Dark Tiger (24 page)

Calhoun put down the pole, picked up a paddle, and eased the canoe into the cove. Ralph, apparently sensing something was afoot, sat up to watch. Harry, up in the bow, was false casting, getting a good length of fly line in the air. He appeared to be a decent caster. A bit wristy, Calhoun thought, but certainly competent enough to get the job done.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Strip it in, blow on your fly, and be ready. These fish are cruising, so when you see one boil on the surface, try to figure what direction he's heading and cast ahead of him. Don't put it in the middle of his ring. That's the one place we know he ain't gonna be.”

Calhoun let the canoe drift on the flat surface, and a minute later a fish swirled ahead of them. He didn't need to say anything. Harry had his line in the air, and he laid his fly down about fifteen feet to the left of where the fish had come up.

“Yeah, good shot,” Calhoun said softly. “Now just leave her set there. Don't twitch it or anything. If he's headed in that direction, he'll see it, and if he likes what he sees, he'll eat it.”

Instead, the fish came up on the other side of the boat. This time Calhoun had a good look at the swirl it made. “Quick,” he said. “That fish is heading left and a little toward us. About eight o'clock.”

Harry dropped the Adams right where Calhoun hoped he would, and a moment later a large fish-shaped shadow cruised up to it, lifted its head, opened its mouth, and casually slurped in the fly. Harry raised his rod and set the hook.

“Oh, beautiful,” said Jack. “Way to go, Dad.”

The fish did not jump, leading Calhoun to conclude that it was a squaretail, not a salmon. Harry played it expertly, and after a good fight of a bit more than five minutes, Calhoun netted a gorgeous Maine brook trout. “A conservative four pounds,” he said.

He extended the net down to Harry, who lifted out the fish, gently unhooked it, and held it up for Jack to photograph.

“You want to keep it?” said Calhoun. “Marty says they've got a great taxidermist in Pittsburgh who'll mount that fish for you.”

Harry shook his head. “We got the photo. Anyway, that fish is mounted here.” He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “I don't need to kill it to remember it.”

Calhoun smiled. “Nice to know it'll keep swimming, isn't it?”

Harry nodded. He leaned over the side of the canoe and cradled the big fish in the water for a moment, letting it catch its breath, until it flicked its tail and was gone.

“That right there was worth the whole trip,” said Jack. “Thanks, Stoney. Nice guidin'.”

“Nice fishin', I'd say,” said Calhoun. “Harry, you're a helluva man.”

Harry grinned and jerked a thumb into the air.

They drifted there in the cove for another ten or fifteen minutes, but no more fish broke the surface, so Calhoun started up the motor and they resumed trolling along the drop-offs.

They were just approaching the point of land where Calhoun intended to stop for lunch when he noticed a flash of color on one of the bushes against the shore where it drooped down to touch the water. It was a shade of neon orange not usually found along a Maine shoreline. Perhaps it was some kind of wildflower, but Calhoun didn't think so.

“Reel up, men,” he said. “We're gonna have lunch now.”

After Harry and Jack got their lines in, Calhoun shut off the motor, picked up his paddle, and steered the canoe over to the bush. “Harry, grab that orange thing for me, would you?” he said.

Harry reached over and plucked the orange scrap from the bush. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “Do you know what this is?”

“I got a suspicion,” Calhoun said.

Harry handed the orange scrap back to Jack, who looked at it for a moment, then passed it on to Calhoun.

It was a ragged strip of lightweight cloth—silk, maybe—and it was decorated with orange and yellow hibiscus flowers intertwined with pale green and blue vines. One edge of the cloth was black, apparently singed by flame.

“What do you think?” said Jack.

“I remember this design,” said Calhoun. “It's a piece of Curtis's shirt, all right. I don't think the sheriff's divers got this far down Muddy yesterday.”

“Just because we got a piece of his shirt doesn't mean his body's down here,” said Harry.

“No, you're right,” said Calhoun, “though I do think we've got to check it out. We'll have lunch first, but then I think we need to explore the rest of Muddy Pond all the way down to the outlet. We can fish for salmon and look for dead bodies all at the same time. Not many anglers get to do that.”

“A unique experience indeed,” said Harry, without any trace of cynicism that Calhoun could detect.

 

Calhoun had brought a bag of charcoal to speed up the preparation of the shore lunch. Quicker than building a fire from dead hardwood and waiting for it to burn down to coals. He scooped out a shallow bowl in the sandy ground, filled it with some birch bark and pine shavings and twigs, and got the kindling lit. Then he dumped in the hunks of charcoal. When they were glowing, he surrounded the firebowl with rocks, covered it with a grill, and put on the cast-iron pot of chili and the coffeepot.
He waited for the chili to begin bubbling, then got out the skillet and flopped down the three thick rib eyes.

Four minutes on each side and he figured the steaks would be pinkish red inside. He put each slab of meat on a plate and set them out, along with knives, forks, coffee mugs, the chili pot, and a basket of corn muffins, on a big flat rock.

The rain had stopped, and the sun was threatening to break through the clouds. Ralph was lying on the ground, keeping an eye on the food. Harry and Jack were sitting on boulders by the water's edge talking and gazing out at the water and sipping from cans of Coke. “Come and get it,” Calhoun called to them.

They came, and they got it, and they proclaimed it delicious, and all three of them tossed their meat scraps to Ralph, who seemed to find it delicious, too.

After the food was gone, they sat around sipping mugs of camp coffee, which Harry and Jack proclaimed the best coffee they'd ever had.

Jack was sprawled on the ground with his head resting on a log and his eyes closed against the glare of the sky. He might've been sleeping.

Harry reached over and tapped Calhoun on the leg. “He thinks this will be our last trip together,” he said softly, jerking his head at his son. “I've got this kidney problem. Jack doesn't think I'm gonna make it till next summer.”

Calhoun looked at him. “I'm damn sorry to hear that.”

“I'm not going along with that thinking,” Harry said. “I got plenty more fishing in me.”

“I hope you're right,” said Calhoun. “Next summer you and Jack have to come to Portland. I'll take you out for bluefish and stripers.”

Harry smiled. “We'd like that.”

 

______

 

After they got their campsite cleaned up, they loaded the canoe and climbed back in. By now the clouds had blown away, and the sun was blazing from a clear blue sky, and the surface of Muddy Pond was corrugated with chop in the stiff afternoon breeze.

They trolled the entire eastern shoreline all the way to the foot of the pond without a single strike.

“These ain't very good conditions, I'm afraid,” said Calhoun. “Bright sun puts down the fish. On the other hand, the salmon do like the riffled water. Maybe we'll do better along the other shoreline.”

The west shore wasn't much better, though. At one point Harry's rod bounced, and its tip dipped, and a short length of line was yanked off his reel, but the fish failed to hook itself.

They didn't talk about it, but Calhoun could tell that both Harry and Jack were scanning the surface of the water, alert for something that might turn out to be Curtis Swenson's dead body.

They found the same number of dead bodies as the number of fish they caught from Muddy Pond that afternoon, which was zero.

Calhoun had just finished poling them up through the narrows into Loon Lake when he heard the drone of an airplane engine. He recognized the voice of the lodge's Twin Otter, and a moment later the big plane with the triple-
L
logo on its side cleared the treetops, circled around to the head of the lake, and dropped down until it was out of sight from their canoe. Then the pitch of the engine changed, indicating that it had begun to make its descent.

“That's the lodge's plane,” said Jack Vandercamp. “I wonder who's flying her.”

“One of the guides, I imagine,” said Harry. “The tall young one. Forget his name.”

“That'd be Ben,” said Calhoun.

Harry nodded. “That's right. Ben. I heard him and Marty talking this morning. Ben's got his license. He was in Iraq, did you know that? I guess he flew planes or helicopters or something over there.”

“I figured they'd have somebody to back up Curtis,” said Calhoun. “This place is totally dependent on air transportation.”

“Marty was saying they're hoping to hire a replacement as soon as possible,” said Harry. “They need somebody full-time, and Ben was saying he had no heart for flying airplanes of any kind.”

“After what happened to Curtis,” said Jack, “it's hard to blame him.”

“Never mind after Iraq,” said Calhoun.

 

 

 

 

By the time Calhoun eased his canoe alongside the dock, the Twin Otter with the triple-
L
logo on its fuselage was already tied up there, and Ben and Robert Dunlap and the redheaded kid who drove the golf cart were unloading supplies from the plane and stacking them in the wagon that was hitched to the cart.

Robert held the gunwale of Calhoun's canoe against the dock, steadying it for Jack, who climbed out. “How was the fishing?” Robert said.

Harry grinned. “Excellent.”

“My dad got a four-pound squaretail on a dry fly,” said Jack.

Robert smiled. “That's great.” He looked at Harry. “Did you keep it for the taxidermist?”

Harry shook his head. “Put him back for somebody else to catch. Like Lee Wulff said, a big fish is too precious to be caught only once.”

“Well,” said Robert, “that's admirable. You got photos, at least, I hope.” He held down a hand to old Harry, who used it to help himself scramble out of the canoe.

“Thanks,” said Harry. “Yes, we got some photos. We found a piece of Curtis Swenson's shirt down in Muddy Pond.”

Robert's smile turned into a frown. “A piece of his shirt, huh?”

“One of his Hawaiian shirts, all bright colors and flowers. Hey, Stoney. Show that piece of shirt to Robert.”

Calhoun had climbed out of the canoe. He went over to Robert and handed him the scrap of Curtis Swenson's aloha shirt.

Robert looked at it and nodded. “This is Curtis's, all right. It's the one he was wearing when . . .” He waved his hand in the air. “Look how the edge got burned. Where'd you say you found it?”

“Down in Muddy,” Calhoun said. “It was stuck on a bush that was trailing in the water.”

“Why don't you let me hang on to it,” said Robert. “The sheriff might want it for evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” said Calhoun.

“Of what happened yesterday,” Robert said. “Of Curtis getting blown up in the Cessna. Of the fact that he's dead, I suppose.”

“Keep it, then,” Calhoun said. “We looked all over down there in Muddy but didn't see any dead bodies. I'm not sure you can call a man dead until you've got his body.”

Robert shrugged. “We'll probably never find him. That doesn't make him alive.” He folded up the ragged scrap of cloth and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He glanced at Ben and the redheaded kid, then turned to Calhoun. “I better get back to unloading the plane.”

“Need some help?” said Calhoun.

Robert shook his head “We got it. Thanks.”

“I see we got ourselves a new pilot, huh?”

Ben looked up. “I hoped I'd never have to fly a plane again,” he said. “Far as I'm concerned, the sooner we get someone to take Curtis's place the better. But, yeah, meanwhile, process of elimination, looks like it's me.”

“You don't like to fly?”

“What's to like? A chance to die?”

“You were in Iraq, I heard.”

Ben shook his head. “I don't feel like talking about that, if you don't mind.” He turned and went over to the plane and stepped through the doorway into the cargo hold.

Jack Vandercamp came over and shook Calhoun's hand. “It was a great day,” said Jack. “You available tomorrow?”

“I'm scheduled to be guiding,” said Calhoun. “You want me again, tell Marty. I'd enjoy it.”

Harry patted Calhoun on the shoulder, and the father and son turned and headed up to the lodge.

Calhoun lifted the cooler out of the canoe and lugged it up to the kitchen. Then he came back and paddled the canoe over to the boathouse, where he unloaded the fishing gear and the cooking equipment. He put the cooking stuff away, then hauled the canoe up on the dock, hosed it out, eased it back into the water, and refilled the gas can from the pump. All the chores that guides do that the sports don't see and probably never think about, although at least today he didn't have to clean any dead fish.

Fishing guides say eight hours on the water means twelve hours of work.

Calhoun liked guiding well enough, when he could take out companionable folks like Harry and Jack Vandercamp. But it was hard and often unrewarding work, and when you added the man-hours and expenses to the aggravation, the pay was piss-poor at best.

He was just finishing up his post-trip guide chores in the boathouse when another canoe glided in. Franklin Redbird was in the stern.

Calhoun held Franklin's canoe alongside while the Indian guide climbed out. “Thanks, Stoney,” he said. He reached in, opened his cooler, and took out a big landlocked salmon. “My sports decided to get this fellow mounted.”