Bitch Creek

by Tapply, William

  But Potter did not speak to him.

  After about half an hour he pushed himself to his feet and wiped the grass off his pants. He and Ralph went back to the truck, and ten minutes later they pulled into the barway to the woods road that led through the forest and down the long slope to the milldam where Lyle had died.

  It had happened exactly a week ago.

  The mid-afternoon summer woods buzzed with the steady drone of cicadas, punctuated by the occasional distant caw of a crow. The lush foliage overhead cast the forest in deep, cool shade, and the grasses and ferns that brushed against Calhoun’s legs smelled ripe and spicy. Ralph trotted alongside, stopping occasionally to sniff a moss-covered rock or a rotten stump, but he showed no inclination to veer into the woods, even when a chipmunk darted among the gaps in the stone wall that paralleled the old roadway.

  They stopped at the milldam. Calhoun sat down, hugged his knees, and looked out over the pond. Jacob hadn’t mentioned anything about the habits of the ghosts of men who’d been shot in the water and drowned, but if Lyle’s spirit lurked nearby, Calhoun wanted to give him a chance to speak.

  Ralph waded into the water up to his chest, had a drink, and then paddled around for a while. When he hauled himself out of the pond, he came to where Calhoun was sitting before shaking himself dry. Then he lay down and closed his eyes.

  Calhoun wiped Ralph’s spray off his face with the back of his wrist. “Guess I’m getting weird,” he said to Ralph. “Looking for ghosts. Maybe I’m crazy after all. On the other hand, I don’t suppose crazy people know they’re crazy. Maybe the definition of crazy is when you don’t think you are. In which case, I ain’t crazy. Because lately I’ve sure been wondering about it.”

  Ralph opened his eyes and gave him a look that said: “As far as I’m concerned, you are certifiable. But I love you anyway.”

  If Lyle McMahan’s ghost was haunting the millpond, it had nothing to say to Stoney Calhoun, so after fifteen or twenty minutes, he and Ralph got up, crossed at the dam, and walked up the hill to the cellar hole.

  He poked around among the scattered fieldstones of the toppled chimney but found no other dug-up places that might yield more gold teeth. He eased himself down into the cellar hole, which grew thick with briar and sumac. Among the weeds and charred timbers and rusted bedsprings he found shards of stained crockery, heat-twisted knives and forks, broken glass, pots and pans, metal picture frames—just what one would expect, and nothing more.

  It felt vaguely like grave robbing, and after a few minutes of it he climbed out, sat down, and leaned back against a rock.

  He gave Sam Potter’s burned soul a half hour to show itself, and when it didn’t, he and Ralph got up, walked out to the truck, and drove home.

  Calhoun and Ralph took a late lunch—two Granny Smith apples, a can of Coke, and one Milk-Bone—down to the creek. It was about four o’clock, a little early for the trout to start rising, but the music of the moving water soothed him, and he was ready to welcome any apparitions that might decide to come drifting down into the pool.

  He’d finished both apples and was about halfway through the Coke when he heard the slam of a car door. His first thought was that his shotgun still lay behind the seat in his truck. Then he figured that if Fred Green had come to shoot him in the middle of the afternoon, he had to be so dumb that Calhoun could handle him without a weapon.

  A couple of minutes later Sheriff Dickman appeared at the top of the path that led down to the water. He shaded his eyes for a moment, then lifted his hand in a greeting and came down.

  He sat on the rock beside Calhoun. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said.

  “The hell you were,” said Calhoun.

  Dickman grinned. “Okay, so I came over special to see you.”

  “You made me a promise.”

  “I’m keeping it, Stoney. Just wanted to see how you were making out.”

  “I’m making out fine. That why you made a special trip? To see how I was making out?”

  “Sure. Partly, anyway. Last time I saw you . . .”

  “You thought I was crazy.”

  “Never thought that, Stoney. But I was concerned about you. Hope you don’t mind that your friends care about you.”

  “Well, I’m okay, so why don’t you give me the other part.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Learned a couple things, figured you deserved to know.” He took off his Stetson and set it on his knee.

  Calhoun said, “I got some stuff, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “You first.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Okay. Fred Green. Well, we knew that’s not his real name. I sent a copy of your sketch to the Saint Augustine police down there in Florida where the real Fred Green had his credit card stolen, and damned if they didn’t ID it for us.”

  Calhoun smiled.

  The sheriff squinted at him. “What, you think you know who it is?”

  “I got an idea,” said Calhoun, “but I don’t want to wreck your story.”

  “Lawrence Potter’s his actual name.” Dickman cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “That what you were thinking?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “You might’ve mentioned it to me.”

  “It only just occurred to me this afternoon, Sheriff. Go on. Tell me the rest of it.”

  “Lawrence Potter,” said Dickman. “Born 1936 to Samuel and Emily Potter. Graduated from Rollins College in 1958 and has been selling marine insurance in Florida since then. Never married. Lived with an older sister—”

  “Martha,” said Calhoun.

  “Right. Martha.” Dickman shook his head, squinted at Calhoun for a moment, then shrugged. “Anyway, Lawrence Potter has been a model citizen. Served two terms as president of Rotary, coached Pop Warner football, stuff like that. About his only vice seems to be boats. Boats and fishing. He likes expensive boats.”

  “Fishing isn’t a vice.”

  Dickman smiled. “About a month ago sister Martha’s Alzheimer’s got so bad that her loving brother bowed to the inevitable and moved her to a nursing home.”

  “The same one that—?”

  “Right,” said the sheriff. “The same one where a poor old blind guy named Fred Green was staying. In fact, Martha’s got the room right next to Mr. Green. I called the company Potter works for. He’s on vacation. Goes fishing every June, they said. Travels all over. Montana, Alaska, Iceland. In the winter he visits New Zealand and Argentina. He left a week ago Sunday. Told everybody he was heading for Oregon.”

  “But he came to Maine instead,” said Calhoun.

  “Evidently,” said the sheriff. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the creek. “We had a hit on that credit card yesterday.”

  “A hit?” said Calhoun.

  Dickman nodded. “He called the Thrifty car rental out by the airport in Portland on the phone yesterday morning, reserved a mid-sized car, gave Fred Green’s name and the stolen credit card number. He was going to pick up the car around noon.”

  Calhoun nodded. “But he didn’t, because if he did, you would’ve nailed him right there.”

  “Right,” said the sheriff. “When Thrifty ran the number, it came up stolen. They called us right away, and I called the state police, and they were waiting for him. He never showed up. But he’s still around.”

  “He must’ve sniffed it out,” said Calhoun. “I went up to Craigville yesterday. Talked to Mrs. Sousa at The Lobster Pot Motel. She was pretty upset that Mr. Green stiffed her with his stolen credit card. Said he was asking around for a guide. I talked to a guy named Blaine at a local bait shop, who said Green—Potter, that is—was interested in finding a pond down in this neck of the woods, so he recommended hooking up with Lyle McMahan.”

  The sheriff was shaking his head. “None of this explains why he killed Lyle.”

  “’Course it doesn’t,” said Calhoun. “If he did.”

  “Who else?”

  Calhoun shrugged. “I don’t know. Him
, I guess. I’m just trying not to jump to conclusions.”

  “We law-enforcement types,” said the sheriff, “we’re taught that usually things are exactly what they seem to be. We say, ‘The commonest things most commonly happen.’ We’re taught to jump to conclusions, Stoney, because that way we don’t waste a lot of time. Any reason why you think this might not be Fred Green—Lawrence Potter, that is—who’s doing this?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “Nope. No reason.” He gazed out over the pool. A few mayflies had begun to flutter out of the bushes. They were dipping and darting over the water. Soon they’d begin their swirling mating dance, and then they’d fall into the creek and the trout would lift up from the bottom to eat them.

  He turned back to the sheriff. “Lawrence Potter lived up there on that hilltop in Keatsboro,” he said. “Would’ve been eleven years old in forty-seven. His mother must’ve been off somewhere the day the fire blew through, and he and his sister were probably at school. The Potters came from down south originally, so Mrs. Potter probably took the kids back there after the fire. It’s been nearly sixty years, and now Lawrence decides to come back to Keatsboro and visit the site of the family homestead. Needed a guide to help him find it. On the way, he stopped off at the cemetery behind the Congregational church to put a geranium on the graves of his parents.”

  “Then he shot Lyle,” said the sheriff.

  Calhoun shrugged. “I guess so. And—”

  Dickman held up his hand. “Whoa,” he said. “Slow down, Stoney. If Lawrence Potter came up here just to revisit his childhood home—”

  “How come he used a fake name and a stolen credit card?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Right.”

  “And why pretend he wanted to go fishing?”

  “You act like you got the answers, Stoney.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “I don’t. But I’m pretty sure of one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “He intended to do something immoral or illegal.”

  “And he did,” said the sheriff. “He killed Lyle.”

  “Maybe,” said Calhoun. He shifted his gaze back to the stream.

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “if it wasn’t Green—Potter, that is—who was it?”

  “Ghosts,” mumbled Calhoun.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The sheriff was frowning at Calhoun. “Stoney, you worry me.”

  “I appreciate it,” said Calhoun. “But no need. And for Christ’s sake, don’t you forget you made me a promise.”

  “I won’t.” Dickman pushed himself to his feet and set his hat on his head. “Well,” he said, “I just thought I’d keep you up to speed, and I appreciate you doin’ the same.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “You take care of yourself, hear me?”

  “I intend to,” said Calhoun. He got up and slapped his leg for Ralph to follow. “I’ll walk you back to your vehicle. Nearly forgot. I got something for you.”

  When they got to the house, Calhoun went up onto the porch and said, “Look here, Sheriff.”

  He was pointing at the two bullet holes in the wall beside the door. Dickman went over and squinted at them, then looked at Calhoun. “You mind if I send one of the state guys over to dig ’em out?”

  “Guess not,” said Calhoun. “Try to let me know when he’s coming so I don’t shoot him. Come on in. Have a Coke.”

  They went inside. “In the refrigerator,” Calhoun said. “Help yourself.”

  He went into the bedroom, opened the top drawer of his bureau, and took out the plastic bag that held the .22 cartridge cases that he and Kate had found in the woods.

  Dickman was standing at the sliding glass door, looking out into the woods and sipping a Coke.

  “Here,” said Calhoun, handing him the plastic bag. “See if these tell you anything.”

  Dickman held the bag up to the light and squinted at its contents, then nodded and stuffed it into his pocket. He lifted his Coke can and said, “Gotta hit the road, Stoney. Thanks for the drink.” He hesitated, then came to where Calhoun was standing and held out his hand. “You take care of yourself.”

  Calhoun shook his hand. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do.”

  Dickman smiled. “Well, if you find the job too big for one man, don’t hesitate to give me a holler.”

  “Appreciate it,” said Calhoun.

  The phone rang around eight o’clock. It was Millie. “Did a little more snoopin’ for you,” she said.

  “What’d you find out?”

  “Couple things. First off, David Ross—”

  “Raczwenc,” said Calhoun. “He changed his name.”

  “Well, shit, Stoney. I thought that was pretty good information.”

  “It’s not bad. But Jacob already told me that.”

  “Well try this, then,” she said. “That company, A & I Development? It’s owned by David Ross and Jacob Barnes—jointly. They’re the ones who hold that Potter property.”

  “Ross and Barnes,” said Calhoun. “That is good, Millie.” He thought for a minute. “A & I. Anna Ross and Ingrid Barnes. Jacob mentioned Ingrid. That was his wife, huh?”

  “Yes,” said Millie. “She died a short time before you came up here. They were very devoted.”

  “So Jacob and David formed a corporation and named it after their wives. Hmm . . .”

  “It worked this way,” she said. “A & I was created in 1973. Barnes is president, David Ross treasurer, and Anna’s the secretary. Ingrid was one of the directors. They took title to that parcel for exactly one dollar, payable to David Ross, and A & I hasn’t done a bit of business since then. They register and file their reports every year, pay the property taxes on that land, and that’s it. I made a few discreet inquiries, Stoney, and near as I can figure, Ross came up short of cash in 1973. Instead of selling some of his property, he got Jacob to loan him money in exchange for half ownership of the Potter piece. There is no record of its ever being put on the market since then. No plans to subdivide or develop on record, no proposals to the planning board, no dickering with development companies or construction firms.”

  “They’re just sitting on it,” he said.

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess that’s the question, Stoney. Figure that one out and maybe you’ll get some of the other answers you’re looking for.” She hesitated. “I’m working on a couple of other things, too.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” she said. “I photocopied a bunch of stuff and brought it home with me, and I haven’t gone through it all yet. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll find it interesting.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “That’s all I’m going to tell you for now, Stoney.”

  “Come on. Give me a hint.”

  She chuckled. “Nope.”

  “Damn it, Millie—”

  “Forget it,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “I was just going to say—”

  “You were going to say that I’m the sexiest, smartest, loyalest, most damn interesting woman in the whole state of Maine. Right?”

  He laughed.

  “Next to Kate, of course,” she said.

  “Actually, I was going to say you were the biggest damn tease in York County.”

  “I suppose I could take that as a compliment.”

  “I owe you,” he said.

  “Ah, it’s my pleasure, Stoney. Forget it.”

  “No, we’ll find us a real expensive place in Portland. You, me, and Kate. Dress fancy. I’ll even put on a necktie. Linen napkins, candles on the table, nice French wine, have us some snails and truffles.”

  “I’d love that,” Millie said. “I’d really love that.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  AFTER CALHOUN HUNG UP from talking with Millie, he went out to his truck and retrieved his anthology from under the front seat. He wanted to r
eread that Faulkner story, “The Bear.” He’d been thinking about it since he’d read it the other night, and he felt there was more to it than he’d noticed the first time through. Calhoun had found that simply reading some stories left him feeling uneasy and dissatisfied. Some stories had to be studied. “The Bear” seemed to be one of those stories.

  Last night, planning to hide outside all night, hoping to ambush Fred Green, had reminded him of Ike McCaslin, the sixteen-year-old boy in the story, preparing to face the bear. Calhoun had been alert, fine-tuned, jazzed-up, and afraid, too, all at once. He’d felt alive. He’d felt the hunt bubbling in his genes, a kind of certainty that he had hunted before, and so had his ancestors as far back as time, waiting in the bushes for caribou to come close, stalking mastodons with fire-sharpened sticks, wondering who was going to kill whom, then recording their triumphs and their disasters on the walls of caves.

  He’d always known that fishing and hunting were the same thing, something strong in the blood that was left over from a time when surviving depended on being good at it. Last night, when death was at stake, had felt like stalking striped bass on a sand flat—except more so.

  Like many hunts, last night’s had not produced a kill. Tonight he would have to hunt again, and he figured he might have to spend many nights out on the edge of the clearing he’d hacked out of the Maine woods, guarding his little island of solitude, his own insignificant place on this earth. But it was his, his territory, the place that had drawn him north from the hospital in Virginia. He’d lie in wait every night until Lawrence Potter came again.

  He sat in his chair and opened the heavy book on his lap. Ralph sauntered over and collapsed on the floor beside him. Outside, darkness had begun to fall.

  Calhoun began to read Faulkner’s story, to study it, and as he’d expected, he found echoes in his brain that he hadn’t noticed the first time. “It was as if the boy had already divined what his senses and intellect had not encompassed yet,” Faulkner had written. “That doomed wilderness whose edges were being constantly and punily gnawed at by men with plows and axes who feared it because it was wilderness.” Well, Calhoun had his own piece of doomed wilderness here in the woods of Dublin, Maine, and he’d be damned if men with plows and axes—never mind .22 rifles—were going to take it away from him.