Creep

by R. M. Greenaway

  Steep.

  The attack on Troy had happened somewhere above the culvert, but he didn’t know exactly where. Montgomery had said it was above the Rock. Possibly that’s where she was headed. Should he call the office? Maybe someone there had a clue of what was going on.

  But nobody would know, because if this were official, she wouldn’t be alone and probably wouldn’t have brought her private vehicle. There was something off about the whole thing. He hesitated a moment longer, then began to climb the Mesachee trails, pondering as he went.

  Randall had been given the rest of the day off, as he had. She should be home catching up on her R and R, not following up leads on her own. What troubled him was that Randall seemed cannier than most, and it followed that if she had taken the trouble to come out here, there must be something worth coming out for. But why hadn’t she simply told him on the phone what her plans were? Maybe she had meant to before the line cut out.

  Flashlight beam leading the way, he headed up the path, squinting against sporadic hits of rain that came battering down from the evergreen canopy. At every bend, he expected to see her, or hear her, or get some useful clue. But nothing. For a third time he stopped, breathing hard, surrounded by the same crushing darkness, and knew there was no going back. He cupped his mouth and called out her name once more, and again the only reply was pattering water and the jostling of branches.

  Cell service up here was too spotty to be trusted, and after the next bend he really should head back, call the office from the parking lot, alert them that there may be an issue. Instead he pressed on, reached the Rock, kept going. The path branched, leaving him at a standstill in the night forest. It was a frightening place, but for a change worry trumped fear.

  He was puzzled, too. The path had not branched like this that time he was here with Montgomery and the boys on their bicycles. He shone his flashlight along the two forks and realized one was the actual trail, the other just an old creek bed, transformed by rain into a muddy slough.

  He was turning to retreat when a noise stopped him. It was a dull and distant, a thud, not solid, not liquid — maybe an axe striking wood? It came from somewhere up the slough, how far he couldn’t say. Light shut off, he walked cautiously up toward the source of the sound.

  The wind had picked up, grown frantic. The bushes rushed and settled, rushed and settled, and as he made his way quietly forward, something — man or animal — rose and fled, shuddering the thickets. Dion shouted, “Hey!” and levelled his flashlight beam, catching only a choppy glimpse of the individual. Afterward, he could only say it ran upright but stooped, that it was gasping and staggering and seemed desperate to get away.

  His pursuit ended in a clumsy slither as another turbulence in the brush distracted him, too close for comfort, a thrashing followed by an awful moan — it sounded human — then silence. He stepped backwards, once, twice, and crouched. He aimed his flashlight toward the source of the thrashing, now only leaves playing in the wind.

  Nothing lunged. The moaning had stopped, and he could hear distorted breathing, louder than his own gasps. This was a burbling and harsh whine that he recognized from his attendances at car wrecks and assaults over the years. It was the sound of someone drowning in their own blood. He moved forward, scanning his light about until it blazed over an object jerking in the bracken, the foot-end of a stout leg in jeans and a hiking boot. He reached down and grasped the leg, following it upward through leaves and stalks that bristled with thorns, tearing at his skin.

  It was Randall, lying face up and convulsing. Dion dropped into a kneel beside her, shining his light over her injuries. Her mouth was a gaping hole, sucking in air and exhaling pink bubbles. Her eyes were open wide.

  “Jackie,” he said. His hand hovered over her face, afraid to touch her. He wanted to help, but didn’t know how. He saw splintered bone jutting from the flesh at her temples, and semicircular gouges at her throat that only partially registered in his mind. He grasped her by the jacket to pull her out into the narrow clearing formed by the creek bed — but remembered injured people are not to be moved.

  She stared up at him as he stood above her. He had his phone out, looking for service. He found a single bar and made the call, fingers slippery with blood and rain. Dispatch finally picked up, and he asked for help, lots of it. He knelt at Randall’s side then, his hand against the undamaged side of her face, looking into her wild eyes, telling her, “Hang on, Jackie. Help’s on the way.” Then he watched her die.

  Thirty

  HORRIDUS

  The house in Lynn Valley that Leith and JD were called out to as darkness fell was the same one Leith had been keeping tabs on over the last day and a half — the Dempsey home, where Stefano Boone lived with his parents. It sat on a bit of a rise, with a well-kept lawn, cedar shrubs along both sides. No vehicle in the driveway, no signs of violence on its exterior.

  The violence was all on the inside. Classical music was playing, and apparently nobody here was sure if the CD should be left spinning or turned off. Leith turned it off.

  The female was still alive — the news had come over the radio as JD pulled in — but the male was dead. Leith and JD arrived in time to see the woman being lifted to a gurney. She had been found in what appeared to be a modest library, or lounge, with comfortable plush chairs and every inch of wall taken up by loaded bookshelves and framed photographs. The nubby carpet was littered with glass, the woman groaning and barely conscious.

  She was breathing, Leith saw. One of her eyes was open, but probably not seeing anything, and the other swollen shut. Her face was covered in blood, and her nose looked broken, though it was hard to say, as an oxygen mask had just been strapped on. The paramedics were asking her questions and receiving no response. She was carted out, leaving Leith to stare at the large picture frame on the wall above where she had been found. The glass in the frame was smashed and bloody, much like the victim’s face.

  JD had disappeared. An Ident member stood nearby, getting pictures. She aimed at the damaged frame. Leith watched her, a photographer taking photographs of a photograph. The poster behind the shards was a depiction of a birthday celebration, with a man in what Leith imagined was Victorian garb leaned to slice into a fancy cake, while a group of women looked on.

  JD returned, tagging him on the arm. “Dave, this way.”

  They walked down the hall to another bedroom, this one rigged with medical equipment, so much chrome and plastic that it looked like a homemade ICU. Leith took in a scene as sad as the one in the library. A lanky, grey-haired man, similar in age to the injured woman, was down on the floor, seemingly toppled over from a frozen cringe. Broken and bloody, eyes open. His button-up shirt was yanked out of order and his throat was discoloured. JD pointed out gouges on the throat — not from teeth, but fingernails — suggesting he had been throttled. Unlike the woman, who could hopefully be saved, the man was dead.

  “This is his bedroom?” Leith asked. It didn’t seem right. The man was fully dressed and looked bony, but fit. He didn’t seem to be an invalid who needed hoisting in and out of this heavy-duty hospital bed.

  JD shook her head. “This must be the daughter’s room. I talked to the neighbours. They don’t know much about the Boones, except they’re a retired couple with two grown children. One is a girl; she was in some kind of accident and is bedridden. The son would be our missing Stefano. Tall, dark young man who comes and goes. Unfriendly. The whole family is quite insular, by the sounds of it. They have a van. Neighbour has observed the parents packing the girl inside from time to time and driving off.”

  Leith left JD and went to explore the lower level of the house. Downstairs, he’d been told, was the werewolf’s lair. Low ceiling, simple floor plan, windows along the street-facing wall covered in drapes. The suite was dark, messy, and fairly smelly, too. The dampish odour of young male bedding and clothes that could use a good laundering. An ordinary space, except that
around the perimeter stood large canvas paintings, stacked three or four deep. Not facing outward on display, but turned to the wall like punished children. Creepy paintings, Leith saw when he tilted one back to see. Mostly black.

  In the fridge he found very little. A carton of milk and a few packets of greyish, raw stewing beef, the shrink-wrap glaring with red discount stickers.

  The question of who had attacked the Boones was not much of a mystery. The pressing question was where Stefano Boone was now. And the van. And, most urgent of all, Stefano’s bedridden sister.

  Leith’s phone buzzed. What now? he thought. Tell me it’s not more hell-raising.

  * * *

  A posse came to meet Dion partway up the trail in the Mesachee Woods. Among them were a dishevelled Mike Bosko, who rarely came out to crime scenes; Michelin Montgomery; JD Temple; and now Dave Leith was here, asking Dion if he was okay. Others he recognized, but couldn’t name. The alarm was out, and the troops would be tripled through the coming night, the park cordoned off tight to catch whoever had attacked Jackie Randall.

  Which wasn’t going to happen. Dion was sure the killer was long gone — he had either climbed up to Lynn Valley Road, or gone down across the river. As Dion had mentioned to Doug Paley, on that side of the river were thousands of acres for a person to hide in, if he had the means. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t survive the week.

  But the endgame was not Dion’s problem. For now, his job was simple — keep his wits together, lead the way to Randall, and describe to the team what had happened.

  She lay as he had left her, stone still now. Not a flutter. He stared down at her face — what had been her face — upturned and illuminated by Leith’s strong flashlight beam. Leith seemed to be lead investigator, keeping to the front of the line, deciding how close they should get to the body, and asking the questions.

  The Mesachee was no longer a lonely place, as constables made their way up the trails, loaded with portable lights and search gear. Leith and Montgomery were discussing Randall as if she was just another case. Bosko was trying to make phone calls. The lights were set up, and the woods became as bright as midday, a confusion of glare and tree shadow, a flickering of rain and foot traffic. Dion heard himself describing the call from Jackie, how the call had ended abruptly, then his coming out to find her. A dull thud, someone crashing away through the underbrush. Done with the narrative, he was now asked more questions, but he wasn’t following it much. He was looking for a place to sit down, because his legs felt about ready to buckle. Somebody told him it was time to go. That was Leith. Montgomery was beckoning.

  The parking lot was busy now with vehicles and other members. It looked like a movie set to Dion. The way he was feeling, maybe it was. “I’m okay to drive,” he told Montgomery.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Montgomery replied, and explained why. Right now, Dion was not only a witness, but a living exhibit, and like any exhibit, there was the matter of continuity to consider. They were to return to the detachment together, where Dion would be checked over by a physician —

  “I’m fine! They’re just scratches.”

  “You’re not fine,” Montgomery said. He loomed at Dion, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and directing him away from his Honda, which he was grabbing on to like a life raft. “You’re not thinking straight, and who would be? Come on.”

  “I’m a suspect? You think I killed Jackie?”

  True, he wasn’t thinking straight, and he felt he was about to fall apart, like a child, melt down and wail — until he was distracted from his own state by what he saw in Montgomery’s pale-blue eyes. They were glittering with tears.

  Or was it the rain that was sleeting down and covering everything in tears? Men, women, vehicles, bushes and trees. The entire park was crying. Montgomery released him and stepped away. Dion tugged his baseball cap brim lower and followed the corporal to the unmarked SUV.

  * * *

  To Leith, the night turned into a kind of a déjà vu of his brief stint in the Hazeltons, up in the northern half of the province. It was the similar confluence of wild nature, black night beaten away by halogen beams, miscellaneous equipment noise, and the hubbub of investigators. But most of all, it was being with Mike Bosko in such an unlikely setting. Different, though. Up in the Hazeltons the complication had been the bitter cold and the mid-winter snow. Here it was the sogginess and the unfriendly underbrush, skunk cabbage turning to mush, ooze punctured by the stems of plants that turned to spikes in winter’s death. He could hear blasphemies from every quarter as team members fought with nature. Then a yell of, “Fucking hell, something bit me!”

  Leith saw Bosko glance toward the source of the shout, as if enlightened. “Looks like he’s discovered a rare patch of Oplopanax horridus. Devil’s club. Known to ward off evil.”

  “And detectives,” JD said.

  Bosko nodded, but absently. “Some local hikers tell me devil’s club has not been seen in this park in recent years. Forestry confirms it. But it seems we’re proving them wrong. Rosetti’s patch, and now this.”

  Rosetti’s patch? Who or what the hell was that? Bosko was often baffling to Leith. “I don’t understand. Why would you be asking Forestry about a plant you’ve only just noticed?”

  Bosko turned to look at him, brows up. “I forgot, you’re not on that detail, Dave. I’m sorry. Let me fill you in.”

  Yes, do.

  “Aldobrandino Rosetti is the hiker who had a coronary a few weeks ago,” Bosko told him. “Hiking down the Headwaters trails. His was not considered a suspicious death, but once the werewolf sightings started coming in, you recall, we decided his case should be looked into a little further. His wife handed over his belongings. Amongst them was a camera.”

  Now Leith did recall that unlikely tangent, the hiker named Rosetti, his snapshots downloaded and scrutinized for clues. “I thought that went nowhere.”

  “Yes and no. We were able to backtrack through his day somewhat, though ultimately, like you say, it went nowhere. The last shots were of interest, though, and I did notice the late-season devil’s club. I checked into its prevalence in the park, and learned that it’s considered extinct. So I’ve got some people out there seeing if they can locate the patch depicted in the photographs, which will pinpoint, possibly, what happened to Rosetti.”

  Good thing Mike Bosko knows his botany, Leith thought. But what a waste of manpower, especially now that the Jackie Randall crime scene was going to provide all the evidence they would need when it came to bagging this menace. “Bit of a long shot,” he remarked.

  Bosko didn’t deny it.

  “Wasn’t Jackie Randall first on scene at Rosetti’s death?” JD said.

  “Randall and Dion,” Bosko confirmed.

  More uneasy Hazelton connections for Leith. Himself, Bosko, Dion — just another kind of haunting. He looked around at the dark woods, and his skin prickled. Something lived here, and it was watching them. Accompanied by Bosko, he trudged up the trail and looked at the big-leafed plant that had spiked one of the constables into shouting the F-word. Bosko lifted an aging yellowish leaf to show the still virile thorns running along its underside and bristling off thick stalks.

  “Good thing it’s rare,” Leith said.

  “You should see it in its prime.”

  Bosko said good night and left the team to their work. Leith and JD stayed. Jackie Randall’s body remained for now, a part of the crime scene, being examined, photographed, measured in every way possible. Leith saw a flurry of activity a stone’s throw uphill. Deep in the bushes, something had been found by the dogs. Some minutes later, an Ident member brought the prize down to show off. A twenty-four-inch pry-bar, imprinted with the word Roughneck.

  “Hasn’t been there long,” she told Leith and JD. “And look.”

  As she turned it to the light, they saw a mash of blood and debris on the heavy end of the thing
. “Pry bar, the standard burglar’s tool kit, right?” Leith said.

  “Bit hefty,” JD said. “But maybe.”

  “And there’s footprints,” the Ident member told them. “They’re partials, but collaged together, just eyeballing it, I think they’re about size twelve. Probably running shoes. Tread’s indistinct, too wet up there, but we’ll see what we can do.”

  Leith said, “From what I know of Boone, he’s taller than average. He’d be at least a twelve.”

  “There’s also fibres,” the Ident added.

  “More fur? Where?”

  “Not fur. Fibres.” Ident people weren’t fond of imprecision. “Close to where the body lay, snagged in the thorns. It’s a dark spun poly of some kind.”

  She took her pry bar off to bag and label.

  “There’s something else they found in the area of Troy Hamilton’s attack that you aren’t aware of,” JD told Leith. “In the bushes near the culvert. Werewolf puke. It contained synthetic fibres and fine, blond human hair. The synthetic’s probably his own, and the hair is yet to be determined, but a good match to Troy Hamilton. Troy was lucky. Looks like he was just the appetizer, and not even a tasty one.”

  Leith had seen something on Jackie Randall’s neck that looked like it might be a bite mark. Torn, frenzied. A swift progression up from the relatively tentative chomp on Troy’s arm, a chomp that had been followed — as he now knew — by vomit. The predator was learning fast, and building a stomach for human flesh. What if Dion hadn’t interrupted the attack? What would have been left of Jackie Randall then? Stripped bone?

  He thought of the community at large, kids running around the neighbourhood. He told JD — a trite observation — “We’ve got to get this guy, and soon.”

  Not a guy, he thought. A skinwalker. It was a word he had overheard Bosko using sometime this night, talking to the coroner’s assistant about transformation, archetypes, mythology. He thought about the figure Dion had described, just a blot against the blacker blackness, fleeing away into the night. Stefano Boone was mutating; look at his attacks on Troy, his parents, Randall. Then there was his sister, Anastasia, missing. Leith’s hope for her safe recovery was thin at best.