Bitch Creek (31 page)

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.”

A
FTER
C
ALHOUN HUNG UP
from talking with Millie, he went out to his truck and retrieved his anthology from under the front seat. He wanted to reread 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.

It was close to midnight when he closed the book. He pushed himself to his feet. Ralph lifted his head from his paws and looked up at him.

“It's time,” said Calhoun.

Thermos of coffee, army blanket, shotgun, extra shells. He turned off all the lights, and he and Ralph went out onto the porch. He stood there until his eyes adjusted.

Calhoun picked a different place to hide, this time just inside the clearing directly across from the front porch. From here, he had a good sweep of the driveway as it curved up the hill away from the house to the paved road. He found another good tree to lean against, and he settled down.

Reading “The Bear” again had given him new thoughts about Lawrence Potter, and Calhoun decided he had better respect him. Maybe he was old, but he'd managed to kill Lyle. A rifle and a clever brain had a way of neutralizing differences in age and strength and quickness. He might not even come in the night next time. Maybe he'd do it entirely differently. Calhoun could not count on him falling into predictable habits.

Anyway, Calhoun decided that he'd be better prepared if he accepted the possibility that the man with the .22 could be anyone, including somebody from the time in his life that he couldn't remember.

So he could never relax. Not in the daytime. Not when he was away from his house, or in his truck, or at the shop. Not until it was over. The man had certainly meant to kill him that first time, and there was no reason to believe he wouldn't try again. He would keep trying until either he nailed Calhoun or Calhoun nailed him.

And so he sat out the night with his shotgun across his knees and Ralph dozing fitfully beside him, fueled by the caffeine of the coffee and the adrenaline of the hunt. He listened to the night-sounds of the woods and he watched the stars rotate in the sky. Thoughts whirled pointlessly in his head until the sun came up.

He went inside, turned on the coffeemaker, shucked off his clothes, and took a long hot shower. He did not bother dressing afterward. He called in Ralph, told him it was his watch, and went to bed.

His mental alarm clock woke him up at eleven. His mind was clear. No dream-hangover today. Two cups of coffee later, he was ready.

He and Ralph drove over to Jacob Barnes's store. It was around noontime, and the gravel parking area was jammed with pickup trucks and four-wheel-drives.

When he pushed open the door, he saw that the back corner was packed with locals. All the chairs were taken. Several men were leaning against the wall, and a few were squatting on the floor, rocking on their heels, all of them smoking and sipping soda and talking in low voices.

No laughter bubbled up from the group. Calhoun heard none of the usual crude cursing or loud argumentation. Today the voices were subdued—somber, even.

Calhoun had never joined one of these back-room gossip sessions. The regulars were all native-born locals who, even after five years, still regarded Calhoun skeptically. He'd forever be “from away” to them. They were always polite, even friendly, to him. But they'd never quite trust him.

That was okay by him. He wasn't much for gossip.

Jacob was behind the counter loading cans into a paper bag for a woman Calhoun didn't recognize.

The woman hefted the bag in her arms, turned, glanced at Calhoun, nodded to him, and left the store. Calhoun stepped up to the counter.

Jacob nodded to him.

“Marcus abandon you today?”

“I believe he's seein' what he can do for Millie,” Jacob said.

Calhoun frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jacob leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the counter. “You didn't hear?”

“Hear what?”

“About Millie's fire?”

“Fire?” Calhoun shook his head. “What happened?”

“Don't know, really.” Jacob's eyes were solemn. “Happened in the night. Her house burned down and they took Millie to the hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

“She ain't dead.”

Calhoun slammed his fist on the countertop. “Jesus,” he muttered. He'd talked to Millie in the evening. She had been fine. Her usual warm, enthusiastic self. He leaned toward Jacob. “What caused the fire? What's the matter with Millie? Tell me what you know, man.”

Jacob flapped his hands. “Happened sometime in the middle of the night. They drug Millie out while it was burnin', is what they're sayin'. Clamped oxygen on her face, raced her off to the hospital, sirens a-screamin'. Ain't much left of her little bungalow, I hear. Gutted her right out. Personally, I ain't seen it. Been here since six this mornin'. Folks come in, are giving me the story.”

“What hospital?”

“Rochester, I believe,” said Jacob. “Closest hospital. Guess they were in some kind of hurry.”

Calhoun nodded. “Thanks,” he said to Jacob. He went out to his truck and headed up the road to Millie's.

A fire engine was parked out front, and behind it a black Plymouth sedan with a red light on the roof. Calhoun pulled in behind the sedan, told Ralph to sit tight, and got out.

The logo on the side of the sedan read
YORK COUNTY FIRE MARSHAL.
 

The shell of Millie's house still stood. There were big holes in the roof and smoke smudges around the empty windows and along the eaves. The front door had been broken down, and the yard was littered with wet, sooty furniture. Millie's Jeep Cherokee crouched in the side driveway. The paint on the side facing the house was blackened and blistered.

A short, gray-haired man wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and no necktie stood at the edge of the yard talking with a fireman, who was wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and knee-high rubber boots, and holding a visored hard hat in his hand. When Calhoun approached them, the man in the white shirt looked up and waved the back of his hand at him.

“Move on,” he said. “Git your vehicle out of here.”

“Millie's a friend of mine,” Calhoun said.

“Millie's a friend of everybody,” said the man. “Hangin' around here ain't going to help her.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

The man shook his head and sighed. “We don't need gawkers, friend. We're tryin' to figure out what happened, and you're in the way.” 

“Can you just tell me if she's okay?”

The man in the jacket turned to the fireman and spoke to him quietly for a moment. The fireman nodded, put on his hard hat, and strode into the shell of Millie's house. Then the short man walked over to where Calhoun was standing.

Calhoun held out his hand. “Calhoun,” he said. “I live a few miles back off County Road.”

“Chiesa,” said the man, giving Calhoun's hand a quick, limp shake. “I'm the county fire marshal. I been here since four
AM
, Mr. Calhoun. I'm tired and hungry and short-tempered, and I been chasin' folks away all morning.”

“What about Millie?”

Chiesa shook his head. “They found her unconscious upstairs in her bedroom. Guess she got a lot of poison in her lungs.” He shrugged. “Last I heard, she was holding her own.”

“They took her to Rochester?”

Chiesa nodded. “Closer than Portland.”

Calhoun jerked his head toward what was left of the house. “Any idea what happened?”

“Not yet. Could be electrical. She had a bunch of overloaded sockets downstairs. Coupla air-conditioning units improperly wired.” He shrugged.

“What about arson?”