Edward Lee - Creekers

Phil nodded. Makes sense, he realized. There were all kinds of financial loopholes that seemed to exist solely for criminals—this was nothing new.

“Okay.” Phil got up and prepared to leave, but Mullins, after spitting again into his cup, added, “And whatever you do—”

“I know, be careful.”

“Well, that too, but don’t forget to pick up those coffee filters either.”

That’s what I like, Phil thought, a police chief with real priorities. He went out into the front of the station to check in with the dispatcher Mullins had mentioned. Probably some old ditty on social security, he speculated. Looks like Old Lady Crane on a bad day.

“In here,” he heard.

Phil turned toward a cubby of a room off to the side of the front door. Boy, did I call this one wrong, he realized. Sitting behind a big county scanner and Motorola transmitter was a pretty blond woman who looked to be in her late twenties, dressed simply in jeans and a plain pink blouse. Opened in her lap was a textbook of some kind.

Phil extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Phil Straker, the new cop.”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t think you were the new Good Humor Man dressed like that,” she replied, and strangely did not shake his hand. “My name’s—”

“Susan, the night dispatch,” Phil cut in. “The chief told me to check in.”

She seemed exasperated, though Phil couldn’t fathom why. I guess I better change deodorants.

“We use the county signal sheet, so familiarize yourself with the codes, and do it fast,” she said. “One thing I can’t stand is a green cop who doesn’t know his radio codes.”

Phil frowned. “Do you know what a signal 72 is, by the county signal sheet?”

Her face darkened. “A 72? No.”

“It’s a juvenile complaint call. You can check on your sheet there you got taped to the wall. And if you got some problem with me, fine. Just don’t break my chops for nothing, all right? And for your info, I’m not green, I’ve been a cop for ten years.”

“Yeah. I know,” she said choppily and went back to her book.

Phil walked out of the station, as discomfited as he was confused. He wasn’t anti-social, but he didn’t see any reason why he should take a load of crap from some woman he’d just met.

It wasn’t her rudeness that bothered him nearly as much as the look in her eyes…

They were probably the prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen, yet in that last moment before he’d left the station, he sensed beyond a doubt that those same blue eyes were burning with outright disdain.

— | — | —

Six

Such a precious little thing, Natter mused, assessing the new girl with his uneven eyes.

“How old is she?” he asked.

“‘Bout sixteen, I thinks.”

Such a precious harbinger…

“You think she’s ready, Cody?”

But what did ready mean? What did it really mean, in the light of everything? Have faith, he told himself. He was, after all, a faithful man. These little people, his own kin, served in their own way. They didn’t realize how, but what did that matter? They all fed the meaning of their providence…

She’d been cleaned up. Her straight black hair hung long and shiny black, shiny as a wet grackle. She was missing one ear, but that wasn’t particularly noticeable, and her eyes were very nearly the same size; she almost looked good enough to use at the club.

Almost.

This curse, he thought in a deep despair. When will it end?

Druck stripped her, to reveal her flesh. Her red eyes cast down during Natter’s perusal. Full, healthy breasts, despite a dual nipple on the left. The multiple navel was barely discernible, and though one leg was longer than the other, her limp, too, could barely be noticed.

Such a lovely thing…

Sometimes, he could cry.

“When?” Druck asked.

Natter’s elongated hand stroked his chin. His red eyes, though dull, looked full of—something. What?

Hope.

“Break her in first,” he said. “Break her in easy.”

««—»»

As per instructions, or rather instructions based on his own suggestions to a boss he was beginning to suspect of either senility or just plain absent-mindedness, Phil occupied the first five hours of his first shift cruising Crick City in the department’s patrol-vehicle. It was a decent ride—a new white Chevy Cavalier—with a standard Visibar, cage, Lecco gun-rack, and commo gear. For some hotdog reason, Mullins also had a Smith & Wesson tear gas gun locked in the trunk, plus an AR-15 with what looked like a quality scope—but, of course, no ammo. Phil called in 10-8 with Susan, the snooty dispatcher, then went about his patrol, cruising the local TA’s—TA’s were private businesses—the few small apartment complexes, and the trailer parks. He also ran by Chuck’s Diner, Hulls General Store, the farm supply before they closed, and Hodge’s tiny mart, which was the only thing close to a mall that Crick City would ever have. He stayed away from Sallee’s on purpose. There’s a new cop in town, and I’m sure not going to broadcast that, he determined.

But driving through the town at large filled him with something almost akin to sentimentality. Yes, this was quite different from the city. It was spacious, laid back, lazy. Long open roads, rolling hills and meadows, plush woods—

So why did he feel so uneasy?

New job jitters, he tried to tell himself. But he knew it was a lie.

It was the memory that he’d been burying for most of his life…

Was the House really out there?

Did it really exist, or was it just something he’d imagined all those years ago?

He’d tried to forget about it—and he had—until…

Until I came back here.

The sedate hum of the engine merged with his resistance—memory was hypnotizing him, seducing him like a tittering sprite on his shoulder, and then—

Christ, no…

—slim shards of the imagery glittered back in the eye of his mind. It was a child’s eye, wasn’t it? A sputtering, nightmarish bogeyman flashback of a terrified little boy:

…no…

Open doorways.

Slats of sunlight cutting through sluggish darkness.

Then that same darkness…began to move.

He could see things there. Shapes. Moaning. Moving. In the thin tines of sunlight, he could see—

People…

Flashes of faces.

Flashes of flesh.

A twisted hand here, a crooked bare foot there.

Squirming o’s of mouths opening, closing, gasping. Lines of drool swinging off cleft chins, and tongues struggling like fat pink sea worms between rows of broken teeth. And—

…God, no…

Phil pulled over onto the shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut against the mudslide of images. His stomach felt shriveled to a prune-sized clot, and pain raged at his temples…

You never saw any of it! he screamed at himself. It wasn’t real! It was all hallucination!

But as hard as he tried to convince himself of that, he knew he would never be sure.

««—»»

Phil went in the back way to change, then popped into the common room. “I—” he began.

Susan, the dispatcher, frowned in dismay. “Your shift doesn’t end till eight in the morning,” she told him. “What are you doing in civilian clothes?”

“I’m staking out Sallee’s for a little while,” Phil bluntly replied.

“Oh, yeah? Says who?”

“Says Chief Mullins. You know, for a dispatcher, you’re not very well informed.”

Her frown deepened. “Well, how can I be informed unless you inform me?”

“I’m informing you now,” Phil said.

Susan hesitated, putting up her book. Now she was reading a text called Forensics 1994. “The chief didn’t tell me anything about you going undercover to Sallee’s tonight.”