The House On The Creek

by Sarah Remy

  “Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can. He can’t have gone far. I talked to him just before dinner.” She shucked off her heels, and stomped into the boots she’d hidden in the closet. “I thought we were over these stupid stunts.”

  Pierce closed her hand around a set of keys.

  “The Spyder,” he said to her blank stare. “It’s a far bit safer than the wreck you drive.”

  She nodded once, still blank, and then fumbled with the front door latch.

  Sunrise was still an hour away, but already the morning seemed several degrees warmer, soft as spring. The ice on the drive had melted to slush.

  “Be careful,” Everett said, but she was already gone.

  He didn’t hear from her again until just after dawn.

  The house was mostly silent, the majority of his guests gone to bed. Only the faint mumble of Frank Sinatra from the game room hinted at one or two hold outs.

  He sat alone in the master bedroom, backbone propped against one carved bedpost, phone balanced on one knee, eyes glued to the window. A few of his guests, he knew, would rise with the sun. And then the networking would begin all over again.

  It was a cycle he was familiar with, a cycle he loved. The busy light and sound, the dance of etiquette, contracts signed, deals closed, terms broken and mended. He knew he was good at the game.

  He had several deals on the table even over the Christmas holiday. If all went as planned they would close before the end of the week.

  He knew he should be reviewing the details with pen and paper, or at the very least, in his head.

  Instead, he stared blindly out the glass, and willed the phone on his knee to ring.

  When it finally shrilled he answered with his heart in his throat.

  “Kid okay?”

  “He’s not here, Ev. He’s not anywhere in the house or on the property.” She sounded choked and out of breath.

  He rose from the bed, unable to sit still. “What does the neighbor say?”

  “Only that they took off early in the morning.” She paused, “I found a letter. On his bed. Under his pillow.”

  “What sort of letter?”

  “It was a letter to Chris. From his father. Richard’s secretary, actually.” Her voice turned to steel, and he could hear the hurt and anger beneath. “The bastard had his secretary write. Because he doesn’t have the time to deal with us himself. Too busy, he said. Can’t spare the time right now to come down for a visit.”

  Everett squeezed the phone, and silently cursed Tilletson. Obviously the man was too stupid to recognize the gift he’d been given. Too stupid, in Everett’s opinion, to walk the earth.

  He tapped the bed post and grunted. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Poor Chris. He must be devastated. No wonder he took off.”

  “He won’t have gone far. Likely he wants some time to cool off.”

  “I’m going to call a few numbers,” she said, gruff. “See if he’s bunked at a friend’s house, if anyone’s seen them. Damn Roddy. I’m half afraid to leave the house in case Chris comes home.”

  “I’ll drive the back roads, see what I can see. I want to,” he interrupted when Abby started to protest. “Let me help.”

  “Thank you. If you find him, don’t scare him to death. Just bring him home and I’ll flay the salt out of him. It’s my job.”

  “I wouldn’t dare interfere.”

  Her laugh turned to a low sigh. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled some at her puff of air, and then hung up.

  The kid couldn’t have gone far. Chris was angry, not foolish. Everett remembered what it felt like to be full of rage and betrayal. The boy would run until the pain eased, and then he’d hole up somewhere safe.

  Everett left the windows, and began stripping off his tux. Then he paused, and frowned. He turned back to the dawn and regarded the woods.

  “Somewhere safe,” he said, and narrowed his eyes at the grey spread of trees sheltering the Creek.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CHRISTOPHER HATED THE SMELL of stale cigarettes. Especially stale, damp cigarettes. Like moldy leather or campfire ashes, the smell made him want to sneeze and cough at the same time.

  And after several hours spent cramped in a small space with Roddy, the reek was in his clothes.

  He made a face, and flapped the hem of the flannel shirt he wore beneath his jacket, trying to air the fabric out. There was no way he was going to get that stink past his mom. Plus, it made his eyes hurt.

  Or maybe it was just the sleepless few hours spent beneath stars and wind that made the backs of his eyeballs feel sore and itchy.

  Roddy hadn’t had any trouble sleeping. Sometime after his sixth cigarette and fourth beer, he’d fallen asleep on his back under their stolen tarp. And he snored like a chainsaw, so loud Chris was afraid someone would hear.

  Chris rolled onto his back. He couldn’t get comfortable. The wooden floor bruised his ribs, and his legs had gone stiff. And he thought the sun would be all the way up soon.

  If he didn’t wake Roddy eventually someone would notice they’d gone missing.

  They’d promise each other they wouldn’t leave their post until sunrise, just in case something extra cool happened.

  He was pretty sure something extra cool wouldn’t happen in the next thirty minutes. Most of Everett’s guests had disappeared into the house, and the party sounds, which had been rocking most of the night, had finally quieted down.

  But he didn’t want to break a pact, so he let Roddy snore, and contented himself with thoughts of breakfast. He’d make oatmeal and French toast, because he was good at that. And hot chocolate, as close to boiling as he could get it, because he was cold.

  He had thought for sure they would freeze before the night was over. Even the pile of tarps he’d filched from his mom’s car hadn’t helped much. Smoking cigarettes had, for a while.

  After his second, though, he’d begun to feel sick and after his third he decided he never wanted to smoke another. He hadn’t felt a buzz or anything, just a pain in his gut that he figured might be more guilt than tar.

  He hadn’t even tried the beer. Old Edward’s addiction was still too clear in his mind for that.

  A nailhead dug into Chris’s elbow through his coat. He shifted a little to the right, bending his knees so as to avoid clipping Roddy in the balls. Overhead, grey had finally spread to pink. And he couldn’t even hear a whisper from the house.

  It had been his idea, to spy on the house and peepshow Everett’s party. He’d hoped some of the gods of the computer industry would put in an appearance, because he figured Seattle was full of them.

  He and Roddy had spent the first third of their adventure pressed against the side of the house, up to their knees in snow drifts, peering into the glitz and glamour through the parlor window.

  Only it hadn’t been all that glamorous. Chris had seen a few faces he thought he recognized from his computer magazines, and Roddy swore he’d seen Dave Matthews and his band, but they hadn’t been able to hear anything exciting, what with the blare of the Christmas music.

  They’d really wanted to get into the house and steal some of the food, but even Roddy couldn’t figure out how to do that without getting noticed. Because Chris’s mom was everywhere, and Everett was everywhere else, and where they weren’t Jack was.

  So they’d retreated along the edge of the yard, and bundled up on the floor of the gazebo to listen to muted laughter and music, and watch the blinking white lights. And smoke cigarettes.

  His mom would kill him if she found out. He hadn’t cared much the night before. He’d been too filled with piss and venom after reading his father’s letter. He’d been really PO’d, ready to kick a hole in the wall or do some damage with his fists.

  And once he’d stopped swearing and punching his pillow he’d wanted to cry.

  So he’d gone looking for distraction instead, and Roddy always provided distraction. It hadn’t taken any eff
ort at all to get his friend to steal his dad’s dirt bike. And it had been totally cool to race that bike on the back roads and through the woods.

  Roddy mumbled in his sleep. Chris’s feet were quickly going numb. The wind was coming back, rattling the trees, but it was an easier breeze, warmer than the bitter cold of night.

  It was time to go home. If they waited much longer his mom or Jack would do a drive by home, and when they noticed the house was empty the shit would hit the fan.

  He sat up, intending to kick his friend awake.

  And bellowed loudly when a hand reached around white lattice work and grabbed his jacket.

  “Come on out.” Everett leaned into the gazebo. The hazy beam of his flashlight lanced through the early morning and blazed across Roddy’s pasty face. “Both of you.”

  Chris was sure he’d die from the shock of it. He still couldn’t quite catch his breath, and when Everett traced the flashlight over empty beer cans and a small pyramid of cigarette butts his heart almost jumped into his throat.

  “We’ll clean it up,” he said quickly. He scraped as much of the mess as possible onto a tarp. “All of it.”

  Everett was grim. “I don’t doubt it. How long have you been in here?”

  “A little while.” No way was he going to admit playing Peeping Tom through the parlor window. “Not the whole time. We went down to the Creek for a while, to test The Wolverine out.”

  “I thought she was the Richard Tilletson.”

  “I changed her name.” Chris challenged, “I can do that, can’t I? I mean, we haven’t painted it on her yet or anything.”

  “You can call her whatever you want,” Everett said mildly. “But you shouldn’t be out by yourselves on the Creek in winter. Especially in the middle of the night.” He played the flashlight around the gazebo. “You unplug the lights?”

  “Yeah.” The tiny flashing lights had begun to drive him nuts soon after Roddy started snoring. “They’re not broken or anything. Just unplugged.”

  Chris nudged Roddy again, harder. “Hey, wake up, would you?” Roddy mumbled, and rolled onto his stomach.

  “Your buddy’s playing opossum,” Everett said. He reached down, and grabbed Chris’s friend by the collar of his windbreaker.

  Roddy let out a girly shriek and sat upright, scattering beer cans with his Doc Martens.

  Chris was disgusted. “He’s not my buddy. He just has a ride.”

  Everett’s shadow stretched over Roddy’s knees. “Funny, he doesn’t look sixteen.”

  “He’s twelve,” Chris said when Roddy refused to speak. “But his dad lets him dirt bike on the back roads.”

  “I suppose it’s a better solution than hitching,” Everett said, resigned. “Where did you park the bike?”

  “Up Creek Lane,” Chris said. He wished Roddy would stand and behave instead of blinking like a dumb owl. “Right off the asphalt where nobody would hit it. We wore helmets and everything. And Roddy’s a good driver.”

  “He’s not driving back this morning.”

  Everett hoisted Roddy upright. He clicked off the flashlight, and tossed it into the gazebo.

  “Leave it there. Your friend’s drunker than bejeezus. Leave it,” he ordered when Chris began to gather up the tarps. “You can clean up later this afternoon.”

  Chris dropped the tarp, and a beer can rolled from the folds.

  “I can walk him home,” he said, hopeful. “It’s not that far.”

  “You’ll come with me,” Everett said, in a tone that could have frozen butter, and lifted Roddy into his arms.

  They had to stop once to let Roddy puke into a boxwood, and then again when he tried to kick Everett in the stomach. By the time they reached the house Chris was miserable. The last thing he wanted was for Everett to think him a no good boozer.

  And a sneak, to boot.

  Even worse, Jack was waiting for them under the empty party pavilion. He didn’t say a word, but the look on his face made Chris hunch his shoulders.

  They crossed the porch in a group. The house was silent, most of the lights dimmed. Two men were asleep in front of the parlor television, and the oldest woman Chris had ever seen was dozing on in a needlepoint chair pulled up against the banister.

  He remembered the chair, remembered how happy his mom had been when she found it buried at an estate sale, and he hoped the old lady didn’t drool on the needlepoint.

  “Upstairs,” Everett said, jerking his chin at Chris.

  He started up, trying not to drag his feet. Everett followed after, still lugging Roddy. Jack was already on the phone to Chris’s mother. Chris couldn’t hear what was said, but he figured it probably wasn’t anything good.

  Chris focused on Roddy’s dangling feet so he didn’t have to think about anything else. The Doc Martens his friend wore were scuffed and worn about the soles. Chris knew the boots were a gift from Roddy’s granda, but Roddy liked to tell everyone he’d stolen them from Macy’s.

  Roddy wasn’t quite as rough and tough as he wanted everyone to think.

  The long hallway ended, and Everett stopped. “Here,” he said, nodding to the door.

  Jack reached past Chris and turned the knob. Chris fumbled until he found the light switch. The room was tiny, and had only one bed and a rocking chair. A fire burned low in grate, and his mom’s work clothes were hanging in the open closet.

  Everett dumped Roddy onto the bed and left the room without a word.

  Jack said, “There’s a bathroom down the hall, if he needs it. Better not let him sick up on your mother’s rugs.”

  Chris winced. “Where are you going?”

  “To sit and wait. You’d better do the same. I imagine you’ll spend the rest of the year explaining this one away.”

  Chris peeked at Jack’s face and wished he hadn’t. Even so, he was his mother’s son and had her pride.

  “I had some things I needed to take care of,” he explained, chin high.

  Jack bent at the knees until he could look Chris in the face.

  “I suppose you did,” he said. “And I’m not saying I don’t understand. But you could have chosen a better time to piss into the wind.”

  Chris stared between his feet. “Do you think Everett’s very mad?”

  Jack coughed. “Can’t say. But I’ll tell you, Christopher, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter. “

  He left Chris alone in the room with Roddy’s soft snores.

  Abby sat in the delicate rocking chair, dawn streaming through the windows at her back, and watched the two boys sleep.

  Roddy Green slept like a comma, arms wrapped around his knees. He snored to beat the band. Chris sprawled in a straight line, hands above his head, ankles crossed, mouth agape.

  She could still see the tracks of dried tears on her son’s chin.

  Abby pressed the heel of her shoe against the floor and set her chair quietly rocking.

  Chris had been defiant and then apologetic. He’d tried excuses and explanations and promises. And then, when she’d refused to soften, he’d spouted crocodile tears.

  But what had started out as carefully crafted drama had quickly turned to real heart ache. He’d crawled into her lap, and wept against her shoulder, the first real tears she’d seen him shed in a long time.

  Angry as she was, Abby had been glad to see the dam burst.

  Her son had sobbed out all the loneliness and frustration and fear of a boy abandoned by his daddy. And then he’d wiped his nose, and cussed until he was red in the face.

  And she’d let him, just this once, because she thought maybe the occasion called for a bit of healthy anger.

  “He’s a no good son of a bitch,” Chris had muttered, staring hard at the embers in the grate. “He wouldn’t even give me a chance.”

  She’d stroked the damp hair from his brow. “His loss, kiddo. But I’m sorry.”

  “He didn’t even sign the stupid letter himself.” Chris’s mouth set into stubborn lines as he brushed l
ingering tears from his lashes. “It was a rubber stamp. A fucking rubber stamp.”

  The emphasis made Abby want to laugh and cry at the same time. “I think you’ve used up your dirty word allowance for the year, champ.”

  To her relief he smiled slightly before he laid his head back down against her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry I ran off,” he muttered a few minutes later. “I didn’t think you’d find out.”

  “Mothers always do.”