The Creeping (20 page)

“Do you remember this day?” I ask, pivoting on the couch to face him.

“Not really. But I remembered hiding a few pictures away. Feeling like they were my secret treasure. I stuck this one in the pages of a ratty copy of
Where the Wild Things Are
hidden under my box spring. It was still there when I looked.” His brow pleats as he prepares to explain more. “After Jeanie was taken, my parents talked to me about strangers who kidnap children, and that whole conversation is scar tissue on my memory.” He taps his head as if to indicate exactly what part of his brain he's talking about. It wouldn't surprise me if he knew. “It was traumatic and made everything surrounding Jeanie's disappearance vague. I remember the bit about the rumors, and I sort
of remember being afraid, but there's nothing clear or specific about it. I'm sorry,” Sam says. He leans back into the couch cushions. I angle forward slightly as though there's a string attaching us.

“You were only six. And you found this.” I pat his knee. “Wait a sec.” I point to the older boys in the photo. “We were only six, but Caleb and Daniel were nine. I have
loads
of memories from being nine.”

“You're right. Daniel and Caleb should be able to remember this.” Sam tugs his cell from his pocket and begins dialing as I'm going for mine. “They should be able to remember the rumors, too,” he adds. He's right. When I asked Caleb to help me remember that summer, he should have mentioned it, right? But why would I expect Caleb—Caleb who up until two years ago hung out with
stoners
—to remember every game of make-believe and goofy adventure we had? And to be fair, he wouldn't understand the significance of it, because he doesn't know what six-year-old me muttered 255 times.

I dial Caleb and an instant later hang up. He told me he'd rat me out to keep me safe. I'm pretty certain sharing that we uncovered a forgotten photo from that summer and letting him know that I enlisted Sam's help would send him snitching. A second later Sam says, “Hey, Daniel, it's Sam. I know you might be spending the night with your dad, but give me a call. It's important. I think we're on to something, man.” He returns the cell to his jeans.

“I can't ask Caleb,” I explain. “He was with us earlier, and I tried to get him talking about Jeanie. He said it was too dangerous for me to be involved.”

“It's okay. Daniel will call back,” Sam says.

My eyes linger on the five faces in the photo. All of us look feral, glowing from the thrill of whatever hunt we were on—that is, everyone but Jeanie. Her eyes are angled downward at this rust-eaten coffee tin tied with string around her neck. The tin cylinder hangs just above her waist. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line. “What is that around her neck?” I ask, tilting the photo for Sam.

His jaw works back and forth as he thinks. “It looks like a homemade drum, like we were soldiers and she was the drummer of war,” he says. “I remember making one out of a milk carton.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say. I have trouble looking away from its shape, how she's wearing it as a necklace, and her downcast eyes. I know I've seen it before, more than once, more than just that afternoon. The coffee tin's lid is snapped on, and I can imagine her tiny hands beating it as a percussion instrument. There's a quality to her expression, though—bleakness and dread—that makes me doubt it's a toy. It makes me think that Jeanie was the only one who understood that whatever game we were playing at wasn't a game at all. She was smarter than the rest of us.

“What do you think we were looking for?” I ask, moving on to my likeness. I don't know what it is. I look different from all the other pictures I've seen of myself as a kid. I look wild. And happy. Maybe that's what I looked like before Jeanie was taken?

“I don't know. There might not have been anything. I remember seeing a couple of homeless men walking in the woods near the train tracks.”

“The police searched the woods for drifters who might have
taken Jeanie. Hundreds of volunteers walked the woods for weeks afterward looking for any sign,” I say. “But they never found anything.”

“The woods run into Blackdog State Park. It would be easy for someone to stay hidden up there for a long time. Hundreds of square miles of nothingness and only a couple of rangers who patrol,” Sam says thoughtfully. He focuses on my frown and adds quickly, “I'm sure that's not what happened, though. Why do you think you said that stuff to the police?”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At first I was sure I didn't mean it. There obviously weren't really monsters in the woods. I just figured that I was confused or that I was talking figuratively. Like I meant that the
person
who took Jeanie was a monster. I guess that's dumb. Six-year-olds don't think that way.” I wrap my arms around myself, the house suddenly cold. “Kids see monsters everywhere.” I echo Shane's words.

“Maybe,” Sam says. “But maybe there was actually something there to see.” My eyebrows pinch together. He holds his palms up. “Remember that I'm a science nerd, and so far the evidence suggests that the perpetrator doesn't have a normal human lifespan.”

I shiver, fidgeting in my now stiff and filthy jean shorts. “I think you're confusing science with
science fiction
,” I murmur. “And all signs point to this being more than one
person
.” I emphasize the word, but I can't shake a gnawing inside me. Sort of like a homework assignment you forget to complete before you go to bed at night, and you get that maggot of suspicion squirming inside your head that your work isn't totally done.

Sam slides the photo back into the envelope. I'm about to tell him that something isn't stacking up when the doorbell rings.

I hop up and cross my fingers that it's Caleb back from the cove. He's had a couple of hours to think about it, and he's realized we have a responsibility to help Mr. Talcott and Daniel, even if it puts us in danger. He's realized that I'm
already
in danger. Two steps through the foyer and I twist the bolt and yank it open.

No one's there. “Hello?” I call. There's only the pouring rain and the bruised sky of pre-dusk. I take a step onto the porch, and my toe nudges something. It's a wicker basket full of anemic-looking strawberries the color of dead flesh; it's as though the life's been sucked out of them. I stoop for a closer look. It has. White maggots writhe from holes in the berries.

Sam charges out the front door, over the soggy lawn and down the sidewalk. I brace myself in the doorway. My hands shake. I kick my bare foot into the basket, sending the berries and maggots scattering down the porch steps and into the rain.

After five minutes of scouring the block, Sam jogs back. “I didn't see anyone anywhere,” he pants. He hops over the mess. “Let's get inside and call the police.”

I nod but can't will my legs to move. Sam gingerly maneuvers me back into the house and walks me to the love seat. I sink down into the cushions. “Are we overreacting? Maybe a neighbor just left a gift?
They're just strawberries
. Maybe they didn't know the fruit was rotting?” I whisper, desperate for it to be true.

Sam finds my cell on the coffee table and hands it to me.
“Everyone in Savage knows that you and Jeanie were picking strawberries when she disappeared. Everyone knows that Mr. Talcott mowed those vines down every year. People used to talk about him breaking down in tears in the hardware store while he was buying a machete to use on them.”

My mouth goes dry as I scroll through my contacts.

“Stella?” Shane answers after the first ring.

“Shane. Hi. Can you come over? Something's happened,” I say, a little quaver in my voice.

There's the rustle of papers on the other end and a muffled apology made to someone, Shane's hand probably covering the receiver. “Sorry, Stella, I'm back. Are you hurt?”

“No . . . I just . . . Someone left a basket of strawberries on my front porch. They rang the bell, and when I answered no one was there . . . . They're covered in maggots.”

Shane is quiet for a long time and then, “I'll be over in five.” The line goes dead.

Four minutes later, Shane knocks. I stay planted on the love seat as Sam, who's wearing a beach towel from the linen closet over his sopping-wet clothing, jumps to let him in.

“Glad you're not alone,” Shane says, wrinkling his forehead at Sam and stomping his feet on the mat. He's trailed by two uniformed police. I recognize the acne-faced cop and his lady partner. I curl my legs under myself and nod hello.

The two uniforms are quietly arguing under their breaths. Their faces are animated and flushed. Shane explains that they've been
watching my house from an unmarked car parked down the street. “You gave me no choice yesterday,” he adds defensively. “What were we supposed to do?”

The idea of strangers watching me makes me feel ill, even if they are police. “Did they follow me to the cove today too?” I ask. I peek at them sidelong. Did they see me and Taylor swimming? Did they hear what he said to me? The lady cop elbows her partner in the ribs. Both shift their weight uneasily.

Shane clears his throat, wipes a handkerchief he pulls from his pocket over his lips, and turns toward them. It's clear by their reluctance to meet his eyes that they missed me leaving this morning.

Sam plops down next to me and wraps his arm and the towel around my shoulders. Our sides press together.

Shane has some harsh words for the uniforms after they admit to showing up late and assuming I was inside until they saw otherwise when Sam and I arrived home. I learn their names are Reedy and Matthews, and they took the most horrifically timed coffee break known to man, fifteen minutes ago. They were ordering caramel macchiatos—I know because Shane demands to hear what was so important that they risked my life, and Matthews
answered
—as the basket of strawberries was being delivered. Shane dismisses them once it's obvious he's going to burst a blood vessel if they continue pissing him off with excuses. He drops down onto the sofa with an exhausted groan once they've left the house.

“They'll be more careful about watching you from now on,” Shane assures me. Sam snorts. “They're going to bag the berries,
worms, and basket as evidence. It's doubtful, but we may be able to get a partial fingerprint off the basket,” Shane adds.

He rubs the scruff shadowing his chin. “We're dealing with a real sicko. Please don't go anywhere secluded. No more cove and no more woods. I hoped I wouldn't have to tell you this, but I think the time's come.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as if the thought is giving him a headache. Sam's arm tightens around me. “Not only was Jane Doe's scalp severed from her head, but not all of it was recovered with her body.”

I try to ask, “What do you mean?” but it's more of a jumble, my brain outdistancing my mouth, my mouth sounding out words too late or not at all.

“A small portion, about twenty-five percent, of her scalp is missing. Our lab techs can tell that the piece was severed postmortem, as was the rest of the scalp. She didn't suffer. We have to assume that the killer took it with him as a souvenir.” My throat tightens, each breath labored like Shane's standing on my chest.

“
Him?
” Sam asks.

“We don't know anything for sure, but crimes of this nature are usually committed by men,” Shane says. “Predators victimizing both little girls and adults are rare. This is one reason we think it's likely that the perp is linked to the Talcott family or the community at large. We're operating under the assumption that Jeanie's mother was collateral damage. Either she got too close to the identity of the person who took her daughter or the killer revealed himself in some way with Jane Doe. Mere hours after the little girl was found, Bev Talcott was killed. It's
safe to assume it was to keep her quiet.” All of this is what I've assumed, but there's no satisfaction in hearing it.

I press my palm to my chest, my lungs constricting. “But Jane Doe wasn't . . . I mean, no one abused her in a different way?” I blink hard against the black holes in my vision.
Breathe.

“No, no signs of sexual abuse,” Shane assures me.

“Our expert was able to date the bone found with Jane Doe,” he adds after a long pause. His spine stiffens, and he laces his hands together, thumbs punctuating his words. “Understand it's not the final word. We're in the process of getting a second opinion. But it's old, very old. And we're considering it a coincidence that Jane Doe had it. Totally unrelated. Not every clue leads somewhere.” He sounds very far away as he continues, “Radiocarbon dating puts the bone at between a thousand and twelve hundred years old.” I don't hear anything he says after that. The synapses in my brain fire slowly, as if they're the cogs of a rusty steam engine or those cell phones as big as people's heads in reruns from the nineties. A thousand years old.

“That's freaking biblical times,” I cry, interrupting whatever Sam and Shane are saying minutes later.

Shane's lips part, but Sam speaks first. “Actually, it was the peak of scientific discovery in both Chinese and Islamic civilizations.” His cheeks redden as he mumbles, “But I'm not certain what was happening in North America.”

Shane snorts. “As I said, we're getting a second opinion. And don't forget that these details haven't been made public.” He points a stern finger from me to Sam. “There could be a real backlash from
folks. Kent Talcott has been released. I put a protective detail on his house at night after someone launched a brick through his window, but we can't spare the manpower during the day. He's still a suspect.”

I shift my weight and try to smother the current of anger rising up through me. All this horror and Shane still thinks it could be Jeanie's dad. “You think Jeanie's dad took the scalp off a little girl and then kept a chunk? What's the matter with you?” I blurt.