Creep

by R. M. Greenaway

  JD seemed to have stopped writing altogether.

  Battar continued, “She probably wasn’t too worried because we were both skin and bones by then and couldn’t take her on even if we wanted to. Actually, she seemed more worried about us than herself or the crap Gunner took. She asked how long we’d been there, and how long we planned to stay, and if we were okay. She was talking about shelters, I think, trying to get us out of there and somewhere safe.”

  Some kind of do-gooder, Leith thought. Looking for converts.

  “After getting scared so bad, I had to light up another one. Meanwhile she and Gunner sat down there on the floor and got talking, and then next thing you know, she’s saying we should go over to her place, get cleaned up and have something to eat!”

  Battar shook his head, amazed at his own memories. “So we did. Went over, and me and Gunner each had a shower. I was still pretty sure it was a trap, and she’d have the cops waiting for us when we came out. But at one point when you’re really hungry, you don’t care. I, for one, didn’t. We went downstairs and, man oh man, the supper she had laid out for us, wow. I thought, maybe she’s poisoned it in revenge for taking her stuff, but so what? That’s how good it was. So good. Then I think the two of them went on talking.”

  “About what?”

  “No clue. Boring metaphysical garbage. So I just got into the cake. It has apricots and rum, she says, and it was literally the best dessert I have ever tasted.”

  Again Leith asked for the lady’s name, or a description. Unfortunately Battar seemed to have been so focused on food, drink, soap, and marijuana that he could recall little else. Leith asked where the lady lived.

  “Oh, somewhere around,” Battar said.

  It was all he could say. Leith thought maybe if they took the kid to the Greer house, it would refresh his memory. “What about it?” he asked.

  “Much as I’d like a field trip with you guys, I can guarantee it wouldn’t help. We had just scored some Colombian Gold, very rich, very deep, and I was on a magic carpet ride all the way that night.”

  “Nothing else you remember?” JD asked, as if asking one more time would help.

  It didn’t. Except he did recall there was a cat.

  “What colour?”

  Battar said the cat was purple, for all he knew. Same with the lady.

  “Put yourself back in the house you shared with Gunner,” Leith said, “when she first walked in and scared you, and you were in the closet. Think hard and tell me what you see. What did she look like?”

  Battar said he must have been hallucinating, because he thought she had hair over her face. Black hair. He didn’t know her age, height, weight, ethnicity. Nothing.

  A lady with black hair hanging over her face sounded a lot like a horror movie Leith had seen with Alison not too long ago. But probably Battar was right, it was just a clash of drugs and fear. He asked what happened after the great meal.

  “I don’t know. I must have passed out. But him and her went upstairs and had sex all night long.”

  “How do you know that?” Leith asked.

  “’Cause he told me so.”

  Battar’s next memory was waking up the next day back home in the Greer house — and Gunner’s transmogrification. “That experience, it changed him. No more drugs, no more stealing. He was going to go straight, get an education, maybe meet somebody nice like her, have some kids. Then, you know, get a dog to protect those kids, and all that. He meant it, too. But it wasn’t going to happen, man. It’s too high of a hill to climb, for people like us.”

  Leith asked him if he or Gunner had seen the lady again. Battar hadn’t, and he didn’t think Gunner had either. In fact it might have been only a day or two later Gunner up and disappeared, leaving all his skunk and Chinese cooking wine behind.

  “Didn’t you wonder what had happened to him?”

  “Not really. We were both ready to split. He just did it first.”

  Leith asked Battar if he had taken Gunner’s belongings when he’d left the Greer house for the last time.

  Battar returned Leith’s gaze with a touch of indignation. “It’s not a big deal, taking from a guy who steals, right? And possession is, like, five tenths of the law.”

  He’d gotten the expression almost right, meaningless as it was. Really, it was a shame he hadn’t gone to school and become a lawyer. Leith asked if he still had any of those belongings. Battar said there was nothing to take but some clothes, sleeping gear, Aphid’s bag of cosmetics, and Gunner’s leather jacket. Oh, and the amp. He’d taken all of it. He had no idea where the clothes and other stuff were, but the amp and leather jacket had disappeared at his last billet.

  No doubt about it, Joey Battar was a suspect in the murder of Ben Stirling, and he would be stuck on the board and analyzed at length. But he wasn’t the killer, nor even an accomplice. Leith could tell by the vibes JD was giving off that she thought the same.

  He thanked Battar for his help. He wished him better paths for the future and encouraged him to use his time in clink to study, as he had good brains and should be using them. Then he and JD left Mission in the rear-view mirror.

  JD said, “Bag of cosmetics, huh? What young girl would leave that behind? I think we better put Aphid on the board next to her boyfriend.”

  The mention of a cosmetic bag hadn’t stood out to Leith as anything special. Now that JD had put it to words, it glared. Not only significant, but ominous. “Damn, JD,” he said, “I wish you weren’t so smart.”

  * * *

  Leith looked into the takeout bag that held his late lunch, and for the umpteenth time that day said, “Damn.” He had forgotten to ask the girl behind the counter for the all-important takeout ketchup. He set down the burger as Dion came along. In a good mood, it seemed, which was nice for a change.

  “Have a moment?” Dion asked. “Oh, you’re having dinner.”

  “That’s okay. Have a seat.”

  Dion removed his police cap, finger-combed his hair, and sat. “I got the prep cook’s name for you,” he said. “Stefano Boone. I thought I could grab his address off the system, but can’t find him, so I’ll make more enquiries through his employer. In checking the directory I saw there’s a Paul Boone on Dempsey, and — hang on,” he said, startled by his own words. “Whoa! Dempsey.”

  He spent the next moment or so flipping back through his notebook.

  Leith unwrapped the burger and took a bite. Tasty as cardboard.

  “Troy Hamilton! He’s on Dempsey Street, too. That’s just around the corner from Paul Boone.”

  “Who’s Troy Hamilton?”

  “Ten-year-old witness I interviewed, claims he knows a werewolf. He disclosed the name of his school’s janitor. I eliminated that individual pretty quick. It’s all in my report. But …”

  “But what?”

  “But Troy Hamilton is on the same block as Paul Boone,” Dion repeated. “I’ll track down Stefano Boone and let you know. If he’s also at this address, there might be a connection.”

  “Okay, good,” Leith said. He wasn’t sure if the news flash was pivotal to anything. If it was just more werewolf nonsense, he wasn’t too interested. He waited for Dion to leave so he could get back to his unpalatable meal in peace.

  “Who’s Jagmohan Battar?” Dion asked, still sitting, his eye on Leith’s monitor.

  Leith gave up waiting and took another bite. His mouth full, he told Dion about Battar, the fingerprint leaver at the Greer house from whom he’d just taken a statement. This was the statement.

  “Oh.” Dion seemed torn between interest and indifference. But Bosko’s efforts to bring him back into the fold seemed to be working, and interest was winning out.

  “Go ahead and read it, if you want.”

  “It looks lengthy.”

  “Incredibly lengthy and incredibly interesting.”

 
Leith washed down the burger with takeout coffee, and Dion settled in to read Battar’s statement, transcribed from audio by staffers on an expedited request. He seemed to be an overly careful reader, so Leith left him to it and went for a walk. Stretch the legs and try to ease the gut cramp that always came from cardboard burgers eaten too fast. Would he ever learn?

  * * *

  Moments after Leith had vacated the desk, Dion was ready to quit reading the long document on the computer screen. It was an interview of an inmate, a Jagmohan Battar, also known as Joey, and nothing he read so far seemed terrifically of interest, contrary to Leith’s claim. Yet like any narrative, it pulled him along, enough that he switched chairs for a more direct view. He took the mouse and scrolled through the bullshit about fingerprints and DNA. At some point through the interview it appeared Battar had a cigarette in his mouth, which seemed to loosen his tongue.

  Dion skimmed through more chatter, past some discussion about insects — aphids? — until it got interesting again. Mention of an intruder, a strange lady who had come over one day to retrieve her stolen belongings.

  When Battar began his description of the lady, Dion tensed. By the end of the description his mouth had fallen open. He went back and reread the section carefully, looking for something, anything, to tell him the lady described was not who he thought she was. The black hair over the face reference could just be a stoner’s bad tripping, but also a combination of confusion, darkness, and the woman’s dusky skin.

  The conversation around proximity gave him more hope. Farah’s house was right across the road, so wouldn’t Battar have said so, how close it was?

  But again, Battar’s sense of time was obliterated by whatever he was on.

  No, it was definitely — almost definitely — Farah. When he got to the part where she took Gunner to bed, his heart was pounding and his armpits were slick.

  He didn’t finish the interview, but left the desk as he caught sight of Leith returning. He made his way back to the second floor, via not the elevator, but the more private stairwell, where he could sit and bury his head in his arms.

  The door opened above with a faint squeal and thumped shut. Somebody was in the stairwell with him. He waited for the noisy descent of heavy boots, and instead, heard not much more than a whisper of motion.

  JD Temple stepped down a few risers to stare into his face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he told her, straightening his back. He was just a man out for a walk, taking a rest, nothing wrong with that.

  JD’s dark-brown hair was chopped short and spikey, bangs too high. She wore no makeup or jewellery. Her scarred mouth gave her a look of contempt, but he knew her well enough to see that even without the scar, she was sneering at him.

  “What d’you mean nothing?” she said. “You look like your puppy just got run over.”

  “I’m fine. Just taking a break. You can go now.”

  She gave a who-cares shrug and started down the stairs. “Just taking a break in a stairwell with wet, bloodshot eyes — okay, whatever. Power to you.”

  “Bit of hay fever,” he called at her back.

  “In November, right, I totally believe you.”

  She said no more, but carried on downstairs, swift and silent. The moment he heard the fire door click shut below, he rose, dusted off his pants, and got on with what he had to do.

  Twenty-Four

  PAINT AND GLUE

  Stefano sat sewing and worrying. He had been aware for days that the authorities were looking for him, and he knew why. It was because of Red Jacket. He had chased it down the mountain, and now the police were looking for the beast that had done the chasing.

  In fact they had come to the house last week, and he had heard them upstairs, talking to Paul and Colette in the open doorway. He had heard questions and warnings, not quite audible, and Paul and Colette mumbling answers and promises. But he hadn’t been worried then.

  The news Troy had brought over yesterday was what alarmed him. A policeman had been to Troy’s house, had sat him down and asked a lot of questions about Stefano. The policeman didn’t seem to know Stefano’s name, however.

  “And I didn’t tell him,” Troy had said, proudly. “Even though he said I could have five thousand dollars.”

  “Good for you.” Stefano had patted Troy on the head. “Thank you. You’re a good friend.” He had gone upstairs to find a reward for the child, a handful of mints from the candy bowl and a loonie off Colette’s dresser. He had padded back down and given them to Troy. Then, oddly shy about it, he had shown Troy the new, improved ceremonial costume.

  Troy’s jaw dropped as he admired the wolfskin. Stefano had stood smiling. The child sucked mints and asked a lot of questions about turning into a wolf, what it was like, whether it hurt. The process was so personal, so close, so large, that Stefano had stuttered badly trying to put it to words, and as he listened to himself speak, a switch in his mind flicked, revealing a horrible, frightening truth. It was like he had opened his eyes to find himself standing on the brink of a bottomless chasm, looking down. For a moment, he had realized that he was mad.

  He had flicked the switch off, fast, and told Troy to get on home before his parents got worried. Troy had left the usual way, stepping up onto a kitchen chair to reach the foundation ledge, then through the window that opened out onto lawn and a row of cedar shrubs.

  The night had helped wash away much of Stefano’s anxiety. He sat on the floor now, hand-stitching and rocking. Without a name, the police would never track him down. He would just have to use extra caution when venturing forth. He would keep to the underbrush, eyes wide open. He wouldn’t attack anyone else. He didn’t need to, now that he had a higher goal.

  But to achieve that goal, he had to get this done. The fur was draped across his lap, nothing to finish but one last paw. The paws were time-consuming, but easy. A comforting job.

  The head had been completed for some time now. It sat staring at him eyelessly from across the room. It had been the biggest challenge, of course, but worth it. Far better than its predecessor, the boxy contraption now crushed and stuck so unceremoniously in the waste bin.

  For the teeth he had used a yellowish modelling compound, baked solid. A bit of a disaster there, when Colette had come home from grocery shopping sooner than expected and found the teeth on the cookie sheet. But she hadn’t asked him about it.

  Attaching the teeth had been a job, too — varnished, semi-matte, hinged with wire. He had sewn them with heavy-duty nylon thread in place in the mask’s gaping mouth hole, rigged with hardwood rods as stiffeners.

  Stefano, have you seen my ebony dowels?

  Last week, when Stefano had tried it on for the first time before the mirror, he had been shocked. With face painted black, snout strapped on, ears sewn erect to his balaclava, a strip of fur in between, he had stared at his reflection, and tears had sprung to his eyes. But he had braced himself and looked again, and decided it wasn’t so bad.

  This was no Halloween costume. He was not trying to fool himself or anyone else into believing it was his true skin. The robe was a representation of what he was becoming, a tool to facilitate the rites of passage. When night set in, and he had sunk into the shadows of the forest, as he wrote in his diary, the false skin would melt off the contours of his human body, and those contours would melt away with the costume until he ran free, strong, and wild, sliding through the forest like a rippling river of muscle and teeth, seeking sustenance. He had seen them on TV, wolves chasing caribou through winter-white fields. Hunter racing prey, neck and neck, the wolf gaining, passing, whipping around and making the leap to bring the larger animal crashing into the snow.

  It was so clean and mechanically pure.

  Chef would come easily, once he had taught himself the ropes. But he needed a training ground. He would start out smaller.

  A tapping noise distracted him
.

  He looked toward the high windows that ran the length of his basement suite and saw his little friend Troy was back, crouched down on the walkway outside, looking in. Troy grinned and waved.

  Twenty-Five

  CONFESSION IN BLUE

  Farah began to say hello with her usual warmth, but paused when she saw the look on Dion’s face. “What’s the matter?”

  He stood on her porch with a cold wind punching at his back. “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. To find out.”

  She moved aside, door wide open. “Come in, would you?”

  He entered the house, but kept his jacket on. “Upstairs,” he said.

  She followed him up to her bedroom, her bedroom window, where he placed an arm around her shoulder and drew her close, so their lines of vision could run parallel. He pointed across to the dark Greer house, its upstairs window reflecting moonlight. “You never looked over there? Never saw a thing? That’s what you said. Isn’t that what you told me, when I was canvassing the neighbourhood?”

  She moved away from him, not liking his attitude. She stood staring at him, more concerned than angry. “What happened? What’s going on?”