Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

This sign, too, was at the entrance to an unpaved road leading toward the lake. Calhoun followed the road only about a hundred yards before coming to the boat livery.

The proprietor was a grizzled old man in his seventies who chewed tobacco. He sat on the screened porch of a small cottage reading a Bible by the light of a Coleman gasoline lantern.

“They’re all taken tonight, mister,” he said as soon as Calhoun put his foot on the step. He shot a stream of tobacco juice at a cuspidor halfway across the porch. “Everybody heard the walleyes are hitting.”

Then he let out a cackle. “Don’t know who starts them rumors. Look at that lake. Calm as glass. They’ll come in with a mess of six-inch perch.” He spat again.”

“You booked up for tomorrow night?” Calhoun asked through the screen door.

“Nope.” The old man got up and opened the screen door for him.

Walking onto the porch, Calhoun said, “Then I’d like to reserve a boat. When’s best to go out?”

“Ain’t much point till it gets dark. If you mean to use live bait, that is. If you get here around eight thirty, it’ll be dark by the time you’re out on the lake and set to fish. Get here at nine, and you’ll be sure it’s dark enough.”

Calhoun told him he’d be there at nine and paid in advance. The price of a boat with a five-horsepower motor was six dollars, a Coleman lantern fifty cents extra, and Calhoun gave him a dollar for a can of night crawlers.

“Think the yellows might be hitting tomorrow night?” Calhoun asked.

The old man’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Up from around Buffalo way, are you?”

The question startled Calhoun. He asked cautiously, “Why do you say that?”

“Had fellows from up your way before. Around here we don’t call walleyes yellow pike.”

“No?” Calhoun said. “That’s what we call them in Detroit, where I’m from.”

The old man followed Calhoun outside when he left, and watched as he climbed into the Buick. Noticing Helena, he said, “Gonna take the wife out tomorrow night, too?”

Calhoun shook his head. “She doesn’t fish.”

As they drove off, Helena said, “Inquisitive old man, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Calhoun said.

“May we eat now?”

“You may,” he told her.

He stopped at a roadside eatery and let her have some dinner while he drank two cups of coffee. He hadn’t eaten since noon, but he still couldn’t develop any appetite.

By ten the next morning Calhoun and Helena were downtown at Cleveland’s largest branch of Sears, Roebuck.

While he was still on the police force, Calhoun had often wondered why criminals ever bought their equipment anywhere other than at a Sears, Roebuck branch. The confused workings of the average criminal mind had puzzled him whenever he saw a case record where some kidnaper was trapped because the paper of the ransom note was traced to an exclusive stationery shop, or some murderer was caught because a hammer was traced to some neighborhood hardware store where every customer was remembered.

Shopping at a place like Sears eliminated such dangers. There you were only one of thousands of faces seen by the clerk, and even if the item you bought was traced back to that clerk, the chance of his remembering anything at all about you was remote. The chance of its being traced that far was even more remote, since identical items are sold across Sears counters all over the country every day.

In the men’s clothing department Calhoun bought the cheapest fishing jacket he could find.

In the sporting department he bought a cheap glass casting rod, a $3.95 metal and plastic reel, fifty yards of nylon line, a cheap bait box, and an assortment of Ieaders, sinkers, hooks, and lures to fill up the bait box. He didn’t intend to use any of them, but it might excite comment at the boat livery if he showed up to go fishing without any gear.

He also bought two eight-pound small-boat anchors. He intended to use them.

In the hardware department he bought fifty feet of sash cord. Also to use.

He stowed all of his purchases in the trunk of the convertible.

“Do you have everything you need?” Helena asked him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What do we do now?”

“Wait until evening.”

“We can have all day to ourselves, then?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go to the beach,” she suggested.

Calhoun looked at her. He opened his mouth to explain that he would be in no mood for recreation until the job at hand was finished. Then he closed it again, deciding the explanation would be useless.

He just said shortly, “No.”

He spent most of the rest of the day watching television in his cabin. Helena sat and watched him, apparently content to do nothing at all since she had no companion to do it with. Several times she asked if he would like her to mix him a drink, and he merely shook his head each time. Not solely because of the source of her ice, either. He was afraid that if he took one drink, he’d drink himself into a stupor. For the same reason he stuck to the cabin even though Helena’s silent watchfulness set his nerves to screaming. He knew that if he went out somewhere alone to get away from her company, he’d end up getting drunk in some tavern.

It took iron discipline to get through the day, but he managed it.

At seven thirty in the evening they started the job of disposing of Lawrence Powers’ body. First Calhoun transferred the fishing gear, anchors, and sash cord from the car trunk to the rear seat. The fishing jacket he put on. Then he carefully covered the floor of the trunk with the three burlap bags.

They hadn’t added any ice to the tub since Helena had shown him the body, and it had melted away to about twenty-five pounds. Calhoun managed to lift the dead man out without spilling ice all over the floor.

The body was stiffened in its prenatal position, the ice apparently having caused it to retain rigor mortis longer than it normally would have. Calhoun made no attempt to straighten out the body, because he would only have had to fold the knees up to the chest again to get it into the trunk.

There was little danger of anyone’s seeing him carry the corpse the one or two steps from the carport door to the trunk, since the car blocked the view from outside, but he had Helena stand in front of the stall anyway as a lookout.

The body was cold and slippery against his arms and chest as he staggered through the door with it and shoved it into the trunk. When he locked the trunk, he found he was drenched with sweat.

“Let’s go,” he said to Helena, and slid under the wheel.

As they pulled out of the carport, Helena said, “Shall we have some music?” and reached across him to switch on the radio.

As though they were starting out on an evening of entertainment, Calhoun thought sourly. However, he didn’t object.

Helena punched the radio’s station-control buttons one after another without getting anything but static. She looked puzzled.

“They’re set for frequencies around the Buffalo area,” Calhoun informed her. “You’re two hundred miles from there.”

“Oh,” she said.

She turned the manual station selector until she found a dance band. Thirty seconds later the news came on.

As Helena reached to change stations, Calhoun said, “Leave it on. Aren’t you interested in anything at all in the outside world?”

Sitting back, she glanced at him sidewise. “You haven’t been very nice to me today,” she said. “You’ve been pretty grumpy.”

“I’m not used to women giving me presents,” he said bitterly. “Particularly ones packed in ice. Let’s listen to the news.”

She remained silent until it was nearly over. After the international and national news, the reporter got around to local items.