Dead Creek

by Victoria Houston

  Dead

  Creek

  VICTORIA HOUSTON

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  FWCRIME.com

  Copyright

  one

  To fish in trouble waters.

  Mathew Henry: Commentaties, Psalm LX

  Dr. Osborne’s brand-new Mercury 9.9 outboard propelled his trusty Alumacraft so smoothly over the gentle waves glittering in the late-afternoon sun that he almost missed the hidden entrance to the brook. Loon Lake had many such fingers reaching deep into the tamarack forest, but this one was special. And at last the ice was gone and the winds had calmed and he could begin his search again.

  Nearly seven months had passed since he’d been able to fish for its sinister treasure: the old, long, dangerous muskie that had rocked his boat when Osborne tantalized him last summer with his favorite lure: the surface mud puppy. He’d spent the winter calling the fish “my shark of the north” and vowing to his buddies that “that son of a bitch” would grace the mantel above his fireplace someday—across from the big picture window where Osborne watched the sun set over the big lake every night. He might be more tentative about rough water in his old age, but a big fish could still stir him.

  It was a perfect day for fishing. The tamarack outlined the shore, still spindly but glistening neon green with budding needles. The air was sharp and cold like a knife against his skin. He inhaled deeply. It was the kind of day, thought Osborne, when it’s a gift just to breathe.

  Osborne throttled the new motor way back. The engine responded like silk under his hand, slowing the boat to a silent glide. He leaned against the handle, nudging the boat into the center of the stream, carefully steering clear of submerged rocks. He knew the location of each small boulder intimately, and they looked like old friends as he drifted over. The dog curled up in the front of the boat raised a questioning eye.

  “I have a plan, Mike.” The sixty-three-year-old retired dentist spoke in a level tone to his black Lab as though the dog had inquired about a two-year treatment of gum disease. “We may miss today, and we may miss tomorrow—but sometime this year—you, me, and our friend, we’re gonna have that come-to-Jesus meeting, oh, yes we are.”

  Osborne checked quickly to be sure the heavy gaff and his net were correctly positioned near his feet in case he was lucky sooner rather than later. He undid the latch to the livewell so he could swing it up and open with ease. Fishing alone made him doubly careful he wouldn’t end up with a nasty, thrashing fish loose in the boat with just himself and the dog.

  Osborne let the motor hum, selected the brown rod with the old Ambassador Garcia reel and, flipping his right wrist expertly, twice lofted the wooden lure. Seconds passed as the lure soared, then plunked softly, first to his right, then to his left. He was reeling before it landed, tipping his head back slightly so a sliver of the late spring sun could warm his face and forehead.

  “Life is perfect, Mike,” he said with quiet authority. “Life is perfect.” Mike leaped to his feet then, wagging his tail and staring mournfully at his master, indicating nature’s call.

  “Life was perfect, Mike.” Osborne shook his head. The dog had a real knack for needing to piss at all the wrong times. “Okay, boy, cool it while I find us a spot to pull in. Sit … wait … good dog.” Carefully, he hooked the lure on the rod and laid the rod down across the seats.

  Osborne scanned the edges of the brook for a firm hillock. Much of the area was swamp and wetland, and the shadows from the towering firs made it hard to see. He spotted a good, wide, firm clump and revved the motor toward it.

  Suddenly a sickening, grinding noise from under the boat caught him off guard. He switched off the motor, unhappy to hear the grinding continue until the propeller blades had stopped.

  “Oh boy,” he said, dreading the sight of a broken blade on his brand-new motor. Gently, Osborne moved his fishing rod so he could lean forward onto his knees to peer over the left edge of the boat.

  He froze, so stunned he couldn’t breathe, then he lurched back, almost tipping himself out of the boat. Desperate, he grabbed for both gunwales, terrified he was going to fall out and right into the horror beneath him.

  The boat steadied, and Osborne looked up at the crystal blue sky. Not a sound did he hear except his own harsh breathing. Even the dog sat silent, watching him, his head cocked inquiringly. Osborne got himself up straight on the boat seat and reached for both oars. Arms shaking, he finally got them into the oar locks and, barely dipping the oars below the surface of the water so as not to touch anything under him, turned the boat around and gunned his motor out of the hidden brook.

  Mike, looking back, started to bark loudly.

  “Goddamn it, piss in the boat,” said Osborne. He had to get to a phone. He had to get the sight out of his head. Never in his lifetime of cleaning fish, gutting deer, drilling root canals had he ever seen anything like it.

  The sparkling clear water had magnified what he saw: a black wire cage about ten feet long and four feet wide with bodies floating in it. The photographic imprint in his mind was so sharp he could still see the blue denim jeans, the sodden dark woolen shirts. But what he really couldn’t forget was the one face staring up at him, its mouth a black hole with a tongue protruding and cloudy eyes bulging directly at him. Instinct told him it was dead, but his pounding heart made him feel like it was rising up out of the water, lumbering after him.

  two

  Angling is somewhat like poetry, men are born to be so.

  Izaak Walton, The Compleat Angler

  Osborne pulled the boat up at the public landing by Keane’s resort and, forgetting to leash the dog, ran through the door of the bar, just as a battered blue pickup drove up to a big log that marked a parking area.

  A lanky, deeply tanned man with a head of rich, reddish auburn curly hair and a chest-length, very curly, auburn but graying beard unwound his long frame from behind his steering wheel as he watched Osborne slam through the front door of the bar. He reached for his hat, a large stuffed trout perched on top of an old, fur-lined leather cap with ear flaps that hung down loosely.

  The head and tail of the fish protruded on opposite sides over his ears. Draped across the breast of the fish, like a jeweled necklace, was an old wood and metal fishing lure, its silver disks glinting in the sunlight. Carefully, he set it at a jaunty angle, checking it out twice in the side mirror, before sauntering into the bar.

  Osborne spotted his neighbor’s belt buckle first. Under normal circumstances, just watching the guy enter a room was worth at least one chuckle. Vertically challenged by the average doorway, six-foot-six Ray Pradt moved like an accordian tipped sideways, with a loopy walk so disjointed his close friends kidded that his lower torso rolled into a room a full hour ahead of the rest of his body. That bothered Ray. He liked to think he made his first impression with his hat.

  “Nah,” the good dentist had told him one day, “Anti-climactic.” Hence Ray had invested in a sterling silver belt buckle that featured a walleye in the act of striking, a fish suspended in midair as it leaped from his belt toward the eyes of the beholder. The darn thing got snagge
d on every jacket and shirt he wore, but Ray didn’t mind, he liked to make an entrance.

  Osborne waved to Ray as he finished shouting into the phone, which was connected to a stunned switchboard operator at the Loon Lake Police Station. At that moment, Osborne could tell, it was also connected to the three elderly party-line eavesdroppers who’d long refused to give up their shared phone line and rotary dial phones simply because the antique system tied them so effectively into their neighbors’ lives. Osborne had heard multiple gasps along the line as he relayed his gruesome news. He certainly understood why; his own hands were still shaking so badly it was hard to keep the phone to his ear.

  “Thank God, that’s done.” He set the receiver back in its cradle next to the cash register and sank onto a nearby stool. Except for Osborne and Ray, Keane’s Bar was empty. Osborne felt his shoulders relax ever so slightly with the release of the tension: The horror was now someone else’s problem.

  “I never thought this place could look so good,” he said, waving his hand at the genteelly shabby little resort bar with its red vinyl chairs and knotty pine tabletops. The place hadn’t seen redecorating in forty years or more. Because Keane kept a refrigerator stocked with staples like milk and bread, and a paper cup nearby for customers to pay on the honor system, it wasn’t unusual for the folks living along the lake road to stop by on a late afternoon, avoid the rush at a local grocery store, and get a beer with their bread. A beer and gossip.

  Ray slipped onto the stool alongside Osborne, brushing a friendly arm across the elderly dentist’s shoulders as he did so. He examined the polished knotty pine surface of the antique bar for moist water rings before removing his hat and setting it down in front of him. Then he spoke.

  “What …” He paused. Ray had his own deliberate cadence he used when he wanted to make a point. “The hell … is going on, Doc? And why did I hear you ask for ‘the man with no laugh'? Where’s your friend … Lewellyn?” He spoke in a low, jocular tone, but Osborne could see in the mirror behind the bar that Pradt was watching him closely, his eyes dark and serious.

  “Out of town,” said Osborne. “Bad timing.”

  Very bad timing. The one selfish thought he had had as his boat burned its way across the lake was that this grisly discovery was just the excuse he needed to spend more time with Lewelleyn Ferris, Loon Lake’s chief of police.

  Just one year into the position, Lew was the first female police chief in the history of the little Northwoods town. She was also the first woman Osborne had ever known who loved to fish as much as he did. Loved it and was better at it in some ways. She beat him hands down at fly-fishing. But he knew she would be hard set to challenge his bait-fishing technique, especially when it came to muskie fishing. And right now was the absolute best time to display his finesse as June, which was just around the corner, was his lucky season for hooking one of the monsters.

  In fact, his trip up the creek had been somewhat of a covert operation. He was scouting, hoping to confirm that his “shark of the north” had survived the brutal winter and still controlled the territory. If so, his plan was to lure Lew into his boat—no fly lines this time but casting with a surface lure. Twelve-pound test—no heavier. A demonstration of fishing for trophy muskellunge the way he liked it. She was likely to disagree with his approach, he knew, so he was anxious to get her on the water while conditions were ideal. But muskie fishing took hours, and it was tough for Lew to find that kind of time in her schedule. On the other hand, if they had to work a case together …

  Mentally, Osborne crossed his fingers. He had a point to prove, and he knew that nothing would impress that spirited, opinionated woman more than his landing a fierce fifty-incher right at her feet. Of course, being a realist at heart, he knew that was too much to hope for, so he would be happy just to raise the damn fish. To see a flash of the hard, evil head through the dark water, to hear the long, mean body swirl and circle the boat. Envisioning the moment in his mind, already he could hear Lew’s gasp. The gasp of the expert fisherman who recognizes not only the skill it takes to raise such a fish but the talent and exquisite touch demanded to land such a prize. He knew he had the skill, he prayed he had the talent.

  Osborne was still amazed that Lew had entered his life. More than once he had thanked the fishing gods for engineering their meeting. Had to be divine intervention—the circumstances were just too unusual. Late the previous summer, she had volunteered to help a friend of a friend sharpen his long-unused fly-fishing technique. That friend once removed turned out to be Osborne, who had been more than a little taken aback to find himself relearning the arcane sport from a woman.

  Then, just hours into that first lesson, their roles as teacher and student were reversed by death: the discovery of a body wedged under rocks in the river where they were fishing. Osborne’s equally unused but sharper skills at forensic dentistry had helped the police chief rapidly determine she was dealing not with a drowning, not with an accident, but a murder.

  Grateful for help from a qualified professional, assistance hard to come by in the backwaters of northern Wisconsin, Lew had deputized Osborne that night. The alliance worked for both: she boosted her profile among her law enforcement colleagues, he discovered what he least expected to find in a woman—a fishing buddy.

  Over the summer and into the fall their friendship had flourished as Lew sharpened his casting technique and schooled him in the wizardry of trout flies. But soon the curse of winter descended, ice and snow putting a rude end to their angling. Errant snowmobilers and a rash of drug arrests squeezed Lew’s time for their coffee breaks.

  Right now she was up on the New York/Canadian border, a witness in a lawsuit involving the Oneida Indians who had requested her testimony in a dispute regarding land they owned in the state of New York.

  Osborne was more than a little chagrined at how happy Lew had been to go, especially when he learned the real reason for her delight. She would be close enough to the famed Wulff School of Fly Fishing on the legendary BeaverKill to fit in a long weekend refresher course on the techniques of fly casting. Much as Osborne tried to be happy for his new friend, in his heart he had to face the truth: This would give her an unassailable edge. Never could he compete in the trout stream.

  Lew had been gone two long weeks now, forcing him to recognize yet another reality: he missed her. He really missed her. He hadn’t had such a crush on a woman since third grade.

  three

  Of course, folk fish for different reasons. There are enough aspects of angling to satisfy the aspirations of people remarkably unalike.

  Maurice Wiggin

  “Yep,” said Ray, nodding in sympathy from his bar stool. “With Lew out East still, you got ol’ cement-face to deal with, huh? What’s he—acting chief until she’s back?”

  “Unfortunately,” said Osborne, grimacing.

  The natives of Loon Lake had a standing joke. John Sloan, Lew’s predecessor, who’d arrested many of them in their wild and woolly teen years, had never, ever been known to crack a smile. Not in the forty-five years that most had known him. A forced “heh, heh” might escape through stiffly spaced lips from time to time, but even that was just enough to fuel roaring guffaws. It had reached a point that all the regulars at McDonald’s, an informal men’s club of early risers that included Pradt and Osborne, made up what sounded like a good old Indian moniker, “the man with no laugh,” to kid Sloan—behind his back, of course.

  “So what …” said Ray, reaching for a toothpick from a small glass sitting on the bar, “… the doggone heck … is up, Doc?”

  Osborne crossed his arms on the bar and looked at Ray. His hands had calmed down since he made the phone call. Ray’s perspective on the nightmare was going to be interesting and one Osborne was anxious to hear.

  Until two years ago, Osborne had viewed his neighbor through the eyes of his late wife and Mary Lee and had no use for the man. The very mention of his name would prompt one of her rare expressions of profanity as in, “That so
n of a bitch!”

  The two first clashed when Ray, in Mary Lee’s opinion, “stole” the lakefront acreage next door to their new house. An exceptional parcel of land with the best view on the Loon Lake chain, the lot was one that Mary Lee had coveted to buffer their own property, which she liked to call “our lake estate.”

  Ray turned that dream into a nightmare. Alerted to the land’s sudden availability through his own secret grapevine, he made an immediate bid at the asking price, paying cash for the total before anyone in Loon Lake even knew it was for sale.

  “Paul!” Mary Lee had gone ballistic when she heard the news, shrilling, “I will not live next door to a grave digger! You better do something about this.”

  If Osborne thought that was rough, the morning Mary Lee discovered Ray had positioned his beat-up mobile home in full view of her living room window was worse.

  “My vista!” she had shrieked. Osborne had never seen his wife in such a frenzy. He stood by in silence as she rampaged up and down the rutted drive that led to Ray’s trailer, shouting for their new neighbor to move his “goddamn trash heap” before she called the cops. Ray didn’t move a thing, not even when Mary Lee got John Sloan, police chief at the time, to drive out and view the situation.

  Hands in the air as if to duck her anger, Sloan told her, as had her husband, there was nothing anyone could do. The transaction was legal, money had changed hands, and Ray could park whatever and wherever he wanted on his own property.

  So Mary Lee made it her mission to torture Ray. Almost daily she could be seen running toward his minnowing truck, a battered blue pickup with the door dented in on the driver’s side, as it slowed to make the turn into his drive, waving an angry hand and snapping at him about this and that.

  Osborne didn’t appreciate the view of Ray’s trailer either, especially after the money Mary Lee had insisted on sinking into the new house with its expensive landscaping. But, unlike Mary Lee, he wasn’t scornful of Ray, he just wondered about the man. He knew Ray’s family, and they weren’t bad people. The father was a family physician in Rhinelander. Ray’s older sister was one of Chicago’s top litigators, and his younger brother a hand surgeon over at the Mayo Clinic. His mother was a founding member of the Rhinelander Garden Club, an invitation-only clique that Mary Lee had hungered to join.