The Creeping (34 page)

“You wouldn't have been out there if not for us.” A tremor builds in his voice. “Me and Daniel. We're the ones who got you so comfortable going into the forest. If we hadn't, you and Jeanie would have stuck to the front yard. You don't know, Stella. Jeanie goes missing and everyone's parents and the cops are talking to kids about staying away from strangers. Parents get carried away and they scare the shit out of their kids.” He looks frightened now. “Most clam up. They worry about getting in trouble for playing in the woods. But some talk. You don't remember, but kids were going to school counselors and teachers for almost a year after, crying about how they saw Bloody Mary in the mirror or a ghost in the woods who must have taken Jeanie. The whole town needed therapy or meds after it happened. Daniel and I were afraid that everyone would know what we suspected: It was our fault.”

I'm on my knees at his feet in a flash. “You were a kid. It's not your fault.” I force his hands from his lap and hold them in mine. “You had chicken pox, and I was the one with Jeanie. I'm the one who couldn't help her. I'm the one who didn't remember.”

Caleb goes gradually still. “Didn't? Do you remember Jeanie's dad hurting her?”

I sit on the coffee table so our heads are level and close. I don't know why I feel the need to whisper in my living room. “It wasn't him, Caleb. I've been getting flashes from that day. Not of who or what took her. Not yet.” Cold fingers grope at my heart as I voice how inevitable I believe it is that I will remember. “Do you ever talk to Daniel?”

Caleb shrugs. “Not really since we were kids. He was sent away, you know. Maybe off and on each time he'd come back to town.”

“Could you talk to him, for me?” I ask, scooting to the edge of the coffee table until our knees touch. “Could you remind him about what you overheard his dad and the other ranger saying? I don't know why he told the police he thinks his dad is guilty, but if one of us could just talk to him about hunting in the woods . . . Maybe he's too afraid to face what he suspects really happened? Just talk to him and get him to call me. He might listen to you, since you were friends.” He looks away. “Please, Caleb. Jeanie deserves better than this.”

There's something in his eyes I can't identify as they move back to me.

“What?” I ask.

“The way you just said her name . . . I've heard you and Zo talk about her in the past.” He pauses and I brace myself. “You aren't talking about her like she's gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe anymore.”

I want to cover my face in shame. “The more I think of Jeanie, the clearer my sense of her becomes; it's like my idea of her is being distilled over and over again.” I shake my head, frustrated. “She was this black-and-white outline to me before.”

His hand covers mine, resting on my knee. “And now she's being colored in. I get it. And yes, I'll try to find Daniel and talk to him.”

I sink back on my spine. “I'm glad you came over. I miss you. You're like my less bitchy best friend,” I add with a grin.

He presses his lips to the crown of my head as he rocks up from the chair to leave. “You're my less bitchy little sister.”

D
ad actually comes home—by five, no less—and bumps around the kitchen making enchiladas. Dinner is more awkward than normal given Sam's recent sleepover (the one Dad knows about) and my little outburst at the courthouse yesterday.

“It's normal to have a difficult time accepting resolution,” Dad says after serving himself a second helping of Spanish rice. “Don't beat yourself up. You'll need time to adjust.”

I nod agreeably like I usually do with Dad,
but on second thought
 . . . “It would help if you were home at night more,” I say. He stops mid-bite and stares at me. “I miss you, and I'll be leaving for college next year.”

He places his fork down and removes his wire-rimmed glasses. He thumbs his chin in the way he does whenever he's puzzling something out. “I have been working a lot lately. I guess I've been trying to cope with your mother remarrying.”

I move the food around on my plate listlessly. “I know. But I am too.”

He reaches across the table for my hand. “You're one hundred percent right, Pumpkin. It'll take some creativity, but I'll cut back. Maybe we can finally find time to go furniture shopping like we've been talking about? I can get to know the Worth boy again. That is, if you think I should.”

“I don't think he's going to come over anymore. I said something and I don't think he'll forgive me,” I admit.

“Sure he will. Who wouldn't forgive you anything? How about once you two are better I'll make dinner for the three of us? You pick the night and I'll make it happen.”

The rest of the evening is our old normal. Dad lies on the sofa watching the national and international news. Moscow follows me up and down the stairs as I make a trip to the laundry room with my hamper. It's not until Dad goes to sleep, calling softly down the hall for me to have sweet dreams, that things get weird.

I sit at my desk for a half hour trying to compile a list of people who might know about the past disappearances of little girls. According to Griever, people tried to keep it a secret when she was a kid. But do I believe it's happening again? The term “cover-up” conjures up tinkering conspiracy theorists in basement laboratories, accusing small-town mayors of concealing UFOs. I don't relish being in that company. It is undeniable, though, that several redheaded girls went missing in the 1930s, and at least two of them visited or disappeared from Old Norse Trail or Norse Rock. A very long time ago, likely in the years immediately following the disappearances, someone concealed the names and ages on several graves
in the cemetery. Some of those graves could belong to the three missing girls we know about from the thirties. The others could belong to additional missing children.

I believe Sam was right when he theorized that the vandal was attempting to stop the spread of the Creeping's legend by destroying the evidence of its kills.

But how would the police not know about the cold cases from eighty years ago, and if they knew, why stay quiet about them? Why wasn't Jeanie's case—or Jane Doe's, at this point—connected with them?

I need to find whoever in Savage knows—however few or many—and convince them to act, shine light on the secret so that the FBI, or CIA, or NSA, or whoever deals with paranormal wackiness can hunt the Creeping down. Revealing the Creeping—the actual predator taking lives—is the only way Mr. Talcott will be exonerated. I know I'd make more progress with Sam or Zoey to bounce my craptastic ideas off of, but Zoey blew me off when I needed her last night, and I'll be lucky if Sam ever speaks to me again, so it's all me.

Any people in jobs positioned to see that there's a pattern of missing girls have to be aware that similar disappearances occurred eighty years ago in Savage. That means police department employees or anyone with access to cold cases could be involved. Archivists either from the newspaper or the library who have access to all those articles we saw. Any local historians. Probably the mayor? Sam said Mayor Berg's family has been here for seven or eight generations. Any groundskeeper of Old Savage Cemetery; they'd see the graves. I'm sure I'm missing
people, but this is pretty damn good for me all by my lonesome.

I chew my lip for a good fifteen minutes before deciding to take a big risk. I snatch my cell and dial Shane before I lose my nerve.

“Hello?” a groggy voice croaks.

“Shane? It's Stella,” I say meekly, the courage draining out of me.

A creaking mattress and whispers. A moment later and I hear the whoosh of cars, like Shane's stepped outside near a highway. He must live in the apartment block near the interstate.

“Stella, do you know what kind of week I've had? This is the first time I've been to bed before midnight in a year. What is it?”

I take a deep breath, here it is, do or die. “How long have you known?”

“Known what? It's too late for guessing games.”

“Known about the Creeping or whatever your name for it is.
How long have you known?
When you learned about it, did you realize that it's the creature in your grandma's story?”

“What—what are you talking about? Is your father there?” Then a furious whisper. “This is inappropriate, and I don't think he'd approve of you dragging me out of bed and accusing me of—of—”

His voice faltering gives me an extra boost of courage. “I bet you didn't know for sure until the day Jeanie was taken, huh? I bet you had a load of questions when I came back talking about hunting monsters, and Detective Rhino Berry wanted to keep it quiet.” Pieces of the puzzle click into place. “I read a lot, and I know that cops usually keep details of the crimes to themselves.” (Actually, I know it from
Law & Order
reruns, but how embarrassing to admit that.) “Like
something in their back pocket for when they have a real suspect. But you didn't even question anyone about it. Instead you kept your mouth shut about monsters.”

“Now wait just a second.” His tongue is sharp on the consonants. “You're making some serious allegations, young lady. I think we should meet to talk about this.”

I can't help the hurt seeping into my voice. “How long are you going to help them keep it quiet, Shane? How long are you going to lie to me? Why would you give me my case file if you were just going to act like I was having a nervous breakdown? You sent Jeanie's dad to jail even though you know he didn't do it. You're just letting Daniel think his dad is a killer.”

“Kent Talcott confessed,” Shane snarls.

“So effing what? His wife and daughter are dead. Surprise, he's messed up in the head.”

“I really think we should talk about this in person.” From his uneven tone, I can hear the effort it's taking him to stay calm. “We've been getting noise complaints about a party at Cole Damsk's house. Are you there? I can come meet you.”

I have never for a second been afraid of Detective Tim Shane. I've trusted him more than anyone other than Zoey, but alarm threatens to make my voice quaver as I lie, “Yeah, I'm in the upstairs bathroom. But I'm not going to stay here for long, so maybe tomorrow.” I hang up before he can reply. I was right, but there's no wave of satisfaction, only a sickly sense of losing the solid ground I was standing on.

I crawl under my covers and curl around my bunny. “I wish Sam were here,” I
whisper into its floppy ear. Eventually, I stop jittering and push everything to the back of my mind for tomorrow. I'm half-asleep, in that sticky middle world of distorted shapes and tie-dye colors, when my phone buzzes. I expect it's a still angry Shane, but instead it's Caleb.

“Caleb?” I answer.

“Stella.” Caleb's voice is almost drowned out by thumping music. “I need you to come meet me.” Then louder and muffled, like he's pressing the cell to his mouth. “I'm at Cole's. Zoey got hammered . . . . I tried talking to her about Jeanie . . . . She freaked out . . . ran off into the woods.” The shouts and bass fade as he moves away from the house. “If she hears you calling her—”

Before he's finished I'm out of bed, pulling leggings on. “I'm on my way. Meet me in front of Cole's.”

“Thanks, Stella,” he shouts, and then the line goes quiet. I fumble with a pair of Converse tennis shoes and pull a hoodie over my head. I hope Zoey really is having a full-on attack, because if she isn't already, she's going to once she sees that I'm wearing zero makeup in public. I pull my hair into a ponytail as I tiptoe down the stairs. No sense waking Dad for this drama.

My car sputters curbside as I turn the key. Once the engine's roaring, I speed off across town. Cole lives on the opposite side of Savage like Zoey, but in a newly developed neighborhood, with giant grassy backyards butting up against Blackdog State Park. The houses are mini mansions with waterfall pools, movie theaters, and snaking driveways.

I roll through stop signs and hold my breath for luck as I speed
through red lights. The idea of Zoey, alone, drunk, and vulnerable, in the woods while this Creeping or whatever you call it is on the prowl, is too much. I will not lose anyone else. Especially not Zoey; I would never survive.

I sail through a fork in the road. To the right is the highway leading straight to Old Savage Cemetery and Blackdog Lake. I go left, and a mile down is Cole's serpentine driveway. Cars are parked along it, most haphazardly, taking up more lawn than drive. Cole's house looks about to burst at the seams, it's so jam-packed with kids. Brightly colored lanterns hanging from the awning make it look etched in hard candy. A glittering gingerbread home bright as a lighthouse on the edge of the dark forest behind it. I desert my Volvo cockeyed, blocking the four-car garage, and dash toward the multitiered front porch.

Caleb paces furiously at the bottom of the stairs, eyes glued to his cell, oblivious to the yips and hollers of the tipsy partygoers just above him on the steps.

“Caleb!” I shout.

He jerks his head and waves for me to follow before I even reach him. As I scurry past a pulsing blob of juniors and seniors encircling a keg—a mass of holding hands, bumping shoulders, swaying hips, lapping tongues—I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll to Sam's name. Too many pairs of blinking eyes sticking to me for someone not to mention me being here. Sam will hear that I came to a party tonight. I'm probably already tagged as attending this slosh-fest or in the back of someone's sepia-tinted picture.

My thumb jabs the send button. I don't want Sam to think I felt like going to a party after everything we said to each other this morning. But calling him to explain why I am where I am in the middle of the night when I'm not even certain he'll answer my call (or worse, he will answer because he's still Sam, and that means he's impossibly good) right after I accused him of an unspeakable crime doesn't seem like a great idea. I hit the end button after the first ring and slide the cell into my hoodie pocket. I'll call in the morning. I'll apologize. I'm sure he won't forgive me, but I'll try. I reach Caleb lingering at the tree line.