Free The Fisherman by John Langan Page B

nodded at pretty much everyone who walked into the diner. He was a tall fellow, Howard, with long arms that ended in oversized hands. His face was what my ma would have called unhandsome. It wasn’t that he was ugly, exactly, more sort of homely. He had a lantern jaw that made him look as if he were perpetually holding something in his mouth that was too hot to swallow. His skin was pale and had that worn look you see on someone who’s been a steady smoker for most of their life. His voice was low and rumbling, and from conversations I’d overheard him having with other guys, I knew he was reasonably sharp, enough so for me to wonder what he was doing cooking in a diner. I never did find out the answer to that one.
    Anyway, Howard stood there, the chunky white coffee cup swallowed in one of his enormous hands, the dingy white chef’s hat he favored tilted back on his head, and wished us both a good morning. When we returned the greeting, he went on, “Some weather we’ve been having.”
    Dan grunted from his cup. I said, “You can say that again. Streams’ll be running pretty high, I imagine.”
    “Lot of flooding,” Howard said. “Pretty bad in places. You fellows planning on fishing?”
    “We are,” I said.
    Howard grimaced. “Can’t say it’s the day for it. Where you headed?”
    “Dutchman’s Creek,” I answered. On impulse, I added, “Ever hear of it?”
    Probably, I could count on one hand the number of times something I’ve said has caused a person to turn pale. Most of those cases would hail from my childhood, when I told one or both of my folks a particularly worrisome piece of news: that I had stepped on a nail in the basement; that kind of thing. Well, add that Saturday morning in early June to the list. Howard’s pale skin went paler, as if you’d poured a glass of milk over a bowl of oatmeal. His eyed widened, and his mouth opened, as if whatever he kept in there couldn’t believe its ears, either. He raised his coffee cup to his mouth, finished its contents, and went for a refill. I looked at Dan, who was staring straight ahead as he chewed a mouthful of Belgian waffle, his face formed to an expression I couldn’t get a purchase on.
    Howard poured a generous helping of sugar into his refill, and, without stirring it, turned back to us. His voice calm, his face still pale, he said, “Dutchman’s Creek, huh?”
    “That’s right,” I said.
    “Not many folks know about the creek anymore. How’d you hear about it?”
    “My friend here read about it,” I said.
    “Is that so?” Howard asked Dan.
    “Yeah,” Dan said, chewing his waffle.
    “Where would that have been?”
    “Alf Evers’s book on the Catskills.” He did not look at Howard.
    “That’s a good book,” Howard said, and I noticed Dan’s back stiffen. “Good history. I don’t recall anything about the creek in it.”
    “It’s in the chapter on the Reservoir,” Dan said.
    “Ah—that’s where it would be, wouldn’t it? I must’ve forgot,” Howard said, the tone of his voice telling us there was no way he’d done any such thing. “I’ll have to have another read of old Alf’s book. It’s got some good stories in it. Since my memory obviously isn’t what it used to be, maybe you can tell me what else Alf says about the creek. Does he tell how it got its name?”
    “No,” Dan said, finishing his waffle. “He doesn’t mention that.”
    “What about the fellows who died there. Does he mention them?”
    Dan’s head jerked up. “No.”
    “Hmmm,” Howard said, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. “I guess Alf Evers wasn’t as thorough as I thought.”
    “Died?” I asked.
    “Yes,” Howard said. “Been a few folks met their maker up at the creek. Seems the banks are steeper than they look, and the soil’s pretty loose. On top of that, the creek’s deep and fast-moving. All of which means it’s easier than you’d think to take a tumble into the water and not come up again.”
    “How many have