Authors: Marc Buhmann
After waking he’d showered, had his breakfast with an extra strong coffee, and dressed, then headed for the truck. Unsolved cases from the fifties could wait another day; a visit to The Thirsty Whale could not.
The Whale is what the locals called the secluded little dive bar off Lake Crescent. It was a little ways out of town down a two-lane winding road through the woods. They had a dock set up for those who preferred to boat in.
He turned off onto a gravel road that was just barely wide enough for two cars. Trees hugged the road, their branches slapping the truck along. And then he was in the lot with only three other cars. It was early enough in the day that people had yet to come and drink, smoke, and snort their money away. The Thirsty Whale had been designed to look like a log cabin—a style many used in this area—the exterior painted a nice dark tan. He kicked up gravel as he walked to the door and opened it.
The lights were on inside, but it was still dim. Adorning the walls were long dead taxidermy fish. A buck’s head was mounted above the bar.
At the far end of the bar was Fred, a grizzled old man who practically lived here. He did odd jobs for the owner in exchange for drinks on the house.
“Charles here?” Stavic asked.
Fred pulled the half empty glass from his lips, white foam stuck to his whiskers. He licked it away. “In the back.” A cough, then he called out, “Charles! Someone’s here to see ya!”
“Give me a sec!” a deep voice boomed.
Fred gave Stavic a sideways glance. “He’ll be out momentarily.” He pronounced every word perfectly as if to make sure Stavic understood, then took a drag on his smoldering cigarette, the ember glowing a bright orange.
Stavic sat on a bar stool. The place smelled of stale smoke, staler booze, and cleaning products. It made him want a drink. A few years back the state implemented an ordinance forbidding smoking in public places. Went decided not to comply, something Stavic had to occasionally issue a ticket for. I scratch your back, you scratch mine was the mentality. And, so far, it seemed to be working out.
Charles Went was lumberjack big. He looked more a bouncer than a bar owner, but if he could handle the crowd then why pay someone else to do it? “Afternoon, Stavic. What can I do you for?” He glanced around. “You come alone?”
“As always.”
“Alright. Give me a sec and I’ll grab your bait. Grubs?”
‘Bait’ was the code Charles liked to use for drugs. Grubs was cocaine, worms marijuana, leeches was acid, and minnows LSD. He didn’t deal with injectable drugs or so he claimed. Stavic had no reason to doubt him—he was the honest sort.
“Actually,” Stavic sighed, “I’m here on another matter.” He lowered his voice. “You happen to know if there’s someone new in town dealing?”
“New?” Charles shook his head slowly. “Not that I know of. Why?”
“Case I’m working on.”
“You talking about those two fellas that got murdered?” asked Fred from down the bar. He was looking ahead, staring at the liquor bottles against the back wall.
“What about them?” Stavic asked, glancing from Charles to Fred.
A shrug. “Nothing I haven’t seen on the news.”
And news it was. It wasn’t often citizens of River Bend died mysteriously. They’d tried to keep it as hush-hush as possible—releasing only the names and mentioned they’d died of unknown causes, but that was all. They’d tried to keep the details as obscure as possible so as not to cause a panic. But, as things were in a small community, people talked and word spread.
“You sure about that? Haven’t heard anything?”
“Nothing but farts in the wind.”
Stavic wasn’t sure if that was true, but he’d let it go for the moment. He turned his attention back to Charles. “What about you?”
“Nah. Same shit as always.”
“Nothing about two bodies?”
“Is there something you’re after, deputy?” Went was more curt than usual.
Stavic had the feeling something was amiss here, something Charles wasn’t telling him. Another look around the room and his eyes fell on the unobtrusive door that led to the basement. Or that’s what people assumed. For those in the know it led to a private section of the bar—a real underground place for those who wanted something more than just a night of drinks. He didn’t know all the details—never went down there. Easier to play ignorant that way.
Stavic looked back to Charles. “Nothing on the other side of the world?”
“I wish I could help. I’ll keep my ears open though.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He wrapped his knuckles on the bar and stood. “You know… maybe I will take you up on that bait after all.”
“Sure thing. Usual?”
“Yeah. I didn’t come prepared today—”
“Let me stop you right there. I know you’re good for it.”
“Thanks.” Stavic stared at the shimmering lake through the back door. “You know, I think I’m going to take in the view.”
“Knock yourself out. I’ll have your bait right here for you when you’re ready.”
Charles excused himself to the back, and Stavic stepped out the back door onto a wooden deck that led to the dock. Ripples glided along the surface, the sound of a motor boat echoed in the distance. Across the way he saw a boat come around an outcropping of trees. That must be what Harold talked about the other day, where the lake joined the Fox River.
“How much do you really know about what happens in this town, deputy?”
Stavic started. Fred had followed him out and stood only a couple feet behind him looking out across the lake. “Enough.”
“More than you know, I’d wager.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know Charles pretty well I suspect which means you probably know he don’t scare easy.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Everyone gets scared of something. I’ve seen the face of the man that scares him.”
“Who?”
“I’ve only seen him once, the first time he came in here.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I never want to see him again.”
“When was that?”
“The other night.”
“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“No.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know, but he’s a jovial fellow, or at least pretends to be. You see… he’s always smiling. But there’s something in that smile that’s unsettling. It’s not real,” Fred said.
“Not real? You mean like false teeth?”
“No. The smile… it’s a mask.”
The door screeched behind Stavic. “You boys need more private time?” Charles voice boomed. Stavic and Fred looked at Charles who had the door propped open.
“We’re just shooting the shit,” Stavic replied. “It ready?”
“Has been.” Charles pulled his head back and the door closed.
Stavic turned to Fred. “This… smiling man… he have a name?”
Fred took a final drag of his smoke. “DeMarcus. That’s what I overheard at least.” Fred dropped the butt and ground his heel into it. “Nice talking with you, deputy.”
* * *
After the funeral Beth had come up to Willem and told him that she was hosting an intimate gathering for Elliott’s closest friends. Would you please come? Willem had politely refused, citing his estrangement from the family, but she’d hear none of it. After a few insistences he’d agreed. He’d sat behind the wheel of his car, stopped at a red light wondering what in God’s name he’d talk to these people about. He knew nothing of Elliott in his later years. Willem had settled on an appearance before excusing himself a half hour later. Yeah… that would be best. Let those closest mourn.
Now here he was two hours later with a cocktail in hand—the first in many years—watching the last of Elliott’s friends leave. When the door closed Beth’s shoulders slumped and she turned to Willem. With a weak smile she said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming. It means a lot.”
Willem nodded as glass shattered in the kitchen. “Shit!” a woman’s voice came. When they entered the kitchen Elliott’s daughter Margaret was crouched picking up shards.
“Are you okay?” Beth asked.
Margaret sniffed, running the back of her hand under her nose. “Yes. It just slipped.”
“Here… Let me.” Beth got to her knees and helped her daughter pick up the broken glass. Willem set his drink down and went to the pantry where he’d seen a broom and dust pan earlier in the day. The two women stood and threw the larger pieces away as Willem swept up the remainder.
“Everything okay?” Gregory asked as he entered the kitchen.
“Fine, fine.”
Gregory went to the fridge, pulled out a beer and offered it to Willem. He looked at the bottle, shrugged. “What the hell,” he said and took it. What’s one more?
“Anyone else?” Gregory asked as he opened another.
Margaret and Beth shook their heads no.
Gregory shut the door and stood at the counter next to Willem. He took a pull from the bottle. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you this before, but that was a nice eulogy,” Willem said, Gregory glancing at him. “Your father seemed to be very popular.”
“He was well respected,” Gregory agreed, “and will be greatly missed.”
Beth looked at him sympathetically. Was it because of lost time? How his life had turned out? He noticed Margaret looking at him with a hint of curiosity. “What is it?” he asked her.
“It’s just… I always wondered what happened between you and dad. I know it’s none of my business but…” She shrugged and let the words hang in the air.
Willem felt all eyes on him and sipped his beer. What to say? There was too much to tell about his past, too much emotional baggage to give, and he didn’t want to relive it now. The other problem was that he couldn’t remember the specifics of the argument, what had sent him storming off the night of their mother’s funeral. It was as much a mystery to him as it was to her.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Margaret’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Seriously? You and dad have barely spoken over something you can’t remember?”
“That pretty much sums it up.”
“Unbelievable,” Gregory mumbled.
Willem glanced at him. “Your father and I have been through a lot together. A lot. Our father running off, our brother’s death… We started to grow apart when we were still teenagers, but if you want to know what single thing happened that caused us to stop talking?” He shrugged. “I don’t remember.” Willem looked down to the bottle in his hands. “Have you ever heard the saying that anger is a poison?”
“Of course.”
“It’s true.” He looked to Gregory again and felt tears on his cheeks. “It’s true,” he repeated, a lump forming in his throat. “Anger is a cancer. Once it takes hold it’s very hard to get rid of. That’s a lesson I’m only learning now. A very painful lesson.”
* * *
Stavic was at his desk, feet up, looking at the old case files. A married couple, Harold and Joan Shaw, were killed in a horrific brutal slaying much like his two John Does. Harold worked as a traveling salesmen and Joan was a housewife. A criminal background check yielded nothing out of the ordinary. They did have an adult daughter named Lilly that had recently married. He made a note to try and track her down.
He looked at their backgrounds again. They’d moved here from Albuquerque over a decade earlier; nothing strange there. Stavic compared the reports for the umpteenth time and noted both had moved here as well. While they were transplants as well not a goddamned thing connect them. If it was the same killer—he felt it unlikely—he or she would be in their seventies now, minimum. Copycat maybe? But who would be copying a series of murders from fifty-plus years ago, and why?
He tossed the folders back on his desk, rubbed his eyes. None of this made sense. Except…
Stavic pulled the old files out, skimmed them. There it was. The Shaw’s bodies had been found in the woods near what had been the remains of a cabin. The cabin itself was no more—only the foundation had survived—and had been nestled in a wide indentation. He flipped to a faded black and white location photo.
The cabin was indeed gone, but he could clearly make out the layout of the structure. Off to the side he noted the crumbling remains of a well. While it could be the same cabin they’d found a few days back, how was it that there was a cabin there now? Had the owner rebuilt what once was there? But to do that you’d need building permits, and there was no record of this place at all.
He rubbed his sore eyes. Enough of this. He’d been burning the wick at both ends these past few days and he was burned out. He needed sleep, especially if tomorrow would be as busy as he suspected. It was time to go home.
* * *
Willem shut the door behind him and stepped off the front stoop. It was cool, the sun setting, a classic contradictory Midwest autumn much like his mood. He was almost to his car when he heard, “Willem?”
He turned. Beth walked toward him, her hands rubbing her arms in the chill. A pair of birds swooped and passed overhead.
“Will we see you again?” she asked.