The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Petey Hustles and the Fisherman Shudders

Next day the fisherman visited the dunk site. With sun behind mountains and pink mist across water, state cops leaned against their cars. They did not make conversation. A 911 ambulance pulled away carrying two dead people. The yellow crane whirred into silence, having deposited its burden. The fisherman approached the kid.

“The cops are scared.” The tow truck kid worked rapidly as he talked to the fisherman. The kid’s dishwater blond hair had grown movie-star shaggy. He moved muscular and brisk, but kept his head down. On his trailer sat a Ford crummy-wagon, one of those new-type outfits with fancy interior, now soggy. It looked like a twisted and stomped, squashed beer can. The purr of the yellow crane speeded as cable and harness lifted up, up, and away, having deposited the wreck on the kid’s trailer.

This first week of October showed little traffic. Only one cop played beckon-and-whistle, or stop-or-I’ll-bust-you. Petey stood on the other side of the road beside his parked Plymouth, pretending to watch traffic while doing his “aw shucks” act. Petey looked guilty enough to hang.

The fisherman leaned against the kid’s trailer. The kid rigged tie-downs, racheted them tight, moving around the trailer with the efficiency of a guy doing the job right, even though scared.

“The beer-and-bait cop is spookiest,” the kid said. “Other cops talk but that guy just watches. He’s primed for something. I think the guy’s in trouble, and so dumb he don’t know it.” The kid moved quick. It was clear he didn’t like to get anywhere near the wreck, but was bein’ brave because he must.

“The job is getting to everybody,” the fisherman suggested.

“Not everybody,” the kid told him. “Some of these cops get their hots off it. They find it fascinatin’.”

“And the beer-and-bait cop?”

“The guy’s a damn Crusader Rabbit,” the kid said. “Bertha better watch out.”

“Bertha is smart.”

The kid looked along the shore, looked at the now silent crane. The fisherman watched while pretending to look elsewhere. He told himself he would-be-damn. The kid actually shuddered.

“I figure it this way,” the kid said. “Petey’s gonna get busted. Petey’s gonna spread enough bull that cops screw up and spill over on other guys… you confuse a cop, the cop busts everybody. Guys will get grilled like steak. Bertha better choose up sides because guys talk. She’ll never sell another beer.”

“There’s something more,” the fisherman suggested. “When you get that heap secured I’ll stand for suds. I need to talk.” The fisherman told himself he sounded like a weenie, but it was in a good cause. “I spend a lot of time on the water,” he told the kid. “And it’s getting ten-past-scary out there. You know what I mean?” He tried to make his voice sound timid, and was surprised because it sounded more timid than he tried for.

The kid was startled, but tried not to show it. His shoulders came up a bit. He rubbed muscles in his upper arm, gave an extra rachet to a tie-down. The wrecked Ford squeaked. The fisherman was treating the kid like a full grown man. This wasn’t pool table stuff, this was real stuff. It took the kid a minute to get a handle on it, and another minute to feel proud.

“…know what you mean,” he told the fisherman. The kid looked toward the beer-and-bait cop. “He’s gonna hassle and hassle and hassle.” The kid sounded nearly scornful. “He ain’t gonna solve nothing, not if he goes home every night.” The kid moved toward the cab of his truck. “I got something to talk over. I’ll meet you down to Bertha’s.”

The parking lot of Beer and Bait showed that a few Canal citizens had knocked off work early. Loggers, house painters, carpenters, and bug exterminators would be nuzzling the bar. Enough bull would fly to serve as cover for serious conversation. The fisherman had that “halibut feeling,” like he just put a line onto a big one.

When the tow truck kid pulled into the lot a few guys gathered to view the wrecked Ford. The kid had to stay out there and act modest. The fisherman staked out a table in back, and went for a pitcher. By the time the kid got done, the fisherman was halfway to the bottom of his first glass.

The kid sorta strutted from the front door to the fisherman’s table, but stopped showing off the minute he sat. He lowered his voice. “I bin catching crap about losing that Ranchero.” Then, remembering he was being treated like a man, and not like a kid, he started talking like a man. “Probably deserve it, too. I knew to stay off that road after closing time.”

This was, the fisherman realized, a pretty good kid. The guy was no older than Annie, which meant he knew a lot about being young and how to run tow trucks, but still had to get the world figured out. Whatever scared him might be nothing, or it might be so big the kid didn’t know enough to be totally terrified.

“You’re too good of a driver,” the fisherman suggested. “You’re not the kind that dunks a pickup after a couple beers.”

“I told the cops I went to sleep but that ain’t true. Something’s bending the road.” The kid talked so low he could hardly be heard because of musical groans from the tape deck. He sounded apologetic. “I know that sounds nuts.”

“Something’s humping in the Canal,” the fisherman said. “If you want ‘nuts,’ that’s nuts.”

“This is worse.” The kid looked halfway ready to fight, halfway ready to cry.

The fisherman first thought he heard more bull but got rid of that. He next thought the kid was crazy but that didn’t play. Then he thought of the sea, and of stuff walking across water during fog. He thought of shapeless blocks of meat snagged by long lines, hooked off the bottom.

“…looked almost like a person,” the kid said. “You couldn’t stand the smell did you live with it for ten minutes.” The kid’s voice was now apologetic. He expected to be called a liar. The kid took a chance with the fisherman, and the fisherman appreciated that.

“…sounds crazy,” the kid said, “but if you go there after closing time…”

“You’re right,” the fisherman said. “If that’s what happens the cop isn’t gonna solve anything, because he goes home every night.” The fisherman started to pour another beer.

The kid stopped him. “I gotta git. It’s Friday. The yard closes at six, and I don’t want to take that wreck home with me.” He stood, suddenly shy. “You won’t say nothing, willya?”

“You’re a good man,” the fisherman told him. “Not a word.”

The kid left, proud but not cocky. He walked with confidence and not a bit of strut. The fisherman sat, reflected, and asked himself if he was actually dumb enough to go to that dunk site after closing. He told himself, naw, nope, uh-uh, hell no. Well, maybe not.

Then he admitted he had to do something. Like, maybe take company. But who? If he took Sugar Bear, he’d sure as whiskers-on-a-catfish have to take Annie. And Annie, sure as whiskers, would do something magical… the fisherman shuddered. If magic misfired, all the dead things that ever tumbled on the bottom of the sea might rise to walk the land. Nope. Nope. Nope.

Because, a ‘course, what scared the tow truck kid had to be the dead guy. It was just like the little show-off. That dead guy demanded attention even when he was bait. But, killing people for no profit?

Still, the great wrongness, the ugliness, caused such sorrow. Something had to change. People kept getting lost. The fisherman told himself he should never have questioned the kid. He understood that he had just acquired a heap of responsibility.

As shadows deepened a few wives and girlfriends started showing up at Beer and Bait. The ladies put a little color into a scatter of guys still wearing work clothes. Male voices grew louder as occasional girlish laughter came from surrounding tables. At the bar men turned and watched the women while pretending to watch pool games. A couple guys talked positive and dumb. The fisherman watched Bertha.

She was more-or-less on top of matters. She had much of her lippiness back. She razzed guys, hassled the pool games, drew beer from taps running so fast and clear you knew they’d just been cleaned. Her smile, though, looked like a slightly bent, freeze-dried-herring. Bertha pretended to have a good time, but bein’ Norwegian, couldn’t fake it.

Folks came and went. Most dropped in for conversation and one drink before heading home. Some might return. The fisherman figured Petey wouldn’t pass up a chance to hustle on Friday night. When Jubal Jim bounded into the room with his hound happy manner, it seemed Petey ought to be next through the doorway. Instead, a postal guy who delivered rural routes slipped in like mail through a slot. Jubal Jim scored a couple potato chips along the bar, then went to Bertha who seemed suddenly joyous. Bertha found a pickled egg. Jubal Jim snarfed the egg whilst wagging tail, then headed for a nap in his favorite spot beneath the space heater. Bertha looked lots better. It was almost like she’d made some kind of decision.

As time passed the crowd changed. Guys headed home to supper. Guys without wives or girlfriends sat lonesome before pitchers of beer. Among the pool players the ante rose to ten bucks a game and hovered. Jubal Jim snoozed. Bertha mopped the bar and hoped for a big evening. By eight o’clock a thin Friday night crowd danced, hollered, and tried to make out. The fisherman felt happy for everybody but himself, plus he worried over what to do about the dead guy. Before the fisherman realized it the clock started knocking against eleven PM.

It wouldn’t hurt to walk and clear the head. He bussed his table and waved good-bye to Bertha who, it seemed, now looked sort of tenuous.

In the October night a three-quarter moon hung wispy behind thin clouds. He meandered between parked pickups and headed for the road. The dunk site lay a ways off, but no more than he, or for that matter, Sugar Bear, had walked many-a-time. Plus, this was just a walk to clear the head.

The night road carried a few cars, bright lights whipping against roadside undergrowth, making eyes of varmints glow red or green; the glows dropping into darkness as headlights passed. The roadside felt alive with wildlife movements in a symphony of nature. The Canal lay black, except where wheyish October moonlight cast thin gleams.

The fisherman hoofed right along, not hardly weaving at all. A gull squawked and slid through night air like a spirit. The fisherman thought of dark depths, imagined the dead guy walking down there poking through debris, or maybe getting chawed on by crabs. The fisherman shook his head, took deep breaths, and told himself this was no time for getting morbid. He told himself only a damn fool or drunk would be here this close to closing time.

His watch read eleven-thirty when he arrived. The yellow crane stood to one side and the site lay stripped of vegetation. The Canal licked away at a slickery grade of rock and rubble. If a guy didn’t know what had been going on the scene might look peaceful. The fisherman leaned against the crane. He tried to fig­ure should he leave? A ’course, it didn’t make sense to leave if things were about to heat up.

Headlights rounded the curve from north. An approaching car slowed and nearly crept toward the dunk site. The fisherman hid behind the crane. Anybody driving that slow looked for a place to do a deed, probably illegal, or else knew about danger.

The car crept to a stop. Thin moonlight showed make and model. The fisherman gasped, actually gasped, actually couldn’t, could not believe it. Then he did believe it.

“Part of the hustle,” he whispered, and watched Petey climb from the Plymouth. The window on the driver’s side was rolled down, and Petey left the door open. He checked the road in both directions, patted the car on its roof. Petey looked like he tried to comfort a horse he must shoot. He reached in and put the car in drive. It moved slowly into the Canal. Bubbles rose, and dark water closed over the Plymouth. Petey stood for a minute, talking under his breath, then walked away.

Bubbles did not rise for long. Lights turned the water green, then shorted out as darkness closed in. Little wavelets made expanding circles, and the Canal once more lapped against the land. The three-quarter moon reflected on the Canal like a ghost of a ghost. A hump in the water moved fast enough to show a wake. It drew a straight line to the dunked car. Then, as if the creature had brakes, the line stopped, water swirled, and the hump disappeared. For two seconds the Canal knew only silence. Then the hump circled, moving slowly away.

Later, the fisherman would tell himself he had been sober. Not absolutely, totally, cold sober, maybe, but sober. Later, he remembered standing beside the yellow crane, both hands hanging onto a grab bar, while fighting to stay sane.

A flurry of water beneath the moon. Silence. Something like a hand clawed toward moonlight. Stubs on the hand showed where fingers were forming. An arm followed, then head, shoulders; a figure slowly rose from depths beside Petey’s drowned Plymouth. A low sound, like the sigh of wind among leaves, though no wind blew. The thing moved slow, deliberate, looking a lot more like a person than the tow truck kid had claimed. This thing had a sort-of-a mouth, almost had eyes, or at least places where eyes might grow.

The tow truck kid had reported smell, and smell rolled across the water and onto land. It was rotten-fish smell, rancid-poultry smell, spoiled-beef smell… the smell of moderate decay… stuff for the gullets of gulls. A guy could stand it if he had to.

The thing moved forward, like it waded from Canal to shore. It seemed struggling, maybe inching one foot ahead of the other; assuming it had feet. Sighs increased. The thing sank backward into darkness. Wavelets moved on the surface. The Canal lay calm beneath thinish moonlight.