Creep

by R. M. Greenaway

  He gazed down the hallway, and in his mind’s eye saw trouble taking shape. Michelin Montgomery’s involvement in the hit-and-run investigation could be a problem, if there was anything to his speculations. But no chance. It was a mad idea, to be dropped cold, and he did so. He only hoped Jackie would do the same.

  * * *

  Leith stood to greet Sam Stirling, escorted in by Jackie Randall. The man was a labourer, grubbily dressed, hair chaotic after his long and complicated journey. Charter plane from Swift Current to Medicine Hat, he told Leith. Air Canada from Medicine Hat to Richmond. Shuttle line from airport to SeaBus terminal, SeaBus across the inlet, and finally cab to this address. Now he was here, the last place on earth he wanted to be, and he only wanted to get on with it.

  Leith commiserated. He knew all about prairie travel routes, being from North Battleford. Their roots gave them something to talk about as they made their way to an interview room. Once there the small talk ended. They took seats, and he had to explain the procedure of trying to identify a body that was possibly unidentifiable. He went into some of the circumstances around the finding of the body, the where and the when, but not the how. He didn’t describe the duffel bag or the extent of physical damage inflicted on Ben. He warned Sam that death had occurred some time ago, in the summer, and the body was badly decomposed.

  “Yeah, I know,” Sam said. “I’ve been told.”

  Leith produced the computer reconstructions of the dead man’s face. Sam studied them at length, with a worried expression, and finally pushed them back across the table, shaking his head. “That ain’t him.”

  “Well, like I say,” Leith said. “These are only approximations composed by a computer.”

  “Yeah, but he never had that goofy haircut.”

  Leith reminded Sam that hair grew and hair could be cut. “Have another look. Take your time.”

  Sam looked at the prints again with a squint. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.”

  Leith next went to the photographs, again warning in advance that they weren’t a pleasant sight, that there would be little left of the brother Sam had known.

  Even with the advance warning, Sam gave a violent start. “Holy Christ.”

  It took a minute of staring at the portrait of the corpse before his eyes adjusted, it seemed, and he could look at the image objectively. He nodded, and his answer took Leith by surprise. “Yeah. Definitely. That’s fucking Ben, all right.”

  Sam Stirling sat back, drawing breath. His eyes shone as the reality sank in, and he summed up his feelings with one all-purpose profanity: “Fuck.”

  * * *

  “So assuming Sam’s right, we have a name for our victim,” Leith told Monty. “But a lot of good it does us. Sam doesn’t know anything about Ben’s life since he took off. I’ve got a couple of names, though, kids Ben used to hang out with in Swift Current, who might be able to give us some insight —”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Monty said, hands up. “Didn’t you get my memo?”

  They were standing at Monty’s desk at the quieter end of the GIS room.

  “No,” Leith said. “What memo?”

  “The memo saying I’m no longer lead on Greer.” Monty unwrapped a granola bar, took a bite, munched.

  Greer had become the short name for the John Doe — now Ben Stirling — homicide file.

  “You’re not?” Leith said. “Why? They put you on something bigger?”

  “Not bigger,” Monty said, cheek bulged with granola. “Smaller. Literally. Breanna Ferris.”

  “You’re taking on the hit and run?”

  “Our leader has spoken. She wants it resolved fast, so I’m on it full-time, which means Greer is all yours. Have fun.”

  Sixteen

  BITTEN

  Dion was back on days, which meant he got off work at 7:00 p.m., when much of the world was still awake. Off duty now, he sat dressed for winter chill on a bench overlooking the waters. There was no rain, but the threat of it spread in a drifting smudge across the horizon. Otherwise the skies were a murky golden grey as far as the eyes could see, lighting up the ships and barges with orange hues. Quite spectacular, actually.

  He had lived by these waters all his life, but no longer felt part of the scenery. Coming back from the north, he had found the waters repelled him, to the point that he would avoid the harbour altogether. Which wasn’t easy to do in a harbourside city.

  What was that way of dealing with phobia? Immersion. Desensitization. Face the devil until it no longer scares you. This past summer, some off-duty shenanigans had immersed him in the ocean in a serious way. Was he better or worse for the dousing? Desensitized, empowered, no longer afraid of the devil?

  No. But by degrees, he was getting better. He would never swim again, that was for sure, but he would keep up the good work, come down here whenever it was practical and contemplate the waves.

  He was losing himself in the view and not thinking much about anything when a passerby stopped close enough to make him look up. She said, “Oh, hello!”

  Her face took a moment to crystallize into a name. Farah Jordan, the Greek Taverna chef, in a long, woolly green coat, her cheeks and nose pinkened by the sea breeze. He moved over so she could sit down, and she did, and they smiled at each other in a friendly way. “Not at work?” he asked, a dumb question he wished he could un-ask.

  If she thought it was dumb, she didn’t let on. “Oh, we’re closed today. Death in the family.” She waved a hand at him not to worry about condolences. “Owner’s mother. It was expected. And nobody liked her, anyway.”

  “So you have the night off.” He left the words unloaded, trying to avoid a replay of his clumsy attempts at the Taverna.

  “Yes,” she said. “And as usual, I’m working so hard at enjoying my time off that I’m not enjoying myself much.”

  He nodded, and together they looked out at the choppy waters, the gloriously lit barges, the Vancouver skyline. “Something weird happened,” she said.

  Over the years he had come to learn that one man’s weird is another’s mundane. He waited for her to finish the thought.

  “Somebody’s been in my house.”

  A trespass was not mundane. He looked at her searchingly. “You were broken into? Stuff’s missing?”

  “No, no. Just, you know, you get a feeling.”

  Dion did not know how you could get a feeling your space had been invaded, and she may have read the doubt on his face. “It’s hard to explain,” she said. “I suppose I could show you. If you have a few minutes.”

  * * *

  She led him through the back, to show him the door that might have been breached. The lock mechanism was a joke. He showed her how useless it was by breaking in, twice, without tools. “This really needs replacing,” he said, rattling the offending lock hasp.

  “A lot of things around here need replacing,” she admitted.

  “But it doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with. You were going to show me some evidence of a break-in.”

  “It’s not really evidence. Just things shifted about.”

  “Where?”

  In the kitchen, she pointed at the cutting board, the knife block. They seemed to have been moved, she said — just slightly. He studied the knife block minutely, and asked if there were other possible points of entry — a window left unlocked, for instance.

  “No. But I might have left the back door unlatched last week, actually.”

  “Might have?”

  “Did.” She ruffled her hair. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you with all this.”

  “Well, I’m bothered. Have you seen the news? Do you know what happened next door?”

  “I haven’t been watching the news.”

  He stared at her, searching for the lie. “Not at all? A man was murdered. His body was found in the crawl space. Leaving your door unlocked is insan
e. Don’t do it.”

  She nodded, either chastened or pretending to be. “I won’t.”

  He folded his arms and gazed at her. “Anything else you feel has been touched?”

  “Hmm, no,” she said.

  He didn’t believe her. “Tell me.”

  “Maybe my clothes …”

  “In your bedroom?” He was appalled. “Show me.”

  Upstairs, her bedroom was cozily set up, a ceiling slanting over a queen-sized bed, colourful wall hangings that Farah told him she got from Peru. White cotton curtains over the window, a wind chime made of seashells — classic hippy junk — hanging in a corner. In spite of the daylight, the room was dim, so Farah turned on a lamp and pointed out a dark wooden set of drawers, glossy and antique-looking. “It’s my very favourite piece of furniture, and I always shut the drawers tight. You know, out of respect. One day I came in, and the top drawer was just a quarter inch out. Again, about a week ago. I can’t tell you what day, exactly. It didn’t stand out to me, until all these little pieces kind of came together.”

  “The contents of the drawer?”

  “Bras and underwear,” she said.

  He grimaced. “Were any missing?”

  “No. And I don’t know if they were touched, either. It’s just a jumble.”

  “This is serious,” he told her. “Unlatched door, knives, underwear. What?”

  Instead of looking alarmed, as she damned well should be, she was smiling. “Don’t worry, Calvin. Is it Calvin or Cal?”

  “Cal.”

  “It’s really all in my head, Cal. And I feel so bad for getting you out here and making you all anxious on my behalf. Are you able to stay for dinner? I’m making paella.”

  He stayed for dinner, helped her drink a bottle of wine, and they talked. Talk was easy with Farah. Just like on the night she had brought him in from the rain, she made him feel welcome. She made him feel he could say anything.

  When was the last time he had talked about Looch to anyone? Never. He even told her about his tenth-floor apartment, and his goal of getting back there one day. He even talked about the disappearing memories he held of his mother. She, in turn, told him about hers.

  They had moved to the living room, and instead of dessert, she brought out a bottle of Japanese whiskey.

  “I can’t,” he told her. “I’m driving.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said.

  The inference took a moment to sink in. He tried not to sound defensive. “You told me you were out of the dating game.”

  “I am. Doesn’t mean we can’t hang out and talk. Unless that’s not cool with you.”

  Only talk, then. Still, his choices were to extend the evening, drinking Japanese whiskey in the company of the beautiful Farah Jordan, or go home to his apartment alone. There really was no contest.

  * * *

  Because her father’s furniture was, in her words, about as comfortable as sitting on rhinos, they sat on her bed instead, listened to music, had a drink, and let the conversation flow. They talked about what they wanted in life. “Enduring true love,” she said. “It’s not as impossible as it sounds.” And her previous relationships. “Such nice guys, but we never seemed to last a year. Probably my fault.”

  “I doubt that,” he said.

  She asked about his relationships, and he mentioned Kate, their on-and-off life together that had ended with the crash.

  “If not for the crash, would you still be with her?” Farah asked.

  There was no simple answer to that one. He had not been wholly faithful to Kate, and if she had returned the favour, it had just been payback. He twisted his mouth and tried not to look miserable. “Probably not.”

  “Relationships take work, forgiveness, and renewal,” Farah said.

  She was right about that, but when it came to Kate, his chances at renewal were long gone — let alone forgiveness.

  * * *

  Night fell, and Farah asked if the dead man next door had a name. Dion said the man had been identified, but at this point he wasn’t free to share any of that info.

  She asked nothing further. There had been nothing wrong with her inquiry — it was only natural for her to want to know — but it did snag at his conscience, for a couple of reasons.

  Ben Stirling’s name had not been released to the public yet, and in some complicated mental process, he believed she knew that. Which meant she had seen the bit in the news. Which meant she had lied to him.

  On the other hand, he didn’t quite trust his mental processes these days. Especially now, with a few drams of really excellent whiskey in his system.

  Still, it mattered.

  Farah got ready for bed as if he and she had been married for years. She crawled under her duvet, and though he offered to sleep on the sofa downstairs, she told him to join her.

  “You trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  He stripped to undershorts and T-shirt and lay down next to her. She seemed pleased, like they were two kids having a pajama party. It was strange, exasperating, funny, and in some way, exciting. The first one-night stand he’d had in a while without sex being the objective.

  Without sex, period. Heads on pillows, their conversation began to break apart, to come and go in sleepy waves. But that was okay. It would pick up again tomorrow.

  He lay on his side of the bed and watched her eyes close, and wondered if this pajama party was a test that she wanted him to pass. He could pass the damn test, he thought. She was worth it. Not a problem. Passing her damn test was worlds better than being sent home to his drab apartment, alone.

  Only when she was sound asleep did he begin to worry about the practicality of this relationship. Himself a cop, hitched up with a slightly mad hippy? Would it really work?

  Over the curve of her shoulder he noticed the window, a midnight-blue rectangle. Gauze curtains swirled gently; the sash was open a crack for ventilation. In watching the curtains breathe, he was reminded of the house across the road.

  Careful not to wake her, he crossed the room and leaned a shoulder against the window moulding. He stared outward and down. There was the darkened road between Farah’s and the Greer house. He could see into its yard at the back.

  His snag of doubts began to multiply.

  He had searched his memory and confirmed it: on the night the body was found in the crawl space, he had asked Farah if she had observed anything across the way. He had been specific about it. She hadn’t said yes or no, but deflected the question. Twice.

  He should have circled back, pressed her on it, or at least made note to alert his superiors of an evasive witness. Instead he had gone and slept with her — in a way.

  He turned and stared down at her. She lay on her side, her dark-gold hair flowing onto the pillow, and just like that, she had gone from his future life partner to a blinking hazard sign.

  What had he done? Why was he always sabotaging himself?

  His worries left him feeling grimy, and he went for a shower down the hall, scrubbing himself down with a bar of soap shaped and scented like a slice of watermelon. The fruity scent and the pulse of water relaxed him. He was being childish. Had to stop overthinking everything.

  Refreshed and in a more positive frame of mind, he pulled on shorts and T-shirt and walked down the upstairs hallway, exploring rooms. Inside one he found what was probably her deceased father’s furniture, humped together and shrouded by white sheets. Across the hall was a linen closet smelling faintly of mothballs. Another door led up to an attic, and the stairs were steep and narrow. The door at the top was shut tight, and he could see nothing inside of interest except some scuff marks in the dust that looked quite fresh. He would have to ask her about that.

  Coming back down from the attic, he saw there was one last door at the far end of the hall, also closed, also unlocked. He pushed it open, glanc
ed inside, and froze.

  A beast stared back at him through the confusing criss-cross of moonlight — a monster wolf — poised for attack, eyes glittering, hackles raised, fangs bared in a silent growl.

  He pulled the door shut fast and stepped backwards. He held his breath, listening for the scrabble of claws on linoleum, the impact shudders against the wood. Instead he heard only the rasp of his own breath as he exhaled.

  He swore at himself and again pushed the door open. This time he reached in and patted down the wall, searching for a light switch. The toggle was dead. With no electric light to guide him, he crossed through patches of moonlight and shadow. He dropped into a kneel on the cold floor before the animal to inspect its bright yellow eyes. He touched its fur, black and silver. He placed his palm on its snarling muzzle, ran his knuckles over the taut black lips. With a sudden dousing of loneliness, he pressed a fingertip against the point of one sharp fang, testing for bite.

  * * *

  Over the breakfast table he asked Farah about the wolf — and the various pelts, horns, weasels, ptarmigans, leghold traps, and firearms he had found stored in the dark little room upstairs. Especially the firearms.

  Her father had been a hunter, she told him. Big game. Went up north a lot, killing everything that moved. Brought home their bodily remains out of reverence, she said, out of love, to immortalize them in all their nobility. “Wouldn’t you want to be stuffed and put on display in reverence to your nobility once you’d been murdered, Cal?” she asked, making her views on trophy hunting blazingly clear.

  She added that her father had not been on any major hunts in the last few years of his life, then went on to describe the wolf upstairs, which her father had bagged without a licence. In self-defence, she recalled him explaining to her.

  The animal had been a mature male timber wolf — maybe the leader of the pack, who knew? She even gave Dion the coordinates from which the wolf had been taken, as her father had logged it. She described the nature of the wolf’s habitat, its crags, valleys, plateaus, and open skies. She told him about the society of wolves: hierarchy within the pack, fidelities between mates, cub-raising, their omnivorous diet, their rituals, all interesting stuff he hadn’t known before, but probably would if he watched more nature programs. She also told him of the consequences of the death of the leader of the pack, which led, with precision, to a question — what did he think about hunting as sport?