by Doug Allyn
“Little early, isn’t it?” I said.
He eyed me a moment, and I braced myself for a blast of morning static, but he just shrugged. “Yes, ma’am, I guess it is. Do me a Coke instead. Do you know a guy named Walter McClain?”
“I know who he is,” I said, parking a Coke in front of him.
“In a little town like this, everybody knows everybody, right?”
“More or less,” I said.
He waited a beat. “So? What can you tell me about him?”
“Not much. In small towns folks kind of look out for each other. I know who Walter is, I even know some of his friends. I don’t know you.”
“Calderon,” he said. “Jimmy Calderon. You?”
“Michelle Mitchell,” I said. “People call me Mitch.”
“Okay, Mitch, I’m not a friend of Mr. McClain’s exactly. More like a... distant relative. So tell me what you know about him. Here’s something for your trouble.” He laid a five on the bar.
I was wearing my morning work scruffs, jeans and a Michigan State sweatshirt. I dug in my pocket, came up with a quarter, and dropped it on his five. “There’s a pay phone by the door,” I said. “If Walter’s in the book, I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear from a distant relative.” Again I waited for some guff. But he just smiled, slid off his barstool, and sauntered to the phone.
“Thunder Bay Drive?” he said, scanning the book. “Where’s that?”
“A mile or so down the lakeshore,” I said. “But I imagine he’ll be at the plant. McClain Hydraulics.”
“Yeah? He own the place, does he?”
“I really couldn’t say,” I said.
“Right,” he nodded. “Small towns. Thanks, Mitch. You been a big help. Maybe after I get settled in you and me can go out some time. Have dinner, a few laughs. I’ll see ya around.” And he strolled out, cocky as a goose the day after Christmas.
I walked to the end of the bar and watched him get into a tan Ford Escort with airport rental plates. Odd. He didn’t strike me as the tourist type. He gunned the Escort out of the lot like a teenybopper showing off for his buddies. I thought about giving Walt McClain a call, but what would I say? Somebody asked about you? The guy seemed harmless. And then business picked up and I forgot about him.
“What do you mean, he walked on water?” I asked.
“Exactly that,” Sheriff Bauer said blandly, leaning on the bar. “Hughie LeBlanc was fishing below the Narrows Dam. A flatlander from Toledo asked him where the bass were bitin’, so Hughie tells him to wade out in the channel till he feels the footing slope away, then drop a hook. Only the guy just kept walking, six, seven feet out. Water was barely over his ankles and the channel’s at least ten foot deep there. Hughie swears he thought it was the second coming. The guy was walking on water.”
“What’s the joke, Charlie?” I said. “You’d need stilts to walk more than a foot out from that bank.”
“It’s no joke, Mitch. There’s a car down there, jammed crossways in the channel. The guy from Toledo walked up the trunk and onto the roof and stood there. And old Hughie almost had a heart attack.”
“If the car’s near the surface, why didn’t Hughie spot it?”
“It’s black water there. River silt’s all roiled up from the dam spillway upstream. 1 couldn’t see the car even after Hughie showed me where it was. Had to poke around with a fishing rod to be sure he wasn’t pulling my leg. I need a diver to check out the vehicle and hook up a towline, Mitch, somebody who can work blind. Know anybody who can use a quick seventy-five bucks?”
I glanced around the Nest. There were a few scuba divers in the club, we do a good lakefront trade. But there was no one I’d send into black water. It’s an ugly, dangerous job, definitely not for amateurs. “I know a heckuva diver who’ll do it for a hundred,” I said.
“Thought you might,” Charlie said. “Get your gear.”
The sun was setting as Charlie Bauer guided his blue sheriff’s department Blazer carefully down the embankment to the narrow shelf of the Huron River’s floodplain. The wrecker was already there, backed up to the river’s edge. Biff Kowalski was stalking around his huge GMC 7500, stomping his greasy engineer’s boots into the soft clay of the bank. Biff’s built as solidly as his tow truck and weighs nearly as much. He’s usually an even-tempered sort, placid as a side of beef and only slightly brighter. But he knows trucks and winches and rivers. And he looked worried. Which made me worried.
“I don’t like this, Charlie,” Biff said, scowling at the river. “Current’s awful damn fast here. When the car comes outa the muck it’s gonna have one helluva lot of water leanin’ on it. Maybe enough to burn out my bull-winch or even drag my wrecker in if the car’s big enough. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Mitch’ll get the make and model while she’s down there,” Charlie said. “Now stand next to me, give a lady some privacy.”
Charlie and Biff stood together with their backs to the Blazer to shield me from the gawkers along the road as I slid out of my jeans and got ready for the river. Charlie’s courtesy wasn’t really necessary, I was wearing a swimsuit, but the people up on the shoulder wouldn’t know that, and Charlie Bauer is a very old-fashioned guy in many ways.
I put on a “woolly bear” suit of long underwear first, then a Farmer John-style foam-neoprene wet suit topped by a hooded vest. The kibitzers up by the road were probably making wisecracks about a woman overdressing, but working in river current is like standing in front of an air conditioner going full blast. Hypothermia can make you stupid and clumsy before you know it, and in black water, stupid and clumsy can kill you quicker than Bonnie and Clyde.
When I stepped out of the vehicle I got a smattering of applause from the peanut gallery along the road, and I gave ’em a quick bow. I popped open the Blazer’s tailgate, then hesitated.
Something was odd. I glanced back up at the motley line of spectators and spotted the young Latin I’d met in the Nest the week before. He’d cleaned himself up. He was wearing a dark blazer and tie and he’d lost the ratty goatee. Maybe he really was a relative and Walter took him in. Surprise, surprise.
Back to business. I strapped on a lightweight backpack with a single thirty-minute air tank, opting for maneuverability over dive time. My gear belt held a lifeline on a reel and two flashlights, and I had a helmet light as well, powered by a belt-mounted battery pack. I didn’t bother with flippers, I’d be wading down there, not swimming. I double-checked my regulator, then joined Charlie at the river’s edge and handed him the end of my lifeline.
“Three hard tugs if I’ve got trouble. Five if I want you to haul me out. How do you want to work this?”
“You know the drill. Check for a body first. If you find one, come on out and we’ll see about getting the spillways closed to get a better look at the scene. If the car’s empty, get the make and model and come up for the cable. And Mitch, be careful, okay? Biff’s right, last week’s rain has the river up and the current’s nasty here.”
“Right.” I waded a few steps downstream, then stepped away from the bank. Even with the water only waist deep, the pressure from the river was a living thing, tugging at my legs, trying to pull me out into the main thrust of the current. I felt a roller-coaster rush of adrenaline. Excitement, tempered by fear. This one would be interesting.
I moved cautiously upstream, groping blindly in the murk ahead until I touched metal. I ran my hands quickly over it, tracing its contours. It was the rounded edge of the trunk. The car was nose-down in the riverbed and I was on the driver’s side. I braced myself and pushed hard on the rear fender. Couldn’t budge it. Good. It was bedded firmly in the muck. The greatest danger in a dive like this is having the vehicle shift at a bad time and pin you under it. This one was solid as a stone elephant.
Using the car’s body to shield myself from the current, I slipped under the surface. Absolute blackness. Not a hint of light. I switched on my helmet lamp, but it only haloed off the turbid silt. Whiteout instead of blackout. No hel
p. I switched it off and worked blind, feeling my way along the side of the car.
Roofline, rear window... And then a gap. The driver’s door was open. Damn. This would make it trickier. If the car had been closed up, the silt would have settled out of the water inside it and I could have checked the interior with a light. As it was, the only way to check for a body in there was by touch. I felt an icy chill that had nothing to do with the river current.
There was no other way. Grasping the steering wheel with my left hand, I quickly ran my right hand over the front seat, the ceiling, the dashboard, the floor. Nothing. I inched farther inside, reached around the front seat and groped blindly in the back. I began on the ceiling, slid my hand across until I felt the backseat, then down — something spongy moved beneath my hand!
I recoiled, banging the back of my head against the front door frame. Damn! My eyes felt like they were pressed against the Lexan lens of my face mask. But there was nothing to see. Black water. I tried to remember what... whatever I’d touched felt like. Cloth. A sleeve perhaps? With an arm in it? I wasn’t sure.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. I couldn’t even check my watch to find out how long I’d been down. Not long enough. Nowhere near thirty minutes. I had no excuse to surface. Pity. I had a memory flash of a comedian... George Carlin? Talking about being on an airplane and seeing flames coming out of an engine. But not telling the stewardess about it. Because he’d rather die than look like a schmuck.
It was funny because it was true. And the truth was, frightened or not, I wasn’t about to surface and tell Sheriff Bauer or Biff that there might be a body in this godforsaken car. Neither one would say anything. But they’d think it. Next time, get a man for the job.
I swallowed hard and reached into the rear passenger area. And brushed against the cloth. And felt it give. Too late to back off now. I squeezed, gently at first. Then harder. The fabric pinched together. Not a sleeve, or a coat... The material was too coarse. More like... Hell, it was carpet. The carpeting from the rear floor had bubbled up and I was holding a piece of it.
I ran my hand quickly over it, far enough to know there were no more surprises. And then I backed out and surfaced, letting Charlie pull me close enough to the bank to stand.
I spat out my mouthpiece. “Nobody home. Can’t tell what kind of a car it is, can’t see an inch. But I could reach clear across to the far door, so it must be a compact. Want me to hook it up?”
“You want a break first? You sound a little shaky.”
“It’s cold down there,” I said curtly. Biff handed me the hook on the end of the cable and reeled a few feet off the winch. I replaced my mouthpiece, stepped off the bank, and slid back down into the blackness. I felt along the car till I found the rear wheel, then beyond it to the frame. I looped the line around a solid cross member, hooked up, then backed out and surfaced again. Charlie gave me a hand up.
“You okay?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. Biff already had the wrecker’s winch cranking, the big truck rocking on its tandem wheels as the reel drew the steel cable taut. It hesitated a minute when it hit dead level, then with a deep, liquid gurgle the river muck released its hold and the car began inching slowly out of the dark and up the bank. When the rear wheels crawled clear of the river and I was sure I wouldn’t have to go back down, I trudged over to Charlie’s Blazer and shed my air tank and tool belt. And took a moment to think about how ugly it had been to feel that carpet. And how good it felt not to quit. A little private “attagirl.” The best kind.
When I turned back, the car was already two thirds clear of the river. Coffee-colored water gushed out of the open door and river silt slid down the roof and the sides.
The steel cable had crushed part of the bumper assembly, popping the trunk. But the car was easily recognizable. And familiar. It was an airport rental Ford Escort. Tan.
Charlie was checking the license plate against his clipboard. “Gotcha,” he said.
“Were you looking for this one?” I asked.
“It was on the hot sheet,” he nodded. “Guy took it on a three-day rental at the airport ten days ago.”
“A young guy? Latin?” I asked.
He glanced at the sheet, then at me. “Yeah. Name was Calderon. What are you, a witch?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “But not this time. I met him last week. In fact, if you’d like to talk to him, he was standing with the rubbemeckers up on — there. See the tall guy on the end, the one in the blue sports jacket? That’s him.”
“No kidding?” Charlie said. “Hey! Excuse me, you, the guy on the end? Could you come down here a minute, please?”
Calderon hesitated, then stepped over the railing and clambered down the bank. He was carrying a flight bag, and as he entered the ring of light from the wrecker’s halogen roof rack I knew I was mistaken. There was a resemblance, but it wasn’t the same man. He was older, more solidly built. And better looking.
“My diver here thinks there’s a chance you know something about this car,” Charlie said.
“I don’t understand,” Calderon said.
“Sorry, my mistake,” I put in. “From a distance you looked a lot like the guy who rented this car.”
“Jimmy Calderon? Is this his car?”
“A James Calderon rented it,” Charlie nodded. “You know him?”
“I’m Ray Calderon. Jimmy’s my brother,” he said, stalking over to the dripping car. “How did it get in the river?”
“I was hoping you could tell us,” Charlie said.
“No, I don’t know anything about this. I just flew in. I told the airport cabby to take me to your office, but as we drove past he said it looked like the whole department was here, so we stopped.”
“Why were you looking for me?” Charlie asked.
“My brother came here on — business, last week. He was supposed to stay in touch. When he didn’t, I got worried.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Calderon?” Charlie asked.
“Virginia. Norfolk. I got out of the navy a few months ago.”
“A long way to come,” Charlie said. “Why didn’t you just phone?”
Calderon hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Because if Jimmy was all right I didn’t want to cause any fuss.”
“You mean because your brother’s on parole,” Charlie said. “I ran a check on him when his car went overdue. Armed robbery, wasn’t it?”
“It sounds worse than it was,” Calderon said evenly. “He was young, he made some mistakes. He’s paid for them.”
“Not entirely, or he wouldn’t still be on parole. Let me ask you a question, Mr. Calderon, straight up. What are the chances your brother ditched this car on a whim and skipped?”
“No way,” Calderon said positively. “He only had six months of parole left and he had a job. He had no reason to run.”
“He didn’t have permission to leave Virginia either, but he did.”
“Charlie?” Biff interrupted. “I’m hooked up and ready to haul ’er to the yard. You want the stuff in the trunk?”
“What stuff?”
“Luggage,” Biff said. “A couple suitcases.”
“Suitcases?” Charlie said.
“They’re Jimmy’s all right,” Ray Calderon said grimly, sorting quickly through the sodden clothing. “This is a picture of my — our mother,” he said, handing a photograph in a K mart frame to Charlie. “You still think he dumped the car and took off? Without his clothes?”
“Probably not,” Charlie said honestly. “On the other hand, I can’t say I like the alternative any better.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had a hard rain most of last week, Mr. Calderon, and the riverbank’s so muddied up we can’t be sure where the car went in. See that area up there, just before the bridge? It’s a blind curve, a nasty one. People miss it sometimes, mostly out-of-towners who don’t know it’s there. It’s especially difficult to see in the rain. And with the bank muddy, a car’d go down it like a toboggan,
hit the river, and the current would carry it to just about the point where we hauled it out.”
“And you think my brother missed a curve in the dark and wound up in the river?”
“No sir, I’m not saying that. We don’t know what occurred yet. I just want you to be aware of the possibility.”
“I see.” Calderon nodded. He walked away from us to the river’s edge, staring out into the dark, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the pain.
“But if... if that’s what happened, where’s the body?”
“The driver’s side door was open,” I said reluctantly.
“But dammit, Jimmy’s a strong swimmer and that car was only a few feet from the bank.”
“That’s where it came to rest,” Charlie said. “It would have gone in about fifty yards upstream. Maybe he was injured in the crash, or simply couldn’t find the bank in the rain.”
“Maybe,” Calderon said. “Where would a body end up, if it went into the water here?”
“The river empties into Lake Huron about four hundred yards downstream,” I said. “The thrust of the current continues more than a mile offshore. With the water this high, it might be closer to two miles.”
“Bodies surface after a day or so,” Calderon said, his voice barely audible. “Wouldn’t someone have found it?”
“In the summer, maybe,” Charlie said, “when we have a lot of boaters. But this time of year, especially with all the rain this past week, it’s quite possible it wouldn’t be seen. We can start an air search tomorrow, but it’s a big lake out there, Mr. Calderon, a hundred and fifty miles to the Canadian shore. And he might not be on the surface now. Meanwhile, why don’t we consider the other possibilities.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but maybe you do. Why did your brother come up here to Huron Harbor?”
“It was — personal. He was — he was trying to locate his father.”
“His father?” I said, surprised.
