Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  I chuckle. “I’ll make it up to you later,” I say.

  Todd smiles and opens his mouth to answer but stops when we hear a noise outside.

  A series of whispering fshh sounds joins the organic ones, too rhythmic to be the wind and too infrequent to be a quadruped. Either our guy is here, or some lost gorilla is a long way from home.

  Todd listens hard, his concentration on the articles and headlines paused for the moment. I look through the window—with difficulty, due to the grime—and see a figure walking toward the house with a steady casualness, like someone whose bus schedule allows a more leisurely walk thereafter to his place of work. Perhaps he’ll stop for coffee on his way to us.

  From what I can see, Todd was right: this guy could be my stunt man.

  He approaches without looking up at the window, but I entertain no doubts that he knows I’m here. Todd might be a surprise, though.

  The cottage creaks and sighs, punctuated by a couple of light thuds and the clopping sound of sturdy soles on sturdy wood. This, of course, muffled by the dust. We listen to him climb the stairs and walk the hallway toward us. A strange giddiness grips me, like an enamored fangirl waiting to meet her rock star crush, as he reaches the door and swings it open.

  “Morning, gents,” he says.

  For a moment, I think my mind is playing tricks on me.

  “Are you—”

  “I am.”

  Todd observes this exchange and supplements it with a look of exasperation.

  “So, who are you?” asks Todd.

  “My name’s Creed.”

  “He chased me through Los Angeles,” I say. I feel naked, exposed suddenly, craving the cover of my gun, but it’s in my bag, and if I reach for it, I will leave myself vulnerable. I mentally kick myself for not having had the foresight to equip it when I saw him approaching.

  “Relax, man. I’m not with them. I’m a friend of your mom’s.” The urge to retrieve my weapon relents.

  “Wait, he chased you through LA?” says Todd.

  “Yes. He was with the group of guys who showed up there. I ran and most of them fell behind pretty much right away, but he kept up. I only got him off my back with the fear of making a scene in one of the busier streets.”

  Todd raises one eyebrow, his badge of skepticism. “How the hell did you keep up with him?” he asks.

  Creed and I both laugh at this, and creed answers. “It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. Your boy’s fast. Frankly, if he’d run much farther, he woulda lost me. I spent a good few days recovering from that. But it was the most fun I’ve had in years.”

  “I’m sure it would have been fun for me, too, had it not been for the prospect of my imminent death.”

  Creed laughs a hollow little chuckle, like it was shaken out of him rather than coaxed. “Sorry about that. I was undercover. I was there only to keep you safe.”

  “Oh good,” I say. “Too bad I didn’t know then. We could have grabbed a beer or something.” Dry jest seems to be my default.

  “No way, they would have executed us both.”

  Both Todd and I cast him a prodding gaze, urging him to spill details. Such a person can’t just surface like this and not tell the involved stories, and he’s more or less painted himself into a dynamic corner. He knows he’s said too much not to divulge the tale that led him here.

  Thirteen

  “Well, it’s a pretty involved story. I guess, to begin, I was a foster kid.”

  Oh. It’s going to be one of these stories. I adjust my sitting position and get comfortable—so do Todd and Creed.

  “I was kicked around from home to home, rarely with the same family for more than a few months. Usually I was fairly neglected, though. I never knew where my next meal was coming from. Because of that, I learned to take care of myself pretty early on.

  “I used to shoplift food wherever I could—a loaf of bread here, a can of tuna or chicken soup there. Sometimes adults would get suspicious, but then I would retreat to the nearest possible family and stand or walk just close enough that onlookers would think I belonged with them. As soon as they looked away, I would pocket whatever I had been looking at and book it out of the store.” He says this last part with an almost nostalgic laugh.

  “Anyway, fast forward ten years. I never went to high school, but I had made some friends in foster care and on the streets. So all I was really doing was surviving. I never had time to think about the long-term future because I was always so focused on the immediate future: where I would eat next, which friends’ couches I could crash on this week, the likes.

  “I had my typical answers, of course. People asked what I wanted to do with myself. I’d tell them whatever bullshit answer came to mind. Contractor, crime lord, whatever.”

  “Sure,” says Todd.

  “But at some point, I actually started to think about it. Maybe I just got good enough at stealing and hustling that I finally did it well enough to allow room for those thoughts, to begin thinking in time frames of weeks and months, rather than minutes and hours. Anyway, I had been slipping down that thought route for a week or two when I met Carol.”

  “Carol?” I say. Doesn’t ring a bell.

  Creed nods and continues: “She was in a situation not unlike my own: homeless, no education or work experience. Her eyes were always so full of hope, it just made ya want to go out and change people’s lives. She had that effect on people.

  “Well Carol and I, we hit it off, fast. She had the most amazing heart. Her daughter was just the sweetest girl, too. Called me Keed, because she couldn’t quite pronounce my name yet. Her name was Taylor.” His use of the past tense when speaking about them makes me nervous; I sense a southward turn coming up in this tale.

  “Things were pretty rough at first, financially and logistically. Obviously, Taylor took priority. Only after we made sure she was fed, warm, and healthy would we start to seek those things for ourselves. That’s how we operated for some time.

  “At one point, Carol had an idea. She was always teasing me for getting distracted by interesting-looking trees or clouds. So she took the money she had been saving for a down payment on an apartment and bought me a camera.

  “‘Take it,’ she told me, ‘This is how we’ll pay our bills.’ It took hours of discussion after that to convince me to keep it, and even then, I told her that if Taylor went hungry for even one meal, I would sell the thing.

  “It had quite a steep learning curve, but eventually, I got pretty good with that camera. Before long, I was able to afford some new lenses, which increased the potential for my photography just that much.

  “Even so, it was a rocky start. Seattle isn’t exactly a drought of talented photographers and artists, after all. But slowly, I built a clientele. I put my work in coffee shops and bookstores and little Mom and Pop diners, and sold some prints here and there.

  “Things were on the upswing. I couldn’t wait to get home to our new apartment every time I made a big sale or got commissioned for a big job. And each time, she was just as excited as I was. Taylor was excited about our excitement, too. She could even pronounce my name by then, but instead called me Daddy. She only called me Creed when I was in trouble.

  “One day, I had been haggling with some cheapskate from Spokane. He wanted me to drop a hundred bucks on a three-hundred-dollar canvas print just because it wasn’t ‘of the season.’ I told him, ‘Bitch, we’re in Seattle, we only have like one and a half seasons.’ He got all mad and left without buying anything, but the shop owner blamed me for the whole thing and wouldn’t let me sell my stuff there anymore. I sold my stuff all over the place, but this particular shop was a pretty major hipster hub, so I had some great success there.

  “So, I was pretty bummed. But then on my way home, I got a call from a modern-style interior decorator. Not only did he want a dozen of my most expensive prints, but he wanted to commission me for an entire series of city life shots. I was ecstatic! Money like that would keep us going for a good long while.r />
  Creed places his hands on his lap and turns his gaze upward, indulging in the sweet euphoria of nostalgia.

  “I nearly ran home after that phone call. My excitement was augmented by the thought of buying a ring for Carol at last. I leaped up the stairs at the apartment building and opened the door…and found Carol on the floor, face down in a puddle of blood. She was cold. And even worse, Taylor was nowhere to be found. The apartment was a mess. Carol clearly put up a fight, but they got the best of her.

  “The cops started a search for Taylor, naturally. The effort was colossal. Dozens and dozens and dozens of cops and volunteers crawled the streets to look for her based on her photo and the last thing I saw her wearing: a pair of red sneakers, blue pants, and a red shirt with yellow flowers on it.”

  Tears stream from Creed’s eyes and his voice trembles. “She was so excited to be picking out her own outfits. Anyway, the search went on and nobody found anything. I spent all of my time either on the street looking for her or on the Internet looking up any cases of children lost in the Pacific Northwest. That’s when I came across Maylynn Brotcher’s case. I saw that she had been found, and that gave me hope, so I looked into the reports and articles and stuff.

  “Days later, your mother arrived at my apartment. She talked a little about you, and a little about me. Then she left. It was strange, but I was too preoccupied to think much on it. A few more days passed and she showed up again, asking all these questions about Taylor. I didn’t really know what to think. She was so…powerful, your mother. I started to think I’d been sent a guardian angel. So, I talked to her and told her everything I could think of that might be relevant.

  “They found Taylor in a couple of hours. Your mother and this group. I didn’t know who they were at the time, but they led me to Taylor. Well…what remained of her.”

  Creed’s silent tears become sobs for a minute or two, until Todd finally jumps in and manages to calm him down. I offer him a tissue and he cleans off his face, which has been bearing not only snot and tears, but a small amount of dirt. This, too, gets wiped away by the tissue.

  After composing himself, Creed says, “Thanks. Anyway, that happened. So, I started asking her questions about who she is, but she revealed very little at first. She was polite, just vague. But at the same time, I figured if she was going to disappear off into the sunset, she would have done it already. Well, after she started to trust me, she told me a bit about her past, but still nothing about her present.

  “Then it happened, all at once, like a thousand firecrackers going off in one synchronized blast. She picked me up at my place, took me to a random, obscure park, and told me that I’d have to trust her. I thought it was weird how serious she was getting about it all. I understand now, of course, but at the time, I just thought she was being dramatic.

  “She filled me in. Apparently, they had set up a sort of bait article online and tracked its viewers. They found my IP address and looked into who I am. When they found out about Taylor, your mother mobilized them to help. At first, that was her only intention. Or, at least, so she says. But as we got talking more and more, I kept telling her about how I wished I could do something.

  “That’s when she decided to recruit me. I didn’t fully understand what I was getting myself into, but the idea of doing something was so alluring. I thought it was maybe a volunteer group. To raise awareness and funds and provide resources.

  “When I learned the truth, I think they expected me to run off with my tail between my legs. But be it because of my Scandinavian bullheadedness or my still unsatisfied need to do something impactful, I jumped in with no hesitation. I found out pretty quickly who you were after that.”

  He looks at me meaningfully, but I can’t discern whether that meaning is ‘May Brotcher’s Rescuer’ or ‘Retributive Serial Killer.’ Strangely, my feelings toward these two possibilities is the same.

  As the day’s heat rolls in, the room becomes musty. Creed opens the window. “Let’s keep this open, shall we?” he says.

  We chuckle.

  “Had to flag you down somehow,” I say.

  “Of course, my visitor must announce his arrival.”

  “Cordially, at your service.”

  “My service? How’s that?”

  I pull my scavenged (purloined) documents out of my bag and sit cross-legged on the floor. Todd sits to my right and I pat the floor to my left, inviting Creed to sit.

  “What have we here?” he asks. I sense that he already has a fair idea, but I indulge the mock curiosity.

  “Well, I feel like we may have a mutual endeavor,” I say, gesturing to the abundant news articles and interviews plastering the walls.

  Creed smiles. “You get anything good?”

  “That remains to be seen. I was waiting for our little powwow to break into it.”

  “Well, let’s get to it!” He’s quite chipper, which is a relieving contrast to the sinking twist to his story.

  Creed helps himself to the uppermost document, a stapled packet marked ‘Incident Report’ in bold letters at the top. He reads ravenously, but as the rest of it is handwritten, his reading is laborious. He still finishes quickly, furrows his brow, and hands it to me. I hold it between Todd and me so that we can both read it.

  Pt walked into a bedroom where she found a peer hanging by her neck. Pt screamed and staff moved all other students into the common area. Pt was escorted to another unit where she was secluded. In seclusion, Pt retreated to the corner of the room and bawled. Staff attempts to console Pt were not acknowledged, and Pt continued to cry.

  The name at the bottom is Ginger Garrity.

  “Isn’t that the one from the interview you sent me?” I say. Todd nods his affirmation before Creed can answer.

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah, she didn’t seem too torn up about it in the interview. That she even consented to the interview is a bit telling, in respect to her disposition to the whole thing, don’t you think?” says Creed.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, “she may have buried that experience in her mind enough that she could talk about it. Notice that she didn’t go into any detail regarding her own experiences. It was all about Willa and Thad. Of course, that’s what the interview was about, but most people, especially teens, would like to bask in the attention at least a little bit.”

  “Hmm. Let’s look for some more to go on. I like where you’re going, but it doesn’t feel like enough yet,” says Creed.

  “Yeah, I agree,” I say. “Let’s keep looking.”

  As if either of them needs the prod, I think. They both compose themselves in preparation to receive more information, like a hungry couple who finished their appetizer well before their entrées arrived.

  “Oh, here’s a statement from Ginger,” I say, pulling the next sheet from the stack.

  I read it aloud: “‘I went into my room to get my journal and saw Willa hanging there. I screamed and staff came and took me to the time out room and put me in seclusion. Willa went into her room a few minutes before me. She told staff she was going to get something for her costume. She was dressed up as a ghost, and there was staff going to each unit doing makeup for the students. So I thought it was a really scary prank until I saw she wasn’t standing on anything.”

  “Huh,” says Todd. “It sounds like Ginger went in almost immediately after Willa did, if nobody was concerned that she was taking so long; if she had been in there for longer than a minute or so, and she was ‘just getting something’, they definitely would have wanted to check on her. And if she told staff she was going in to get something, shouldn’t the staff have had just that concern?

  “We’ll see if there are more statements, though. When I was in treatment, sometimes some of the boys would distract staff while other stuff was going down, intentionally or otherwise. Maybe there will be something else in there to shed light on why no one noticed.”

  “Good point. Let’s keep our eye out for that.”

  The next page
is a statement from Iris Alcazar. Again, I read aloud: “‘I was sitting in the common area and Willa told staff she needed to go to her room to get something for her costume and staff said ok. Ginger went in a minute after that and screamed real loud. One staff stayed in the common area with us and the other one went to see what was wrong. Our staff was Kelly and James that night and James stayed with us to make sure we were fine. Ellen got triggered and started crying in the kitchen area. Josalyn went to go talk to her and she calmed down. Staff removed Ginger and called more staff to keep us away from the hall but then the rest of the night went like normal.’”

  “Huh,” I say. That may be the word of the day, I think. “Here, at the bottom: ‘Pt came to staff shortly after submitting this statement, recanting it. Pt refused to point out which parts weren’t true and how. Pt would not write a new statement or speak any further about it.’”

  “So she knew something she wished she didn’t,” says Creed.

  “Sounds like it,” I say. “Say, how long have you been working on this? Have you been able to speak with any of the interviewees about it? They would probably be pretty useful.”

  “Well, I haven’t looked up Thad yet, but I did track down Ginger’s number. She’s actually just living about two hours away, in Cheyenne. I didn’t get an answer when I called, though, and I haven’t been out to Cheyenne since then. The rest of them, well, this is a bunch of new names for me. We’ll have to look into them moving forward.”

  “Perfect. Shall we continue?”

  Both Todd and Creed nod with enthusiasm. I draw yet another sheet from the stack. It’s still another statement from that night, this time from Donna Stempson.

  I’m confused for a few seconds—at first, I think that I’ve accidentally picked up Iris’s statement again, but the name at the top is definitely Donna Stempson. It’s just a word-for-word duplicate of Iris’s.