The Subway

by Dustin Stevens

  “Hey, Davis,” a thick, husky voice said over the line. “You on, yet?”

  “Not for another hour,” Davis replied, “same as always. What’s up?”

  Her tone and her word choice were both deliberate, each deployed in hopes of heading off any future repeats of the conversation.

  Hopes that, given the number of times it had played out already, didn’t stand much chance at coming to pass.

  “Got a call just now from Peg Bannister,” the man replied, “think this is one you ought to take.”

  “Yeah?” Davis asked, raising the towel to her face and clearing the left side with a single swipe. “Why’s that? She have another noise complaint to file?”

  “No,” the man replied, oblivious to the comment or the sarcasm it carried, “this time, she swears there’s a body.”

  Chapter Three

  The front end of Talula Davis’s Bronco bucked over the uneven pavement of the single lane running around the outside of Lake Edstrom. The third such pothole since turning off the main thoroughfare, this one seemed to be larger than the previous two, sending the vehicle airborne for a few brief seconds.

  Just long enough to launch every loose item in the cab – from spare coins to flashlights –into the air before depositing them back again, many at least a few inches away from where they started.

  If not more.

  “Dammit,” Davis whispered, her body leaned forward so her chest was just a few inches away from the steering wheel. Already she could feel sweat passing from her palms into the rubber cover encasing it, just as she could feel droplets running down the outside of her face.

  Why she had bothered showering at all, she wasn’t quite sure.

  Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw moisture already lining the front edge of her hairline, the glossy black hair pulled into a bun behind her head, the foot-long locks still damp. The tan canvas uniform shirt she wore was open at the collar, the indent of her throat wet and glossy as well.

  Just thirty minutes had passed since she got the call, but already she felt like she was behind for the day.

  A feeling that only grew more pronounced as she rounded a final bend in the road and was forced to mash down hard on the brakes. Much like it had a few moments before, the aging rig overresponded, the tires locking up, the body rocking forward several inches, again scattering assorted items around her.

  Moving forward enough to mash her top half against the wheel, Davis pushed an elongated sigh out through her nose before raising her gaze to the reason for the sudden and unexpected stop.

  There, standing in the road, both hands extended high overhead, stood Peg Bannister.

  Well past her sixtieth year, the woman had a shock of white hair hanging to her shoulders and a proclivity for wearing workout clothes designed for people forty years younger. Today being no exception, she was adorned in black yoga pants and a neon pink top, waving as if trying to direct in a small plane on approach.

  As if there was any chance Davis could miss her or the glow of the outfit she was wearing.

  Raising a fist away from the wheel, Davis waved to let Bannister know she had been spotted before easing her foot back off the gas. The engine responded with a low grumble as it idled forward, Davis steering it just off the side of the road before pulling to a stop.

  “Oh, thank God you’re finally here,” Bannister opened the moment Davis stepped out, her voice and the humid morning air both arriving in tandem.

  Each swirling around her in one concentrated burst, they did nothing to improve Davis’s mood as she slammed the door shut behind her, the assorted items on her belt groaning slightly as she circled around the front end.

  Ignoring Bannister’s use of the term finally, Davis said, “Good morning, Peg. What seems to be the problem?”

  In the past couple of years, trips out to respond to Bannister’s complaints had become something of a rite of passage around the department. Usually nothing more than a few scattered beer cans or some music she deemed “too loud,” or “too angry,” or even once, “too black,” it was the sort of assignment nobody ever wanted.

  What Davis had done to piss someone off bad enough to field the call this morning, she couldn’t be sure, though she would certainly look into it soon enough.

  “Oh, it’s just awful, awful!” Bannister replied, waving both hands in front of herself. “The blood. Oh my gosh, so much blood!”

  For the first time since answering the phone while still standing wet and sweaty in her kitchen, the words of dispatch returned to Davis’s ears.

  This time, she swears there’s a body.

  At the time, she had dismissed it as nothing more than hyperbole, the sort of thing Bannister was often prone to, especially if she thought her calls weren’t being taken seriously enough.

  “Blood?” Davis asked, her eyes narrowing as she unconsciously pulled back her right hand, tapping at the base of the Glock-19 strapped to her hip.

  Shooting an arm out to the side, holding it parallel to the ground, Bannister gave an exaggerated nod. “Right down that path. No more than fifty yards. Can’t miss it.”

  Chapter Four

  The screen door on the front of the farmhouse swung wide, the hinges moaning loudly in complaint. Catching it with his shoulder, Radney Creel tapped at the door behind it once with his knuckle – a hollow echo ringing out – before grasping the doorknob and pushing on inside.

  As he did so, a puff of stale cool air washed over him, the momentary relief from the heat more than negated by the combined smells of cigar smoke and body odor.

  “Jesus Christ, will you shut that damn door? Hot as hell out there.”

  Fixing his jaw into a clamp, Creel didn’t bother to respond, merely doing as instructed, the early morning light blinking out behind him, plunging the space back into a state of semi-darkness.

  “Shit,” the same voice said again, “my ass is baking like a boiled ham in this place.”

  Feeling his rear molars grind together, Creel crossed over the small living space that the front door opened into, thick carpet beneath his feet. With each step, underlying floorboards creaking could be heard, preceding his arrival into the kitchen a moment later.

  There he found the source of unending and unwanted comments sitting at the kitchen table, his partner Elijah Pyle stripped down to a plain white ribbed tank top. The color of it was matched by the pale glow of his skin, bright red curls twisted up atop his head and covering the lower half of his arms.

  Beside him, a pair of cigars sent twin curlicues of smoke into the air. In his hand, a cup of coffee, Creel willing to bet it was at least his fifth of the morning already.

  As if the man needed liquid enhancement to his already jittery nature.

  “Hot as blazes, I tell you,” Pyle said.

  Glancing down to the gray t-shirt he wore, to the extra dark tone it had taken since he’d sweat through it hours before, Creel didn’t bother to comment.

  Didn’t believe there was any point in ever stating the obvious.

  Waiting, as if expecting a response that wasn’t coming, Pyle eventually returned his attention back to the cup in his hand. Lifting it to his lips, he tilted his head back a few inches before realizing the mug was empty and jerking it away. A sour look on his face, he slammed it back down and took up the closest cigar, wrapping his lips around it.

  Only once he was encased in a plume of smoke so thick it almost obscured him from view did he say, “You’re back early.”

  Again, Creel didn’t bother to reply.

  He was back early, much sooner than either one had anticipated.

  “Guess it went better than we figured on?”

  Taking a step forward, Creel pulled out the closest chair and lowered himself into it. Running a thumb the length of his eyebrows, he wiped the collected sweat against the front of his jeans.

  “It did,” he said, his first words since arrival. “Some old broad out with her dog came across the place.”

  Across fr
om him, Pyle continued working the cigars, trading one out for the other.

  “And?”

  “And she called it in,” Creel replied.

  Seeming to forget the somewhat new and strained relationship they were working under, acting as if they’d spent years working together, Pyle leaned forward onto his elbows, his face emerging from the cloud of smoke, expecting a full explanation to be made.

  Actually looked a bit surprised when nothing more was added.

  “So the cops all came screaming in, lights and sirens and everything?” he asked.

  Shifting his attention out through the cracked window above the sink, Creel shook his head. Somewhere in the back, he could hear the single window air conditioning unit they had snagged the day before fighting a losing battle against the tepid temperatures inside.

  Based on the rattle it was producing in the process, he guessed it would be a miracle if it even managed to finish the rest of the day for them.

  “Nope,” Creel answered. “Single deputy from the sheriff’s department. Waited until she pulled in before I headed in the opposite direction.”

  The job of sticking around and waiting for the response was one he had volunteered for, knowing that for his myriad skills, being inconspicuous and knowing when to slip away didn’t seem real high up on Pyle’s list.

  The man was good, but he liked it to be known, to bask in whatever glory he felt was coming to him.

  Creel had no such compunction, his actions motivated by money and nothing more.

  “That’s it?” Pyle asked, his eyebrows rising with each word.

  “That’s it,” Creel responded.

  Shifting his focus down to his feet, he thought of stripping away the hiking boots he still wore. Of shrugging out of the wet clothes and lying naked on the floor in front of the a/c unit, letting it provide him a tiny bit of relief as he pulled in a couple of hours of sleep.

  On the back end of a twenty-six-hour stretch, it was long past time to get some rest.

  If things went to plan, it would only be the first of many long nights ahead.

  “Huh,” Pyle said, more a statement than a question, relaying his surprise at the paltry response. “You think it will work?”

  Whether it would or not, there was no way to be certain. All they could be sure of was that it was the closest they had been in a very long time.

  The particulars of which he wasn’t sure of, knowing only that it predated himself by a considerable margin.

  Once more, Creel ignored the man across from him. Rising to his feet, he grabbed at the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, the wet fabric clinging to his skin for a moment before tugging free.

  “You call it in to the old man yet?”

  Chapter Five

  Despite serious objections – both from Peg Bannister and her pleasantly plump Labrador – Talula Davis left both standing along the road. Not yet wanting to turn away a potential material witness should this be something more than the woman crying wolf, the explicit directives to stand alongside the road, say nothing to anybody, and stay out of traffic, were rendered.

  Whether any of those things would come to pass, Davis could only guess at.

  Keeping her right hand rested on the butt of her Glock, Davis descended the driveway, rounding a small bend in the path, blocking her truck from view. Beneath her, twin tracks had been beaten into the soft dirt, a layer of pine needles obscuring any sound.

  To either side, the trunks of pine trees crowded right along the path, so tight it wasn’t surprising to see a few scrapes dug into their bark.

  Thankfully, the tight confines also managed to block out much of the light from overhead, bringing with it a five-degree dip in temperature.

  Which still made it just south of Hell itself.

  With her head up, gaze darting back and forth, Davis walked on, moving through the thick forest for more than thirty yards before the vague outline of a cabin moved into view ahead. Alongside it came a small spike in her heart rate, the back of her uniform shirt clinging to her skin as the structure took shape before her.

  Stained dark brown in color, the place was a single story tall, a wraparound deck encasing it. A trio of windows was spaced along the front, a glass door standing in the center, a matching wood door closed behind it.

  Raised up onto stilts, the base of it was a few feet above the forest floor, Davis walking directly up to the staircase leading to the deck before stopping. Twisting her head in either direction, she looked for any signs of life, seeing nothing.

  No cars in the driveway, not a light on inside, not even the faint din of music in the still air.

  Flicking her gaze toward the treetops, she couldn’t help but notice that even the birds had gone quiet, everything seeming to be intently staring down at her.

  Something that seemed to happen quite frequently since she accepted the position.

  The heels of her boots clanked against the wooden stairs as she ascended, the sound echoing through the quiet morning. In measured steps, she made her way to the landing before moving at a diagonal and peering in through the front windows.

  On the other side, she saw nothing more than a basic furnished cabin setup, a sofa along one wall, an armchair and a flat screen television on the other.

  Covering most of the floor was a plush rug, the space outfitted in shades of hunter green, gold, and burgundy.

  The only thing missing seemed to be a pair of crisscrossed snowshoes on the wall or an elk head.

  Fighting to tamp down the eye roll she was feeling, Davis walked back to the front door. Curling her hand into a fist, she raised it and pounded three times, letting the sound fall away before adding two more.

  Stepping back, she kept her right hand on the heel of her gun, her focus darting to either side, watching, listening, for any sign of movement.

  There was decidedly none.

  Contemplating giving another go at the front door, Davis shrugged off the notion, returning her attention to the side. Moving slow, she peered once more through the front windows, still seeing nothing beyond the slanted sunlight filtering through, highlighting dust motes floating in the air.

  “Peg Bannister strikes again,” she muttered, continuing her path onward, wrapping around the side of the house.

  Whether the call was ever thought to be legit or another in an unending line of little pranks aimed her direction, Davis had no way of knowing. What she was certain of was after two years in the position, the time for such childish behavior was long past, as was her patience for it.

  A few weeks prior, she had had an informal discussion with the sheriff about things. Based on the eye roll and offhanded comments he gave her in response, she wasn’t holding out much hope for help from him.

  Which meant she would likely need to provide it for herself.

  In a steady pace, Davis walked along the side of the cabin, the wall solid, not a single window or decorative piece to punctuate things.

  Ahead, she could see the lake come into view, much of the forest between the two having been stripped away, leaving nothing but a dirt and stone expanse down to the water’s edge.

  Years before, Davis had grown up in a place not dissimilar to the one she was now standing on. No more than fifty miles to the east, it was technically in North Carolina, the two mirror images of one another.

  Lots of woods and lakes, a slower pace than the big cities a bit further in either direction.

  The kind of place Davis had grown up loving, could not wait to get back to the moment her playing career was wrapped.

  A feeling that had shifted abruptly once her father passed and she was called back to take care of the family home.

  Circling around the rear corner, she made a right, coming out on the rear deck. There she found a trio of roughhewn benches arranged around a table of the same design, a gas grill hidden beneath a cover tucked up tight to the house.

  Strewn throughout was a heavy collection of muddy pawprints, many looking to be fairly re
cent, not yet baked rock hard by the sun.

  No doubt a result of the dog now standing beside her Bronco, Davis fought the urge to turn and throw a glare in that direction, knowing it would do no good.

  Even more so that there was no way she could even pretend to be angry with a dog, especially one as oblivious as the Labrador.

  Tracing her gaze over the serpentine path, she saw where the animal had stepped up onto the deck via the staircase along the back, had made a pass through everything in quick order. From there, the prints seemed to collect in a large mash, all clustered tight around the sliding glass door.

  Right in front of a sight that caused Davis’s breath to catch in her chest, instantly validating the call from Bannister as she reached for her hip.

  Chapter Six

  A pair of bloody handprints were pressed into the glass of the rear door, one left whole, the other smeared, long streaks extended from each of the fingers. Like a perverse form of war paint on one of the ponies ridden by her ancestors, they drew Talula Davis’s attention up from the muddy paw prints, her heart pounding.

  Snapping her gun off her hip, she extended her weapon to arm’s length, swinging her focus to either side, peering into the forest.

  As best she could tell, the world was still, though with such thick pine trees and heavy shadows, it was impossible to be certain.

  Making an effort to pull in each breath, she turned and pressed her back up against the rear of the house. Releasing the secondary grip on her weapon, she pawed for the radio on her waist, tugging it free and pulling it to her face.

  “Davis to Dispatch, over.”

  Releasing the lever on the side of the device for a moment, she waited through a burst of static before pulling it back to her face again.

  “Tanner, you there dammit?!”

  A moment later the same husky drawl she’d heard earlier came over the line, a hint of a chuckle in his tone.

  “You’re supposed to end all transmissions over, remember? Over.”

  Not in the mood for any shit, Davis clutched the radio so tight it made her fingers ache, the slotted plastic flush against her lips.