Gray Ghost

by William G. Tapply

  Calhoun nodded. “Bullet grazed my ribs is all. Just a little .22.1 think I might’ve bled quite a bit, but I’m good.”

  “We can talk about it later,” said the sheriff, “but just so I understand, it was Otis Maxner did all the killing?”

  “It was him.”

  “And you had that all figured out?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “Nope.” He tried to smile. “Not all of it. But I would’ve.” He lowered his head between his knees. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t feel so hot.”

  Everything was fuzzy. Images whirled in his brain, and he couldn’t mobilize the energy to pin them down. He was aware of people moving around him. Somebody said, “Shock,” and somebody else said, “Hospital,” and then people were gripping his arms and hauling him into a vehicle.

  He faded in and out. There were blurry faces—Kate and Sam Surry and the sheriff, doctors with green masks over their mouths and black solemn eyes, other faces that seemed to come from some other time in his life, children and old people speaking languages he didn’t understand, all whirling around in his head. There were bright lights and antiseptic odors and murmuring voices and humming machinery.

  After a while, he slept.

  He woke up in gray light looking at the ceiling in his own bedroom. He couldn’t swallow. It felt as if a wad of steel wool were stuck in his throat.

  He tried to lift his head off the pillow, and somebody commenced hammering a tenpenny spike into his forehead.

  Kate’s face appeared. “Can I get you something?” she said.

  He tried to smile. It hurt. “Water,” he croaked.

  A glass appeared in her hand. She held it to his lips with one hand, and with the other she cupped the back of his head and helped him lift up. “Just sip,” she said.

  He took a sip. It slid gloriously down his throat, then hit his stomach like a rock. He swallowed back the urge to vomit.

  Kate lowered his head back to the pillow.

  “You’re here,” said Calhoun.

  “Don’t go reading too much into it,” she said. “Sam and I flipped a coin. I got tonight. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Sam,” said Calhoun.

  “Dr. Surry.”

  He nodded. Sam.

  “Go to sleep, Stoney. Everything’s under control.”

  He closed his eyes. There were thoughts he couldn’t quite pin down. “Honey?” he said.

  She stroked the side of his face with her soft hand. “I’m here, Stoney.”

  “You gonna leave me again?”

  She touched his eyelids with the tips of her fingers. “Go to sleep now.”

  “Where’s Ralph?”

  “He’s right here, snorin’ and twitchin’ on his rug.”

  “Did you feed him?”

  “I told you. Everything’s under control.” She bent to him and kissed his forehead. “Relax, baby. Just relax.”

  Then he slept.

  Calhoun insisted on getting out of bed the next morning. Kate tried to get him to swallow a pill. “For the pain,” she said.

  He shook his head. “The pain ain’t so bad.”

  She didn’t argue. She helped him out onto the deck. His left side throbbed from armpit to hip. Every heartbeat shot a dart of pain into his head. It felt as if he’d been run over by a bus.

  It was tolerable, though, and he intended to tolerate it.

  A warm sun filtered down through the big maple that arched over the house. Kate brought him a slice of dry toast. He took an experimental bite, and when he didn’t vomit, he ate it all.

  He dozed out there most of the day with Kate sitting across from him reading a book and Ralph sprawled on the deck beside him. She roused him a couple of times so he could swallow some antibiotic capsules.

  Sometime in the afternoon Sam Surry drove her little Honda SUV into the yard. Kate went down, gave her a hug, and talked with her. Then both women came up onto the deck.

  Sam gave Calhoun a smile and went into the house.

  Kate sat across from Calhoun. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll keep coming back until you’re better. But I don’t want you to think any thing’s changed.”

  He nodded. She was thinking about Walter.

  “One of these days things will be different,” she said.

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Meantime,” she said, “please try not to let anybody else shoot you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, honey,” he said. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Kate looked at him for a long moment. Then she came around the table, knelt beside him, and laid her cheek on his leg.

  He reached out with his good hand and touched her hair.

  When she looked up at him, he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  “You’re a good man, Stoney Calhoun,” she whispered. “I’m gonna love you forever and ever, and don’t you dare forget it.”

  Then Calhoun felt tears burning in his eyes, too.

  The sheriff came the next afternoon. Calhoun and Sam Surry were sitting on the deck sipping Cokes and watching the chickadees and finches in the feeders. The sheriff climbed up onto the deck and sat down with them.

  Sam asked if he wanted a Coke, and he said he wouldn’t mind. She got up, brought him Coke, then went back inside.

  The sheriff asked Calhoun how he was doing. Calhoun said he wasn’t complaining, and that was the end of that topic.

  The sheriff told him that Otis Maxner had confessed to everything. He’d been required to defend sex offenders in court, and that led him to believe that his sacred calling was to rid the world of them. He’d aimed to work his way through the entire registry for the city of Portland, and then he’d branch out into the surrounding areas, and who knew where or when he’d stop? His long-term goal was to deposit a body on each of Casco Bay’s Calendar Islands, all 365 of them, plus or minus. He’d cut off each man’s evil dick and

  shove it in his mouth. Then he’d slice his throat and set him ablaze. Poetic justice. Maxner considered himself a hero.

  He’d hired Albie Wolinski to help. He paid Albie a lot of money. But Albie had gotten greedy, or maybe he had a twinge of conscience. He looked up Paul Vecchio, who promised him money for his story. They met at the Keelhaul Cafe. Albie drew a map of the bay, showing Vecchio where the bodies were. Then Vecchio hired Calhoun to take him fishing—mainly so he could explore one of the islands on Albie’s map and see if he was telling the truth.

  Maxner got wind of Albie’s treachery. He tortured him, then killed him, then followed Vecchio to Calhoun’s place and killed him, too.

  “That’s it, then,” said Calhoun.

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Good.” Calhoun reached into his pants pocket and took out his deputy badge and cell phone. He put them on the table.

  “Keep ‘em,” said the sheriff.

  Calhoun shoved the badge and the phone at the sheriff. “I’m a fishing guide.”

  “And a damn good one.” The sheriff pushed the badge and the phone back at Calhoun. “I’d appreciate it if you’d hang on to these, Stoney. I might want to consult with you sometime, and it would be your civic duty to comply.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “I’ll keep the badge if you want, but you take the damn phone.”

  The sheriff held out his hand. “That’s a deal.”

  They shook hands on it.

  Sam Surry took out Calhoun’s stitches on Saturday morning, a week and a day after he’d been sewn up. She told him he was in good shape for a man who’d been shot in the side, and in her professional opinion, he didn’t need private nurses anymore.

  “It’s about time,” said Calhoun.

  “We figured you felt that way,” she said.

  At five o—clock the following Friday afternoon, which was the last Friday in September, Calhoun was leaning against a piling at the East End boat ramp. His boat was in the water, his fly rods were rigged, and Ralph was sitting beside him watching the sandpipers skitter around the beac
h on their quick winking feet.

  Pretty soon a burgundy Saab pulled into the lot. It parked beside Calhoun’s truck, and then Benjie Dunbar came sauntering down. He was wearing a hooded Cornell sweatshirt, a Portland Sea Dogs baseball cap, high-top basketball sneakers, and faded jeans.

  He walked up to Calhoun and stuck out his hand. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Calhoun. I had a meeting after school I couldn’t get out of.”

  “You better call me Stoney,” said Calhoun. “Only time I get called Mr. Calhoun is when people want something out of me they think I don’t want to give them.” He gave the boy’s hand a shake. “Anyway, you ain’t late enough to make any difference. Either there’ll be fish or there won’t. Probably won’t. Why don’t you hop into the boat and we’ll take a look.”

  Benjie climbed onto the front seat. Calhoun snapped his fingers, and Ralph scrambled in and lay down on the floor.

  “You sure you’re all right to do this?” Benjie said.

  Calhoun cast off the bow line. “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, you got shot, didn’t you?”

  “I’m good to go,” said Calhoun.

  “What was it like? Getting shot, I mean?”

  Calhoun untied the stern line and climbed into the boat. “Not worth discussing,” he said. “Embarrassing, that’s all. Change the damn subject.”

  Benjie grinned. “Sorry if it’s a sensitive subject,” he said. “So you telling me we’re going fishing but there aren’t going to be any fish?”

  “As I recall,” said Calhoun, “I asked you if you wanted to go fishing, not catching. You said sure. I don’t recall either of us mentioning anything about catching.” Repeating the fisherman’s old cliché reminded him of Paul Vecchio. Vecchio had said the same thing. “The stripers’ve already headed on south. The bluefish generally follow along pretty soon after. But there might be some schooled-up blues still around. We’ll see.”

  Benjie nodded and smiled. “Cool.”

  Calhoun shoved away from the ramp with his oar and started up the motor. He steered through the marker buoys and lobster buoys out to the bay. The motor burbled quietly. You could hear the rhythmic slap of water against the sides of the aluminum boat. “Your old man let you take his Saab, I see,” he said.

  Benjie half turned in his seat. “I think he’s trying to make things up to us. Me and my mom. As if he did something wrong because those cops thought he killed people. Like it was his fault. If it wasn’t for you …”

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Calhoun. “Far as I can see, your old man’s a hero. Enduring all that, what happened to your sister, then being suspected of murder. Hanging in there. Sometimes just hanging in there takes all the courage and strength a man can muster. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “I do,” said Benjie. “He hung tough, all right. Things are good now. My folks are getting along better, and my sister’s even got a boyfriend.”

  “What about you?” said Calhoun. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m pretty glad I didn’t smash your head with that tire iron.”

  “There never was a chance of that,” said Calhoun. “I’m just glad I didn’t kill you when you tried.”

  “Me, too,” said Benjie. “So You ‘really think all the fish are gone r

  “It’s what they do this time of year,” said Calhoun. “They migrate. That’s half the fun of fishing. Never knowing.” He picked up his binoculars. “Here,” he said. “Take these. Do something useful.”

  Benjie turned around and took the binoculars.

  “Scan the water,” said Calhoun. “See if you can spot some fish for us. You know what to look for?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  When they cleared the harbor buoys, Calhoun goosed the motor. He didn’t have a plan. This time of year the fish moved fast, and there was no predicting where you might find them. It was fish hunting. Watch the water for splashes, boils, and swirls, and keep an eye on the horizon for swarming gulls.

  The sun was low in the west, and already the sky was darkening and the evening fog was beginning to settle over the water. It reminded Calhoun that the autumnal equinox had come and gone, meaning that there were fewer hours of sunshine than darkness in the days. The water of Casco Bay lay flat and silvery, like a sheet of aluminum foil. There wasn’t another boat in sight. It was just the three of them, counting Ralph. Calhoun always counted Ralph.

  After a while he cut the motor. The silence was sudden.

  Benjie turned around. “Should I cast or something?”

  “Nope. Just keep your eyes peeled. I thought I saw something over there.” He pointed off toward the horizon.

  Benjie lifted the binoculars to his eyes for a minute. Then he put them down. “It’s getting kinda foggy. I don’t see anything.”

  “Me, neither. Not now. I might’ve been mistaken. Just be patient. Keep looking.”

  They sat there drifting in the boat, not saying anything. It was a comfortable silence. Then the muffled clang of a distant bell buoy echoed in the fog, and it reminded Calhoun that they weren’t that far from Quarantine Island. He listened for the moaning and wailing of the ghostly gray nuns in their billowing habits. But the nuns weren’t crying on this evening. He hoped it meant that they’d found peace now that the charred bodies of those four sex criminals had been removed from the Casco Bay islands.

  “Hey!” said Benjie.

  “You got fish?” said Calhoun.

  “Birds. Over there. Look.” He pointed.

  About two hundred yards away, a flock of birds, a mixture of gulls and terns, had materialized in the misty fog where a minute earlier there had been none. Now they were circling and swarming and diving at the gray water, and other birds were winging toward them from all directions. Their squawks and cries filled the air, and under them Calhoun could see the ferocious swirls and splashes of a hundred big bluefish. The blues had corralled a school of panicked baitfish, and the birds had come to scavenge the bloody pieces of leftover flesh. Right there, Calhoun thought, you had Darwin in a nutshell.

  “Let’s go get ‘em,” he said to Benjie. “Grab a rod.”

  Benjie slid a rod from its holder, stood up, and braced himself so he’d be ready to cast.

  Ralph sat up and looked around, then climbed onto the middle seat to watch. Calhoun figured Ralph could smell all the blood and torn flesh and adrenaline in the air.

  Stoney Calhoun felt his own predatory adrenaline beginning to spurt in his veins. He started the motor and sped over to join the primal chaos.