The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Petey Reveals a Motive and Two Guys Get in Trouble

On that Thursday night clouds scudded before a high wind and were cut by streaks of silver. Waters of the Canal looked like abstract painting beneath a silver moon. And while winds blew up high, on the surface no breath of wind stirred as the fisherman left Beer and Bait. For the past two hours he had sipped soft drink, listened to one line of bull after another, and watched Bertha while knowing matters moved way too fast.

Talk was of the big pool tournament. Fantasies of wealth had guys practicing at pool tables. Although a couple of cynics looked deeper into matters, most guys took the bait.

And, the bait was a ten thousand dollar prize, with only a ten buck entry fee, in a team tournament scheduled to last as long as it took, if it took a week. Bull said no less than three hundred guys would sign up. Three hundred guys at ten bucks a head came to three thousand dollars. Since the prize was ten thousand, somebody was buying something. The fisherman smelled dirty weather clouding over the noble game of pool.

And bull said Rough and Randy would come to Beer and Bait, and that the boys at China Bay sent challenges. Plus, every pool hall in western Washington, Oregon, and British Columbia would hear the news. The fisherman foresaw a convocation of hustlers that would make the Mafia look like prize pink piglets.

Through the layers of bull, Bertha tended bar, kept her own council, razzed pool games, stocked extra beer, and tried to make the place seem normal. Bertha looked optimistic. Part of her optimism came because news traveled fast. Everyone knew the cop was history and that Beer and Bait no longer lay off limits. Part of Bertha’s optimism came because a week of tournament meant a packed bar, and a packed bar meant cash.

And, bull said, cops were everywhere pulling back. The TV cop was nowhere seen, so maybe the whole show had ended. Maybe cars stopped dunking and the road ran clear. Still, going for a drive around midnight didn’t seem the world’s best idea.

As the fisherman entered that dark and silver night, his loyal companion, Jubal Jim, trotted by his side. From Beer and Bait came the lonesome sound of bashed guitars. It seemed there was/rain on the hay/and worms in the corn/I wish to this day/I’d never been born/ something like that. The fisherman figured Jubal Jim felt uncertain and wanted company, which made two of them.

Through late afternoon the fisherman had perched on the pier beside his boat while Jubal Jim snoozed. The fisherman first thought of work on the boat. Then he thought of good and evil. It came to him that the business of true evil was to make nice people join its program, which explained Sugar Bear.

The fisherman thought of the bartender at China Bay who spoke of the fall of civilization. Then the fisherman thought of all the folks he knew. The fall of civilization seemed like a pretty sturdy charge to lay against folks who were only guilty of misdemeanors, or maybe teeney-weeney felonies. A ‘course, the bartender said the whole deal was gradual. It figured, then, that everybody was in the middle of something.

Then the fisherman thought of Sugar Bear, and especially of Annie. He finally understood about men and women. The realization came so quick he didn’t trust it. Then he did. He saw that men got to run around making all kinds of noise and doing all kinds of stuff. Then women got to come in after guys were up to their armpits, and say, “Now that you’ve made a complete, beautiful mess of your life, let’s see what we can do to fix it.”

So maybe Annie could fix things, but it would not happen as long as Sugar Bear insisted she stay out. It once more came to the fisherman that Sugar Bear was too cherubic to expect long life. The fisherman shuddered.

As he stepped along in company with Jubal Jim, night seemed like a darkened stage seconds before a play begins… curtains already raised, stage pitch black, and footlights about to rise… like the world paused, ready to swing into action.

The yellow crane still hovered over the dunk site. Along the road, cops had placed wooden barriers with blinking red lights. A couple barriers were busted, but not too smashed. Red warning light cut through silver moonlight, and flashed like little puffs of fire across rubble of the well-worn shore. Nothing grew there, nothing could, what with foot and vehicle traffic. The fisherman looked from land to water, saw running lights in the channel, red where a crab boat chugged home, and green where something faraway passed to seaward. Water lay placid as a lake, but near the shore the backend of a small station wagon appeared.

The fisherman knew with awful suddenness that something dark lay in wait. Something had changed. The air seemed chilled. Of course, it was night and it was October.

As the fisherman approached the crane Jubal Jim started going crazy. He danced with joy and jumped against the tires of the crane, trying to get inside. From inside the cab came a mutter as Petey said something unprintable. The door opened. Petey looked down. Jubal Jim woofed. Petey looked ticked, but also happy as only a guy can when reunited with his dog.

“Nice work,” Petey said to the fisherman. “You ain’t exactly welcome. There’s no room for three of us up here.” He climbed down. As Petey and Jubal Jim got back together with licks and rubs, the fisherman told himself this night was lonelier than usual.

Red light made dark shadows darker, and silver streaks flashed like blades of knives. Petey and Jubal Jim looked like cutouts against red light; moving silhouettes. The fisherman waited until man and dog regained sanity. Petey took off his belt and leashed it to Jubal Jim’s collar.

“Welcome back from the dead,” the fisherman told Petey. “For awhile you became a legend.”

Petey pointed to shrubbery fifty feet away. “Get over there. Company’s coming.” He walked quickly. When the three were concealed Petey whispered, “What’s the bull?”

“Everybody thinks you’re dead,” the fisherman told him, “except Bertha and Sugar Bear and Annie, and, a ‘course, me.” The fisherman paused. “Maybe that cop has questions. Plus, the bartender at China Bay always knows everything that’s going on.”

“How’s Bertha?”

“Championship.” The fisherman told how Bertha and the cop came to mutual disagreement. “As far as Beer and Bait is concerned, the cop is history.”

“In that case,” Petey whispered, “the cop is one up. I see I done wasted a Pontiac.” He looked toward the Canal. “Plus a busted rice grinder.”

“You’re running a hustle?”

“I’m getting rid of a cop.”

The fisherman could not see Petey’s blush, but felt that he heard it.

Petey mumbled. “I was hoping for false arrest, or at least get roughed up a little. Bertha wouldn’t stand for that. But that’s busted. Plus, stuff comes up.” Petey still sounded embarrassed. “The cop started to get smart. He started showing up here nights, but never the right time, or never on a night when anything happened. I fed him the Pontiac to keep him interested.”

“Something’s happening?” The fisherman pretended ignorance.

“When it happens you’ll know. When the cop sees it his case is solved. When his case gets solved he’ll have to explain it to the home office, and you’re gonna see how he can’t. Way I figure it, he’ll quit, or get transferred, or marry a lady cop. The important thing is he’ll get outta here.”

“Which will save Sugar Bear.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Petey said. “Sugar Bear shows up on bad nights. Sugar Bear has worse problems than cops.”

“And that’s the whole entire hustle, to get rid of a cop?”

“What gives on the pool tournament? I overheard some bull.”

The fisherman explained.

“That’ll work,” Petey muttered, mostly to himself. “I gotta move quick. Mostly, it’s already set up.” He flopped Jubal Jim’s ears. “You know me better. A ‘course it’s about more than getting rid of a cop. Stuff comes up. The rich guys are running a hustle. I just naturally got to work that house.”

“Which? What hustle?”

“Heads up,” Petey whispered. “We got some action.”

Parking lights appeared as a car crept silently fifty yards away. Lights went out. There came the soft click of a door opening, but no interior light came on. The cop had taped down the switch. The door barely clicked as it was pushed back but not closed. “As sneaky as a crutch,” Petey whispered, “but he thinks he’s bein’ mysterious.” Petey hooked a finger into Jubal Jim’s collar and held tight to the leash. “Can it,” he told Jubal Jim.

The cop walked as discreet as a dancing elephant. Gravel crunched, the swish of cedar branches sounded like whispers as the cop pushed them aside. He took his time, but had no experience at walking silent.

The fisherman looked toward the Canal. Silver moonlight crossed the water and ended at the shore. Puffs of red danced toward the silver and turned black. The fisherman watched calm water, then saw slight movement beneath the surface; a ripple, like a sea turtle grabbing air, or a feeding cutthroat trout. Wordless, the fisherman touched Petey’s arm, then pointed to the water. Petey nodded “yes,” and his Portuguese-Spanish-Italian-type mouth hardened. He took tighter hold on Jubal Jim’s collar, and it was clear he protected his dog because Jubal Jim was too brave.

“Something’s stirring. It’s getting stronger. This could get bad. Plus Sugar Bear’s gonna show up,” Petey whispered. “Get out of here and warn him.” Water stirred. A light odor dwelt along the shore, an odor of decay. A feeling of dread rose from the stench.

“I dunno,” the fisherman said about Sugar Bear, “I promised Annie… “ He did not finish because, well, because.

“I made the offer,” Petey whispered to himself. “Plus this hustle has crashed.” He took a tighter grip on Jubal Jim’s collar. “If things go sour I’ll cause noise, then beat it.” He sounded disgusted. “Sugar Bear. A cueball’s got more brains.”

The fisherman thought about Petey helping Sugar Bear. Some hustlers rise to nearly ordinary kindness… always a shock when it happens.

The cop approached the dunk site. In blinking red light he looked taller. He did not wear his uniform, just work clothes and jacket. He looked like a regular guy trying to walk off trouble. He carried one of those long, long flashlights cops use. He hid behind the crane. When he saw the busted barriers, and the rear end of the station wagon his shoulders raised, then lowered like he held back a sigh.

The fisherman remembered what Annie said. Fighting just made the thing stronger. Or maybe she talked about the right way to fight.

The fisherman asked himself if evil had gotten strong enough to challenge a cop? Then he told himself he was simple-minded. True evil wouldn’t care if a guy was a cop.

Another ripple of water. For moments it seemed nothing more would happen. Either that, or decisions were being made. Then the ripple became a concentrated swirl of red and silver water as something broke the surface. The thing rose slowly, slow, taking its time, so filled with power it paid no attention to anything or anyone.

The cop gasped, and the fisherman almost did. The thing looked like a rough-cut human, like a thing turned out of a mold a little too early. It looked like a dark manikin, unwigged, splayed around shoulders, broken pieces knitting. It had fingers, a sort of nose, and eyes; eyes that in flashing red light shone red, then black, red-black-red-black, metrical. Arms raised crookedly, hands palms up and beckoning. A light smell of decay spread among surrounding trees.

The fisherman told himself he saw evil incarnate, evil walking, a work-in-progress, almost finished. He remembered that the cop thought himself alone. The fisherman reluctantly admired the cop’s courage, just as the cop stepped from behind the crane.

Red light flashed across his face and his mouth firmed, cop-­like, then went slack, then firmed. Darkness flashed between red and silver slashes. Fear mixed with courage. The cop stood fixed for maybe twenty seconds before he finally understood nothing human caused the wrecks. He fumbled the flashlight switch. The sense of dread filled the clearing as the cop made a couple of practice moves with his mouth, then decided to stay silent.

He pointed the flashlight and acted out his own show. The beam moved slowly along the bank, rested on the rear end of the drowned station wagon, flashed among shrubbery so Petey and the fisherman ducked lower. The beam ignored the shape in the water, like the shape was unimportant.

“If you can talk,” the cop said in a pleasant voice, “better get started.”

Movement of water. Decisions being made. The smell of decay increased, but only a little. The mouth moved, soundless, imperfectly shaped. A whisper. Silence. Whisper. Silver streaks of water danced like knives as light wind rippled the water. The cop, casual, steady, moved the beam of light onto the form. The light illuminated, but did not shine through. “Not a ghost,” the cop said, talking to himself. “The damned thing is solid.”

Behind the cop, movement. The road did not exactly twist, but seemed to flow, traveling sideways pretty quick, but not so fast that barriers tipped. The cop proved smart enough not to turn his back. He stepped sideways, flicking his light across the road, but also watching the dark creation standing in flashes of red cut with silver knives. The road continued to flow as it tried to pull the cop sideways into the Canal. The thing looked a little smaller, somehow, or maybe just tentative. The road returned to normal so smoothly it seemed nothing had happened.

“Let’s see you do it again.” The cop’s voice remained calm, but he spoke a bit louder. He sounded pleasantly angry, but about to get less pleasant. The fisherman figured the cop thought of the many people dead, the drowned cars, the endless traffic problems, and sneers from the populace. The cop stepped forward, cop-like.

The fisherman moved, was restrained by Petey. The fisherman tried to pull away, tried to stop the cop’s terrible mistake. The cop should not approach. The fisherman wanted to yell, to keep the cop away from the thing, but Petey motioned silence. Then, even Petey began to stir, and Petey was scared.

Breezes increased to wind, and the fisherman wondered if Annie was taking over. Wind gusted, and little tips of fir rained onto the road.

The cop stopped moving forward. Tried to step back. He seemed frozen, looked suddenly confused and fearful. Behind him the road moved only a little, returned to normal. The cop could not step backward. His right arm extended, like he was being pulled. His arm jerked, trying to pull away. As wind gusted on the red and silver water the thing seemed smaller, more concentrated. The cop tensed, made movements backward, but remained held in place. Whatever dark power dwelt in those depths was not strong enough to pull him forward, but the cop stood fixed, held in an ugly game of tug; caught.

The fisherman moved, ready to stand, and Petey motioned him down. “Take care of my dog,” he told the fisherman. “I’ll take care of Sugar Bear.” He passed the leash. He patted Jubal Jim. “Sound off,” he said, then disappeared.

Low growls, rising between sharp barks. Jubal Jim braced and sounded. The thing reacted, grew smaller as Jubal Jim raged. At the waterside the cop stumbled backward only a little, then was held.

The fisherman stood, holding the leash as Jubal Jim sounded. Jubal Jim tugged ahead as stronger wind began to whip the water. The cop sucked air, gasped, tried to free himself. In flashing red light the cop’s face contorted as he fought for breath. Small waves began to lap the shore. The thing seemed smaller, still. It was weakening.

The fisherman steeled himself, rushed forward, and reached the cop. The fisherman grabbed the cop’s arm, and pulled backward so hard both men stumbled. The cop managed to stay on his feet. The fisherman, whose shore legs were never as good as his sea legs, fell among red flashes, fell into darkness, fell yelling as his right hand went cold as death; tripping over Jubal Jim who now stood braced, growling in the direction of the Canal. The fisherman felt immersed in darkness, in cold, and even red flashes did not color the ground where he fell. He was so busy trying to rise he did not see a rapidly moving hump of water, and did not see the dark incarnation quickly sink beneath the waves.

In reddest light the cop stood dazed. Weak. Shrubbery looked withered, frozen. The cop looked at the fisherman, at Jubal Jim. He rubbed his arm and awful fear lived all across his face. Wrinkles around his eyes deepened. He looked older, lots older. His shoulders were rounded, stooped, geriatric. He gasped. Gained control.

The fisherman rubbed his own hand, the hand that did the grabbing. His hand felt cold. Not cold like pulling line at sea, but corpse-cold, lifeless. The cop continued to rub his arm. Something suspiciously like a sob sounded, followed by a deep breath. The fisherman wiggled his fingers.

“You guys are okay,” the cop muttered. “Thanks,” he said to the fisherman. To Jubal Jim, he said, “You got a great voice.” He staggered, walked toward the crane and leaned against it, then fished in his pocket for keys. “Something’s screwed up with this arm. I got a car parked. We gotta get out of here.”

It occurred to the fisherman that, except for Jubal Jim, everyone was in shock. He turned toward the Canal and reckoned that wind gusted to twenty knots. Waves broke around the rear end of the dunked station wagon. He felt his cold hand, felt for returning warmth, felt none. He fumbled Jubal Jim’s leash, got it free. “Go to Bertha,” he told Jubal Jim. “Hang tough,” he told the cop. “I’ll be right back.”