Gray Ghost (23 page)

At five o—clock the following Friday afternoon, which was the last Friday in September, Calhoun was leaning against a piling at the East End boat ramp. His boat was in the water, his fly rods were rigged, and Ralph was sitting beside him watching the sandpipers skitter around the beach on their quick winking feet.

Pretty soon a burgundy Saab pulled into the lot. It parked beside Calhoun’s truck, and then Benjie Dunbar came sauntering down. He was wearing a hooded Cornell sweatshirt, a Portland Sea Dogs baseball cap, high-top basketball sneakers, and faded jeans.

He walked up to Calhoun and stuck out his hand. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Calhoun. I had a meeting after school I couldn’t get out of.”

“You better call me Stoney,” said Calhoun. “Only time I get called Mr. Calhoun is when people want something out of me they think I don’t want to give them.” He gave the boy’s hand a shake. “Anyway, you ain’t late enough to make any difference. Either there’ll be fish or there won’t. Probably won’t. Why don’t you hop into the boat and we’ll take a look.”

Benjie climbed onto the front seat. Calhoun snapped his fingers, and Ralph scrambled in and lay down on the floor.

“You sure you’re all right to do this?” Benjie said.

Calhoun cast off the bow line. “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you got shot, didn’t you?”

“I’m good to go,” said Calhoun.

“What was it like? Getting shot, I mean?”

Calhoun untied the stern line and climbed into the boat. “Not worth discussing,” he said. “Embarrassing, that’s all. Change the damn subject.”

Benjie grinned. “Sorry if it’s a sensitive subject,” he said. “So you telling me we’re going fishing but there aren’t going to be any fish?”

“As I recall,” said Calhoun, “I asked you if you wanted to go fishing, not catching. You said sure. I don’t recall either of us mentioning anything about catching.” Repeating the fisherman’s old cliché reminded him of Paul Vecchio. Vecchio had said the same thing. “The stripers’ve already headed on south. The bluefish generally follow along pretty soon after. But there might be some schooled-up blues still around. We’ll see.”

Benjie nodded and smiled. “Cool.”

Calhoun shoved away from the ramp with his oar and started up the motor. He steered through the marker buoys and lobster buoys out to the bay. The motor burbled quietly. You could hear the rhythmic slap of water against the sides of the aluminum boat. “Your old man let you take his Saab, I see,” he said.

Benjie half turned in his seat. “I think he’s trying to make things up to us. Me and my mom. As if he did something wrong because those cops thought he killed people. Like it was his fault. If it wasn’t for you …”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Calhoun. “Far as I can see, your old man’s a hero. Enduring all that, what happened to your sister, then being suspected of murder. Hanging in there. Sometimes just hanging in there takes all the courage and strength a man can muster. I hope you appreciate that.”

“I do,” said Benjie. “He hung tough, all right. Things are good now. My folks are getting along better, and my sister’s even got a boyfriend.”

“What about you?” said Calhoun. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m pretty glad I didn’t smash your head with that tire iron.”

“There never was a chance of that,” said Calhoun. “I’m just glad I didn’t kill you when you tried.”

“Me, too,” said Benjie. “So You ‘really think all the fish are gone r

“It’s what they do this time of year,” said Calhoun. “They migrate. That’s half the fun of fishing. Never knowing.” He picked up his binoculars. “Here,” he said. “Take these. Do something useful.”

Benjie turned around and took the binoculars.

“Scan the water,” said Calhoun. “See if you can spot some fish for us. You know what to look for?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

When they cleared the harbor buoys, Calhoun goosed the motor. He didn’t have a plan. This time of year the fish moved fast, and there was no predicting where you might find them. It was fish hunting. Watch the water for splashes, boils, and swirls, and keep an eye on the horizon for swarming gulls.

The sun was low in the west, and already the sky was darkening and the evening fog was beginning to settle over the water. It reminded Calhoun that the autumnal equinox had come and gone, meaning that there were fewer hours of sunshine than darkness in the days. The water of Casco Bay lay flat and silvery, like a sheet of aluminum foil. There wasn’t another boat in sight. It was just the three of them, counting Ralph. Calhoun always counted Ralph.

After a while he cut the motor. The silence was sudden.

Benjie turned around. “Should I cast or something?”

“Nope. Just keep your eyes peeled. I thought I saw something over there.” He pointed off toward the horizon.

Benjie lifted the binoculars to his eyes for a minute. Then he put them down. “It’s getting kinda foggy. I don’t see anything.”

“Me, neither. Not now. I might’ve been mistaken. Just be patient. Keep looking.”

They sat there drifting in the boat, not saying anything. It was a comfortable silence. Then the muffled clang of a distant bell buoy echoed in the fog, and it reminded Calhoun that they weren’t that far from Quarantine Island. He listened for the moaning and wailing of the ghostly gray nuns in their billowing habits. But the nuns weren’t crying on this evening. He hoped it meant that they’d found peace now that the charred bodies of those four sex criminals had been removed from the Casco Bay islands.

“Hey!” said Benjie.

“You got fish?” said Calhoun.

“Birds. Over there. Look.” He pointed.

About two hundred yards away, a flock of birds, a mixture of gulls and terns, had materialized in the misty fog where a minute earlier there had been none. Now they were circling and swarming and diving at the gray water, and other birds were winging toward them from all directions. Their squawks and cries filled the air, and under them Calhoun could see the ferocious swirls and splashes of a hundred big bluefish. The blues had corralled a school of panicked baitfish, and the birds had come to scavenge the bloody pieces of leftover flesh. Right there, Calhoun thought, you had Darwin in a nutshell.

“Let’s go get ‘em,” he said to Benjie. “Grab a rod.”

Benjie slid a rod from its holder, stood up, and braced himself so he’d be ready to cast.

Ralph sat up and looked around, then climbed onto the middle seat to watch. Calhoun figured Ralph could smell all the blood and torn flesh and adrenaline in the air.

Stoney Calhoun felt his own predatory adrenaline beginning to spurt in his veins. He started the motor and sped over to join the primal chaos.