Creekers. Part 9

This hill girl fascinated him, and he kind of thought he fascinated her too because then they stood there some more just looking at each other, but all that looking made him feel dumb, like he should be saying something, so he just said the first thing that came to his head. "I go to Summerset Elementary. Where do you go?"

"Whuh-ut?" she replied.

What a dumb thing to ask her! he immediately regretted it. Hill kids don't go to school! Then he said, "I live off the Route in my aunt's house. Where do you live, Dawnie?"

"There yonder, out." And she pointed behind her, into the woods, and the little boy wondered exactly where and in what. Did she really live in a shack or a lean-to? Hill folk didn't have any money at all so they couldn't buy houses. They couldn't even buy food, so they had to eat animals they caught in the woods. At least that's what Uncle Frank had said...

"What's, huh?" she said, stepping right up to him. He turned rigid as she abruptly put her hands on him, feeling his T-s.h.i.+rt. "What's this hee-ah?" she asked.

"It's the Green Hornet," he mumbled back. Dawnie probably didn't know who the Green Hornet was 'cos she'd probably never seen a comic. But then he felt flushed, instantly p.r.i.c.kly. "What's this?" she asked again, fingering at the rim of his underpants which stuck up over his belt. Then she pulled at it...

"It's...underpants!" he replied, feeling hot and mushy, and suddenly his thing was stiff.

Her hands felt strange on him, but they felt good. Her breath puffing through her hair smelled sort of like milk. Then he looked at her hands- Holy p.o.o.p!

-and saw that one hand had seven fingers, and the other had four but was missing a thumb. And then he looked at her feet- She's a- -which had at least eight little toes on each.

-Creeker!

She tugged curiously up on the edge of his underpants, and all at once his pee-er felt funny, like something was going to happen. The little boy couldn't imagine what, though. He stared at her, never moving. She's a Creeker, he thought more slowly this time. She had to be, just like what Eagle said. They were wrong, they were messed up. Why else would she have so many toes if she wasn't a Creeker?

Her coal-black hair swayed in front of her face...

"You kin kiss me, ya want," she said, and in that next second she was kissing him, real sloppy like, and putting her tongue into his mouth. At first he was grossed-out, but very quickly he started to like it. Then- "Dawn!" a voice cracked out of the woods like a rifle shot. "Dawn! Hee-ah! Now, girl!"

Dawnie jerked back. "I go gotta now," she whispered in panic, glancing back. "Bye!"

Then she ran off into the woods.

"Wait!" his voice broke. He wasn't even thinking. He didn't want her to go. He wanted to...kiss her some more. But off she went, her feet carrying her away.

What should I do?he thought quite dumbly. The answer was simple.

He ran after her.

She'd got a good head start. Leaves and branches crunched under his sneakered feet as he pedaled forward into the brush. Vines and thorn bushes scratched at his arms and face, but he didn't care, he didn't even feel it. His eyes darted forward. Where had she gone? All he saw up ahead were trees, woods, spiderwebs. Then he pushed through more thicket and sunlight broke on his face...

Suddenly he was standing at the end of a dirt road which led up a hill. At the end of the road stood a house.

A big three-story rickety farmhouse. Gables stuck out of the upstairs rooms; old gray wood showed through old whitewash, and some of the s.h.i.+ngles on the roof were missing, which reminded him of Mrs. Nixerman's missing teeth. The roof seemed to sag...

He still wasn't thinking. He was running up the road. He didn't see Dawnie, but he knew she must live there 'cos there weren't any other houses around. The house got bigger as his feet stomped along the dusty dirt road. Big bugs zapped at his head.

Weathered planks creaked as he moved up the steps. He stood on the porch a moment, then took very slow steps to his right- Toward the first window.

He placed his hand above his brow, to s.h.i.+eld the sun from his eyes.

Then he put his face to the window and looked in...

Nine.

Dream, the parched thought throbbed in his head.

Phil was staring up into an abyss he eventually recognized as his bedroom ceiling. Threads of sunlight strayed through the gaps in his blackout curtains, spoiling the makes.h.i.+ft nighttime that his work schedule forced him to create. Despite the room's beastly heat, he felt buried in cold mud.

A dream...

Not a dream as much as a replay, a mental towline dragging him back to that day twenty-five years ago. The rekindled images, now, made it seem like yesterday...

The humid, bug-buzzing woods. The little Creeker girl. The long dirt road leading up the hill he'd never seen before, and...

The House, he remembered.

And that was all he dare remember-the House. Not the things he'd seen or at least the things he thought he'd seen. Thank G.o.d he'd awakened before the dream had replayed all of that, too...

He groaned, swung out of bed, and frowned fiercely upon opening the curtains. Working at night, of course, meant sleeping during the day, something he was accustomed to by now, except for that first rude jolt of sunlight. It seemed weird getting up at three or four in the afternoon when the rest of the world rose in the morning. But at least, he reminded himself, I never have to put up with rush hour.

The bedroom and cubbyhole den he rented from Old Lady Crane was no Trump Towers penthouse, but the price was right; it was all he needed, at least for now. The only killer was the place had no air-conditioning, and that fact drove home right this minute; he turned on the behemoth window fan, then grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. He paused at the bathroom mirror, though, long enough to mock, Looking good, Phil. Nice tan, too. He supposed he was in decent enough shape for thirty-five, but ten years of police work-not to mention his security stint on the graveyard s.h.i.+ft-left him white as a trout belly. His image in the mirror made him laugh: palely naked, stubble on his face, his dark-blond hair in ludicrous disarray from six hours of sweat-drenched sleep. You better forget about that GQ cover, he thought. Even his normally clear hazel eyes had dark circles under them. The dream had worn him out, along with the gruelling memories...

The cold shower felt lukewarm in the ninety-degree heat. By the time he dried off, he was sweating again. He still had several hours before he needed to get ready for work, but he had no idea what he was going to do. What? Hang out at the fire station? Go for a leisurely spin through beautiful downtown Crick City? Christ... He knew he needed to divert himself, or else he'd start thinking about the dream again, or he'd starting thinking about the business with Vicki Steele. He needed to get his mind off all of that, but how could he, now that he was back in the same town, with all the old familiar sights and people? Start by shaving. He lathered up with Edge Gel, then nearly dropped his razor when someone knocked on the door.

Who the-my rent's not due, is it? I've only been living here three days. Maybe it's Reader's Digest bringing me my fifteen mil. Shave cream jiggled on his chin as he wrapped a towel around his waist and answered the door.

"I gave at the office," he said when he saw who it was.

The pretty face offered a snide smile. The blond iceb.i.t.c.h, he recognized all too fast. Susan, our amiable, upbeat dispatcher.

"Nice towel," she said.

"If I'd known you would be knocking on my door, I'd have dressed black tie. Okay, so how much are the Girl Scout cookies?"

"You really are horribly sarcastic," Susan Ryder said.

Phil could imagine how silly he looked: green Edge Gel fizzing on his face, and a towel as the only thing keeping him from being stark naked. "All right, let me rephrase. What the h.e.l.l do you want?"

"Well, I think I'm already regretting this, but I thought I'd offer to buy you dinner."

Dinner, Phil thought nebulously. This woman hates me. She thinks I kill ghetto kids. Now she wants to buy me dinner.

"Or I should say," she corrected, "whatever it is we night-s.h.i.+fters call the first meal of the day. I guess it's our breakfast." She seemed shaky suddenly, or even nervous. "Sort of a, you know, peace offering."

"Peace offering," Phil stated dumbly.

"Is your head made of bricks?" she suddenly snapped. "I'm trying to apologize! Jesus!"

"Apologize," Phil stated dumbly. The shave cream continued to fizz. "Uh...apologize for what?"

Exasperation, or rage, thinned her pretty blue eyes. "For treating you s.h.i.+tty this morning. But if you're going to be an a.s.shole about it, then forget it."

"Oh. Uh," Phil brilliantly replied. This whole scene caught him off guard. "Well, in that case, your apology, and your invitation, are accepted. Can I finish changing, or do you want me to go like this?"

"You can go like that if you want," she said, smiling. "But if that towel falls off, you'll have to arrest yourself for indecent exposure."

"Or unlawful display of shaving cream in public," he said. "Come on in, I'll just be a minute. It's the maid's day off, so you'll have to forgive the current disarray of my estate."

Susan Ryder walked in, and immediately went to peruse the bookshelf in his broom-closet-sized den, mostly law enforcement, judicial, and criminology texts from his Master's courses. "All my Aquinas and Jung are still packed up," he said, "but I do have every Jack Ketchum novel ever printed." He quickly grabbed some clothes and slipped into the bathroom. He shaved haphazardly, realizing his own nervousness when he nearly sprayed Glade Air Freshener under his arms. What do I have to be nervous about? he joked. I have beautiful blondes in my room all the time. She was certainly attractive; perhaps he hadn't fully noticed that when they'd met, considering the circ.u.mstances. He left the bathroom door cracked an inch, and in the mirror he could see her stooped over his put-it-together-yourself fiberboard bookshelf: simply dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a faded lime blouse. Yeah, she's pretty, all right, he acknowledged as he began to brush his teeth with one hand and haul on his jeans with the other. Unfancified white-blond hair s.h.i.+mmered at her shoulders. Nice behind, too, you s.e.xist pig, he noted of the way her pose accentuated her rear end. He knew what it was, though-not her good looks but the whole apology business. Apologies didn't seem like her style at all, but- He didn't really know her, did he? So how could he make a judgment like that, when only this morning he'd ranted on her for prejudging him about the Metro fiasco. Who's prejudging who? he admitted with a mouthful of Crest.

"Oh," she commented from the den. "Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

Phil instantly spat toothpaste into the sink. "What?

"You talk in your sleep," she repeated, still leaning over his books. "You're a bigtime ratchetjaw."

Phil stared into the mirror, toothpaste smeared on his lips like a drunken clown's whiteface. Of course he knew he talked in his sleep on occasion-the women in his past had always pointed that out-but how on earth could Susan know that?

"Either you're psychic, or you've got a microphone hidden in my room."

"Neither," she said. Now, in the mirror, she was flipping through his stack of LEAA journals in a box on the couch. "I rent the room right above yours."

Phil almost spat his toothpaste out again. "You live here?"

"Yeah. Isn't Mrs. Crane great? Anyway, eventually you'll discover that the heating ducts make for a very effective in-house intercom. So you better gag yourself whenever you go to bed, unless you want me to know all your secrets."

That's just great, Phil thought, pulling on a Highpoint College T-s.h.i.+rt. He tried to think of a funny comeback.

"The heating ducts, huh? So that explains the loud vibrating sound I hear everyday from upstairs," which he immediately regretted. He didn't know her well at all, and certainly not well enough to be making jokes like that.

"If you must know," she came back just as fast, "I use imported ben-wa b.a.l.l.s, not vibrators."

Jesus. He guessed she was joking, or hoped she was. He came back out then, was about to speak as she turned in the den, but hesitated. Though his pause lasted only a second, it seemed like full minutes to him. G.o.d, she really is beautiful. No makeup, just a simple, pretty farm-girlish face, a slender yet curvy body, and high B-cup b.r.e.a.s.t.s that looked firm as apples. For a moment her face seemed brightly alight in the frame of pure-blond hair. Her eyes, a beautiful sea-blue, sparkled like chips of gems.

"You can take me out to dinner now, or breakfast, or whatever it is that us night-s.h.i.+fters call the first meal of the day," he said. "I'll put on my best sports jacket if you're taking me someplace expensive."

"Is Chuck's Diner expensive enough for you?"

Phil held the door open for her, then followed her out. "Chuck's Diner? I guess I should put on my tux."

They went in her car, a nice Mazda two-door, for which Phil was very grateful. It wasn't that he was embarra.s.sed by his dented, rusted, clay-red '76 Malibu, it was...well, something probably worse than embarra.s.sment. Immaturity notwithstanding, no real man wanted to drive an attractive woman anywhere in such a vehicle. Susan's car was clean and unadorned, like her, attractive in its lack of frills. He watched her bright-blond hair spin in the breeze from the open window. "No valet parking?" he joked when she pulled into Chuck's.

"Only on weekends," she said. Inside they took a booth in the back. Another blast from the past, Phil considered. It had been over a decade since he'd last set foot in here. Chuck's Diner was your typical greasy spoon, though cleaner than most. A middle-aged waitress in an ap.r.o.n and bonnet took their orders.

"So what are you packing?" Susan asked.

"Packing?" Phil queried.

Susan, frowning, rephrased, "What kind of weapon do you carry off-duty?"

"Oh, that kind of packing." But what a strange question. "A Beretta .25."

"That's a peashooter!" she exclaimed. The waitress set their orders down, then Susan continued, "What are you gonna shoot with a .25? Gnats?"

Phil appraised his hash and eggs. "Well, actually I'm not planning to shoot anything, except maybe the waitress if she doesn't bring me some salt and pepper."

"Cops are supposed to be prepared for trouble round the clock. What if some c.o.ked-up sc.u.mbags try to take you down?"

"In Chuck's Diner? Look, if they want my hash and eggs, they can have it."

"I wouldn't be caught dead with anything less than a hot-loaded 9mm," she told him, then nonchalantly bit into her cheeseburger sub. "Right now I carry a SIG .45."

"You carry a gun?" Phil asked.

"Of course. Mullins got me a carry permit, told him it was the only way I'd dispatch for him. It's a crazy world, there's a nut around every corner."

Phil nodded. "Two on every corner is more like it." And he'd seen them all on Metro. He felt inclined to tell some stories, but before he could, Susan said, "Take a look," then abruptly opened her purse and withdrew a large, clunky automatic.

"Put that away!" Phil said. "This is a diner, not an armory."

She shrugged and put the gun back. "I'm thinking about buying one of those H&K squeeze-c.o.c.kers, or maybe a used Bren-10."

How do you like that? Phil mused. Dirty Harry's got a sister. "If you want my opinion, stick to simple pieces."

She glanced across the table as if slighted. "Oh, because I'm a woman? Women can't handle sophisticated handguns?"

Phil sighed in frustration. "Simmer down, Annie Oakley. Wait till you're neck-deep in a shootout one night and your fancy auto stovepipes a round. You'll sell your soul for a Colt revolver."

Again she shrugged, almost as if she couldn't decide whether or not to agree. "How's it feel to be back?"

"Okay, I guess. A job's a job."

She fidgeted with a French fry, glancing down. "And, again, I really apologize for the way I treated you this morning. I had no right to say things like that."

"Don't worry about it," Phil pa.s.sed it off. Actually, it was kind of funny now. A few hours ago she was practically accusing me of murder, and now she's buying me hash. "I guess we all have a bad day every now and then." But he thought it best to change the subject quick, "So what are all the books I see you reading at the station? You in college?"

"Yeah, slow but sure. I'm majoring in criminology, minor's in history. This is my last semester, thank G.o.d. Evening cla.s.ses a couple nights a week."

"That's great," Phil acknowledged. "What are you going to do when you get your degree? Work for Mullins?"

"Not on your life. I'll shoot for DEA or maybe Customs. And there're always the county departments up north. Last thing I want to be is a Crick City cop-" Then she caught herself, brought a hand to her mouth. "Sorry. No offense."