Creep

by R. M. Greenaway

He looked out a window at a moody skyline, a homey neighbourhood below, lights twinkling. Before the crash, he had lived in a high-rise just blocks from the waterfront. He could see all of Vancouver Harbour from there. Not so high — only the tenth floor — but with a good view of two bridges, the strait waters and, in the distance, layer upon layer of mountain ranges jutting into the skies.

  There had been a good-sized balcony, too. He had hosted barbecues up there, stood necking with Kate there. Loved it there.

  Compare that to this comeback, as Montgomery called it, living in the rear of a low-rise, its small balcony with a view of conifer needles too thick to let in even a strangled ray of sunlight. No Kate, no Looch, no nobody.

  He pulled a face and studied the row of houses across the road. That would be Mr. Lavender’s residence, the man who had called in the tip that launched the investigation. And that would be Farah Jordan’s place, if he wasn’t mistaken. He looked down at the lot below. Some old apple trees and lots of overgrown winter-dead grass.

  He looked at the window on the top floor of her house; it was visible from here, just past the sweeping branches of a tall fir. Seemed like a pretty good vantage point. Hadn’t she said she couldn’t see anything from her place? Had he asked? Must check his notebook.

  Must remember to check his notebook.

  He couldn’t make a note to check because he didn’t have a notebook to write it in. He made a mental note instead.

  Back out on the sidewalk, Montgomery was about to beep open his minivan, but had to stop to take a phone call. As Dion stood waiting, a figure appeared, coming along Lynn Valley Road, heading this way in a hesitant fashion. A curious neighbour, probably. Dion watched the figure draw closer and resolve itself into a small older man wearing dark work trousers and a woolly brown sweater. His hair was thinning on top, worked into a bit of a comb-over, messed up by the breeze. He had a lumpy nose and pitted skin. He didn’t look happy, but called out, “Good day.”

  He had drawn to a stop at some distance and was speaking not to Dion, but past him to Montgomery, who had finished his call and was tucking away his phone.

  “Hi there,” Montgomery called back.

  “You a policeman?” The man drifted closer.

  “That I am.” Montgomery smiled across the distance with a friendly squint. Dion watched the man close the distance between them: twenty feet, a dozen, ten, eight, six.

  “I know ’cause I seen you before. From my window.” The stranger pointed not so well down toward the road called Kilmer, his index finger curled like a bird’s claw, and along a few houses. “That’s my place, with the green roof.”

  Montgomery nodded, still smiling, doing the PR thing. “Yes, I’m afraid we’ve been making a bit of a hullabaloo around here lately. Things will soon get back to normal, promise.”

  “I seen him, too,” the stranger said, looking at Dion. “Going into the Harmon place, middle of the night. Him and the other one, they was the first. He was dressed like a cop.”

  “I am a cop,” Dion said.

  How on earth could this man recognize him — especially now, in his civvies — as the cop who had come around the other night with Jackie Randall? From way over in that house with the green roof. Through rain and darkness. Must have eagle eyes. Or a good set of binoculars.

  “Yes, well, it was quite a busy night for all of us.” Montgomery was already losing his PR sparkle. The temperatures were dropping, and he looked ready to move on with his day.

  “You guys came around my place, too.” The stranger was still addressing Montgomery, still ignoring Dion.

  Dion guessed that “you guys” didn’t mean Montgomery and himself, or Montgomery and anybody. It meant the plainclothes constables who had gone canvassing the neighbourhood over the past two days, spreading the net wide, checking for leads on the John Doe murder.

  “Asked if I seen anything. I said I seen him go into the Harmon place.” The stranger gave Dion another fixed stare. “So what’s up there, you mind me asking?” he added, not to Dion, but Montgomery.

  “Up where, sir?”

  “The woods back here.” He indicated the air around them. The neighbourhood was closely embraced by forest, the same forest that fell away into the Lynn Headwaters Regional Park, where kids rode their bikes, and hikers hiked themselves to death, and werewolves were said to roam. “I seen you people looking about. What’re you guys looking for, is all I’s asking.”

  “Just scouting the area,” Montgomery said. “Routine inquiries.”

  “The wolf,” the stranger said. A statement, not a question.

  Now Montgomery and Dion were both staring at him. Montgomery asked, “Wolf?”

  “Like I told the cops who come around. The wolf. Maybe you didn’t read their fings.”

  Things, Dion interpreted.

  “Their reports there,” the stranger clarified. He had a fast and muttery way of talking and kept his chin tucked low, which made him hard to understand. He seemed afraid, Dion thought. He looked like a man who lived with fear. Probably, he was nuts. “I know they reported it ’cause they wrote it all down, eh? Wrote down all what I said.”

  “You’ve seen a wolf, sir?” Montgomery spoke up, projecting his voice and being concise as a hint for the man to do the same.

  “Hear it. Not see. Hear. Howls.”

  “Uh-huh? Could be dogs, right?”

  “Dogs don’t howl. Not like wolfs, they don’t. Not like these kinda wolfs.”

  Dion had heard and seen domesticated dogs howling their hearts out, just like wolves. Sirens set them off, for one thing. Or loneliness. Watching this little man with the anxious eyes, he wondered if the community was already putting a surreal spin on the death at the Greer house. Like Wong and Graham and Jackie Randall, everyone was hoping for monsters.

  Montgomery asked the stranger for his name.

  “Ray,” the man answered. His shoulders tightened, but there was a new shine in his eyes. Eagerness, maybe, and Dion thought he knew why. Ray was retired, single, and bored out of his idle skull. The fear was self-induced, to beat the boredom, and being asked his name by a cop was the year’s biggest thrill. “Ray Starkey.”

  “And how often have you heard this howling, Ray?”

  “Three, sir. Three times altogether. August twenty-fifth was the first time. That was around eleven at night. Then September thirteenth, at one-thirty in the morning. And October eighteenth, a little past midnight. That last one’s just two weeks ago.”

  “Damn, I wish my constables kept such good notes,” Montgomery said. Friendly still, but jingling his car keys.

  August, Dion thought. From the glimpse he’d had of the body along with what he’d heard around the detachment, it seemed the body had been under the house since the summer, give or take a little.

  “It chills the blood,” Starkey went on. “I write stuff like that on my calendar. I like to keep track of fings.” He beetled another suspicious stare toward Dion.

  Dion had had enough of the little man and his silent accusations and climbed into the passenger seat of Montgomery’s van to wait. With the door closed, the men’s voices were now muffled. He flexed his arms, drummed his feet. His body felt wrecked from the exercise, but the ride had done wonders for his spirits. He would get a bike of his own to replace the one he had abandoned after the crash, with all the rest of his belongings, before riding the Greyhound northbound.

  Montgomery climbed in behind the wheel, chuckling. “That’s one loose screw. Finally shook him off. Wolves!”

  “Still,” Dion said. “I’ll talk to Wildlife tomorrow.”

  “Somebody else will talk to Wildlife tomorrow,” Montgomery said. “It’s your weekend. Take it. Recreate. Want to take up Tori’s offer, swing by for a drink? Brunch?”

  Dion thanked him, but said he had a few things to take care of.

  Once dropped off, he c
limbed into his car and drove home to his apartment. With the weekend and recreation in mind, he showered off the Mesachee mud, then looked over his wardrobe. He picked out his best clothes. It was getting on time for dinner, and for a change, he had plans.

  Nine

  FLIRTING 101

  The Greek Taverna was close enough that he could walk down. Lonsdale was wide, six lanes including parking. Sometimes it was busy, and other times it stretched out empty like the main drag of a ghost town. Now it was busy, with cars, buses, taxis, delivery trucks, bicycles. A lot of people walking, too, as he approached the harbour. He saw the restaurant ahead. Hadn’t changed a bit since his last visit, which wasn’t as long ago as it seemed.

  Could it have been only two years? Seemed more like a decade.

  The young hostess gave him a dazzling smile, and he smiled back at her. She offered a small table for two, stuck in a nook shaded by palm fronds, and left him with the menu. A waitress came by soon after and took his order for a bottle of beer. She congratulated him on his choice of brew, said it was her favourite, too, and went off to place his order.

  After studying the menu, he studied the restaurant. Warm and aromatic, the lights down low for ambience. Plucky traditional Greek folk music was playing, just like at every other Greek restaurant he knew. Not too busy, but it was early yet. If it was still as popular as it was when he used to come here with Kate, Looch, Looch’s girl Brooke, and whoever else happened to be in his circle at the time, then by seven o’clock, there would be a lineup for seats.

  When the waitress came around to take his order, he asked if Farah Jordan was the chef tonight.

  “Yes, she is.” The waitress was even more delighted than she had been at his choice of beer. “Are you a friend? Would you like me to pass on a message?”

  In the space of a pause, he lost momentum, and his yes turned into “No, don’t bother her. I was just wondering.”

  Probably it was best to chicken out, anyway. Farah Jordan was too offbeat for him, with her brazen attitude and her talk of ghosts. He smiled at the waitress, and the look she flashed at him was keen and interested. Maybe the message would get passed on, anyway.

  He said, “I guess it would be Chef Jordan’s souvlaki, then?”

  “It is. And she makes a spectacular souvlaki.”

  When the dish arrived and he’d had a few bites, he decided it was good, if not the best he’d ever tasted. Looch had been fussy about food, an Italian snob. Himself, not so much. He ate diligently, ploughing through the dish, forking it in, chewing carefully, self-conscious, alone at this table for two. He ordered another beer to wash it down. The restaurant filled and became noisy, and he wished he had stayed home.

  He pushed his plate aside, and a shadow fell over the table. He looked up. The woman gazing down at him wore the standard double-breasted white jacket, knots for buttons, no chef’s hat. Her gold-black hair looked even golder under this light. It was neatly tied back, and there was nothing hippy about her now.

  He stood to greet her and noticed the changes right away. Not just the uniform, but the way she averted her eyes from his. She was flustered, not the woman who had invited him into her house that blustery, rainy night. She said, “Jen told me a really cute guy was asking about me. Her words. So I had to come and check it out. I mean, I couldn’t let that one go, could I?”

  Dion read disappointment in her laugh. He was disappointed too, at her reaction and the underlying insult. He said, “I didn’t mean for her to bother you.”

  “I know. You’ve just got a bunch more questions. No problem.”

  “Questions?” he asked. Then he got it, or at least part of her reaction, which made him grin. “No questions. Actually, I was just hungry.”

  Now they were both smiling broadly. Along with pleasure, Dion could read relief in her face. The relief vaguely worried him.

  “Then you came to the right place, officer. I hope you were satisfied.”

  “Very. Can you have a coffee? Have time?”

  “You’re not rushing off?” Her eyes shone. “As it happens, I’m allowing myself a bit of a break. Hang on. I’ll get it. Is decaf good?”

  “Great.”

  She brought two cups and sat across from him. He asked how long she had been a chef, and she told him how as a teenager, she had worked in her dad’s diner on a windblown byway in Richmond. “Just burgers and stuff,” she said. She had a slow, velvety voice, with the faintest trace of an accent. “But one thing led to another, and I eventually went to college, got my learner’s ticket, landed a real job, and have been working my way up since. I’m still a journeyman. No big hat!”

  Just like that night at her house, she was almost supernaturally nice. She was inviting him to make a move, and this time he was going to do it right. It was something he should be good at, flirting. A little out of practice now, but still … “You’re off at eleven tonight?”

  Instantly he knew he had blown it, and her supernatural smile faded. He couldn’t blame her. He had blurted it out like an amateur, putting her on the spot, leaving no graceful exit. He was worse than out of practice, he was back to Flirting 101.

  He went babbling on, seeing it coming, but too late to pull out. “If you wanted to go for a beer or something. Only if you felt like it, of course, though I know it’s late.”

  She reached out to almost touch his arm, but drew back. “It’s not you. It’s completely me. I didn’t expect this really kind offer. You see, I’ve just gotten myself out of a few binds, and I’ve promised myself to take a year off, kind of thing.”

  Dion’s only goal right now was to pay his bill and leave. “It was just beer,” he assured her, wallet out. He could feel himself blushing, even as he smiled at her. “That’s all. No strings.”

  “No strings? Is there any such thing?”

  “No, I get it, sure,” he said, knowing he sounded like a man who didn’t get anything. “I understand. It’s a messed-up world. Even one damn beer can turn into a custody battle, right?”

  She nodded, but doubtfully.

  “In fact, I’m the same. Strings make me nervous. So there we go. Lucky us.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be.”

  “And, of course, there’s Stef.”

  Dion was wondering whether to pay with cash or credit, and if cash, how much to leave for a tip. He stopped calculating and looked at the woman who had given him all the wrong signals, who was now telling him about some boyfriend she’d all but forgotten, which just about tore it.

  “He’s the fellow I work with,” she explained, pointing. “Him.”

  Part of the kitchen was visible to diners over a high counter, adding to the restaurant’s pseudo-peasanty ambience, and there Dion could see a reedy man in a prep cook’s kerchief, chopping viciously.

  “He and I carpool,” Farah said. “We work the same days, same hours, and he lives just a couple blocks from me, so we have this arrangement where I drive him to and from work. So I’m kind of committed, anyway. Don’t worry about the bill, Calvin, honestly.”

  Her use of his first name startled him. He couldn’t remember sharing it with her. But of course — she had looked at his RCMP card, laughed, and compared him to a comic book character. “Thanks, but you’re kind of a witness,” he said. He was trying to ease out of his tantrum, be at least a little bit funny, so she wouldn’t think he was a total asshole. “Can’t take any gifts. Might be seen as hush money.”

  Not a great joke, and she didn’t seem to get it, anyway.

  She said good night, self-consciously shifted the fit of her chef’s jacket, and went back to her kitchen. Dion sighed and went to pay the bill, forgetting to return the hostess’s dazzling smile.

  Ten

  BASH

  Monty’s Halloween party had been billed as a casual thing, starting anytime in late afternoon and running to the wee hours,
or as long as anybody cared to stay. Leith had lied to Monty when he said he never did costume parties. As a child he had leaped around the streets wearing superhero masks and capes. As a young adult he had once gone to a house party as a devil, prodding girls with his plastic pitchfork. Another time, in a more ambitious cliché, he had gone as a box of popcorn. As a devil and as popcorn, he had failed to pick up the vampiresses he had lusted after.

  Even as a grownup, he had attended friends’ costume parties wearing something or other, though his limited flair was pretty well shot. Tonight he was back to the devil standby. He had dug out a red T-shirt and, stepping into the dollar store, had bought a set of horns and a paste-on Mephisto-like moustache, thin and black. At home, the mirror told him he would convince nobody. His hair was lumpy and blond, his eyes were middle-aged and blue, and his middle name would never be “fun.”

  He bared his teeth at the glass and said, “I am the devil.”

  He arrived at 7:30 with beer and potato chips. Walking in — the moustache already lost — he found the party well underway, music playing, people in costume eating, drinking, and milling. He stood amongst strangers and, just like on his first day in junior high, the sinking sensation in his gut told him he would never belong.

  Monty seemed to have plenty of friends for a newcomer to the North Shore. But maybe some of these people were imports from Surrey, or friends through the fiancée. Leith was looking for a place to chill his beer when Monty spotted him and beckoned him over. He wore an elaboration of mismatched plaids: sports jacket, slacks, bow tie. “Go on,” he told Leith, who was pretending to be blinded by the sheer ugliness of the ensemble. “Guess what I am.”

  Monty’s friends fired off suggestions: a pervert, Don Cherry’s cousin, an undercover narc.

  “Cars!” Monty shouted. He was already half-crocked, Leith guessed, those ice-blue eyes paler than usual, as though diluted by whatever he was drinking. “You bunch of losers. I sell cars. Used cars, the used’er the better.” He reached to hook an arm around Leith’s throat, and together they staggered. “And what kind of costume is this?” he asked, scotch fumes blasting across Leith’s face. “Can anybody guess what this guy’s supposed to be?”