The Dead Man in Indian Creek Read online

  3

  BY THE TIME we got to our camping site, I was totally exhausted. After all, it isn't every day I ride my bike for eight miles loaded down with a tent and a sleeping bag and a knapsack full of clothes and food.

  But do you think Parker was tired? Not a bit. Right away he unrolled the tent and made me help set it up.

  "What's the matter, Armentrout?" He sat back on his heels. "Are you out of shape or something? Or is it just too many Twinkies?"

  Frankly I was getting tired of being kidded about my weight. It wasn't like I was really fat. So I didn't look at him, didn't even answer him. If I said anything, I was going to get mad, I just knew it, and then Parker would get mad and we'd have a big fight and end up having a horrible time. I got out my Swiss Army Knife and started whittling at a twig and whistling, pretending I hadn't heard a word he'd spoken.

  "Making a stick for marshmallows?" Parker wanted to know.

  Forgetting my resolve, I looked at him. "What's the matter with you?" Angrily, I broke the stick I'd been whittling and tossed it into the bushes. If we were going to have a fight, okay, I was ready. Let him sock me, I'd sock him back, and then I'd sit on him, my ultimate advantage, right?

  But Parker just stood up and brushed the dirt from the knees of his jeans. Then he sighed and jammed his hands in his back pockets. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's not you, Armentrout, it's George Evans. I hate that creep!"

  Without looking at me, he walked off and started skipping stones across the creek. I watched him for a while. Parker had so much skill he could make a stone dance all the way across the water to the other side.

  "What's Evans done?" I asked. "Has it got something to do with Pam or what?"

  Parker threw a stone so viciously it ripped into the water like a bullet. "Pam's in love with him," he muttered.

  In the sudden silence, I could hear a woodpecker drumming away in the woods across the creek. "You're crazy," I said. "Pam wouldn't fall for somebody like Evans. Not in a million years."

  Parker looked at me. His face was red, and his eyes shone like they had tears in them. "Last night she worked real late, and he brought her home. I looked out my window and saw him kissing her." He picked up another stone and hurled it into the water. It didn't skip once.

  "She was letting him?" My heart beat harder, and I caught myself clutching my chest like a girl. "She wasn't fighting him off or anything?"

  "You saw him hug her before we left. Was she putting up any fuss about it?" Parker turned his head, hiding his face. "She couldn't wait to get rid of us today."

  I started to say something, but Parker was already walking away from me. "Forget it," he muttered. "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

  ***

  For the rest of the afternoon, Parker and I fooled around. We tried fishing, went for a swim, climbed a few trees, but the only one having any real fun was Otis. He ran into the river and out again, shaking himself all over Parker and me. Then he tore off into the woods, barking and carrying on. I never saw such a happy dog. But he couldn't get Parker out of his black mood and neither could I.

  After dark, we sat around our fire eating canned stew and Twinkies, but we didn't talk much. By then, even Otis was feeling kind of done in, so it was a relief to get undressed and crawl into our sleeping bags.

  Just as I was about to doze off, Parker said, "Let's get up early. I brought my binoculars and I want to look for some birds. Maybe that heron's still around."

  "Yeah." I squirmed deeper into my sleeping bag, trying to get away from the tree root poking my backside. Birds. The last thing I wanted to do was go looking for birds at dawn.

  Parker was silent for a while, and I snuggled deeper into my sleeping bag. Then he said, "Are you awake, Armentrout?"

  Actually I'd been right on the edge of a dream, but I opened my eyes and turned my head toward his side of the tent. Otis was curled up between us, twitching every now and then, so I couldn't see Parker. "Yes," I said, "I'm awake."

  "What if Pam marries Evans?" Parker asked.

  "She's got better taste than that," I said. "He's a jerk."

  "Why does she let him kiss her then?" Parker asked. "And why does she spend so much time with him? And how come we have a huge TV and a VCR and a microwave, not to mention the brand-new clothes Pam's wearing all of a sudden?"

  I stared at Parker, trying to see the expression on his face, but it was too dark in the tent to make out more than the shaggy outline of his head.

  While I was trying to think of a good explanation for Evans's generosity, Parker said, "She talks about him all the time, how smart he is, how rich he is, how good-looking he is." He paused. "Yesterday I caught her looking at travel brochures–cruises to the Bahamas, tours to Disney World, all kinds of stuff. When she saw me, she shoved them under a pile of bills and said they were just junk mail."

  "Maybe they were," I said. "Mom's always getting letters that make it sound like you've won a trip to Hawaii or Australia. Then you read the fine print and find out you have to subscribe to magazines or something to be eligible."

  "Not these," Parker said. "I looked at them later when she wasn't home. They came from a travel agent in Baltimore, and they were addressed to Evans. I think they're planning their honeymoon."

  "You're nuts," I said.

  "You don't live with her, Armentrout. You don't see her every day like I do." The bitter edge in Parker's voice cut through the darkness. "She doesn't care what happens to me anymore."

  "Come on, Parker," I muttered, "you know that's not true." I wanted to say something nice, something comforting, but I didn't know how or what. "She's had other boyfriends," I tried. "Remember good old Jerome? She didn't marry him and run off to the Bahamas, did she?"

  "You're a lot of help." Parker rolled over in his sleeping bag and didn't say anything else. Then, except for this horrible snoring sound Otis was making, the tent got real quiet.

  I finally fell asleep, but I kept waking up all night long, shifting from one side to the other. The ground was hard, I was cold and uncomfortable, and Otis was curled up right next to me, smelling like the creek and breathing in my face. Add to that an owl screeching and Parker muttering in his sleep. Why do I always forget how much I hate camping?

  ***

  It seemed to me I'd just closed my eyes when Parker woke me up. The tent was dim in the gray morning light, and the trees outside were all shrouded in mist. I could hear Otis running around in the bushes, sniffing at things. It would take more than a little fog to slow him down.

  "Come on, Armentrout." Parker held a Twinkie a few inches from my nose. "Breakfast time."

  I ate the Twinkie and then pulled my clothes on fast, hoping to get warm. Reluctantly, I followed Parker down the path along the creek. He had his binoculars around his neck, looking everywhere for the heron, though how he'd see him in all the mist I didn't know.

  After trudging along for about fifteen minutes, we rounded a bend in the creek. Up ahead was an old stone bridge arching high over the water. Suddenly Parker motioned me to stop and be quiet. At first I thought he'd finally spotted the heron, but then I realized there was a person on the bridge.

  Almost soundlessly, Parker backed up and I did too. But not Otis. With his usual stupidity, he charged around me and started barking. Dropping his binoculars, Parker grabbed the dog and yanked him backward into the bushes. "Hush!" he hissed at Otis, startling the animal into silence.

  "Keep him quiet," Parker whispered to me as he raised his binoculars again.

  "Who is it?" No matter how hard I strained my eyes, I couldn't recognize the man. All I could tell was that he'd heard the dog and was looking around, trying to see where the barking had come from.

  Otis whimpered and squirmed, but I kept him still while Parker watched the man walk over the bridge and disappear into the bushes. Was he coming this way? No. A car started, and I listened to it drive away.

  "Who was it?" I asked Parker again.

  Parker stared at me. "Evans," he said. "Di
dn't you recognize the sound of his MG?"

  "What was he doing here at this time of morning?" I scratched my head. Quite frankly, Evans didn't seem like the type who'd be up and out this early. I couldn't imagine him fishing, birdwatching, or even jogging, certainly not eight miles out of town on Fulton Farm Road on a Sunday morning.

  "I don't know," Parker said as Otis, free of my grip, ran off, nose to the ground, tail wagging.

  Parker started walking again, his binoculars swinging on the end of their strap, and I trudged after him. The damp grass was soaking through my shoes, I was stiff from sleeping on the hard ground, and I was still hungry. Worst of all, it looked like Parker was slumping back into the mood he'd been in yesterday, and I was sorry we'd seen Evans. He seemed to be ruining everything for Parker and me.

  Just then we heard Otis barking again. "Now what's gotten into that dog?" Parker walked a little faster, and I had to really push myself to keep up with him. Even so, he got to Otis before I did.

  By now we were under the bridge, and Otis's voice echoed off the stone walls. He was down in the water, standing kind of stiff and funny, barking at something.

  "What's wrong?" Parker waded into the creek and grabbed Otis's collar.

  "Just pray it's not another skunk," I yelled from the bank.

  Parker glanced at me. His face was pale and he was tugging hard at Otis. "It's no skunk," he whispered, stumbling backward in his haste to get out of the water.

  "Well, what is it?" I peered over Parker's shoulder. At first all I saw was a bundle of rags, old clothes or something caught in the roots by the bank. Then I saw a shoe. And a hand sort of waving at me under the water. But the worst part was the face. It looked like a rock, white and bumpy, hair streaming away like weeds, mouth and eyes open, staring right at me.

  I think I screamed when I realized what it was. Then Parker and I were dragging Otis away from the dead man, slipping and stumbling as we tried to get out of the creek and up the hill to Fulton Farm Road.

  4

  BY THE TIME we reached the road, I was too out of breath to say anything, but it didn't matter because Parker and Otis kept on going like they were planning to run all the way to town. I tried to keep up with them, but after a while I gasped out, "Wait, Parker, wait."

  He slowed down and looked back at me. Then he sighed and stood still while I huffed and puffed toward him. My side ached and my legs felt like noodles and I wanted to fling myself down in the weeds and lie there for the rest of the day. But I knew if I closed my eyes I'd see that face looking up at me from under the water.

  "What are we going to do?" I asked.

  "Tell the police," Parker said. "That guy was murdered, I saw the bullet hole in his forehead." He glanced over his shoulder, but the road was empty behind us.

  "Murdered?" Every single hair on my whole body shot straight up. If Parker was right, the killer might still be here, hiding in the woods on either side of the road, watching us, pointing his gun, his finger about to squeeze the trigger.

  The same thought must have occurred to Parker because he started running, and so did Otis and I.

  "Have you ever seen a dead man before?" Parker asked when we slowed down again to rest.

  "Just my grandfather," I said, "but he was in a coffin at Grant's Funeral Home with flowers all around him and his eyes closed. You know, just lying there like he was asleep or something." I saw that face under the water with its eyes open and its hair streaming out, and I felt a little sick, like maybe I shouldn't have eaten those Twinkies.

  "That's different, though. Seeing a person laid out all formal." Parker shook his head. "This guy looked like something in a movie, didn't he?"

  I nodded, thinking of all the dead people I'd seen in movies. "He looked lots worse," I said.

  "There was something familiar about him," Parker mused as we jogged along. "I know him from somewhere, I'm sure of it."

  "Not me," I said. I was certain the dead man and his killer were strangers passing through, people who'd turned off the Interstate and had nothing to do with my town or me. After all, when was the last time anybody had been murdered in Woodcroft? It wasn't the kind of place where people killed each other. No, whoever the killer was, he'd be a million miles away by now and no danger to me.

  "What do you think Evans was doing on the bridge?" Parker asked.

  I'd forgotten all about Evans. "What do you mean?"

  "Maybe he dumped that guy in the creek."

  "You think George Evans killed him?" As much as I was beginning to dislike him, I couldn't imagine Evans murdering somebody. He wasn't the violent type.

  "Maybe," Parker said. "You can bet he wasn't on the bridge just to see the sunrise."

  "But why would he do it?"

  Parker shrugged. By now we were at the edge of town, right at the top of the hill in front of the old Watkins house. Looking down Fulton Farm Road from here, you could see both the Methodist and the Baptist churches and most of Main Street, including the police station and the Olde Mill Antique Shoppe right on the corner of Windsor Road. The town had that early Sunday morning stillness. Too early for church, no stores open, nobody about.

  "Are you telling the police we saw Evans?" I asked Parker.

  He nodded and called Otis back from the cat he'd spotted on the Watkins' porch. Sprinting ahead of me, Parker and Otis tore down Fulton Farm Road toward the police station. By then I was so tired and my stomach felt so upset from running I didn't care whether he got there first or not. In some ways, I would have liked to go home and leave everything to Parker. Let him talk to the police, let him be interviewed, let him be the hero. I was sick of the whole thing.

  ***

  When I caught up with Parker at the police station, though, he was standing on the steps waiting for me. He looked almost as nervous as I felt.

  "What are we going to do with Otis?" I asked Parker, stalling for time. "We can't take him inside and we don't have his leash." I shifted my weight back and forth from one foot to the other and watched Otis sniffing a parking meter.

  Parker grabbed Otis by the collar and dragged him through the door. "When they hear what we have to tell them," he said, "they won't make a fuss about a dog."

  So even though the sign on the door said, "No Pets," Otis began making himself at home, sniffing and scratching his fleas. The policeman on desk duty was Sergeant Williams, the one who came to school every fall and talked to us about drugs and bicycle safety and stuff like that.

  "Can't you kids read?" He put down a Styrofoam coffee cup and scowled at Otis. "Get that dog out of here."

  "There's a dead man in Indian Creek," Parker said. His voice came out squeaky and high. "We saw him while we were camping."

  "Is this some kind of joke?" Sergeant Williams stood up. His belly hung over his gun belt and he needed a shave. He didn't look nearly as friendly as he did at school.

  "Me and my friend were hiking up the creek when we saw him. He's under the bridge on Fulton Farm Road." Parker met Williams's frown head-on, not giving an inch.

  The policeman's head swiveled toward me. "You saw the body too?"

  I nodded, too scared to say anything. The face was back again, staring at me from its dead eyes, its mouth open, its hair swirling, its hand waving. I could feel my stomach churning and I forced myself to swallow hard. "Don't let me throw up," I prayed silently, "please don't let me throw up."

  Williams sighed. "You're sure? It couldn't have just been some old clothes or something?"

  Parker shook his head. "It was a dead man," he insisted. "He was in the water, but I saw his face. It was, it was..."

  For the first time, Parker faltered. He looked at me, and, despite all my efforts, I threw up my Twinkies, right there in the middle of the police station.

  Williams pressed a buzzer under his desk, and a cop in the office behind a glass window opened a door and stuck his head out. "What's up?"

  "Get a mop, Scruggs," Williams said. "Then send a car out to Fulton Farm Road. These boys claim t
here's a dead man in Indian Creek under the bridge."

  While Scruggs cleaned up the mess I'd made, Williams took us into an office and got our names and addresses and ages. Then he asked us to tell him exactly where we'd camped and when we'd started walking up the creek and what we'd seen.

  "Well, the first thing we saw was Mr. Evans," Parker said.

  "Mr. Evans?" Williams paused, pencil poised.

  "George Evans. He runs the Olde Mill Antique Shoppe on the corner of Windsor Road." Parker leaned toward the policeman as if he were trying to read what he was writing. "He was on the bridge, just standing there."

  "Did he see you?"

  "I don't know. We were pretty far away."

  "How can you be sure it was him?"

  Parker showed Williams his binoculars. "We were searching for a blue heron I've seen on that part of the creek," he said. "Then Otis started barking. I looked up, and I saw Evans on the bridge."

  "Otis?"

  "My dog." Parker nudged Otis with his foot and the dog thumped the floor with his tail.

  Williams sighed. "Then what happened?"

  "I pulled Otis back in the bushes with us and Mr. Evans got in his car and drove away. Then we walked on up the creek and Otis ran ahead. He started barking again, and when I caught up with him he had ahold of the dead man's shirt, kind of tugging at it. At first, I thought it was just rags, you know? But then I saw his face."

  "And where were you all this time?" Williams looked at me a little reluctantly. He was probably afraid I'd throw up again.

  "Armentrout was behind me," Parker answered. "By the time he caught up, I'd pulled Otis off the guy."

  "But you did see the body," Williams said to me.

  I nodded.

  "And you agree it was a dead man."

  I nodded again. "Yes, sir," I said.

  The policeman tapped his pencil thoughtfully on his desk. "Had you ever seen the man before?"