Dead Creek (10 page)

“How many times have I agreed with you, Ray?” said Osborne, checking his rearview mirror. Back in his own car at last, he found he was still edgy from the encounter in the woods. He kept checking all the familiar intersections, parking lots, and other landmarks to be sure no one was behind them, no one was watching. “Let’s think twice before we talk to each other on the phone again. You told me last night you were headed to old Herman’s, and I keep wondering if someone might’ve heard you.”

“Nobody’s up that late, Doc,” protested Ray weakly. “I don’t think.” He was quiet as Osborne’s car bumped down the lane to Ray’s place. “Plus all we got are young families and old ladies on the line—no homicidal maniacs in that crowd. Seriously, we know everyone.”

As the men stepped out of the car into the dark surrounding Ray’s trailer, they were buffeted by a rough wind blowing off the lake. One dog barked joyfully from the pen, and they could hear the racoon victim howling from inside. Ray opened the gate for the first dog.

“It’s a good twenty degrees colder out here than in town,” shouted Osborne as Ray fumbled for his keys. “I bet it’s blowing forty miles an hour.”

Ray flicked on the interior lights, and everything was as Osborne had left it earlier. Osborne exhaled in relief. He realized then he’d half expected Ray to have an obese woman with a bald head waiting for him. But the only occupant was the wounded dog, who leaped happily at the sight of his master.

“Jeez,” Osborne said, backing out of the door as it was apparent Ray could manage for himself, “I’m getting old. I’m still a little rattled over all this.”

“Me, too,” said Ray, looking over at him. His eyes were clear and the expression deadly serious. “Maybe you’d like to sit down and hear what Herman had to tell me. But first, why don’t I give that sister of mine a call?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Osborne, “not on the goddamn party line. Lew’ll have our heads.”

“You’re right,” said Ray. “I’ll give her a call first thing in the morning. Sit down, sit down. You want a ginger ale?”

Osborne nodded. Then he walked over, closed the curtains on the windows, and was about to check the lock on the door when Ray looked over at him. “Relax, Doc. If anyone comes, the dogs’ll bark.”

“It’s coming back, your memory?” Osborne sat down on the couch and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“Oh no. No, no, no. I
never forgot
what Herman told me,” said Ray as he let his long frame down into his favorite armchair, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. The dogs immediately found their places beside the chair and curled up in tight donuts beside their master. Ray looked exhausted, but he kept talking. “You might say I don’t remember if it’s time to share it with the authorities. The chief thinks I’m kinda goofy, ya know? So I’d like to be sure I know what I’m talkin’ about before I say anything.”

“Ray,” said Osborne, “is this going to be a long story? I’m exhausted. You need to get some rest. Why don’t we talk in the morning?”

“If you don’t mind, Doc, I’d like to tell you now. Right now. Just sit here with me, okay?”

The cool shiver went up the back of Osborne’s neck again. He couldn’t help but think that Ray was making sure to share his information just in case something happened to him in the night.

“I‘ve
known Herman since I was eight years old,” said Ray, leaning forward over the kitchen table, his fingers pulling gently at his beard in the absentminded way that Osborne knew signaled a verbal trip into Ray’s world.

“He looks today just like he looked then! All bent over and gnarled. Y’know, I think that old man was
born
old. Yep….” Ray paused for a long, long minute, fingers pulling, an obvious series of thoughts passing though his head if the changing expressions in his eyes were any clue. Osborne watched and waited. He knew there was no rushing Ray.

“I first saw him one day after he’d been in to pick up some cigs at old Ruthie’s place. Remember Ruthie? That big fat old lady who lived right off Highway 8 behind the Labor Temple and ran a little grocery store out of her house?”

“Barely,” said Osborne. “I think she died a couple years after I moved here.”

“Bludgeoned,” said Ray crisply, his eyes widening and his face relaxed. His headache appeared to be lifting.

“Brains all
over
the Rice Krispies boxes—now there’s a sight you don’t forget.” Ray shook his finger at Osborne. “I snuck in around the side, but that’s another story. Back to old Herman the German, right?”

“If you want to win the Loon-Calling Contest, we’ll both need some sleep.”

“Yep, okay. I’ll make this fast.” Ray hitched up his chair and crossed his arms in front of him.

“I was about eight or nine years old and fascinated by that old guy and his rickety banged-up truck. One day when I was way the hell out in the woods, I spotted him checking some traps. I was hiding behind a stand of balsam thinking he couldn’t see me, y’know, when he turns around, stares right at me, scares the living daylights outta me. Just the sight of him. Then he laughs and hollers at me to come give ‘im a hand. Which I did. And me and old Herman’ve been buddies ever since.”

This part of the story was one Osborne had heard many times in the muskie boat, but he said nothing. If he’d learned anything over his many years as a fisherman, it was that when men of the Northwoods talk, the secrets often lurk between the words, not exposed in the sentences. Half the time they don’t even know they’re telling secrets. If Osborne’s hunch was right, Ray was about to work his way somewhere with some intriguing turns that even Ray might not be aware of yet.

“Summers I’d ride my bike out to his place,” Ray continued in a soft voice, “the whole goddamn ten miles, every Saturday morning, just to hang around, pick a few blackberries, and listen to the old man talk. Winters he’d pick me up in that old truck and drop me off later. One winter we nursed a young bald eagle together. The bird flew away in the spring, but he always came back to sit in the trees and watch while we picked those berries. Herman taught me everything I know about these woods and their lakes. When I guide, people always think I must be part Indian, but I’m really just part Herman.”

Ray dropped his forearms onto the kitchen table and leaned forward. His voice lifted in intensity, and he talked faster.

“One night, I was about fifteen, I’d just gotten into acid in a big way, and I was having one really bad trip. I mean I was in deep shit that night. I decided I had to kill myself and that old Herman and the eagle had to watch. Don’t ask me why—this was all in my head. So it’s the middle of the night, I swipe my dad’s car and drive way the hell out there. Herman was good. He let me rave on for a while, and then he talked me down. He talked me down by telling me about his evil angels.”

“His evil angels?” Osborne mulled that over. This was indeed a new story.

“Yep. I’ve never told anyone about this because Herman asked me not to. See, Herman moved here in 1925 from Canada. He was only nineteen, but he’d made a little money already in lumber up north, and he was ready to buy a little land. About ten years later, another friend of his and that fella’s wife also moved here. The couple was French Canadian. Well, Herman buys his land from the state and gets a pretty good deal, but his friend gets a real deal, buying from the Cantrells just this side of Starks. Cantrell owned a trucking company out of Kansas City that did big business up here hauling lumber and branched out into paper and pulp mills.”

“Down below Dead Creek?” asked Osborne.

“Yep—on the Crane River. They basically bought Dead Creek,” said Ray. “Old man Cantrell never told the couple he was running effluent from that paper mill he owned right down through the water there. For years. Remember, the paper industry ran this region in those days. Cantrell’s mill made the type of paper used for wrapping food. He made millions pumping out twelve-foot rolls of the stuff, and at the same time he was dumping liquid byproducts into the river up there, which he could do legally ‘cause there were no regulations then.

“So the couple builds a log cabin right on the riverbank about a mile down from where the creek enters the river, they start farming some potatoes and corn and stuff. They do okay, and they want to have kids, but the wife keeps miscarrying. Finally, she’s well over thirty now—which is real old for those days—the wife gets pregnant. She has one kid. Then she gets pregnant again. But they had started having problems out there. A lot of dead fish drifting down that creek, and then they all got so sick off and on, but they figured that might be caused by their well water. Little did they know the scope of the problem, but they had enough difficulties to make it pretty hard on ‘em. And a shame, said Herman, because they’d built a fine little cabin.”

Osborne found himself curiously soothed by the rhythm of Ray’s voice. He felt himself getting drowsy and hoped the story ended before he fell asleep sitting up.

“Herman doesn’t see ‘em for a while. And then he gets a visit from the husband who says he’s really worried about his wife. She had these triplets, see, and she’s real upset. The babies came early, they were real small and had to be hospitalized for awhile. Money was tight, and the last thing they needed were three more mouths to feed. They were surviving on fish and venison. He told Herman that she was in hysterics half the time and had taken it into her head that the infants were possessed—sent to punish her for something.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Osborne.

Ray nodded. “Herman tried to reassure the poor guy that she was just very tired. I mean they didn’t have help or any of the conveniences you have today. So he just assumed that was the problem. The husband didn’t say too much else, but he invited Herman to their place for Thanksgiving. He said the company would pick up her spirits and give her something else to focus on.

“So Herman goes out there on Thanksgiving Day and the place is real quiet. No smoke from the chimney. He just knows something’s wrong. First thing he sees going in is the wife hanging from an overhead beam. Chair kicked away—he’s always been convinced she did it herself. She looked like she’d been there a day or so, too. Then there’s his friend hunched over the kitchen table with his brains blown out. Put a shotgun in his mouth …”

“And the babies?”

“Sound asleep in a orange crate with blankets and clothing and a note from the father asking Herman to do something with them. The older child, maybe two years old, was sitting by the babies, not crying, Herman said, but just sitting and waiting and very calm. She held her arms up to Herman, too. She wasn’t afraid or anything. He said it was just like she’d been expecting him.

“ ‘Cute as bugs, each one of ‘em,’ said Herman. Four beautiful children. The triplets were maybe five or six months old and real alert. So Herman takes the crate and drives into town. He goes first to Saint Mary’s and leaves the little ones with the nuns. While he’s there, they lift them out of the crate to check them over and change some diapers. That’s when they see a problem with two of the little ones….”

Ray looked intently at Osborne as he leaned forward in the kitchen chair.

“See, this is what I
thought
he told me years back, and I asked him this morning if I remembered this right. Those babies were fraternal triplets—one girl and two boys. Healthy except both boys had undescended testicles. Not just one, but both boys. The doctor told Herman that he might expect one child to have such a problem but not both. Also, triplets were highly unusual in those days.

“Then, after I started working with Shanley, I trapped some mink a little to the south and west of Dead Creek that had malformed reproductive organs. Like that family, those animals could have been eating fish from the Crane River, south of Dead Creek.”

“The only thing is, Ray,” said Osborne, “undescended testicles are not uncommon. Kids are born that way all the time.”

“Yes, but don’t they descend within the first few months?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe I’m working it too hard, Doc, but Shanley asked me to flag any anomalies, and I think this is one, especially since this is an adult male. Now you find he went to a camp up here?”

“A camp that is too expensive for local kids, which shoots your theory that the victim is from the area,” said Osborne. “Go back to your story. What happened to the babies?”

“The note the husband left behind asked Herman to find help for the ‘evil angels.’ He couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t kill the babies,” said Osborne. “Sounds like he was as bad off as his wife.”

“Herman said he couldn’t kill anyone except himself,” said Ray. “Herman figured they were both despondent, not just because of the situation with the kids but the water affected their heads. I agree. You know they sealed that whole area off for years in the fifties and sixties because of the wildlife kill?”

“It was off limits when I moved up here.”

“Well …” A sly look crossed Ray’s face. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that for a while the state thought that some chemicals found in the water table around Dead Creek had worked their way into the aquifer used by the town?”

Osborne shook his head.

“Yep, they’ve kept it quiet until they could be sure there was no problem. That’s how come Shanley arrived on the scene in the first place.”

“Ray—the babies—after the convent?”

“Unfortunately, that’s where Herman’s story comes to a grinding halt. He’s a good ninety-four, ninety-five years old, and his memory isn’t too terrific. He knows they were all adopted, but he was having a hard time recalling anything more.”

“But it was years ago that he asked you not to say anything?” “Right.”

“Why did he do that, I wonder?” “I don’t know.”

“Ray, if he could remember all the details of finding those children, why wouldn’t he remember the rest?”

“You’re right, Doc. I’ll tell ya something else. He started in to the story real strong, then right in the middle, he slowed down. As if he decided he had said too much.”

“Did you tell him what we found?”

“Yes.”

“I thought Sloan said—”

“Doc, that old man is one of my closest friends.” “Maybe, but it sure sounds to me like he doesn’t trust you.”

“Trust me? Or the people around me?” Osborne pondered that for a moment. “He’s a hermit for a reason.” “Yep.”

In the middle of the night, Osborne woke to the sound of his own moans. The woods woman was leaning over him: white and swollen, her massive head fringed with wisps of hair. A towering fringed toadstool. She reached for him. She wanted him. She knew him. He sat straight up in bed, the nightmare woman still moving like a video in front of his sleep-dazed eyes. That’s when he knew he’d seen her before. But where? When?

He turned on the small lamp to his right. He was wet with sweat. He got up, pulled on his robe, and padded out to the kitchen for a drink of water. The house was warm, not hot. Mike slept peacefully. Everything was fine. But where the hell had he seen that woman before?