The Legend of Devil's Creek, page 15
“Dude! You fff—. You’re a pig!” Boyd yelled as he drew back in disgust, his face flushed.
“Nice!” Chapman laughed. “Textbook. Lazko actually caught him with his mouth open.”
Lazko just sat there, a mildly satisfied expression on his face, as Riddley and Sandhurst laughed themselves to tears. Riddley realized it was the first time he’d ever seen Sandhurst truly laugh.
“What did you think about Bacavi’s spiel yesterday?” Chapman asked no one in particular, once they’d all calmed down.
“What about it?” Lazko asked.
“The whole ‘why do you want more than you need?’ thing.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I was just thinking about it, and thinking about my parents again. About all our parents.”
“What about our parents?” Boyd asked.
“I mean, why the fuck did my second stepfather have to buy a brand new muscle car, or all that fancy stereo equipment and other shit he didn’t need and couldn’t afford? Or why do Boyd’s parents keep striving for higher rank in their church? What does that get them? Why did Lazko’s dad have to become a judge, when he was probably making plenty of money as a partner in his law firm? What is it that makes them strive for this shit they don’t need? What is it that makes them work so hard, overextend themselves, and ignore or hurt their own families? What the hell is driving it?”
“The need to feel important,” Lazko said, shrugging. ”The need to feel like they’re in control. Shit, dude, I don’t know. Whatever Bacavi said. Can’t we talk about something lighter for once?”
The conversation drifted on to a discussion of how hot one of the Frigate Bird’s female bartenders was. After a couple more rounds of beer, the last of Riddley’s social awkwardness melted away. He watched Boyd sitting on the other side of the fire, and thought about how Boyd had been such a dick to him during basketball, how he’d ridiculed his shirt, thrown blackberries at him. And before Riddley knew it, he was firing back. “Boyd, did you iron your sweatshirt?”
“What?”
“Your sweatshirt. Did you iron it? It has a perfect little crease going up the middle of the hood.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Chapman said with a shit-eating grin. “Look at that. Who the fuck irons a fucking sweatshirt?”
“Who the fuck irons a sweatshirt he’s going to wear on a camping trip?” Riddley said.
“You are a bona fide pretty boy,” Chapman said.
“And he’s sitting all awkward like he has a broom handle up his ass, so as little of his pants as possible touch the ground, so they don’t get dirty,” Lazko said. Lazko’s voice was really starting to slur. Riddley thought his face looked abnormally pale, even in the red glow of the firelight. Sandhurst, now lying on his back, looked worse.
“Go ahead and laugh, assholes.”
“Boyd, honestly,” Chapman said. “What’s the story with all that?”
“All what?”
“You being a clotheshorse. I’ve never met a guy as meticulous about his wardrobe. Everything brand name. Everything coordinated. Everything perfectly clean and pressed all the time. Men aren’t supposed to give a shit.”
“Half my pants have holes in them, and I don’t give a shit,” Lazko said.
Boyd looked marginally irritated, but Riddley guessed he’d been hassled about his clothes many times before, and was more-or-less used to it. Then, to Riddley’s surprise, Boyd offered a sincere answer. “I think it’s probably because I always had to wear shitty clothes when I grew up, you know?”
“Why?” Riddley asked.
“We were poor. Especially after my mom left, and my dad had to pay for a lawyer for the divorce and all that shit. We weren’t super-poor. But we didn’t have money to throw at nice clothes, let’s put it that way. Then my stepmother came in, and she was all churchy and thought it was evil to try to look good or whatever. Plus she thought we’d be spoiled if we even got to pick our own clothes. So I always had to wear hand-me-downs and cheap clothes from cheap stores. And I got picked on for it. You know how kids are. I started to daydream about being able to wear the clothes I wanted.”
“It was hard-going,” Chapman said. “They said you couldn’t do it, but you held on. You overcame the odds. And now, all these years later, you’re all grown up and can wear whatever you want. And you still dress like a tool, and we still pick on you.” Boyd flipped him off. “Come on, Boyd. We all wore hand-me-downs and cheap clothes. Only rich people spend real money on that shit.”
“There’s more to it,” Boyd said.
“Like what?” Chapman asked.
“Like with my mom leaving.”
Chapman’s smirk disappeared as Boyd’s unfocused gaze settled on the ground in front of where he sat.
“I mean, when I was a little kid, my mom told me she loved me all the time, like any mom would. But then one day, she just up and left. Said she needed to pursue her dreams or whatever. I was seven. It didn’t make any sense to me. It still doesn’t. Was she lying when she said she loved me? I mean, how could someone leave their own child?” Boyd held his palms out as if pleading for an answer. Then he let them drop. “So anyway, sometimes I think my wanting to look good is related to that—about wanting to feel wanted. Maybe I’m trying to fill the hole my mom left. Who knows.”
“Shit,” Riddley muttered, as stunned by Boyd’s sudden willingness to reveal himself as he was by the depth of his self-awareness. To his further surprise, Riddley found himself feeling bad for having taken a shot at Boyd.
“I suppose we’re all shaped by our childhood traumas,” Chapman said.
“That can be tonight’s topic,” Boyd said. “So how did you get over yours?” he asked Chapman.
“Over them? Are you fucking kidding me? I still feel the anger every day.”
“So how do you deal with it?”
Chapman snickered. “Sometimes pretty well. Other times, not so much.” He didn’t seem inclined to expand.
“What about you guys?” Boyd asked the group. “What childhood traumas do you still deal with?”
Nobody answered. Lazko and Sandhurst already looked comatose. But Riddley had a tremendous urge to spill his guts. To reveal himself. He felt it would bond him to the group irrevocably. But he was also reluctant. Though there were things from his childhood that had undoubtedly traumatized him, they weren’t anywhere near as extreme as what the others had dealt with. He worried they would think less of him—maybe even take offense—if he aired what passed for traumatizing experiences in his life.
Nevertheless, the first thing that popped into his mind was his first experience with team sports. His parents pushed him to try soccer when he was in the third grade. Unhappily, the team that drew kids from his own elementary school was already full, so he had to play for a team made up of kids from a school across town. He didn’t know any of the kids, but they all knew each other, both from school and from already playing as a team for two years. Riddley was the rookie and the outsider, which was hard enough. But what really set him up for trouble were his teeth—his horribly buck teeth. He quickly became the team laughingstock, ridiculed for his poor play, his teeth, and later, for anything his teammates could find to zero in on—his family’s ugly car, the pudding-bowl haircut his mother gave him, the birthmark on his calf. They went after him with a mindless viciousness.
His parents wouldn’t let him quit, despite his tearful pleas. They told him he had to finish what he began, and that such experiences built character, whatever that meant. So the hell continued, and over time, he grew truly hateful. At first, he daydreamed about tripping his teammates during games. Later, he fantasized about stepping on their faces with his cleats. Kicking the sides of their heads with the hard toes of his soccer shoes. Crushing their throats and eyeballs with thrown elbows.
In the end, Riddley didn’t bring it up. But the memory ate at him, feeding negative feelings and thoughts. Thoughts of Boyd’s criticism of his shirt, of being pelted with blackberries; of having to either choose a major he had no interest in, or face the crushing disappointment of his parents; of his frustrating social awkwardness and fear; of his stinking it up at basketball. His gloom and anxiety soon overwhelmed his alcohol buzz. His further drinking didn’t seem to help. An hour later, he crawled off to bed, drunk and depressed.
FIFTEEN
The following Tuesday, Catherine, Lazko, and Sandhurst were all absent from philosophy class. Chapman said he ran into Catherine on the way to class, only to see her burst into tears and reverse direction for home. He escorted her just long enough to learn the cause of her breakdown: she got a “B+” on her chemistry mid-term.
Boyd was there to explain that Lazko was still reeling from what he was calling the worst hangover of his life, and was half wondering whether he hadn’t been food poisoned by some of the clams they ate at the beach. “He still has explosive diarrhea,” Boyd said, looking sideways to inspect himself in the reflection of Beale Hall’s glass main doors as he, Chapman and Riddley stood outside. “I can’t even use our bathroom. It’s a fucking biohazard.”
It occurred to Riddley that he hadn’t seen Sandhurst since they got back from their kayak trip. And he’d looked pretty bad on the paddle home. Slumped and pale. At the time, Riddley chalked it up to his heavy drinking the night before. But maybe it was something worse.
“Shit, one of us better go check on Sandhurst,” Chapman said. It was a beautiful but cold day, the sky so clear they could see snow-capped Mt. Rainier peeking out over the treetops of Bristol Point to the south of town, its white crown of glaciers shining brilliant in the bright sunlight.
“I’ll knock on his door on my way home,” Riddley said.
A few minutes later, he was softly knocking on Sandhurst’s door. He could hear a rustling—of bedding maybe—coming from the other side. But he stood for several moments and the door never opened. Maybe Sandhurst was sleeping. Riddley decided to try again later.
*****
That evening, just before nine, Riddley knocked again. Again, he heard the sounds of movement within. He didn’t expect the door to open. But then it did. An unshaven and disheveled Sandhurst stood looking at him, a detached expression on his face. Behind him, his dorm room window was wide open despite the cold.
“Hey. Are you, uh—are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Sandhurst said, barely nodding his head.
“Lazko thinks he was food poisoned from the clams we had at the beach, so we just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t have explosive diarrhea like Lazko then?”
“No, no I don’t have diarrhea.”
“Well that’s good.” Riddley peeked past Sandhurst, into the room, not knowing what he was looking for. “So, ah, why weren’t you at class? You got the flu or something?”
“No, I’m just kind of—” His voice trailed off and he shrugged his shoulders. Riddley waited. “Kind of down. Depressed. I suffer from depression.”
Riddley stood slack-jawed as his face flushed. He’d never known anyone with depression—not that he was aware of, anyway. The concept was something he associated with suicides and insane asylums—not with folks who populated his everyday life.
“Oh. Ah. Well, class was pretty good. So, uh, are you experimenting with cryogenics?“
“Huh?“
“Why is your window wide open?”
“I’m going up on the roof.”
“What?”
“I’m going to climb out my window and up onto the roof.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to sleep up there. Under the stars.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No, I do it all the time. When it’s not raining.”
“Wow.” Riddley held up the papers in his hand. “Well, anyway, I was also wondering if you wanted my philosophy class notes from today.”
Sandhurst was quiet for a moment after Riddley handed them off. His eyebrows drew together and the corners of his mouth turned down. He shook his head.
“Riddley, I—. That’s really kind of you.”
“No big deal.”
Sandhurst stared at the papers in his hand.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you.” Riddley abruptly turned, making to leave.
“Riddley, wait. You want to see the roof?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“It’s cool.”
“No, I’m not climbing out any windows four stories off the ground, but thanks.”
“I can open the maintenance hatch for you. It’s right down the hall.”
“Where?”
A minute after watching Sandhurst’s legs and feet disappear out the window as he pulled himself up onto the roof, Riddley stood in a custodial closet, at the base of a steel ladder leading to a hatch marked, in bright red capital letters, “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” It popped open and Sandhurst’s grinning face appeared.
“Here you go. It’s locked from the inside but not the outside. Go figure.”
A moment later, they both stood on the flat, tarred rooftop, admiring the sweeping view of Port Baker and Broughton Cove. White masthead lights of a handful of sailboats bobbed up and down at mooring buoys scattered along the sheltered waters just offshore. Cold air pinched at Riddley’s cheeks.
“We could get in trouble if somebody caught us up here.”
“Yup.”
“This is cool. So you really sleep up here?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t you get cold?”
“I have wool blankets.”
They stood and watched an airliner pass overhead in its descent toward Everett’s Paine Field, southeast across the water.
“Hey, you want to see something else cool?”
“What?”
“Do you like adrenaline rushes?”
“That depends.”
“Watch this.”
Sandhurst burst into a sprint across the roof, heading straight for the gap, in its otherwise perfect rectangle, where the service entrance and dumpster were located four floors down.
“What are you—”
Before Riddley could finish, Sandhurst leapt into the air over the chasm of the gap, swinging his arms and legs like a long-jumper. Riddley held his breath. The gap had to be fifteen feet across. After a frightfully long two seconds, Sandhurst landed on the far side, turned back toward Riddley and gave a loud whoop.
“Riddley, you gotta try it!”
Riddley just shook his head, wondering what in the hell had gotten into his friend.
SIXTEEN
Marshall woke in total darkness. Though he had no recollection of it, the tears on his face, his sweat-damp sheets, and his queasy gut told him he’d just had the nightmare again. That made it three times in the past five nights. His vision came into focus on the dim red numbers of his digital alarm clock: 3:42 a.m. He’d been through this routine often enough to know he wouldn’t fall back to sleep, so he took a moment to compose himself, sat upright, and finally headed for the kitchen to get a pot of coffee going.
The island was quiet, the roads empty. Marshall didn’t pass another living soul on his drive in to the station. He parked the cruiser in his usual spot near the backdoor, grabbed his thermos of coffee and buttered day-old bagel, and headed for the door. A thin and cold autumn mist hung in the air, illuminated by the yellowing sodium vapor lights of the parking lot, and its enveloping chill had Marshall yearning for that first cup of hot coffee. The station was dark but for the dispatch room, where Quintrell, who was night duty officer for the week, sat asleep in his chair by the radios and phones under flat fluorescent light. Marshall didn’t see any reason to wake him, and tiptoed down to his own office where he shut his door and poured himself a cup of hot black coffee.
After pausing to inhale the aromatic steam through his nostrils, he took a big sip and reclined in his chair to ponder the murders. The investigation was stalled. They had no suspects. No witnesses. Little useful evidence. Like the murders, the investigation itself seemed to be following the pattern of the Devil’s Creek legend. Marshall went over his mental list of what they’d done to date, the investigative tactics they’d used, the theories they’d considered. He had great faith in his men, and over these past few months, they’d been as professional and thorough as he’d ever seen them. But were they missing something? Some lead they’d left un-pursued? Some evidence they’d failed to notice? He went over it again and again in his mind as the coffee gradually sped up and sharpened his thoughts.
He’d hoped for a little more useful information from the University of Washington archives. But they offered surprisingly little that was at all different from what they had already learned investigating the modern murders. It seemed history was repeating itself. At least the UW retained those old newspapers. They had to be the only copies still in existence.
Then something occurred to Marshall. If Rodin was indeed copying the Devil’s Creek legend, then he may have used the UW archives to familiarize himself with it. In fact, that seemed probable. After all, even the popular ghost story didn’t offer enough detail to enable a copycat to have done such a thorough job of mimicking the Devil’s Creek killer. To Marshall’s knowledge, the only source for such detail was the Aubrey Stevedore. So unless the copycat had personal knowledge of the Devil’s Creek killings—which was highly unlikely—he would almost have to have read the archives at UW.
Though the archives wouldn’t open for at least another four or five hours, Marshall sprung from his chair, threw his door open and charged down the hall to wake poor Quintrell. Quintrell was as startled by Marshall’s excitement as he was by the abrupt wakeup.
“I want you on that first Seattle-bound ferry this morning, and at the doors of Suzzallo Library as they open. Here are the exact volume numbers.” Marshall handed Quintrell a coffee-stained scrap of paper with the details scratched across it. “Make them take you to the books personally, and don’t let any of those old biddies touch them. We’re going to need to dust both volumes. Don’t let them take the sign-out card either. Just give them a receipt. Hopefully they won’t insist on a subpoena. Oh—and take a 258 form with you, and see if you can’t get the prints of the archive lady who helped me out the other day so we can eliminate any of hers we find. Joanna something.” Marshall described her.
