I can do that,” said Calhoun.

  “You feel like taking another walk in the woods?” said Dickman.

  “If you don’t mind getting wet.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Get wet every time I take a shower. It hasn’t killed me yet. Bring Ralph.”

  Calhoun went back inside. Kate was sitting behind the front counter with her chin in her hands, staring into the distance. She turned and smiled at him. “I know,” she said. “You and the sheriff have got to do some investigating.”

  He nodded. “Probably be gone the rest of the afternoon.”

  “I can handle it. You go ahead. Appreciate your opening up today.”

  “Kate—?”

  “See you tomorrow,” she said. “We got a date. Gonna do some fishing.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  RAINWATER DRIPPED from the pines, and except for a quarrel between a pair of blue jays, the woods were silent under the wet gray sky. Ralph snuffled around in the bushes, apparently finding all kinds of interesting scent. As they trudged down the old cart path to the millpond, Calhoun thought about ways to get it off his chest.

  Finally, he decided to just blurt it out. “I’ve got to ask you something straight out,” he said to the sheriff. “Do you think I killed Lyle?”

  “Hell, no. I think Fred Green did.”

  “Well, good.”

  “But understand, that doesn’t mean I think you didn’t. There’s a difference, you know.”

  “Why would I kill Lyle? Next to Kate, he was my best friend.”

  “Hell, if I could think of a reason, I might suspect you actually did it. I’ve got to admit, for a while there I had some doubts. I wondered—and you’ve got to excuse me here, it’s just how a cynical old cop thinks—I wondered if maybe Lyle and Kate had something going, or maybe he was horning in on your business arrangement, or he owed you money. Or maybe you were fooling around with his girlfriend.” He waved his hand. “It’s the motive in this thing that’s got me.”

  “His housemates, Danny and Julia, they told me that Lyle left a long trail of broken female hearts in his wake. Including Julia’s. Probably some pissed-off boyfriends and husbands as well. Maybe Mr. Green . . .”

  The sheriff nodded. “Okay, sure. Like that. Lyle might’ve been fooling around with Green’s young wife, or maybe his daughter. Got her pregnant or something.” He shrugged. “However you want to look at it, though, Stoney, we’re still looking for Mr. Fred Green. And if he did it, that means you didn’t.”

  The path through the woods had become as familiar to him as his own driveway. It seemed as if he’d walked in and out of here a hundred times, and every time he did it, it seemed to take less time to get there.

  They descended the slope, crossed the pond at the dam, climbed the hill to the cellar hole, and went down the other side. Calhoun led them directly to the place where Ralph had dug up the foot and where Calhoun himself had dug all over again.

  Ralph sniffed around, then wandered off into the woods.

  Calhoun called him back, but Ralph showed no particular interest.

  “This was the place,” said Calhoun. “I was hoping it would look different in the daylight. But it doesn’t. It was right here.”

  “Stoney, listen,” said Dickman. “There is no body buried here. You were mistaken. If you saw a foot sticking up out of the grou
nd, it was somewhere else. Now, I came here to look around, check it out. I got my doubts, but I don’t mind doing it. But you’ve got to help me, here. Okay, you thought this was the place. But it isn’t. You can see that.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “I guess it isn’t. It’s just so damn clear in my mind,” he said. “Let’s look around.”

  They moved in ever-widening circles, beginning at the dug-up area, Calhoun and the sheriff walking side by side, until they’d covered the entire area at the foot of the hill.

  He didn’t expect they’d find anything, and they didn’t. Ralph sniffed around but showed no particular interest in anything, not even the place where he’d dug up the foot yesterday. The rain had washed away whatever scent might’ve been there, Calhoun guessed. There wasn’t even any sign that a gang of men had been tromping around there last night. Calhoun was pretty good at picking up signs in the woods—freshly broken twigs and leaves, bent-over branches and saplings, depressions in the moss, crushed grass. But the rain had erased everything.

  Finally, Calhoun said, “That’s enough, Sheriff. I give up.”

  Dickman put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Stoney. It must be scary.”

  “What?”

  “Thinking you saw something and thinking you didn’t, all at the same time.”

  Calhoun nodded. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

  They headed back up the hill to the old cellar hole.

  “Lyle loved these old artifacts,” Calhoun said.

  “Lots of stories in these woods, all right,” said the sheriff. “A hundred years ago, this whole part of Maine was settled. Covered with farms. It was all cleared fields and pastures, and every stone on every wall that runs through the woods today was lifted up and set there by somebody. Now it’s woods again.”

  Calhoun was wandering among the rubble of the fallen-down chimney, thinking about Mr. Potter, how he died, wondering if his ghost haunted the place.

  A ghoul, more likely. A body-snatcher.

  It looked like some of the chimney fieldstones had been moved recently, leaving bare depressions in the ground. He started to call to the sheriff, who was squatting on the other side of the cellar hole catching his breath, when he noticed that an area about two feet in diameter appeared to have been dug up recently. It was right at the northwest corner of the cellar hole. Whoever did it had filled it in again and tamped down the earth and placed a fieldstone on top of it. But the stone didn’t fit the bare patch of dirt, and when Calhoun poked at it with his finger, the ground was softer than it would have been if that stone had been resting there for fifty years.