Creep

by R. M. Greenaway

Dion seemed taken aback by the news, and went on his way without another word. Strange.

  * * *

  With his new responsibilities in hand, Dion was learning that Leith was right, there were a lot of not-so-credible reports coming in from Lynn Valley since the discovery of Ben Stirling’s body. Residents of the area were calling in with tips that ranged from suspicious-looking cats and dogs to UFOs. Surveillance had been set up at certain points along the road above the Headwaters, but hadn’t produced any results yet.

  Dion spent the day working with others on the list, making calls, following them up, checking them off. One report stood out more than the others, and he gave it a second read. Somebody’s young son had overheard a classmate bragging that he personally knew a werewolf. After some time on the phone he had the classmate’s info scribbled in his notebook. Troy Hamilton, ten years old, who lived on Dempsey, not far from the Greer crime scene. He advised his shift supervisor and went to check it out.

  The door of the Dempsey house was opened by a woman covered in white powder. When Dion gave her the reason for his visit, that he wanted to talk to her son Troy, she invited him into the foyer and shouted at her husband to come and listen to this. Her husband was also dusted with white. Dion had interrupted them at a bad time, it seemed, and they were up to their ears in renovations. He apologized. The father went to fetch Troy.

  The interview would have to take place in the dining room, Mrs. Hamilton said, leading the way. It was the only room not covered in drop cloths. Troy Hamilton was brought in, and to Dion he looked like a child genius from a Disney movie — serious, small-bodied, towheaded, wearing large glasses. He asked the parents to stay around for the interview, but they were eager to carry on with their work, if that was okay. He insisted that at least one of them remain in close proximity. In the end the mother agreed. She would be in the adjacent living room, patching drywall dings, where she could keep an eye and ear on the interview. Yes, she would pay attention, she promised.

  Now, sitting kitty-corner at the table, Dion looked into the little boy’s serious brown eyes and said, “Thanks for talking to me, Troy. I heard that you told a friend at school that you personally know a werewolf. Is that true?”

  “Is what true?” Troy said.

  In the living room, Mrs. Hamilton wasn’t monitoring the interview as promised, but arguing with her husband about the colour of grout. When the debate ended, Dion carried on. “Is it true that you told a friend at school that you know a werewolf?”

  “No, that’s not true,” Troy said.

  “You never told anybody that you know a werewolf?”

  “It’s not true that he’s a friend.”

  The interview went on in the same vein for a few minutes, until Dion scored a point and got the kid to admit he did know a werewolf. Yes, personally. But he refused to give up a name. Dion persisted, and only learned that Troy’s favourite line was, “Not telling.”

  “Is he an adult werewolf, or a young one? Big, small? Your age, my age?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “You know that werewolves eat people, right?”

  “I know that.”

  “This werewolf you know, does he eat people?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “He lives around here, though, does he?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “Why aren’t you telling?”

  “Because I’m sworn to not tell secrets.”

  “What would happen if you told his secret? Did he tell you what he’d do if you told?”

  “No. He’s my friend, and I don’t believe in telling on friends.”

  “Oh, I see.” In the other room the parents were talking over each other, about ceiling lights now, and insects. “I only want to talk to this guy,” Dion said, “make sure he’s not going around eating people in the middle of the night. That would be a bad thing, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on the people.”

  “What if he attacked your parents? You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Troy didn’t answer, and his blank stare struck Dion as monstrous. The boy was a serial killer in the making. One day he would make the news.

  “You understand some bad things are happening around here, don’t you?”

  “Like what?”

  “People getting scared in the woods.”

  “Probably serves them right for going in the woods.”

  “Well, it’s not a good thing, and we’re thinking it might be a werewolf making all the trouble, or someone who’s playing at being a werewolf, and so anybody answering to the name of werewolf we’d very much like to talk to. D’you understand me?”

  Nothing.

  Dion said, “Do you want to go for a ride in my police car? If your mom and dad say it’s okay?”

  “No,” Troy said.

  “Don’t you believe in helping to stop crime?”

  “No, and I don’t believe in policemen.”

  Dion got mean. “Well, I don’t believe in werewolves.”

  “I don’t believe in you.”

  Dion stared across at the miniature psychopath and thought about the reward being offered for information leading to the capture of Ben Stirling’s killer. But how to word it such that he wouldn’t get in trouble? “There’s a guy out there who’s hurting people. We’ll pay anyone who helps catch him. I think it’s five thousand dollars. But only if we catch him.”

  Not an offer and non-specific. Nobody could fault him for that — he hoped.

  Troy was interested. “You’re going to arrest him?”

  “Only if he’s done something wrong.”

  “Mr. Glen,” Troy said.

  “Who’s Mr. Glen?”

  “Mr. Glen Oakley. Our janitor at school.”

  The boy would say nothing further.

  Before Dion left the house he talked to the parents once more, hoping for some kind of confirmation. “Troy tells me he knows a werewolf.”

  Their flat expressions were a lot like Troy’s, except they seemed to find it all quite funny.

  “Do you have any idea who this werewolf might be?” he asked.

  “There’s no such thing as werewolves, last I heard,” the father said.

  “Maybe in his mind there is. You should be aware, he might be hanging around with a grown-up, somebody who could be dangerous. I’d keep an eye on him, if I were you. Is there anybody you know of who might fit that description, somebody in the neighbourhood he could be talking to?”

  “No, of course not,” the mother said.

  “Do you know the janitor at Troy’s school?”

  They didn’t. No, Troy never spoke of the janitor, or any janitor. Why?

  He said, “I’m not accusing Troy of anything. I’m not accusing this man he knows, either. I just want to talk to him, make sure it’s all fun and games.”

  Both parents shook their heads. Drywall dust floated around them like disintegrating halos.

  “Your son could be at risk.“

  “But only on a full moon,” the mother said. Like mother, like son. “I’m kidding,” she told him, grinning. “Of course we’ll keep an eye on him.”

  He had a final question, taking the janitor tipoff from a different angle: “Name Glen Oakley mean anything to you?”

  Of course it didn’t.

  * * *

  His car’s computer told him where Glen Oakley lived. Not far away, in a condo in Deep Cove. Oakley was forty-seven years old and he had a record of fraud dating back a few years, something to do with the issuance of phony cheques. For his crimes he had received a fine and probation of two years.

  At this point backup was unwarranted, as were silver bullets. Dion parked outside the condo, walked up to Oakley’s front door, and pressed the buzzer. A tall man with salt and pepper hair opened up. He wore sweats and a
baseball cap. His unfriendly expression maybe had to do with the game in the background playing loudly off the TV, or maybe it was the uniform he found himself looking at. Or both. Or neither.

  “Glen Oakley?”

  “Yes. What?”

  Dion told him who he was and why he was here, investigating a disturbance in the neighbourhood. “And I was led to believe you might have some information. Mind if I step in?”

  Oakley moved stiffly aside, but wouldn’t allow entry beyond the entrance nook, so the interview had to take place between coats and shoes, as the TV blared in the background. “You know there’ve been reports of someone stalking passersby in and around the Mesachee Woods?” Dion opened.

  “Yes, I know. It’s on the news.”

  “Do you know a Troy Hamilton?”

  “A what? No.”

  “He’s a student at the school where you’re employed as caretaker. Ten years old, about this tall, straight blond hair, glasses.”

  “I don’t know. They all look the same to me. What about it?”

  “You talk to the kids, tell them stories, get friendly with them?”

  Oakley stared at him, said nothing.

  Dion said, “Telling the kids you’re a werewolf, sir?” Blunt and flat. Shock tactics. He kept a steady eye on Oakley, Oakley kept a steady eye on him, and the moment stretched.

  “What did you say?” Oakley said. “I’m a what?”

  “Did you tell Troy Hamilton you’re a werewolf? Did you tell anyone you’re a werewolf?”

  “What’s this all about? Is this a joke?”

  “Maybe you were just kidding around, getting into the Halloween spirit?”

  “I don’t kid around. I learned a long time ago that kidding around does not pay. You got ID?”

  Dion got out his ID with photo and regimental number. Oakley made a show of memorizing it.

  “There’s somebody going around in the woods dressed as an animal, howling like a wolf, and scaring people,” Dion told him. “I was given your name, so I’m just following up. May I have a brief look around?”

  Oakley raised his voice. “For what?”

  “Only evidence relevant to the allegation,” Dion said.

  Fun fur.

  “Look around,” Oakley said. He flung a hand toward the interior of his home. “Be my guest. What a load of bullshit.”

  Dion found nothing incriminating anywhere in the man’s small and tidy condo. He considered having the janitor’s room at the school also searched, but decided not to waste any more time on this particular red herring. Oakley was too perfectly surprised by the accusation to be a werewolf. In fact, Oakley was just a name picked out of a hat, and Troy Hamilton was a stinking little cheat who could learn a thing or two about honesty and respect.

  He still believed the kid harboured a secret, a name which could potentially bring this nuisance file to a fast close. The problem was, ten-year-olds couldn’t legally be picked up by the lapels and shaken. He would hand the information back to his supervisor, and from there it could be decided what to do with Troy. Get tough with the parents, fan out their inquiries, or put surveillance on the boy, if that’s what it took.

  Back in the coat nook, Dion apologized to Oakley for the intrusion. He received no forgiveness. He left the condo and the door slammed behind him, and whoever was prowling the thickets of the North Shore under heavy winter skies continued to roam free.

  Nineteen

  SUMFIN’ WEIRD

  The office was coming alive with fresh workers setting up for a new day. Leith had arrived early. He was in the lunchroom, taking the opportunity to write a letter home to his parents in North Battleford. JD Temple sat down across from him and said, “This just in.”

  Leith looked up from an incredibly unbeautifully constructed sentence. “Huh?”

  “Fingerprints off the Greer house.” JD was craning to see what he was writing. “Two good sets. One’s got a name attached. Seems we’ve got us a suspect.”

  Leith showed her the letter so she could stop rubbernecking. “My folks don’t believe in email. What’s our suspect’s name?”

  “Jagmohan Battar, or Joey. Better yet, we have an address on him, and he’s not going anywhere fast. He’s doing time in Mission for B & E, and we’ve got clearance to talk to him.”

  “Meet you in the foyer at seven twenty,” Leith said, nose back in his letter.

  At his desk ten minutes later, he checked Google Maps and saw that Mission was not quite an hour’s drive south. He gathered what he needed for the task, squinting irritably at the morning sun. It sat low on the horizon, entangled in clouds, but shining through the tinted windows hard enough to hurt the eyes.

  He was finding fault with everything today, because his week had gone so badly. Mostly he found fault with real estate tycoons, all of them, because of the perfect house that got away. It had happened just last night. He and Alison met their agent at yet another property, and for the first time, liked what they saw. It was perfect in its imperfection, not far from the hum of bridge traffic, a bungalow in a not-great area. It was small, rundown, and in need of a new roof — so marvellously dilapidated that he and Alison had gotten their hopes up.

  The vendors had been present, which was kind of odd; they were a husband and wife going over some details of the listing with their own realtor, while their kids hung around the backyard looking bored. It was probably an estate sale, Leith thought. That might work in their favour, he thought, with his great flare for naivety. Maybe they’d want to dump it at the first offer, fast.

  The vendors stayed out on the back deck while Leith and Alison looked around. They agreed they should offer above asking, and while Alison remained out back in the cold sunshine, Leith and his agent did up the paperwork in the kitchen. No subject-to’s, no inspection. Termites or sinkholes — fine, bring them on.

  But of course it wasn’t to be. As he and Alison departed the property, another vehicle pulled up, much snazzier than theirs, and the individuals who stepped out screamed speculation. They were going to up the offer, buy the shack, rip it down, build a skinny-ass yuppie condo, and resell at a massive profit. That’s what.

  It was time to shake the disappointment and move on. This was a brand-new day, and he would just have to make it a better one. He was reaching to activate the voicemail option on his telephone console when the thing warbled at him, its answer-me-now light flickering urgently.

  “Damn you,” he told it, and picked up. “Leith.”

  “Yeah, hi,” the voice said. It was the croak of an older male, somebody patched through by the receptionist, for some reason, without introduction. That or a wrong number.

  “Yes, sir?” Leith asked, sharp as a slap, patience not his strong suit.

  “M’name’s Starkey,” the voice said.

  “This is Constable Dave Leith, Mr. Starkey. Can I help you?”

  “They call me Starboy.” He sounded inebriated — or maybe just uncertain, like someone who didn’t have much experience with phones. “The lady said it’s you working on this fing out here, is that the truth?”

  “What thing is that, sir?”

  “The strange goings-on here in Lynn Valley.”

  Leith puffed out a breath. More tips from the twilight zone. “Yes, that would be me.”

  “Ah, good. ’Cause I seen fings.”

  Because life was short and seemed to be getting shorter every day, Leith felt almost too rebellious to pick up a pen. But he grabbed a new BIC from the supply in his desk drawer, removed the plastic lid with his molars and spat it into the wastebasket, punched his notebook open to a clean page, and prepared to take down the caller’s hot tip. “What have you seen?”

  “Wild dogs,” Starboy said. “Two of ’em.”

  “Uh-huh. Where did you see these dogs?”

  “Run right through my yard, sir. Yesterday. Not like
your regular dogs. Vicious-like. I locked my doors.”

  Normally dogs off leash would be a case for the animal control people. But this case wasn’t normal, and if the dogs were vicious … “Where do you live?”

  Starboy gave his address and said, “I’m not worried for myself so much, but there’s lots o’ little kids round here.”

  Leith jotted down the address. He suspected Starboy was only worried about Starboy; something in the wheedling voice said so. But big mean dogs running loose was definitely a matter of concern, under the circumstances. He looked at his watch. “So what did these dogs look like?”

  “Because I seen on the TV that it’s dogs what killed that guy at the old Harmon house, right? And then I got that notice in my door saying to report any unusual sort of stuff with animals, and stuff. So I figured —”

  “And I appreciate your call. What did these dogs look like?”

  “One was kind of dark yellowish. It looked like a shepherd or sumfin’, but hairier. The other was smaller, whitish, with brown spots. Or tan spots. Maybe some of each.”

  Leith’s pen lost interest. He slapped his notebook shut and said, “And what did these dogs do, exactly, that said they were vicious?”

  “Not vicious as such. They run through my yard and went out across the road.”

  “Okay. Well —”

  “Sumfin’ weird about ’em, though,” Starboy went on. “Like, I dunno, they were their own bosses or sumfin’, if you know what I mean. Possessed or sumfin’.”

  “Uh-huh,” Leith said. “Okay. Thank you, sir. I’ll put this in the file and —”

  “And there’s sumfin’ else, sir, that’s very fishy.”

  “Okay.”

  “We got a suspicious-looking van parked down this way, with I think some people inside. I couldn’t tell too good ’cause the windows are all shiny-like.”

  “Yes, thank you. We’re aware of that van. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You want me to keep an eye on it for you, report any suspicious stuff?”

  “No.” Leith thought about telling the old guy the truth. With the cat out of the bag, it hardly mattered, and it might put the man’s mind at ease. “I don’t want you going around telling anyone, but for your own information, that’s our surveillance van.”