Dark Tiger

  DARK TIGER

  ALSO BY WILLIAM G. TAPPLY

  The Brady Coyne Novels

  Hell Bent

  One-Way Ticket

  Out Cold

  Nervous Water

  Shadow of Death

  A Fine Line

  Past Tense

  Scar Tissue

  Muscle Memory

  Cutter’s Run

  Close to the Bone

  The Seventh Enemy

  The Snake Eater

  Tight Lines

  The Spotted Cats

  Client Privilege

  Dead Winter

  A Void in Hearts

  The Vulgar Boatman

  Dead Meat

  The Marine Corpse

  Follow the Sharks

  The Dutch Blue Error

  Death at Charity’s Point

  The Stoney Calhoun Novels

  Bitch Creek

  Gray Ghost

  Other Fiction

  Third Strike (with Philip R. Craig)

  Second Sight (with Philip R. Craig)

  First Light (with Philip R. Craig)

  Thicker Than Water (with Linda Barlow)

  Nonfiction

  Trout Eyes

  Gone Fishin’

  Pocket Water

  Upland Days

  The Fly Casters — 1946 –1996

  Bass Bug Fishing

  A Fly-Fishing Life

  The Elements of Mystery Fiction

  Sportsman’s Legacy

  Home Water

  Opening Day and Other Neuroses

  Those Hours Spent Outdoors

  DARK TIGER

  WILLIAM

  G. TAPPLY

  Minotaur Books New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  DARK TIGER. Copyright © 2009 by William G. Tapply. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tapply, William G.

  Dark tiger : a Stoney Calhoun novel / William G. Tapply.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-37978-0

  1. Calhoun, Stoney (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Government investigators—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Fishing guides—Fiction. 4. Amnesia—Fiction. 5. Maine—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3570.A568D37 2009

  813'.54—dc22

  2009016570

  First Edition: October 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For John and Kim Brady

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sometimes it’s about more than just writing a book. The kinds of help and support and encouragement and care that I’ve received over the past two years have enabled me to keep writing, and sometimes to write stuff that pleases me, at least. But it’s about more than writing. It’s deeper, more heartfelt, more, well, supportive. It’s taken the form of visits, of cakes and pies and casseroles, of dump trips and supermarket trips, of animal-sitting and driveway plowing, of phone conversations and e-mails and funny cards.

  So I need to thank the following people for their help and support, for their good wishes, for their karma, and, incidentally, for helping me to keep working on this book:

  Vicki, my dear wife, Superwoman, who did it all, and is still doing it;

  Our amazing kids, near and far—Mike, Melissa, Blake, Sarah, and Ben;

  Our Hancock, New Hampshire friends and neighbors, and especially Cindy’s Knitters, and my Friday-night poker crew, and Kim and John Brady, and Chris and Diane and Katie Streeter, and Sy Montgomery;

  Dr. Steven Larmon and Dr. Marc Gautier and Anna Schaal;

  My colleagues at Clark University, especially SunHee Kim Gertz and Ginger Vaughan;

  My students at Clark;

  My mother, Muriel, and my sister, Martha;

  My cherished friends, including my college roommates from way back then; my very oldest pals from high school days; my Boston fly-fishing, head-shrinking, poker-playing buddies; and, all the guides and writers and editors and fellow fanatics from our happy world of fly fishing;

  And my editor, Keith Kahla, and Fred Morris, my agent, whose flexibility and support and caring have made all the difference.

  Chickadee Farm

  Hancock, New Hampshire

  April 2009

  DARK TIGER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Stonewall Jackson Calhoun was sweeping the floor around the display of chest waders and hip boots when the bell dinged over the door, signaling that somebody had come into Kate’s Bait, Tackle, and Woolly Buggers shop. Calhoun glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly two o’clock on this drizzly-gray Tuesday afternoon in the middle of May.

  He looked toward the front of the store, where he expected to see Kate shaking the rain out of her hair. She’d told him she’d be back by noon at the latest from her monthly meeting with the people at the rehab place in Scarborough, where Walter, her husband, was living. Dying, actually.

  Turned out it was Noah Moulton, not Kate Balaban, standing inside the doorway. Noah was a veritable flower garden of color in his blue Portland Sea Dogs cap, maroon corduroy pants, green cotton shirt, black rubber boots, and yellow rain slicker. He was pretending to study the rack of fly rods against the wall next to the counter.

  Calhoun continued to sweep the scarred pine-plank floor. He happened to know that Noah Moulton disapproved of what he called the “blood sports”—fishing and hunting, never mind trapping—so it was unlikely he’d come into the shop to buy anything. Nor was Noah more than passing friendly with either Kate Balaban or Stoney Calhoun, who co-owned the shop, so this probably wasn’t some kind of social visit.

  So unless he’d just stepped in to get out of the rain, that left a business reason. Noah was the real estate broker who had arranged Kate’s and Calhoun’s rental of this space for their shop. Their lease was up at the end of July. Calhoun guessed that their landlord, a man from Augusta named Eldon Camby who’d made his fortune on an empire of Burger King franchises, intended to jack up their rent again, and Noah, who profited from the commission, had been delegated to deliver the news.

  “Be with you in a minute, Noah,” called Calhoun. “I gotta finish up what I’m doing here. You should take a look at those new Loomis rods. The nine-foot six-weight is particularly sweet.”

  Noah waved his hand without turning around. “Take your time, Stoney.”

  Calhoun swept the pile of dust and dried mud and rooster feathers and dog hair and bits of tinsel into a dustpan and dumped it into a wastebasket. He leaned his broom in the corner and went to the front of the shop, where Noah Moulton was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the side window toward the parking area.

  “Kinda pissy out there,” said Calhoun.

  “May used to be my favorite month,” Noah said without turning around. “Flowers, sunshine, baby birds. Those were the good old days. Lately, I don’t know, climate change, global warming, whatever it is, you can get thunderstorms, nor’easters in May. Snow, sleet, hail. You never know. Remember a couple years ago we had that blizzard on Mother’s Day, dumped a foot of snow on folks’ newly planted tomato vines?”

  Calhoun nodded. He wondered what was really on Noah’s mind. He guessed it wasn’t the weather.

  “So you’re sweeping your own floors, huh?” said Noah.

  Calhoun shrugged. “It ain’t hard work, and I seem to be pretty good at it.” He laid on the Downeast accent, which always seemed to annoy native Mainers like Noah Moulton. Calhoun guessed they thought he was mocking
them. The truth was, talking like a Mainer came naturally to him, even if, as he’d been told, he did grow up in South Carolina. He didn’t mind annoying men like Noah Moulton, either.

  “I was hoping to catch you and Kate together,” said Noah. He continued to look out the window, and if Calhoun had irritated him, he didn’t show it. The shop’s parking lot was empty except for Calhoun’s battered Ford pickup and a new-looking pewter-colored four-door sedan, which Calhoun figured belonged to Noah. It looked solid and uncontroversial—the kind of vehicle a real estate man would drive.

  “How about some coffee?” said Calhoun.

  Noah turned and looked at him. “I wouldn’t mind. Just black would be good.”

  “Pot’s in the back. Why’n’t you come on, we can sit and talk back there. Or were you interested in buying a fly rod?”

  “I got all the fly rods I can use,” said Noah.

  Which, Calhoun guessed, was none.

  Calhoun led the way to the back office, where he and Kate each had a desk, and Ralph, Calhoun’s Brittany, had his dog bed and water dish. A computer sat on Kate’s desk, along with a printer and a telephone and a fax machine. Otherwise, Kate kept her desktop clear and neat.

  Besides his own computer, which he hardly ever used, and a telephone, Calhoun’s desk was piled with catalogs and magazines and plastic boxes of flies and fly-rod tips and broken reels and snarls of fly line and hackle necks and dyed buck-tails.

  When Calhoun and Noah Moulton walked into the office, Ralph lifted his head, looked at the two men, yawned and sighed, tucked his nose back under his stubby tail, and resumed sleeping.

  Calhoun poured two mugs of coffee from the stainless-steel urn in the corner and put them on his desk. He pointed Noah at one of the spare wooden chairs, then sat in his own desk chair.

  Noah shrugged out of his yellow slicker. He folded it a couple of times, then pulled a chair over to the side of Calhoun’s desk and sat on it. He laid his folded-up slicker on his lap, set his baseball cap on his knee, and combed his fingers through his thick white hair. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something important. Then he closed it. He reached for his coffee mug, lifted it to his lips with both hands, and took a sip. He swallowed, put the mug back on the desk, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat, looked up at Calhoun. Smiled and shrugged.

  Noah Moulton was narrow in the chest and wide in the hips. Shaped like a lightbulb.

  “So who died?” said Calhoun.

  Noah shook his head quickly. “Far as I know,” he said, “nobody we know has died lately. It isn’t good news, though, Stoney. Seems like I should be telling you and Kate together, but I got an appointment in twenty minutes.”

  “Sounds like some kind of real estate news,” said Calhoun.

  Noah Moulton nodded. “Yes, sir. It is. Seems that Mr. Camby, who owns this place, as you know, he’s got somebody wants to buy it.”

  “So you came here to see if Kate and I want to put in a bid for the place? Give us first refusal? That it?”

  “Not even,” said Noah. “It looks like a done deal, Stoney. You and all your inventory’s gotta be out of here at the end of your lease.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “You aren’t serious.”

  Noah nodded. “Afraid I am.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “That just ain’t right. We’ve been here—hell, Kate started renting this place about ten years ago. You can’t just . . .” He flapped his hand in the air. “It’s not right, that’s all.”

  Noah shrugged. “It’s spelled out right there in your lease. Mr. Camby’s obliged to give you two months’ notice. Your lease is up the end of July, and here we are, just the middle of May.”

  “It still ain’t right.” Calhoun glared at Noah Moulton. “Whose side’re you on, anyway?”

  “Sometimes I find myself on both sides,” Noah said.

  “I expect it can get damned awkward for you,” said Calhoun.

  Noah looked up and smiled quickly, indicating that he had caught the sarcasm. He picked up his mug of coffee, then put it down. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Stoney.” He twisted his baseball cap back onto his head, then stood up and shrugged into his rain slicker. “You’ll tell Kate, then?”

  “Supposing we talked with Mr. Camby?” said Calhoun.

  “Mr. Camby wouldn’t take kindly to being threatened,” said Noah, “if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”

  “I thought we could appeal to his good nature,” said Calhoun. “Kate and I, we might like to buy the place ourselves, since it’s up for sale.”

  “You can try, I guess,” said Noah. “On the assumption that Mr. Eldon Camby has a good nature to appeal to. Or you could convey an offer through me, if you want, since that’s more or less my job and what I’m good at. But I’m pretty sure that Mr. Camby’s not going to be receptive to offers, any more than he would be to threats.” Noah shook his head sadly. “He’s already shaken hands and signed papers on a deal.” He reached down and touched Calhoun’s shoulder. “I’m sorry as hell about this, Stoney. You want, I’ll keep an eye out for another place for you. Who knows? This might turn out to be a good thing. Find you a bigger shop, better location, more agreeable landlord?”

  Calhoun looked at him for a minute. Then he stood and headed for the front of the store, leaving Noah Moulton no choice but to follow along. When they got to the door, Calhoun turned and held out his hand.

  Noah hesitated, then shook Calhoun’s hand. “You want me to start looking around for you, then?” he said.

  “Can’t stop you from looking,” said Calhoun, “but I gotta talk to Kate, see what she wants to do and who she wants to deal with from here on.”

  Noah shook his head. “This isn’t my fault, Stoney.”

  Calhoun patted Noah’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Things’ll work out. Thanks for dropping by.” He reached for the knob and pushed the door open.

  After Noah Moulton left, Calhoun gave Ralph a whistle, and the two of them went out to the front porch of the shop. Calhoun stayed under the roof and out of the rain, which had started in the morning as a steady wind-driven downpour but now, in the afternoon, had turned into a soft, misty drizzle, though it was still damp and chilly and unpleasant. He kept looking up and down the street, wondering where the hell Kate was.

  Ralph wandered over to the side parking area. He gave all the shrubs a leisurely sniff and a quick squirt and decided there were no partridges or quail out there, so he trotted back up onto the porch and poked his nose at the front door.

  They went inside. Calhoun went back to his office and checked his phone to see if Kate had called while he was outside, but there were no messages.

  He wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling her that their lease had been terminated by Mr. Burger King, but he was a little concerned that she still hadn’t returned from her meeting at Walter’s rehab place. It wasn’t like Kate not to call if something came up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a little after four thirty when Calhoun heard Kate’s Toyota truck pull into the side lot. He recognized the distinctive voice of the Toyota’s engine. To him, the sounds that engines made were just as individual and distinct as people’s voices. Calhoun guessed that back in the time before a lightning bolt slammed into the back of his shoulder and obliterated his memory, he’d been trained to identify vehicles by the sounds of their engines. He wasn’t sure how much good this talent would do him now, but it did enable him to know when Kate had arrived without having to look out the window.

  Ten thousand volts of electricity had wiped out Stoney Calhoun’s memories of his entire previous life, which, he figured, was a mixed blessing, at least. As well as he could tell, though, getting zapped by lightning hadn’t affected his talents and abilities. The last seven years—his new life, and the only one he knew—had turned out to be a great adventure in self-discovery. He’d learned that he could cast a fly and speak French, repair an outboard motor and shoot a jump shot. He could recite several Robert Frost p
oems and sing the entire Revolver album and cook venison chili without a recipe, and he understood, without thinking about it, how to kiss and touch a woman—Kate Balaban, to be specific—in ways that seemed to give her as much pleasure as him.

  That bolt of lightning had left him deaf in one ear and absolutely intolerant of alcohol, neither of which had proved to be much of handicap.

  A couple of minutes after the sound of the Toyota’s engine fell silent, the bell over the door dinged, and then Kate came in, stomping mud off her boots.

  Calhoun, who was sitting at the fly-tying bench toward the rear of the shop turning out a batch of Dark Edson Tiger buck-tails, watched her and smiled. All these years they’d been together, and he still had to swallow hard whenever he first saw Kate Balaban after not seeing her for a while. She was tall and broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with the regal nose and high cheekbones and strong jaw that betrayed her half-Penobscot-Indian genes. She had long black hair, which she usually wore in pigtails or a braid, but today, because of her meeting with the doctors and nurses and therapists at Walter’s rehab facility, she’d pulled it back and pinned it up in a kind of bun that somehow emphasized those amazing cheekbones and gave her an elegant, more formal appearance. Downright glamorous, in Calhoun’s opinion.

  Today she’d dressed for the occasion—tailored gray pinstriped slacks and matching jacket over a bone-colored silk blouse, thin gold chain at her throat, black high-heeled boots. Calhoun’s breath caught in his chest. He liked best of all the way she looked in a pair of fish-slimed cutoffs and a ratty old Grateful Dead T-shirt and the pink fishing cap with her braid sticking out the back, but it was always a surprise how good she could look when she went for elegance, too.

  He tried not to think about Kate lying naked and asleep in his bed with her hair loose and splashed over the pillow and the sheet only half-covering her.