The Dead Man in Indian Creek (7 page)

"I like them this way." Parker started scraping off the burned parts. "Want one?"

"No, thanks."

While Parker ate, I looked around the kitchen. With Pam away so much, the house was dirtier and dingier every time I came over. The sink was always full of dishes, and empty pizza boxes sat around for days with flies crawling on them. Even the plants on the kitchen windowsill were turning brown and losing their leaves.

For something to do, I picked up one of the dolls lying on the table and tilted her back and forth, watching her eyes open and shut. Without a wig, she had a big hole in the top of her head and you could look inside and see the mechanism that worked her eyes.

"Put that down, Matthew!" To my surprise, Pam entered the room and snatched the doll out of my hands. "These are very fragile," she added as she gathered up the dolls and laid them carefully in a large cardboard box.

"Armentrout was just looking at it," Parker said. "He wasn't going to hurt it."

Pam glanced at me as she pressed down the lid of the box. "I'm sorry, Matt," she said, "but your hands aren't very clean. Collectors pay a lot for a doll in good condition."

Parker frowned, but I was ready to crawl under the back porch like Otis does when he's in trouble. Then Pam patted my shoulder. "Don't mind me," she said, trying to smile. "I'm just a little edgy today."

Parker shoved his chair back and dumped the black remains of his sandwich in the garbage can.

"Are you going to be here for dinner?" he asked Pam. He wasn't looking at Pam or me. In fact, he had his head in the refrigerator, searching for something. His voice was muffled, but his back had a rigid set to it as if he were tensed for bad news.

"George and I are going into Baltimore tonight. He's meeting an old friend, and we won't be back till late. I'll leave you enough money to send out for pizza." Pam didn't raise her eyes from the fingernail she was fixing with one of those little sticks women use for stuff like that, but her voice had a nervous edge. She looked tense too, as if she might jump up and run any minute.

There was a long silence. The refrigerator shuddered and started humming, and a gust of wind rattled the back door. Out in the yard, I could see Otis checking the bushes for rabbits or stones, I don't know which.

"You just got home." Parker shook the can of root beer he'd found. Then he popped the top and watched the root beer geyser up. When it hit the ceiling, he smiled to himself, but he didn't share the joke with anybody.

"Don't do that," Pam said sharply. "You're making a mess."

"Who'd notice?" Parker asked. "The way this place looks."

"I know you're mad," Pam said, "because Pm going out again, but tonight is important, and I have to be there. Can't you understand?" Her voice rose a little and her face flushed. "Believe me, I'd much rather stay right here!"

"Then why don't you?"

"It's my business, not yours."

"What are you and Evans up to anyway?" I could see a vein in Parker's neck sticking out like a knotted cord, and he was gripping the soda can so tightly the sides were bending in.

"That's enough, Parker!" Pam threw the little stick down and it bounced off the table onto the floor. She was so angry she scared me. With her hair in her face and her long nails curved like talons, she reminded me of one of those Furies in Greek myths.

But she didn't scare Parker. Like her, he was on his feet leaning toward her, and for the first time I realized he was as tall as she was. They could almost have been twins facing each other across the kitchen table.

Parker slammed the soda can down. "I wish we'd found Evans's body in Indian Creek!" he yelled.

Tears sprang to Pam's eyes. "You just don't understand anything, do you?" Snatching up the box of dolls, she ran from the room.

"Lord, Parker," I said as Pam's bedroom door slammed shut, "what made you go and say a thing like that?"

Parker didn't answer. He flopped down in a chair and put his head on his folded arms. From where I was standing, I could see the white nape of his neck and the frayed label inside the collar of his old plaid shirt.

Then his shoulders started shaking with sobs, and I didn't know if I should leave or stay. What did he want me to do? I couldn't ask him, and I couldn't think of anything to say. I wished I could make all the stuff he and Pam had said go away, like a teacher erasing words from a blackboard.

Suddenly Parker jumped up and went to the kitchen window. With his back to me, he said, "Would your mother let you spend the night over here?"

"I guess so."

Wheeling around, Parker stared at me. His face was flushed, but he'd gotten himself under control. Lowering his voice even though Pam was in the shower, he said, "We'll go to the Olde Mill and find out what's going on. Okay?"

B
Y THE TIME
I got home, Mom was in the middle of packaging her ornaments for the Fall Festival. When I asked her if I could spend the night at Parker's, all she said was to be home before noon on Sunday. "I'm counting on you to help at the booth tomorrow."

Then, just as I was getting ready to leave, she added, "Don't stay out too late trick and treating, Matt. Whoever murdered that man is still loose."

With those cheerful words ringing in my ears, I rode my bike back to Parker's house. As I skidded to a stop in the driveway, I saw Pam and Evans coming out the front door.

"Make sure Parker behaves himself." Pam smiled at me as if the scene in the kitchen had never taken place. "I know I can trust you to be sensible, Matt. No tricks, just treats. And don't eat too much candy."

I stood on the steps and watched her for a moment. She was wearing a long-sleeved blouse with a low, lacy neckline, and her dark flowered skirt swirled when she moved. As she turned to wave good-bye to Parker, her hair shone in the late afternoon sunlight. Then, her bracelets jingling, she took Evans's arm and walked down the sidewalk toward the MG.

Although Pam didn't seem to notice or even to care, Parker hadn't come to the doorway to wave to her, and Evans didn't say one word to me. His face expressionless, the man ignored both me and Otis who was barking furiously at him from the living room window.

The MG's engine kicked noisily into life and the two of them drove away, leaving the street duller and quieter as they vanished down a tunnel of yellow leaves.

Parker came up behind me so silently he startled me. "She won't be back until late tomorrow, I bet," he said. "Maybe not till Monday."

"She's so beautiful," I said more to myself than him.

"That was one of her new outfits," Parker said as I followed him into the house. "Where's the money coming from for clothes like that? Or for all this other stuff?" His gesture took in the TV and the VCR as well as a leather reclining chair I hadn't noticed before. "She's in trouble, Armentrout, I know she is."

Glumly, I slumped on the old sofa and watched Parker turn on the VCR. In honor of Halloween, Pam had brought home three videos to keep us entertained, and Parker had one of them,
The Night of the
Living Dead,
ready to play. When I realized what it was, I groaned.

"We've seen this at least half a dozen times," I said.

"And it still scares you, right?"

"No," I lied, "it bores me to death. What else do you have?"

"
Friday the Thirteenth
and
Nightmare on Elm Street.
" Parker grinned. "What were you hoping for,
Bambin?
"

After the living dead had killed off just about everybody, Parker called the pizza place and ordered a large tomato and cheese with mushrooms, green peppers, meatballs, onions, and anchovies on top. Since the delivery man came to Parker's house pretty regularly, he got it to us in less than fifteen minutes.

"Those dead guys in the movie," Parker said after we'd devoured most of the pizza. "Didn't they remind you of the man we found in the creek?"

The man's face flashed before me, and I had to force myself to swallow my pizza. "Hey, Parker," I said, "not while we're eating."

He shoved the
Sentinel
at me. "Did you see this?" He pointed at an article about the murder. "They identified him. His name's Albert Dawson, and he's got a record as long as your arm. See? Drugs, assault, armed robbery, all kinds of parole violations."

I scanned the article, written, of course, by our old friend Julius Fisk. "The cops are still saying it's drug related and it doesn't have anything to do with Woodcroft. They think he just ended up here," I said.

Parker shook his head. "Well, we're going to prove the cops are wrong." Tossing his empty soda can into the trash, Parker grabbed his denim jacket. "It's time to go," he said.

Opening the kitchen door, he stood there a minute, staring at the trees behind his house. The sky was a pure deep black, and the stars shone so brightly and in such numbers, you would have thought you were in a planetarium.

"Couldn't we just go trick or treating instead?" I asked.

But Parker was already halfway down his back steps, whistling for Otis. The way that dog acted, he must've known Parker wanted to lock him in the house. Instead of coming, he plunged off into the shadows, barking like a lunatic. Even when Parker banged his food dish up and down on the porch railing, Otis wouldn't come.

"Darn that dog," Parker said and threw Otis's dish into the backyard.

Then the two of us ran off in the opposite direction from Otis, hoping to lose him. The last thing we wanted was to have him follow us out to the Olde Mill and start barking like last time.

Even though it was still early, most of the trick or treaters had come and gone, and the streets had an empty, late-night feeling. A breeze rattled the limbs of the trees and sent the last of the leaves scurrying down the sidewalk behind us. The sound they made had a spooky edge to it, and I found myself looking over my shoulder from time to time, just to make sure it was only leaves following us.

When somebody shouted Parker's name, I jumped like a startled rabbit before I realized it was Jennifer. With Melissa and Linda flanking her like halfbacks, she ran down Blake Street toward us. The three of them were dressed as hoboes, and their bags bulging with Halloween goodies flapped against their legs. Tiffany and Charity were scurrying along behind them, almost tripping over their long skirts and big bags.

"How much candy did you get?" Melissa asked breathlessly.

"They don't have any," Linda said. Her sharp little eyes never missed a thing. "They've probably been soaping car windows."

Ignoring her friends, Jennifer smiled at Parker and offered him her bag. "Want some?"

Parker stuck in his hand and pulled out a Hershey bar. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't give Matthew any," Melissa said. "He might throw up."

I glared at her, but, before I could think of anything to say, Jennifer thrust her bag at me.

"Have some, Matt," she said.

As I searched with my fingers for something as good as Parker's Hershey bar, Jennifer invited us to go trick or treating with her and the others. Obviously displeased, Melissa and Linda started whispering to each other, while Charity and Tiffany urged Jennifer to take them to Appleton Street immediately.

"Miss Goldberg always has good stuff," Tiffany shrilled.

"And Mrs. O'Malley gives bubble gum," Charity yelled before turning to me. "But not to boys," she said. "Just to pretty little girls like me and Tiffany."

I busied myself unwrapping a Baby Ruth bar and tried to ignore Charity. Maybe if we hung around long enough, Jennifer would offer us some more candy or Parker would agree to go trick or treating with her.

"Thanks for the invitation," I heard Parker tell Jennifer, "but we've got something else to do."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Parker was already walking toward Windsor Road, so I smiled at Jennifer and shrugged, hoping she'd realize it wasn't my idea to go running off. As I hurried after Parker, I heard Charity yell, "If you soap any cars, I'm telling Daddy!"

W
HEN WE GOT THERE,
the Olde Mill was dark, and the parking lot was empty. Behind it, the woods were an inky mass of J shadows beneath the starry sky. The last crickets of the year were chirping softly, and from somewhere far away I heard a dog bark. Otherwise it was very quiet.

Parker ran noiselessly across the gravel and disappeared around the corner of the shop. Reluctantly I followed him about as silently as an elephant on the rampage. Parker would have made a good Indian, I thought. But not me. I was the kind who would have been left at camp to guard the women.

We tried the doors first, but they were locked, of course. Then Parker found a small window.

"Boost me up," he said.

"What if somebody comes along?" I glanced behind me at the empty parking lot. On the street, a car cruised past, but its headlights didn't reach us.

Parker grabbed the windowsill and tried unsuccessfully to pull himself up without my help. "Come on, Armentrout," he said. "Don't chicken out now."

"There might be a burglar alarm." I tried to see if there was any tape on the window or one of those little sensors.

"In a town like Woodcroft?" Parker asked. "Most people don't even lock their back doors."

Out of arguments but still scared, I gave him a boost, and he managed to shove the window open and then wiggle inside.

"Go to the back door," he told me. "I'll let you in."

While I waited for him to open the door, I heard another car coming. I crouched down, my heart thumping, but the car went on past.

"What are you doing?" Parker stood in the doorway looking down at me.

"Nothing," I muttered and edged around him into the silent shop.

It was really dark inside. Evans had the place jammed with big bureaus and trunks, china closets, huge wardrobes, umbrella stands with grotesque faces carved on them, tables, and glass-fronted cabinets full of dolls and toys.

In the narrow beam from Parker's pocket flashlight, all these things crowded around us, casting weird shadows. Our reflections jumped out at us from tilted mirrors, scaring me more than once, and the sagging floor creaked under our feet. It was like being in a fun house; you never knew what you'd see next-a lion from a carousel, a cigar-store Indian, or a life-size cutout of Elvis.