Free Gray Ghost by William G. Tapply Page B

took it back out onto the deck, sat in the chair beside Mr. Vecchio, thought about the good morning of fishing they’d had just two days earlier, and waited for the sheriff to arrive.
    Darkness was seeping out of the woods into the clearing that surrounded Calhoun’s house. The stars were winking on one by one. A couple of bats had come flapping out from the trees to chase mosquitoes. The barred owls were calling to each other.
    It was past Ralph’s suppertime.
    Calhoun sat there sipping his coffee, keeping Mr. Vecchio company and trying not to worry about Ralph, and after a little while he heard the sheriff’s Explorer turn into the driveway. A minute later, headlights came bouncing out of the woods and cutting through the gathering dusk. Then the sheriff pulled in, parked beside Calhoun’s truck, and got out. He was wearing his uniform, flat-brimmed hat and all, and he had a big cop-sized flashlight in his hand.
    He came up the steps to the deck, frowned at Paul Vecchio sitting dead in the chair, then turned to Calhoun and said, “Did you shoot him, Stoney?”
    Calhoun rolled his eyes. “You feel obligated to ask?”
    “That’s your truck parked in the bushes out at the end of your driveway, right?”
    “Yep.”
    “Why is it there?”
    “That’s where I left it.”
    The sheriff blew out a breath. “I’m trying to be patient, here, Stoney. So why’d you leave it there?”
    Calhoun shrugged. “I had a bad feeling.”
    “A bad feeling.”
    Calhoun nodded.
    “What kind of bad feeling?”
    Calhoun shrugged. “The kind of bad feeling you get when you know there’s something unpleasant waiting for you but you don’t know what it is.”
    The sheriff smiled quickly. “And as a result of this bad feeling you had, you decided not to drive all the way in, so you got out of your truck and came sneaking back here to your house. You came around through the woods, did you?”
    “That’s right.”
    He pointed at Calhoun’s .30-30 on the table. “Did you bring that rifle with you?”
    “I did.”
    “You keep it in your truck ?”
    Calhoun nodded. “Behind the front seat.”
    “What did you find when you got here?”
    Calhoun tilted his head at Mr. Vecchio.
    “Nothing else?”
    “Just Mr. Vecchio. And that bottle of sunscreen there.” He pointed at the purple bottle.
    “That’s not yours?”
    Calhoun shook his head.
    “You didn’t touch it, did you?”
    “ ‘Course not.”
    “What about Ralph?” said the sheriff. “Has he come back?”
    Calhoun shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I’m damn sorry I let you down.”
    The sheriff waved the back of his hand at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
    “The thing is,” said Calhoun, “for a man who’s mad at me and doesn’t want to be my friend, it’s a pretty damn friendly thing to ask about my dog before you even take a serious look at this poor man’s dead body.”
    “He’s a good dog,” said the sheriff. “I like Ralph. Too bad I can’t say the same for his master.”
    “Well,” said Calhoun, “he’s gone.”
    “He’ll be back.”
    “He never did this before. It’s past his suppertime.”
    The sheriff shrugged and went over to where Paul Vecchio was sitting. As he gazed down at the dead man, he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snapped them onto his hands. Then he turned on his flashlight and shined it on Vecchio. He bent close to the man’s body, studying his face, and the wounds on his chest and belly, and his hands, which were resting in his lap.
    Without turning around, the sheriff said, “I could use some of that coffee.”
    Calhoun went inside, poured a mug of coffee, and brought it out. He put it on the table. “There’s your coffee, Sheriff.”
    “Thanks,” the sheriff muttered.
    Calhoun sat at the table and watched him.
    After a couple of minutes the sheriff straightened up, pulled off the gloves, and stuffed them into his pocket. He sat at the table and took a sip of coffee. “What time did you leave