Murder Creek

by Jane Suen

  MURDER CREEK

  Books by Jane Suen

  Children of the Future

  Murder Creek

  FLOWERS SERIES

  Flowers in December

  Coming Home

  ALTERATIONS TRILOGY

  Alterations

  Game Changer

  Primal Will

  SHORT STORIES

  Beginnings and Endings: A Selection of Short Stories

  Murder Creek

  Jane Suen

  MURDER CREEK

  Copyright © 2019 by Jane Suen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or other means including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author. The only exception is for a reviewer who may quote short excerpts from the book in a review. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Jane Suen books are available for order through Ingram Press Catalogues

  www.janesuen.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: June 2019

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-951002-00-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-951002-10-7

  Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-951002-01-5

  For my loved ones.

  Author’s Note

  Inspired by a road sign, “Murder Creek,” in Alabama, this book is a work of fiction.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Jane Suen

  Title

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  PEOPLE HAD TOLD me I have a sixth sense, and I was a good judge of character, despite my age. I couldn’t describe it, but I guess I was just born this way, along with my heightened senses. I wouldn’t say I could read peoples’ minds, but I relied on my senses, and I focused my attention on them, just like people hone in on other skills. I believed trusting my senses had saved me on a number of occasions, and possibly saved my life. I think people might have dismissed me, wrongly so, but they did not account for my special skills and abilities—ones I didn’t flaunt.

  It was rare for me to idle away a day. On one such beautiful day, I took a drive, a long one crossing the state line. The flashes of sunlight danced across the windshield, patterns slipping through the trees as they streamed by. I loved it. If I had a convertible, I’d have the top down, the wind blowing my hair while the radio was cranked way up along with my voice. It was that kind of day.

  I was having too much fun in my old comfortable sedan. Not a worry in the world. I was in college and working a part-time job. I was young, carefree, and I had enough to get by—I always managed if money got tight. I didn’t know where I got my carefree genes. My mom was the opposite, always worrying about something. Mostly about me, I reckoned. She worried so much two furrowed lines marred her forehead right between her eyes. I didn’t even think she realized what she was doing. Me, I turned out the opposite. I was bound and determined not to have those furrow lines.

  Murder Creek. I gasped when I saw the sign wedged in the ground right before the bridge. The road narrowed up ahead, where it looked like two lanes were merging into a narrow bridge, so I slowed down.

  I sucked in my breath. The hair prickled on my neck. As my car crawled over the wooden planks, I gripped the steering wheel and pressed my chest against it. I wanted to go faster, but my foot would not oblige. For a moment as I crossed over the creek, I felt a strange sensation, odd in ways I couldn’t explain. I forced myself to look straight ahead, not down at the water. I made it almost all the way across the bridge before I dared to look quickly to the left, barely glimpsing the water’s edge before the tires hit solid road again.

  I didn’t speed up, all the while looking for more signs, anything to provide more information. What horrific murder took place at the creek? Why was the murder immortalized?

  I looked back at the sign on that side of the bridge. The same two words, Murder Creek.

  Chapter 2

  DRIVING WAS DIFFERENT now. No longer lulled almost to sleep, I was alert to other road signs, but there were none. The farther away I got from Murder Creek, the more agitated and restless I became. Who got murdered? When? What happened? Why?

  I had questions but no answers. I seized on this puzzle, unable to let go. I couldn’t wait to get home to fire up my computer.

  I hit the pedal, driving as fast as I could, sometimes going a few miles over the speed limit until I arrived home. My tires screeched to an abrupt stop before turning into my driveway.

  “Infamous,” “historical,” “robbers,” and “murderers hanged,” scrolled up on my Internet search. There was more than one Murder Creek. One stood out, a bloody incident at Murder Creek occurring almost two hundred years ago at the location where I crossed the bridge. To this day, questions remained about the brutal murders that took place there in the 1800s. Even the exact date in history was undetermined.

  I sighed, my curiosity temporarily satiated. I got up and made a fresh pot of coffee and filled my mug.

  The caffeine perked me up again. I glanced at the open page on my laptop with the photo of the creek and a map. I scrolled up to the search bar. I typed in variations of those words, “Murder Creek,”, and clicked the search button for “murdered at the creek,” “murder in the creek,” “creek murders,” and “bloody murder creek” to see what else would pop up.

  It wasn’t a picture of a creek this time. My heart almost skipped a beat when the photo of a beautiful young woman appeared. She was smiling, her thick long hair tousled by the wind, a few strands blowing on her cheek. Her right hand was raised, the slim fingers reaching to fetch those stray hairs. She had on a skimpy blue top with spaghetti straps, the kind you’d wear on a hot day, and white short-shorts. Her name was under the photo, Lacey Walken. I scrolled down to read the text. It was brief, a few paragraphs about a missing woman. The words “Murder Creek” ran in the sentence. She was nineteen.

  Staring at her picture, I wondered what might have happened to her twenty years ago. I cursed my morbid curiosity of death and crime.

  Chapter 3

  MIDWAY COLLEGE WAS on the outskirts of the city. Set back from the main thoroughfare, one had to drive
down a long, winding road ending in a circular drive. A series of red brick buildings clustered around the center between manicured lawns, all within easy walking distance of each other. My journalism class was in Grand Hall. I stopped by to see if my teacher, Professor Reynolds, was in his office. He answered my knock in his gruff voice, telling me to come in.

  He was dressed casually in an open shirt and jeans. A jacket was flung over the spare chair. I recognized it as the only jacket he ever wore to class. Professor Reynolds was sharp, but clueless, when it came to fashion. He preferred to wear jeans day in and day out.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the only empty chair.

  I sat down and zipped open my backpack. I pulled out the article and waved the paper, shaking it. “She’s missing!”

  He looked puzzled, a bit unsettled. I suspected it was something about my voice, the emotion. I had disturbed his peace.

  “Here.” I shoved the paper across his desk until the picture of Lacey Walken was under his nose.

  He picked it up and read it quickly. “This doesn’t say much.”

  “You’re darn right,” I said. My voice was getting higher-pitched and louder.

  “What’s this got to do with you?”

  “I want to know who she was, how she went missing, and why.”

  “Why are we talking about this?”

  “I’m here to ask for an extension,” I said, lowering my voice. “For my class assignment.”

  “Your report is due in a week. You’re responsible for completing it if you want to pass this course.”

  “Hear me out, please. I’m asking you to consider giving me an incomplete and let me have time to research and investigate this.” I wanted him to know I was serious and had given it some thought. “I’m going down there, to Murder Creek. I can’t do it during the semester, but summer’s coming up, and school will be out.”

  “I gave you a semester to work on this, but you’re telling me this now, at the last moment?”

  “I’ve finished my assignment, but it’s not the story I want to write,” I said. I pulled out my report, the one I thought boring. I implored, more determined than ever. “Please give me a chance to work on this. All I want is this summer, and you’ll have your report before school starts in the fall.”

  “Do you feel that strongly about it?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I know there’s a story.” My eyes were intense, my jaw clenched. “I’m going after it.”

  He leaned back in his chair. He looked thoughtful and frowned.

  I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to push it too much, or mess this up and lose my chance. I looked at the old clock on the wall, following the second hand as it moved. I knew they gave incomplete grades when there was a good excuse, often because of illness or some unforeseen circumstances beyond the student’s control. I had given no assurance it would be a better story. Just my instinct and something else—a pull, a connection—something I couldn’t explain, but I sensed it.

  “What you’re asking is highly unusual. Frankly, you’re hanging your hat on a story you don’t even have,” he said. “My first inclination is to say no.” He spread his fingers on the desk, then tapped the wood.

  I gulped. I’d never been so sure of anything in the short twenty years of my existence.

  “But I admit I am curious about the outcome and your insistence. What kind of story will you have? Is your journalist’s instinct newsworthy?” He stopped tapping, his finger in midair, as if a thought flashed across his mind.

  I sat up straight in my chair.

  “Normally I’d say no, as I rarely allow these extensions. However, I have a friend, Mike Deen, who lives there. I’m thinking of making an exception in your case. He could be a contact and a resource for you, Eve.”

  “I’d like nothing better, Professor Reynolds,” I said, more determined than ever to find the truth.

  “I will give you this chance, if you’re up to the challenge.”

  I thanked him profusely. I almost tripped over the chair in my haste to rush out of his office before he could change his mind.

  Chapter 4

  THE NEXT WEEK and a half sped by. I finished work on my classes, took finals, and completed the semester. All except for this one incomplete class. I focused on what I needed to do.

  It was Wednesday noon by the time I was ready to leave. Murder Creek was a two-and-a-half-hour drive. I packed a few things and threw them into the back of my car. I didn’t plan on staying long. I knew no one down there, but Professor Reynolds had given me a name, Mike Deen, someone I could contact in nearby Carlton, the closest small town.

  I had my files with me, a few thin folders from online articles and research I did in the library. The stuff was sketchy. I didn’t have much to go on.

  I turned on the radio, switching channels between the news and Southern rock, to bluegrass, to country. I settled on country music. As I passed through one town and on to the next, I adjusted the frequency on the radio.

  A gas station came into sight before I drove into Carlton. It had a single, wide-bay auto repair garage on one side and the gas station on the other which had a few shelves of items to buy—the usual snacks, drinks, headache powder, and car products. The guy behind the counter watched me. I looked around for the coffeepot. It was half full, and the temperature was lukewarm when I touched the carafe. It looked murky and stale. I turned around, marched to the counter to pay, and handed the man a twenty-dollar bill. “I’d like twenty on number three please.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’ll be looking for a place to say in Carlton.”

  The man grunted. “There’s a Motel 5 down the road some. For a town this size, that’s it unless you want to stay at the small boutique inn.” He stared at my clothes and then at my ratty old car outside.

  “As long as it has clean sheets and a decent bed,” I said, smiling. “I’m not picky.”

  “When you get done pumping the gas, just head on down about half a mile. You’ll see it.”

  “Thanks.” I pushed open the glass door, noticing the fingerprints and grime on it.

  It was a short drive to the motel, just like the man said. It had seen better days. The rickety sign needed a fresh coat of paint. Weeds poked their way up between the cracks of the walkway. I pushed open the door. Nobody was in sight. I hit the desk bell, jumping at the sharp ding. I looked around while I waited. I noticed a small sign: Free breakfast. I perked up, making a mental note to ask the clerk about the menu.

  A back door opened and a scraggly-looking man walked out. “Help you?”

  “I’d like a room.”

  “How many nights?”

  “Well, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, but I’d like to book two nights first.”

  The man peered at a binder behind the counter. He looked up and clicked on the computer keyboard. His ears looked large on his head. “If you need a room for this Friday or the weekend, I’ll need to know the day before.”

  If I stretched my imagination, I might see the place in its better days. I would have bet most of their rooms were empty. The man probably was about to light up the “Vacancy” sign soon. “How much for one night?”

  “Twenty-two, and with tax and all, it comes out to twenty-four dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

  I reached in my pocketbook and pulled out three twenties. “I’ll take two nights.”

  He handed back the change and my room key. He pointed. “Go down that way.”

  I looked at my key, 105, and headed to my room.

  A few steps out, I turned around. “Oh, and I almost forgot to ask about your breakfast.” I glanced at the sign. My favorite meal of the day.

  “Donuts and coffee.”

  That figured. A hot breakfast would have been too good to be true.

  He said, “Remember to let me know early if you will stay. We won’t have no vacancies this weekend.”

  “You’ll be filled up?” I asked.

&nb
sp; He nodded. “Funeral this weekend.”

  Chapter 5

  IT WASN’T ANYTHING to write home about. I checked out my low-budget motel room. A TV, a worn chair and round table, a distressed chest of drawers, a small nightstand, and a queen-size bed draped by fading covers. I half expected to see a full-size bed, but from what I’d seen of motels bare on furniture, a queen bed as the centerpiece made up for it.

  I tossed my stuff on the chair and sat on the bed. I bounced on it a few times to see if it squeaked. Oh yeah, I lucked out on this one.

  My stomach grumbled, a reminder it had been a long time since I ate. I studied the flyer I took from the front desk, a map of the area. Downtown was within walking distance.

  I dug up Deen’s number and called. He suggested we meet at Mel’s Diner, which was right down the street.

  I got to the diner first and waited at the entrance. I had described what I was wearing, a white, sleeveless top and blue jeans. My sunglasses perched on my head of thick tawny hair. Bold crimson toenails pushed their way through my open sandals.

  I watched him approach. I’d say he was about six feet tall, on the thin, muscular side. Probably in his late thirties or early forties. I wasn’t a good guesser when it came to a man’s age.

  “Ms. Sawyer?” He gave a slight bow as he greeted me. I thought, Who does that these days?

  “Yes, and you must be Mr. Deen,” I said.

  His handshake was firm, not clammy even on a summer day. His blue eyes reflected a calm, like a deep blue sea.

  “You can call me Eve,” I said and smiled, revealing my perfect teeth. My parents had paid a fortune for orthodontists, and I would flaunt my assets.