Creep

by R. M. Greenaway

  “I’m kinda doing my dishes.” Starkey raised a sudsy scrub brush. “Maybe you could come back later?”

  “The dishes can’t wait?”

  “Well, see, the water’s hot, and if I don’t do ’em now —”

  “How long, then? Ten minutes? I’ll wait in my car.”

  The door seemed about to snap shut, but instead creaked open. Starkey was in well-worn cargo pants, a sweater, and slippers. “Forget the dishes,” he said with a sigh. “Come in.”

  Dion walked into the house, told not to worry about his boots. He found the furnishings spare and utilitarian, the air stale and sad. The living room doubled as a dining room, with its aluminum-rimmed table from another era and lone matching chair. A series of pictures on the wall drew his attention — old photographs and framed newspaper clippings. All the clippings were boxing related. He went for a closer look.

  “That’s me,” Starkey said, having followed at a safe distance. “Top-of-class welterweight out east when I was young. Knocked a lotta guys flat in my time. Starboy, they called me.”

  Dion read a few headlines, but mostly he looked for likenesses in the yellowing halftone clippings of a handsome fighter sparring for the camera, or holding up a trophy; black eye, big grin.

  “This is me, too,” Starkey said pointing out another. “That was a bad one. Blood all over, eh? Boxing ain’t what it used to be.” He bobbed his head like a sinewy little bird, ready to flap off at any sudden move. “All commercialized, all regulated, eh? Old days it was straightforward, put on the gloves, knock ’em dead. Ever enjoy the sport yourself?”

  “No, I don’t know much about it.” Dion could see nothing of the young boxer in the weathered face beside him now. “I have to tell you, Ray, I’m just following up on something you said to members down at the park yesterday. You don’t have to help me out, but I’d appreciate if you would. The force would appreciate it. You understand all that?”

  Starkey’s head responded confusingly, up and down, side to side. “Yessir, I get it, sure.”

  Dion indicated the frames on the wall. “Is that what you’ve done all your life? Boxed?”

  “That, and odd jobs around. Dockyards. Slaughter­house. Lotta warehousing.”

  “Retired?”

  “Yessir. Took my early with disability at fifty-five. Legs hurt me. Worked at ‘K’ Line here on the North Shore for twenty-two odd years, so the pension’s pretty damn good.”

  “Dock work?”

  “S’right. Freight and forklifts and whatnot.”

  Dion knew Starkey also had a criminal record to stick on his résumé, because he had checked on PRIME-BC. Six counts of possession of stolen property and one assault charge. But it was old stuff, all of it, probably as old as the newspaper clippings on the wall. He decided to clear one matter off the table, first thing. “You have something against First Nations people, Mr. Starkey?”

  Starkey looked shocked. “Me? No.”

  “You told Corporal Montgomery you’d rather talk to a white man. I’m just wondering why.”

  “Oh, nothing personal, not at all.” Starkey’s hands were up, like he was being prodded with a loaded gun instead of an inquiring glance. “Honest, I got nothing but respect for the local Natives. I got original Native art up on my walls in the kitchen. I bought it on the Island. You want to see?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Dion said. A dreamcatcher hung in the window over the kitchen sink, dyed feathers and plastic beads. “If it’s not personal, what is it? Why are you afraid?”

  Starkey’s grin was sheepish and fawning. Maybe he more socially inept than racist. “You people have powers,” he was saying. “Mystic powers. That’s all.”

  Dion said nothing.

  “Which tribe is you from?” Starkey asked.

  “Coastal,” Dion said, fudging it. If Starkey wanted to believe he had mystic powers, let him. Awe could be useful. He went on with the reason for his visit. He didn’t have a photograph of Jackie Randall to show his witness, so he described her as best he could — height, weight, hair colour. He asked Starkey if he had seen anyone of that name or that description in the last couple of days. More specifically, yesterday afternoon.

  Starkey hadn’t.

  “You came along when we were searching for a missing boy. You spoke to Corporal Montgomery. He told you he was going to come and see you, didn’t he?”

  “He said he would. I waited. He didn’t show up.”

  “This woman, Jackie Randall, was there in the search party. You don’t remember seeing her then, or anytime afterward?”

  “No, sir.”

  Dion next asked about Stefano Boone. Starkey didn’t know the man. Or anyone matching his description? No.

  Coming out here had been a fruitless exercise, then. Dion had bothered a lot of people, wrecked his car, and blown two hours for nothing. He wouldn’t get a medal, and wouldn’t be rubbing anything in Montgomery’s face. But what he had succeeded at was covering the bases, and he had no regrets.

  He thanked Starkey, and on the way to the door said, “You warned us about going into the woods. You said there were evil spirits. Can you explain what you mean by that? You’re saying there’s ‘natives’ in there?”

  They were in the hallway neat as a barracks. Starkey hesitated. “See, I’d rather not talk about it, that’s all.”

  Dion watched Starkey, seeing an oddball strength in the man. And buried in his attitude was a warning, but a warning for whom, against what?

  “You don’t want to talk to me because I’m First Nations?”

  “No, sir, that’s not it at all.”

  “You seemed to think it was important when you talked to Corporal Montgomery yesterday. So what’s changed?”

  He could almost see Starkey’s brain at work behind his anxious, watery eyes. Finally Starkey gave a nod of resignation. “Best to get it done with, sir, but honest to God, it’s like you cops don’t take me serious. I tried. I honestly tried.”

  “I take you seriously.”

  “When Officer Montgomery didn’t come by last day, I was going to call up the number I got on the fridge. But I figured he thinks I’m just an old kook.”

  “I’m here. I’m listening. Go ahead and tell me what you wanted to tell Corporal Montgomery.”

  Starkey remained edgy, doubtful, yet keen.

  “I’ll pass it on to him,” Dion told him. “Promise.”

  “But it’s kind of in the basement.”

  “What’s in the basement?”

  “The fing, what I was wanting to show Officer Montgomery.”

  “What thing? What’s in the basement that you wanted to show him? Describe it for me, would you?”

  Starkey hunched his shoulders. “Don’t really know what it is, sir.”

  “Something to do with the evil spirits in the woods?”

  The old face lifted and the eyes brightened. “Yes. I’d say so, yessir. I don’t know what the heck it is. I found it. It’s like this, oh, I don’t know what you’d call it, all engraved-like.”

  “You found it? Where?”

  “Yessir, in the orchard.”

  “What orchard? You mean the house on Greer? The old Harmon place?”

  “Yessir.”

  Dion stared at him. “When did you go to the orchard and find this thing?”

  “Oh, after all the fuss died down, last week.”

  “Why? Why were you in the orchard? And how did you get in?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat, sir.”

  Dion wasn’t sure who the cat was in this case, himself or Starkey. He crossed his arms.

  “I seen fings over there,” Starkey said. “I know I should of stayed away from there, but I couldn’t help it. It’s like it was calling me.”

  “How did you get in? It’s locked up.” But no longer guarded.

 
“It was open, sir.”

  Open? Somebody had left it unsecured?

  “Can you show me what you found, then?”

  Starkey rubbed his grizzled chin. His eyes were swimmy, and whatever he had stashed in the basement, Dion thought, was either fantasy or breaking news. Whatever it was, he wanted to see it and bag it — or, more likely, humour the man and be gone.

  Starkey had grown moody, but he shrugged and turned away, leading Dion into a shadowy nook at the end of the kitchen. He drew back a heavy-duty barrel bolt and opened a solid wood door, stepped onto what looked like a landing perched over darkness, and flicked a switch. There came an electric buzzing sound, but not much light from below.

  Starkey grunted and proceeded down steep wooden stairs, grumbling insults at fixtures and salesmen. “Them fluorescents take forever to kick in, faulty starters, every last one of ’em. Thirty-nine ninety-five, one-year warranty. Ought to take ’em back and shove ’em down their throats, is what I ought to do.”

  Dion brandished his penlight and followed the man down the stairs.

  “There, on the table at the back,” Starkey said, when they were both standing on the concrete floor. He was pointing to the far end of the dim basement. “Hang on a sec, here.” He cast his eyes about, found a broomstick, and used it to bang the faulty fluorescents strung above.

  Dion shone his beam toward an object at the back of the basement. Something on top of a workbench. It was a human head, severed and toppled sideways. He blinked at the object, then turned to Starkey and found the man still busy cursing and poking at the lights with his broomstick.

  “Mr. Starkey,” Dion interrupted. “What’s on your workbench?”

  “The friggin’ fing from the orchard,” Starkey said shortly. “Hang on. I gotta get the ladder. Tubes must be loose. Don’t you go back there till we got some light going. It ain’t safe.”

  “Wait, stay where you are,” Dion ordered. He narrowed his eyes through the shadows at the object on the workbench. Could it be? He took a few steps forward, light beam casting its pale glow, until he was sure. The object on the workbench was no human head. It was a small, shrivelled pumpkin.

  A jack-o-lantern.

  And somebody was making a fool of him.

  He was turning to confront Starkey about this poorest of jokes when he heard the click. It came from somewhere above, like a latch catching, and with a curse he realized his mistake. He knew the precise moment he had made it, too — looking away from his host and stepping toward the lure. Brilliant.

  “Starkey!” he shouted, in the deepest voice he possessed. The barely heard response, through chipboard, underlay, flooring, and carpet, was a shrill laugh of triumph.

  All ambient light from above was gone. The closed door would be locked — of course it would be.

  He climbed the stairs and rattled the knob, shoved, banged on the wood with the side of his fist. He shouted Starkey’s name. He heard silence.

  The two faulty fluorescents buzzed and glimmered on the basement ceiling, casting only scant light on his dungeon. He walked back down the stairs, found the best strategic corner to stand in, pulled his cellphone from his jacket, and checked its juice level.

  It didn’t look good, and he knew why. His extended call to ICBC. Plus he hadn’t been able to charge it in the courtesy car, because he had forgotten to take his charger. And compounding the problem, the phone had been acting up since a bad fall on his bathroom tiles. Brain injured, like himself. In the last few days it had been draining faster than normal, so much so that he had downloaded an app that would warn him when it was running low.

  Fortunately it hadn’t beeped at him yet. He would just have to be economical.

  Calling David Leith would be faster than calling 911, he decided. Leith would take the info and act on it, no questions asked.

  Not knowing Leith’s extension, he called the detachment. Val the receptionist picked up. He told her to patch him through to Leith, and fast, as his phone battery was low. He added it was an emergency, and hoped she had caught those last few words before rerouting his call.

  He was on hold and already regretted not calling 911. Still not in the red, though. Plenty of time. His low-battery app beeped a warning.

  “What?” he asked it.

  Val came on the line before he could disconnect and go the 911 route, saying Leith was out on a call, but she was connecting him to Corporal Wallace. Chris Wallace happened to be the foggiest member in general duties. Dion shouted, “No! Not —”

  “Wallace.”

  Dion outlined the situation to the corporal, then got to what mattered, fast. “I’m at Kilmer Road in Lynn Valley. I don’t have the exact —”

  “You’re what?” Wallace said.

  Dion felt like a car short of fuel, on a road between two gas stations — not sure whether to go forward or turn back. He decided to go forward, and repeated himself to Wallace. “In Ray Starkey’s house, on Kilmer Road in Lynn Valley, locked in his basement. I think he’s still upstairs, and I don’t know if he’s armed, or what he’s up to. Kilmer. Within eyeshot of the Greer house. Like I said, I can’t give you the exact —”

  “Cromwell?”

  The warning beeped again.

  “What?”

  “You said Cromwell Street?”

  Where did Cromwell come from? And how could the battery be draining so fast?

  “Kilmer. Kilmer. Kilo India Lima — just send out a car —”

  Beep.

  “— and they can pull his address. White bungalow, green roof, mid block, close to the Headwaters road. Silent approach, ’cause I don’t know what this guy is —”

  “Just let me get a pen here,” Wallace said, and Dion’s phone died.

  Thirty-Five

  SOS

  Farah Jordan didn’t seem to realize how serious the situation was. When she’d made the call, she had been told in no uncertain terms by dispatch to clear the scene and stay away till further notice. Her idea of clearing the scene seemed to be reversing her little white car down to the end of her driveway, switching it off, and waiting there, ignoring the gloved gestures of the ERT guys.

  Bulked out in bulletproof like the rest of the team, Leith was tasked with getting rid of her. Keeping an eye on the house, he more or less sidestepped to the driver’s window and rapped on the glass. Ms. Jordan stared out at him angrily, no trace of flower child in her now. He waved at her impatiently to start her car and back out further, make herself scarce. That way, that way.

  She pulled a face that said he was full of shit, started up her car, and backed slowly out. She didn’t roll off down the block as far as he was trying to indicate was appropriate — out of bullet range, in fact — but reparked close enough that she could keep an eye on her front door.

  He had no time for her snit. Let her sit there in the line of fire. He watched the house instead, listened to communications, and waited. As it turned out, there was no gunfire, no military manoeuvres. Not even a shout or a scuffle, and scant minutes after the ERT had entered the house, they emerged with their prisoner between them in handcuffs.

  Stefano Boone was a tall, skinny individual with a hawkish nose, fierce eyes, sallow skin, and scraggly black hair. He was wearing a woman’s robe over some kind of PJs. He was barefoot, lifting his soles gingerly over the cold, rubbly concrete as he was led down to the vehicles.

  Leith monitored the arrest, listened as the man’s rights were read out, and instructed members on the plan. The killer was loaded into the car, no resistance, not a word said. He glanced up only once, staring past Leith, down the driveway, at the little white Rabbit parked too close to the action.

  With the prisoner off-site and the house cleared of threats, Leith walked down to Jordan’s car and asked her — again with hand gestures — to roll down her fucking window.

  It was one of the old-fashioned crank
windows. Jordan was smudging tears away with her knuckles as she cranked, and Leith felt bad for his impatience. He toned down what he’d had every intention of saying, and said instead, “We’ll need to search your house, right now. Is that all right, ma’am? For anything Boone might have left behind.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I’ll need to get your statement.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She led the way through the front door and into a living room. She took the middle seat on a lumpy old sofa. Leith’s options were a heavy-duty recliner, a straight-backed wooden chair, or his feet. He chose the wooden chair and busied himself preparing interview equipment. Pen, pad, digital recorder.

  Upstairs the team tromped about. He could hear odd words, muffled laughter. Jordan heard it, too. She grimaced and said, “He’s obviously very disturbed. As I told your receptionist, you didn’t need to send in the SWAT team. I told her he’s not only unarmed, but fast asleep. I should have done what I thought in the first place. Let him get his sleep then bring him in myself.”

  Leith’s response was explosively short and snappy, but he kept it to himself. In silence he tested his pocket recorder for sound pickup.

  “I mean, he thinks he’s dangerous, but he isn’t. He thinks he’s a wolf,” she said.

  “Yes,” Leith said, softly. Ms. Jordan didn’t know what Stefano Boone had done to his family, to Constable Randall, to a defenseless child. He couldn’t blame her for not knowing, and would just have to grin and bear through her misplaced sympathies.

  The recorder seemed to be working fine, so he read in the time and date. But Ms. Jordan halted him, something to say. He flicked off the recorder to hear her out.

  She held a small book on her lap. It might have been a Bible, except it was brilliant turquoise. She stroked its surface as she spoke. “I don’t follow the news as much as I should, so I might have missed something. I’ve been warned about someone lurking in the woods, possibly dressed as a wolf, so obviously when Stefano showed up in my kitchen dressed as a wolf, I clued in and reported him. Which again, I wish I had gone about differently. But is there something else? He seemed to imply he had done something bad. Is this connected to the death of Ben Stirling?”