Devil's Creek Read online

  “It could be,” she grinned.

  Stephanie made her pitch as they turned out of the driveway and drove back to town.

  Across the street, Ruth McCormick sat in her window, watching them leave. Reddish-purple bags clung to her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. She fervently scribbled across the ruled lines of her notebook, taking dictation from a voice only she could hear, filling the pages with the truth of the world before the coming of man and the gods he made.

  6

  Jack closed the passenger door and leaned down into the open window. “See you tonight,” he said. “Do I need to bring anything?”

  Stephanie shook her head. “It’s radio. Just bring your voice.”

  “You got it. Thanks for the ride.”

  He watched her speed away before unlocking his car. Inside, he retrieved his grandmother’s notebook from his messenger bag. He’d considered telling Stephanie about last night’s discovery but thought better of it. For all he knew, there wasn’t anything to his grandmother’s research, but he had to know for sure before telling her.

  Jack started the car and entered Mr. Booth’s address into the dashboard GPS. The GPS plotted a route along old Highway 25 on the way north to Landon. He wasn’t as familiar with the town of Landon, even though his mother was born there. Today, he realized, would be a day of knowledge in more ways than he thought.

  He hoped Mr. Booth would be a willing teacher.

  Seconds later, Jack put on his turn signal, waited for a break in the Saturday morning traffic, and went on his way toward US 25.

  7

  Across town, while Jack sat in traffic at the junction of Main Street and Highway 25, Chuck Tiptree checked his phone for messages. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend his Saturday morning, listening to Bobby Tate tiptoe between rage and whining, but here he was. It’s not that he didn’t want to be there for his brother, but so far Bobby had spent more time losing his mind over Riley sneaking out with a girl than the concern of legal action for Riley’s assault on Ronny Cord’s son yesterday.

  Chuck supposed this was the real reason he took Bobby’s call so early in the morning, knowing the good reverend would focus on the wrong concerns and worry himself into an early grave. As he sat in the den of Bobby Tate’s home, sunken into the cushy folds of his brother’s armchair, Bobby ranted on about the hellfire and brimstone that had befallen his family since his wife’s untimely demise. Chuck decided he knew his brother better than he cared to admit.

  “Where did I go wrong?” Bobby wondered aloud, a rhetorical question which Chuck restrained himself from answering. You had kids, Chuck thought. In all his years and many, many relationships throughout, Charles Tiptree had one rule: No kids. There was cursed blood in his veins. The last thing he wanted to do was pass it on, siring another generation of their father’s lineage. No, Chuck Tiptree decided years ago his particular branch of the Masters family tree would wither, snap, and fall into the forgotten void of history.

  That’s not to say he disliked Riley. He adored the kid, especially when he defied his father—“It’s good for both of them,” he’d once told Stephanie, before erupting in a fit of laughter—but Riley fell into a slim, acceptable category of “Someone Else’s Problem.” Chuck loved his nephew, loved spoiling him, but at the end of the day, Riley went home. He didn’t stick around Chuck’s place, didn’t raid his refrigerator, and didn’t whine about his teenage problems. No, Chuck didn’t need that kind of complication in his life. Watching his brother go through the motions over Riley’s recent trespasses clinched that for him, and he quietly wondered if the boy’s issues had something to do with their bloodline.

  Put the idea out of your head, he told himself. All Riley’s done wrong is be a teenager in a broken home.

  “Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall,” Bobby said, standing at the fireplace mantle and staring at a picture of Janet in happier times. “I feel like the lord is testing me, Chuck. It’s one thing after another with this kid.”

  “Bobby,” Chuck offered, “I think you need to take a minute and breathe, okay? Sit down and take a time-out. Let’s talk about this carefully, rationally.”

  Bobby Tate turned away from the photo and wandered reluctantly across the room. Chuck thought he looked like a lost child, still seven years old and taking panicked breaths down in the suffocating darkness. In some ways, Chuck thought it made sense Bobby had rediscovered religion in his teenage years. The poor guy needed some kind of coping mechanism to help him get through the drudgery of everyday life. He was wound up so tight a mouse fart might give him a heart attack.

  Bobby sat on the sofa and slouched in defeat. “Okay, Chuck. Okay.” He took a breath and exhaled. Chuck noticed Bobby’s hands were shaking.

  “Are you still on your meds?”

  “No,” Bobby said absently, clasping his hands on his knees. He averted his gaze from Chuck, suddenly preoccupied with the patterns on the sofa. “Not for a few months now. They gave me nightmares, and…well, you know.”

  Chuck nodded. He did know. All six of them suffered from nightmares and terrors after the incident at the church, and by his count, they’d all undergone some form of therapy in their tween years to help them cope. Their grandparents pooled their resources to hire the therapist, Dr. Benjamin Mosier, a frumpy sort of fellow with thick glasses. Dr. Mosier’s therapy involved urging them to find a vocation, something through which they could channel their fear and anxiety, and for most of them, the therapy worked.

  Had religion truly helped Bobby find peace? Chuck liked to think so, although ever since Janet died, the church seemed more like a burden than anything else. The man who sat before him didn’t look rested or at peace; in fact, he looked manically depressed, a slipshod effigy of a man held together by prayers, anger, and minimal sleep.

  Chuck cleared his throat. “Are you, uh, sure kicking the meds is wise, Bobby? I mean, after Janet passed on…”

  Bobby waved him off. “They helped for a time, but they dulled my focus. I felt distanced from reality, if that makes sense. Like the world was covered in cotton, soft at the edges. Like I was a ghost.”

  “All I’m saying is maybe they would help clear your head.”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Bobby shrugged. “But that’s not why you’re here. I need a lawyer, Chuck, not a doctor.”

  Chuck nodded. “So you do.” He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hand against the grit of stubble on his cheek. “You know this isn’t the sort of law I practice, Bob, but I can refer you to a friend who does. You know Craig Paige? Just opened his practice over on Kentucky Street. Me and Craig go way back. I can give him a call this afternoon, even. He’ll be happy to help you with Ronny Cord.”

  “What about Don Matthews?” Bobby seemed incredulous, stunned Chuck would skip over such an urgent matter. “Shouldn’t we be more concerned with what Riley and Don’s daughter were up to in the woods last night? While those two boys were kidnapped?”

  Chuck sighed and shook his head. “Bobby,” he said, measuring his words, trying to keep his heart rate at a reasonable pace. “We’ll get there. Do you know for certain what Riley and Rachel did? Did Riley tell you?”

  His brother fell silent, wringing his hands the way Chuck’s grandma used to when she was worrying over something. Bobby suddenly looked very old to him, worn down and aged like a fallen log in the forest, its bark brittle and flaking at the edges. “No,” Bobby said finally. “No, I didn’t ask him. Not that he would tell me, anyway.”

  “Uh huh.” Chuck nodded. “So, you’re working from the basis of assumption, is that right?”

  Bobby nodded again, his gaze turned down like a scolded puppy.

  “In that case it’s an equal assumption to say Riley and Rachel Matthews didn’t do anything wrong.” Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but Chuck held up his hand to silence him. “The truth is, Bob, we don’t know, do we? So, it’s like I said—we’ll get there. In the meantime, let’s deal with what we do know, okay?”

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nbsp; “Okay,” Bobby whispered, and Chuck almost smiled at the sound of defeat in his brother’s voice. Good ol’ Bobby, always so quick to jump to conclusions. They were the land mines in the hopscotch game to Hell, as his grandfather Gage used to say.

  “Great,” Chuck went on. “Now we’ve got that settled, let’s talk about what Ronny Cord said.”

  8

  “So I said to that holy-rollin’ fuckstick, I says, ‘I’m gonna sue the shit out of your righteous ass.’ And you know what he said to me, Tony? ‘There ain’t no cause for that language, sir.’ Can you believe that shit?”

  Ronny Cord barked into his phone between sips of a lukewarm Miller High Life while his son, Jimmy, listened from his bedroom. Jimmy’s old man laughed like a hyena when he was drunk, and this morning was no exception. Every wet, phlegmy chuckle rose an octave higher than Jimmy could stand, lifting the dull ache pulsing in his skull to new heights.

  His old man’s morning call with Tony Burgess was something of a ritual in the Cord household, or at least it was for as long as Jimmy could remember. Ronny Cord worked third shift for the railroad, sweeping the floors of the offices down at the train depot on the south side of town. Tony worked across town for A&Z construction. He and Ronny were old high school buddies, way back when Stauford football mattered in the local scheme, and they’d kept in touch in the years after graduation.

  Jimmy once joked his old man and Tony were secretly gay for each other, a quip that earned him a smack across the mouth. Ronny hadn’t said anything to his son about it, letting the sting of his backhand speak for him, and Jimmy never said a word about it again.

  When he’d heard enough of his father’s raucous retelling—“And then I said, ‘I’ll shove that Bible so far up your ass, preacher, you’ll be shittin’ proverbs for a week.’ I’ll tell ya Tony, he didn’t care for that none, no sir.”—Jimmy crawled out of bed, wincing as he moved, and went to close his bedroom door. Before he did so, however, he heard his father mention something about a couple of kids going missing last night.

  “Yeah, I heard somethin’ about that on the morning news. Nah, just a couple losers, no one my boy would pal ‘round with. Don’t surprise me none. You ask me, I’d say the preacher’s kid did it. I mean, shit, look what he did to Jimmy yesterday!”

  Jimmy closed his door. He couldn’t listen anymore. Brilliantly sharp sheets of blinding pain sliced through his skull as he crossed the room and sweat beaded on his forehead by the time he returned to his bed. A prescription bottle of codeine-laced Tylenol sat on his nightstand, and he indulged himself, tapping three tablets into the palm of his hand. He washed them down with a glass of water, wiped his mouth, and slowly, carefully, Jimmy leaned the back of his head against the wall.

  This fucking sucks, he thought. He’d played football all through middle school and into his high school years, graduating to the varsity team when he was still in eighth grade, and he’d never broken a bone before. Even with that extra year he gained when he failed his freshman year of high school, Jimmy Cord never so much as sprained a toe on the field.

  Everything changed yesterday when that little shit, that emo-goth fag Riley Tate, introduced Jimmy’s face to the back side of a lunch tray. Thinking about it sent a spike of pain shooting through the bridge of his nose. Jimmy hadn’t done anything to provoke him—hell, they didn’t even have cause to cross paths with one another. Riley was one of those creepy psycho kids who looked like one bad day might make him snap and go all Columbine on the school.

  Jimmy wasn’t afraid of that five-foot-nothin’ queer, but he’d no reason to bully the punk. Riley stayed out of his way, stayed out of everyone’s way, so when Jimmy set his sights on Ben Taswell over something he’d heard in homeroom that morning, he didn’t think he’d face any sort of opposition.

  Jimmy Cord’s head swam, his mouth filled with a metallic taste, and he closed his eyes as dull colors erupted across a wide expanse of encroaching darkness.

  What was it Ben Taswell said about him? Or, rather, what was it Carla Reed said Ben said about him? He couldn’t remember now, the last 24 hours a pained blur of suffering and medication. All he remembered now was Riley Tate caused him to miss the game last night, a game which he’d been looking forward to for weeks—not for the macho glory he’d bask in afterward, but for the promise his girlfriend, Amber Rogers, made to him the prior week.

  He thought of her now, of the tight round bubble of her ass stretching out a pair of gray yoga pants she knew drove him crazy. She’d met him after practice last week, her hair pulled back in a dirty blonde ponytail, her skin salty with sweat from her dance team try-outs.

  “Are we going out after the game?” he’d asked her, and she’d smiled wryly, her baby blue eyes shimmering in the failing afternoon sunlight.

  “Oh, maybe we can,” she’d said, tracing a finger along the ridge of his jawline. “Maybe just the two us?”

  He’d nodded, stuffing his equipment into his gym bag. Most of the other guys had left the locker room. They were alone, and he wondered now why he hadn’t made a move then.

  “Maybe,” she whispered, leaning in close to his ear, “maybe I’ll even suck your dick.”

  He stiffened at the thought of her now. Why, oh why, hadn’t he made a move then? She’d never blown him before—in truth, he’d never experienced that delightful act, but God, he’d heard stories from the other guys on the team, the juniors and seniors who’d regaled their younger teammates on the bus rides home from away games with stories of their many sexual conquests.

  The thought of her on her knees, her blonde head bobbing up and down on his dick, took his mind off the pain in his face. But the sensation didn’t last.

  A surge of anger rushed through him, reddening his vision, and he ground his teeth to hold back the tide, clenching his fists so tight they shook. Riley Tate, that Goth fuck, if only he’d left him alone, Jimmy would’ve won the game for them last night. He would’ve driven off with Amber to some shady spot outside of town, and there he would’ve received a celebratory blowjob. Christ, his balls ached just thinking about it.

  “You fucking bastard,” Jimmy mumbled, the codeine painkillers beginning to take hold. He closed his eyes once more, imagining what he’d do to Riley Tate once he got his hands on him. Break his arm, maybe. No, break his nose, and then his arm. Maybe he’d pull off those shiny black fingernails first.

  Ah, the possibilities. Jimmy Cord had plenty of time to plan his revenge. As he drifted off into a drug-induced sleep, Jimmy’s erection returned, and for entirely different reasons.

  9

  Riley sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the muffled voices of his father and his uncle Chuck. He knew they were talking about him. The ebb and flow of pitch in his father’s voice pretty much confirmed his suspicions.

  Instead, Riley occupied himself with his phone, scrolling through the list of text messages on the screen. The last message he’d received from Ben was from yesterday, telling Riley he and Daniel were on their way. Riley stared at the message for a full minute, debating on whether to send a reply or not, before setting the phone aside and burying his face in his hands. The sobs came quickly, filling his soul with a kind of sadness he’d not experienced since his mother died.

  If only you’d been there, a voice whispered. He knew that voice well, a soft and confident voice speaking over his shoulder, right into his ear. If you’d been there, you might’ve kept him from going out into the night. Maybe you could’ve even stopped whoever took him. Maybe if you weren’t so concerned about yourself for once, Ben would still be here. You’d still be in the forest, on a hike toward Laurel Lake, happily skipping along a beaten trail through the brush, stealing glances at Rachel Matthews.

  His gut lurched, and he sucked in his breath to hold back the sobs. Memories of the night played back in slow motion: Leaving the tent, wandering through the dark, finding Rachel waiting for him on a fallen log, her face aglow in the moonlight. They’d held hands and talked, mostly about nothi
ng, but sometimes about the spark of “something” between them which neither wanted to name. A feeling inside, like having the ground pulled out from beneath them and gravity working its magic on their guts. Maybe it was a crush, maybe it was nothing at all. Riley wasn’t sure, and neither was Rachel, but they both agreed something was there, even if it was nothing. A friendship, maybe, or possibly more. The inconsistent nature of it terrified them and excited them, and in the twilit hours, as the moon charted its lazy path overhead, Riley leaned forward to kiss her.

  Thinking about it now, Riley felt foolish—no, he felt utterly stupid for doing it. He wasn’t even sure why he did it. Hadn’t they agreed they weren’t sure what “it” was between them? Well, sure, but there was that instinctual tickle in his belly, a flush of heat in his cheeks, and the racing gallop of his heart telling him to go for it, kiss her, the time is right.

  Only it wasn’t right. He’d kissed her on the lips, she’d pulled back in shock, and the look on her face wasn’t quite one of revulsion, but of betrayal. Her expression made him feel disgusting and ashamed, and he’d tried to stammer an apology when a soft cry erupted from the darkness.

  The rest of the night played out in shattered fragments: Rachel and Riley racing back to camp, finding Ben’s tent empty, spotting two figures silhouetted in the moonlight. One carried a body slung over its shoulder, the other dragging something behind it. And the eyes. God, the eyes. A shiver ripped through Riley’s body, and his arms erupted in gooseflesh.

  The second figure, dragging what he could only imagine was either Ben or Toby, looked at him with blue eyes. Terribly blue shimmering eyes piercing the night like two cold headlights. Riley froze, his mind struggling to make sense of what he witnessed. He’d later asked Rachel if she’d seen them, but she’d shaken her head. Had the sight not terrified Riley so much, he might’ve withheld that detail when he was questioned by the cops, but when asked what he remembered, those eyes were the first thing that came to mind.