Bitch Creek by William Tapply Page B

where Calhoun’s pickup was now parked, unloaded their gear, and trekked into the pond together. Lyle had finned out onto the pond in his float tube. Maybe Green had, too. Or maybe the old man had started casting from the dam. Then Lyle’s tube suddenly deflated. Lyle had struggled toward shore, begun to sink. His waders started filling with water.
    He’d yelled for help.
    He hadn’t received it.
    Reconstruct it, Calhoun told himself. Okay. So Green had been unable—or unwilling to try—to help Lyle. When he realized what was happening, he panicked. He walked out of the woods, got into Lyle’s truck, and drove to the place where they’d left the rented Taurus—behind the elementary school, apparently, although it was a damned strange place for Lyle to leave a car.
    Then Green had swapped cars, leaving the keys in the Power Wagon’s ignition, and driven off in his Taurus. He did not go for help or report what had happened. He just . . . drove off.
    Well, as far as Calhoun had been able to determine, Fred Green was not the man’s name. That single fact raised questions about everything.
    It was too much to think about just then. He hoisted Lyle back up on his shoulders and resumed his trek out of the woods.
    He was about to take another break when he saw the glint of sunlight off the windshield of his truck. So he staggered the last thirty yards and collapsed in the weeds beside the road. He lay on his back gasping for breath with Lyle on his stomach beside him. Even after his heartbeat had slowed to normal, Calhoun continued lying there with his eyes closed, thinking about Lyle . . . the Beatles songs he bellowed in the rain . . . the stories he created from the gravestone legends in old family plots deep in the woods . . . the way he blushed whenever Calhoun asked him about living in a big old house with a flock of pretty young female roommates running around in their underwear . . . the July afternoon Lyle had appeared at his door lugging a cardboard box that turned out to have an eight-week-old Brittany puppy in it . . . the stormy March night they’d been tying flies and listening to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony at Calhoun’s house, when Lyle had talked Calhoun into smoking marijuana—said you could really dig Beethoven when you were stoned—and an hour later, when they’d turned up the volume as high as it would go and Calhoun was using the tip section of a fly rod to conduct the grand choral finale, Kate had showed up wearing a little black skirt and fishnet stockings . . .
    â€œHey, mister? You okay?”
    Calhoun’s eyes snapped open. A lanky, gray-haired woman was standing there with her hands on her hips, frowning down at him. She was wearing sneakers and baggy jeans and a flannel shirt with the tails flapping. A blue bandanna held her hair in place.
    â€œMy friend,” said Calhoun. “He’s—”
    â€œDear Lord,” she said, peering down at Lyle’s body. “He’s dead, ain’t he?”
    Calhoun nodded.
    â€œDon’t mind me sayin’ so,” the woman said, “you look half dead yourself.”
    â€œI just lugged him out.”
    She shook her head and blew out a long breath. “What happened?”
    â€œI guess he drowned.”
    â€œAyuh, I’d say he did, by the looks of him.” She arched her eyebrows, inviting him to elaborate.
    â€œIt’s a long story, ma’am,” he said.
    â€œWell, you best save it for the sheriff. You sit tight, I’ll go call. I live just down the road a piece.”
    â€œTrust me,” said Calhoun. “I’m not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER
TEN
    C ALHOUN PROPPED HIMSELF UP ON HIS ELBOWS and watched the woman stride back to a ragtop Jeep Wrangler. From behind she looked like a man, raw-boned and narrow-hipped. She climbed in, glanced back at him, held up one finger, then drove off.
    He lay back and closed his eyes again. Fred