Bitch Creek Page 3

  And when he’d read Thoreau, it was so familiar that he only needed to skim a passage once to be able to recite it. “I went to the woods,” Thoreau had written, “because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life . . . I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life . . .”

  Stonewall Jackson Calhoun, after being reborn in a Veterans Administration hospital in Arlington, Virginia, had been drawn to Maine, where a man could still go to the woods. He intended to suck some marrow out of his new life.

  Maine. Powerful flashes of déjà vu, so vivid and evocative and disturbing that sometimes he had to sit down and blink the tears from his eyes. Dusty roads flanked by stone walls, sandy soil, blueberry burns, old cellar holes at the end of rutted cart paths now grown up in alder, meadows studded with juniper and clumps of poplar and gnarly old Baldwin apple trees, the roar of a flushing partridge, the flash of a whitetail’s flag, sugar maples tapped with sap spigots, the aluminum roof of a barn covered with old tractor tires so it wouldn’t blow off, Holsteins and Jerseys grazing in rock-strewn pastures, double-wide trailers sprouting twenty-foot television antennas, goldenrod growing through the rusted carcasses of dead automobiles, hens pecking gravel in the dooryards, blizzards and thunderstorms and September nor’easters, and always that honey-haired girl supine on an old brown army blanket, green eyes smiling, small naked breasts, reaching up to touch his face, murmuring something that sounded like ayuh . . .

  Calhoun had not lost his memory. He remembered things, knew he’d seen them before. Déjà vu. His brain, in fact, sometimes felt like an electrical socket with too many plugs stuck into it, sparks flying, sucking the juice out of him. He was overloaded with memories, and many of them were quite coherent and complete, although they tended not to connect with each other. They were like clips of movies playing in his head, with him as both main character and audience.

  There were other characters in these mental movies besides Stoney Calhoun himself. That bare-breasted girl on the blanket, laughing children, white-haired old women. But most of these others had no names, no identities. As hard as he tried to slow down the scenes and zoom in on the faces, he could not locate these characters in the tangled landscape of the first thirty-three years of his life.

  The Maine memories were the strongest. So that’s where he’d gone to start over again.

  Calhoun always stayed up late and got up early. He resented every minute he wasted sleeping. He’d already lost big chunks of his life, and he’d be damned if he was going to miss anything else.

  And, he didn’t welcome the dreams.

  So at five-thirty the next morning, Calhoun and Ralph, his four-year-old Brittany, were sitting side-by-side on a slab of granite beside the little spring-fed creek in back of his house, sipping coffee and waiting for the day to get going. He’d spotted two brook trout sipping mayfly spinners in the downstream pool. Ralph saw them, too, and he was trembling and whining and staring at them in the semblance of a point.

  Calhoun scratched Ralph’s ears and held out his coffee mug. “You aren’t much of a bird dog,” he said. “But you’re dynamite on trout. We’ll make a fishing guide of you yet.”

  Ralph took a lick from Calhoun’s mug, his eyes never leaving the rising trout.

  Calhoun did not bring clients to his private creek. It was his secret place. He’d showed it to Kate, of course, but he didn’t allow her to fish in it. He had never tried to catch any of its trout, at least not with hook and line. He had caught dozens of them mentally and found it entirely satisfying.

  He was gazing idly at the moving water, looking through the surface down into it, trying to watch how the trout behaved, when it happened again. A naked human body drifted downstream and stopped in front of him in the middle of the pool. It was facedown with its arms and legs stretched out, suspended there just off the bottom. Its fine, straw-colored hair was flowing out around its head, waving gently in the current. The body might have been a male or female, child or adult. Calhoun couldn’t tell.

  He looked at the body, no longer surprised when one of these visions decided to show up, but curious about it. He wondered where it had come from, what charred synapse in his brain had sent it out, what story it might’ve told him if he could follow it back to where it had come from. He wondered, of course, who it was, although, strangely, that did not seem terribly important.

  It came out of his life before the hospital, he knew that much—one of those teasing fragments that seemed, at the moment, absolutely real. It brought him an overpowering feeling of sadness. It made him think that dying wouldn’t be so bad.

  He wondered if that body was his own.

  He closed his eyes, kept them clamped shut until the image of the drifting underwater body disappeared from the insides of his eyelids. When he opened them again, the body was gone.

  Calhoun sat there on the granite slab beside the little creek, watching the trout and pondering the peculiar way his brain worked. Then a picture suddenly appeared in his head. It was Kate with telephone pressed against her ear, tapping her foot and staring up at the ceiling.

  This was another one of those spooky things that happened to him. He didn’t know where it came from.

  He stood up. “Come on,” he said to Ralph. “Let’s eat.”

  Magic words. Ralph took one last, longing look at the trout, then scrambled to his feet.

  They climbed the hill to the little house and went inside. Calhoun picked up his phone and pecked out the number of the shop.

  Kate answered on the first ring. “That you, Stoney?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I tried to call you a few minutes ago.”

  “I know,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Lyle never showed up. I waited till after eleven.”

  “So call him up, give him hell.”

  “Well, duh,” she said. “You think I’m stupid or something? I called his house. Woke up some girl, who wasn’t too happy about it. She said she was up till two in the morning and Lyle never came home.”

  “He’s not your kid, Kate. He’s a grown-up man, and he can take care of himself.”

  He heard her blow out a quick breath. “Well, I know that. But this isn’t like him, not checking in after a day of guiding. I’m worried, Stoney.”

  “Look,” he said. “He probably stopped off somewhere with his new friend, Mr. Fred Green. They had some dinner, a few beers, and Mr. Green started telling stories about his angling prowess, all the great places he’s been to, the trophies he’s nailed in Costa Rica and Siberia. And maybe the waitress took a liking to young Lyle, said she’d sure like to show him her tattoos, and pretty soon it’s closing time, and—you know?”

  She sighed. “You’re probably right.”

  “It’s not even six-thirty,” he said. “The boy’s probably still all tangled up in perfumey silk sheets and bare legs somewhere. He’ll be in. Then you can give him hell, both barrels.”

  “Bet your ass I will.”

  “Look,” he said, “if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll shoot on over, hold your hand.”

  “I don’t need my hand held by any God damn man,” she said amiably.

  “’Course you don’t,” he said. “I was just about to scramble up some eggs for me and Ralph. I’ll be along after, okay?”

  “You don’t need to. Be here at noon, like you’re supposed to. I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will. I got nothing better to do.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Thanks, Stoney. Appreciate it.”

  He left Ralph in charge of the house, reminding him to bite all intruders in the ass, clean up the dishes, and split some firewood. “No swimming in the trouts’ pool, either,” he said.

  Ralph, who was sprawled on the sun-drenched, east-facing deck, wagged his stubby tail without opening his eyes.

  Calhoun climbed into his truck, bounced out over his quarter-mile dirt driveway, and headed for Portland. He hadn’t admitted it to Kate, but he wa
s worried, too. It wasn’t like Lyle not to check in at the shop after a day of guiding.

  He got there a little before eight. The CLOSED sign was hanging in the window. He used his key to get in and found Kate in the office in back, her feet up on the desk and the phone against her ear. She smiled at him and held up a finger.

  “Do me a favor,” she said into the phone, “and go take a look in his room, will you?” She glanced at Calhoun and rolled her eyes. “I know he likes to go fishing real early,” she said, “but maybe you can tell if his bed’s been slept in. . . . Well, now, thank you. I sure do appreciate it.”

  Calhoun took the chair across from her desk. “Trying his house again?”

  She nodded. “Couldn’t think of anything else. That gal I talked to earlier, I figured she was probably smoking dope all night, wouldn’t have noticed if an elephant had come tromping through her living room, never mind Lyle. I think they party every night over there.”

  “Not Lyle,” said Calhoun. “Lyle doesn’t party. Like the gal said, he gets up early, and he’s pretty damn serious about finishing his thesis.”

  Kate nodded. “That’s just it. I—” She held up her hand and dropped her eyes, listening to the phone, nodding. “Yup,” she said. “Okay, shoot.” She fumbled for a pencil and jotted down a note. “Got it,” she said into the phone. “Thanks . . . Sure I will. You, too.”

  She put the portable phone down on her desk. “She says Lyle’s room’s a mess like always, and no telling when was the last time he slept in his bed, since he never makes it. Seems he’s been spending lots of nights away.” Kate grinned. “Lyle’s got himself a girlfriend.”

  “He never said anything to me about a girlfriend,” said Calhoun.

  “Some reason he should tell you?”

  “Nope. Guess not. We men never talk about relationships.”

  “Well,” said Kate, “that probably explains it. Her name is . . .”—she picked up the scrap of paper she’d written on and squinted at it—”Penny Moulton. Lives up in Standish. Ring any bells?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “Like I said—”

  “Right,” she said. “Real men don’t talk about relationships.”

  “Don’t suppose you got a phone number for Miz Penny Moulton?”

  Kate shook her head. “But that would explain why he didn’t check back in last night. Any trout pond he and Mr. Green found would’ve been north and west of here, and Standish would be on the way back.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Which is why Mr. Green followed Lyle in his car. I noticed they took both cars when they pulled out of here yesterday. Lyle didn’t want to drive him all the way back here, then turn around and head back to Standish. He might’ve mentioned to me what he was planning to do, saved you worrying about him. Gimme that phone.”

  Kate shook her head. “Stoney, you can’t call the boy at his girlfriend’s house.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Go ahead.” She stood up. “Want some coffee?”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  LYLE’S GIRLFRIEND HAD HERSELF a good old Maine name, and Calhoun found nearly half a column of Moultons listed in the slim phone directory that covered Standish, Gorham, Windham, and the other towns and villages to the west and north between Portland and Sebago Lake. There was no Penny listed, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that “Moulton, P.” was a good possibility.

  Calhoun couldn’t understand why single women thought they could disguise their single-ness and their woman-ness by using their initial instead of their whole first name. He didn’t know of any men who listed themselves that way in the phone book.

  He pecked out the number for Moulton, P. on Kate’s phone, and before the second ring a soft female voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Penny Moulton?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m looking for Lyle McMahan,” said Calhoun. “I’m a friend of his. Name’s Calhoun. Understand he might be there?”

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  “Miss?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were him.” He heard her blow out a long breath. “Listen, Mr. Calhoun. If you’re his friend, the friendly thing would be for you to tell Mr. Lyle McMahan that his key won’t unlock my door anymore—and I mean that literally as well as figuratively—so he shouldn’t bother coming around. I don’t take that kind of shit, you tell him, all right?”

  “He’s not there, I guess,” said Calhoun.

  “No, he’s not. He was supposed to be, but he’s not.”

  Calhoun glanced up. Kate was out in the shop fixing the coffee. He swiveled around in his chair, putting his back to her. “Look,” he said to Penny Moulton, “I don’t want to upset you, but I’m calling from the shop where he works. Lyle had a guide trip yesterday, and he never checked back afterward. We can’t seem to get ahold of him, so if you have any idea where—”

  “I don’t know where he is,” she said quickly. “Hell, I cooked dinner, sat up half the night getting madder and madder.” He heard her sigh. “Now you’ve got me worried.”

  “Well, I’m sure there’s no need to be worried,” said Calhoun. “But maybe you oughtn’t to be mad just yet, either.”

  “He called me in the morning, said he’d be around for supper. Lyle always does what he says he’s going to do, you know? I mean, that’s what I—I love about him. He’s not like most men. You can depend on Lyle. Lyle says he’ll be there at eight, he’s there at quarter of. I mean, he loves his guiding, I know that, and if he gets stuck out on a boat or something and it’s after eight, well, as soon as he gets ashore he finds a phone and calls. Last night he never called. And he never showed. I’ve been with men like that. Figured I finally found somebody different. Then, along about midnight, I figured I was wrong, figured Lyle was exactly like all the others . . .”

  Kate came into the office, put a mug of coffee beside Calhoun’s elbow, and arched her eyebrows. He shrugged and waved his hand. She nodded, then went back out into the shop.

  “. . . didn’t sleep hardly at all,” Penny Moulton was saying. “I had candles and wine and . . . You think something happened to him, don’t you?”

  “Lyle?” Calhoun forced himself to laugh. “Not likely.” There was no sense in upsetting this girl. “You’d best not expect too much out of any of us guys, miss. Lyle’s an awfully good boy, but none of us are what you’d call overly dependable, especially when there’s fishing. Give him another chance. I expect he’ll be full of apologies and have a good logical explanation, and he’ll be extra sweet to you for a while.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yup, I do. When I catch up to him, I’ll give him hell, and I suppose you ought to, too, when you see him. But I wouldn’t go changing my locks.”

  “He always calls,” she said softly.

  “Well,” said Calhoun, “men, you know?”

  “You’ll have him call me?”

  “Count on it,” he said. “And you too, miss. I expect you’re the one he’ll call first.”

  After he disconnected from Penny Moulton, Calhoun sat there holding the telephone and sipping his coffee. She was right about Lyle. If he’d had a date, he’d show up on time for it. If he couldn’t, he’d call.

  If he didn’t call, it meant something had happened.

  He poked out the number for the York County Sheriff’s Office, gave the dispatcher his name, and said he needed to speak to Sheriff Dickman himself.

  A minute later Dickman said, “What’s up, Stoney?”

  “Need some information,” he said.

  “When’re we going fishing again, son?”

  “You name it,” said Calhoun. “But look. I was wondering if there were any accidents last night.”

  “There’s accidents every night, Stoney. What’s going on?”

  Calhoun told him about Lyle’s failure to show up at the shop and his broken date with Penny Moulton. “Only thing I could figure . . .�
�

  “I’ve got a printout here somewhere,” mumbled Dickman. “Hang on . . . Okay. Here we go. What’d you say that boy’s name was?”

  “McMahan. Lyle McMahan.” Calhoun spelled it.

  “Nope,” said Dickman after a minute. “What kind of vehicle does he drive?”

  “Old Dodge Power Wagon. Sixty-three, I think. It’s sort of gray. Gunmetal gray, I guess you’d call it, except for the rust.”

  “Whoa,” said the sheriff. “You saying this thing’s over forty years old?”

  “Yup,” said Calhoun. “Pretty beat up on the outside, but those old Power Wagons are indestructible, and Lyle keeps it humming. It would’ve been full of fishing gear. Trout Unlimited, Ruffed Grouse Society stickers on the rear window.”

  “You don’t have a registration on it, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there can’t be a helluva lot of sixty-three Power Wagons left on the road. Hmm . . . Uh-uh. No Power Wagon on my accident report here. Not in York County any time yesterday.”

  “What about Cumberland or Oxford? He might’ve been up there.”

  “I don’t have them right in front of me,” said the sheriff. “I can check for you, if you want.”

  “Please.”

  “You want me to get back to you? I can pull ’em up here on my computer, but it’ll take a minute.”

  “I’ll hang on,” said Calhoun. “If you don’t mind.”

  He sipped his coffee, and several minutes later Dickman said, “Sorry, Stoney. Nothing in Cumberland County, nor Oxford, either.”

  “Well, don’t be sorry. It’s a relief.”

  “If I hear something, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “It’ll cost you a day of fishing,” said the sheriff.

  “You got it. Just name the day.”

  Calhoun put the phone on the desk, stood up, and went out into the shop. Kate was at the front counter paging through the shop’s logbook. She looked up. “Well?”