Bitch Creek (12 page)

“It doesn't bother me,” said Calhoun. “Glad for the company.”

Anna Ross told him how David—her husband—had grown up on the old farm where they now lived. She was from Kittery originally. Met David at Old Orchard Beach in the summer of 1953 when she was eighteen and he was twenty, got married a year later. They had two kids, one of each, all grown up now, the girl living in Oregon, the boy in Michigan. Four grandchildren who they hardly ever saw.

David was the local jack-of-all-trades, she said with what Calhoun took to be great pride. Every small town in Maine had a David Ross—a man with a barn full of tools and vehicles and spare parts, always on call to plow your driveway, get your balky well pumps working, patch your leaky roofs, jump-start your tractors and trucks, shut down your vacation homes in the fall and open 'em up in the spring. Still at it, Anna said, though the old goat was over seventy. Couldn't seem to stop. Nobody else to do it, and too many people depended on him.

She didn't seem curious about Calhoun's life story, and since he had no interest in volunteering it, Anna Ross chattered on. A family named Potter had lived up there—she jerked her chin back toward the woods in the direction of the millpond where he'd found Lyle. Mr. Potter had died in the fire of '47. David had been a teenager on that day in October. Stayed home from school to protect his family's farm. It was just David and his mother. He'd lost his father a year or so before. They'd wondered if the Potters were okay. But David and his mum had their hands full, hosing down the house and making sure the livestock were safe, and it wasn't until a few days after the fire had burned its way east, leaving a big swath of blackened forest and empty cellar holes in its wake, that anybody bothered to check the Potter place.

They'd found Mr. Sam Potter lying on the ground next to what was left of his house, a charred body just resting there as if he'd been laid out.

Sam Potter was the only person from these parts who didn't survive the fire, Anna Ross said. Odd thing was, he'd opened all the gates and let their horses and pigs and chickens loose so they wouldn't get caught in the fire. Sam, he knew it was coming right at him, but he still couldn't get away. It came that fast.

David still talked about that day, she said, and it had happened over fifty years ago. All the old folks who'd been alive in '47 talked about that fire. Anna herself was going to school down in Kittery at the time. The fire didn't get that far south, but she'd heard about it on the radio. Of course, she didn't know David in '47, so she didn't have anyone to worry about. Even so, it was a scary time.

She tapped Calhoun's arm. “Appears to me that place is spooked,” she said. “I mean, the ghost of that poor dead man flyin' around the woods, and now your friend drowning in that little millpond.” She frowned at him. “You believe in ghosts, Mr. Calhoun?”

“Maybe.” He thought of the people he'd known before the hospital. They were ghosts to him now, flitting presences that appeared and disappeared in his thoughts, too elusive to pin down and identify, but real, nevertheless. And there were the visions that appeared unannounced, like the naked body with the flowing hair in Bitch Creek. Not to mention the real ghosts, like Lyle.

Anna Ross plucked a blade of grass from the ground beside her and clamped it between her front teeth. She peered up at the sky. “I've seen 'em,” she said quietly.

A minute later a green Explorer skidded to a stop in the dusty road and Sheriff Dickman stepped out. He left the door open and the engine running and strode over to where Calhoun and Anna Ross were sitting. He took off his Stetson, tapped it against his leg, and nodded at them. “Stoney,” he said. “Miz Ross.” He shifted his gaze to Lyle McMahan's body lying prone beside them and shook his head. “Goddam,” he muttered. He scootched down beside them. “You better tell me about it.”

Calhoun told Dickman how he'd figured out where Lyle had taken Fred Green fishing by studying the map in the gazetteer that Lyle kept under the front seat of his Power Wagon, how he'd found his body facedown in the millpond wearing his deflated float tube, how he'd lugged Lyle out, and how Mrs. Ross had happened along and made the phone call.

“That's it?” said Dickman.

Calhoun nodded.

“So how do you figure it?”

“The bottom of that pond is all peaty,” said Calhoun, “and you know how that stuff sucks you down so that the harder you try to pull loose, the stucker you get.”

“Except he wasn't stuck in the mud when you found him.”

Calhoun shrugged. “Nope.

“You said he had a client with him.”

“Yes,” said Calhoun. “That Fred Green.”

“Well . . .”

Calhoun nodded. “I know. Where the hell was he?”

“You should've left the body right where you found it, you know,” said Dickman.

“Not likely,” said Calhoun. “Not Lyle.”

The sheriff held Calhoun's eyes for a moment, then nodded. He went over and knelt beside Lyle. He laid the back of his hand on the dead boy's cheek, put his forefinger in Lyle's mouth, moved his fingers through Lyle's hair, pushed on his chest. Then he looked up and narrowed his eyes at Calhoun. “Well, I'd say he drowned, all right. But it's not up to me. We'll have a proper post mortem done on him.”

“What're you thinking?” said Calhoun.

Dickman shrugged. “I'm thinking that this is a big strapping young man who knew his way around woods and water. I'm thinking, that he wasn't alone when this happened.”

Calhoun nodded. “Mr. Green must've driven Lyle's Power Wagon to South Riley.”

Dickman nodded. “It's curious, all right.” He cocked his head, then stood up, and a minute later an ambulance pulled up behind the Explorer.

Two EMTs jumped out. Dickman went over to speak to them. One of them came over, knelt beside Lyle for a couple of minutes, then looked up at Calhoun and Anna Ross. “Well, he's been dead for some time, looks like.” He stood up. “Bring the bag, Will,” he called to his partner.

The two of them zipped Lyle into a black plastic bag, loaded him onto a gurney, and wheeled him to the ambulance with the casual efficiency of men who'd done it many times. After the two of them climbed back into the ambulance, Sheriff Dickman talked with the driver through the window.

The ambulance pulled away and Dickman came back. “They're taking him to Maine Medical in Portland,” he said to Calhoun. He wedged his Stetson back onto his bald head, touched the brim, and made a small bow at Anna Ross. “Ma'am. Thank you for your help.”

“Any time,” she said.

Dickman put his arm around Calhoun's shoulders and steered him toward his wagon. “Stoney,” he said quietly, “I want to talk to that Mr. Green.”

“So do I. I called all the motels and inns, and nobody heard of him.”

“You did that?”

“I did.”

“He was driving a rented Ford Taurus, you said.”

Calhoun nodded. “White sedan. I tried all the car rental places, too.”

“Well, we'll keep an eye out for it.” Dickman slid into his wagon and closed the door. “I'll be in touch,” he said. Then he pulled away.

Calhoun stood there, watching the Explorer disappear around the bend in the road.

When he turned, Anna Ross was standing beside him. “Wish I could do something,” she said.

“I'd be grateful if I could use your phone,” said Calhoun. “I need to call Portland.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “Follow me.”

He got into his truck, followed Anna's Wrangler up a curving gravel driveway to the pretty white farmhouse he'd seen from the road, and pulled to a stop next to a big barn.

When he got out of his truck and slammed the door, a man stepped out of the barn. He wore scuffed work boots and baggy overalls over a sleeveless undershirt. He held a big Stilson wrench in his left hand and the stub of a cigar in his teeth. He was short and wiry almost to the point of being scrawny, with a deeply creased face that made him look at least as old as he was. Tufts of yellowish-white hair poked out from under his John Deere cap. White stubble on his chin and cheeks, a couple of missing teeth, friendly brown eyes.

Anna slid out of her Wrangler. “Mr. Calhoun,” she said, “this here is my husband, David.”

David Ross came over, wiped his hand on his leg, and held it out. “You're the fella who found that body, huh?”

Calhoun shook his hand. “I did. He was my friend.”

“Damned sorry to hear it,” said Ross. He kept flexing his arm, holding the heavy wrench in his hand, as if he were exercising his skinny bicep. “Over to the Potter place, was it?”

Calhoun nodded. “He drowned in the millpond. Fishing.”

“Fishin',” Ross repeated. “Never heard of anyone fishin' there.”

“Lyle was a guide. A damned good one.”

“And he drowned, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“Fishin' guide ought to know better than to drown himself.”

Calhoun shrugged. “Your wife said I could use your telephone.”

“I don't mind,” said Ross. “You help yourself. Tell Anna to give you a beer.”

“She already offered. Thank you.”

Ross nodded, then turned and went back into the barn.

Anna took Calhoun's arm and led him to the back door of the farmhouse. “Don't mind David,” she said. “He likes to act crabby by way of makin' up for the fact that he's really a kind and gentle old poop.”

Calhoun smiled. “He seemed fine to me.”

Anna's kitchen smelled of rosemary. She pointed to the wall phone, then left the room.

Calhoun dialed the shop, and when Kate picked up, he said, “I found Lyle. There's no easy way to say this. He's dead.”

She was silent for so long that Calhoun said, “You there, honey?”

“I'm here,” she said. “What happened?”

“He drowned, looks like.”

“What about Fred Green?”

“Good question. Mr. Green has gone missing, and it doesn't make sense for Lyle to drown.” He let out a long breath. “I lugged Lyle out, Kate, and the sheriff came and they loaded him into an ambulance.”

“Jesus, Stoney.”

“Kate, listen,” he said. “I need to be with you. I've never asked you before, because we agreed I wouldn't, but I'm asking you now. I really need to see you tonight.”

“You didn't need to ask, Stoney. I would've come anyway.”

“I guess I figured you would. But I needed to know it. It'll keep me going, knowing you'll be there. Not hoping, but knowing. You understand?”

“Of course I do. Where are you now?”

“Just down the road from where I found Lyle. These nice folks let me use their phone. Listen, honey. Can you find that number for Lyle's girlfriend, that Penny Moulton? I copied it on the calendar on your desk.”

“I'm out front right now. Hang on.”

She came back a minute later and read the number to him. “What're you going to do?” she said.

“Somebody's got to tell Lyle's friends and kin what happened. I guess it might as well be me.”

Penny Moulton's number in Standish rang about a dozen times, and Calhoun was ready to hang up when she picked up and said breathlessly, “Yes? Hello?”

“It's Stoney Calhoun again, Miz Moulton. I talked to you yesterday?”

“Oh, yes. Lyle's friend. What—?”

“I'm in the neighborhood,” he said. “Wonder if you'd mind if I dropped by.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Something's happened, hasn't it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Is he . . .?”

“Lyle's dead. I'm sorry.”

“He's . . .” She blew out a long breath. “Well, Mr. Calhoun, you don't beat around the bush, do you?” She hesitated. “I knew it was something terrible. Lyle always shows up when he says he will. I knew it all the time. . . . I
knew
it.” She was silent for a moment. “What happened?” she said.

“Maybe it'd be better if we talked in person,” he said.

“Sure. Okay.” Calhoun heard her sob. Then she cleared her throat. “Where are you coming from?”

“From Dublin. Tell me how to find you.”

She lived on the first floor of a rented house in the village of Standish. Calhoun didn't even need to write down her directions. When she gave them, he sketched a picture of her place in his head. He'd been to Standish before.

“I'll be there in about half an hour,” he said, “if that's okay.”

“I'll be right here, Mr. Calhoun.”

A
NNA
R
OSS GAVE HIM A
C
OKE
and walked him out to the truck. He opened the door, then turned to her. “Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate everything.”

She smiled and patted his shoulder. “If there's anything else, don't you hesitate.”

“Tell your husband good-bye for me.”

“I'll do that.”

He climbed in behind the wheel, started it up, drove down the curving driveway, and headed for home. He found a rock station on the radio and played it loud, trying to concentrate on the lyrics, trying not to think about Lyle, but he didn't have much luck at it.

When he pulled into the yard, Ralph came bounding down off the deck and jumped against the door. Calhoun opened it, and the dog scrambled in over his lap and sat on the seat beside him. Calhoun put an arm around his neck and pulled him over, and Ralph licked his face.

“Lyle's dead, bud,” Calhoun told him.

Ralph looked into Calhoun's eyes, gave his cheek one final lick, then curled up on the seat with his chin resting on Calhoun's leg. There were times when he knew damn well that the dog understood what he was saying and even what he was thinking.

It took about twenty minutes to find Penny Moulton's little white clapboard bungalow on the outskirts of the village of Standish. Her mailbox was decorated with a fancy painting of a wood duck, and a newish red Saab sat in the driveway—an unusual car for rural Maine, with its endless winters and prolonged mud seasons, where most folks, regardless of their taste in automobiles, bowed to the necessity of four-wheel drive.