“Doesn’t sound too good,” Phil said, sipping his Bud. “But maybe we’re worrying a little too soon.”
“Shit, man,” Eagle objected. “I told you, his joint was wrecked. Shit layin’ all over the place, furniture busted.”
Don’t worry, it was crummy furniture. “I catch your drift. Blackjack disappears, and now Paul disappears.”
“I just don’t like it— And Paul’s a big guy, strong as an ox. Probably took four or five guys to drag him out of there.”
Phil smiled to himself again. No, just one. “Well, look,” he suggested. “There’s no point in us just hanging around here doing nothing. Have you been by Blackjack’s place?”
“No, I only tried to reach him by phone.”
“All right, then let’s drop by, see if his pad’s busted up like Sullivan’s. And, who knows? Maybe the guy’ll be there. Maybe this isn’t as bad as we think.”
“Yeah, I guess it can’t hurt.”
They left Sallee’s and hopped into Eagle’s pickup, then followed the hot night north up the Route. “So where’s Blackjack live?” Phil asked.
“The boonies. He’s got a shack up in the hills.”
Phil cranked down his window, let the breeze sift his hair. But as hard as he tried to keep his mind on business, the more his thoughts kept trickling back to Susan.
Do I love her? he asked himself. It took all of about a half-second to conclude that he did.
Does she love me?
Well, it might take a bit more than a half-second to determine that.
But at least I’ve got my work cut out for me.
They’d made love one more time before he left, slow, lazy love right there on the floor of his den. Each time with her was better, and each time he looked at her, or even thought about her, the more beautiful she was.
My God, it just occurred to him more powerfully. I really am in love…
“Keep an eye out,” Eagle instructed. He’d just turned up another long dirt road through the woods. The headlights pitched back and forth over interminable ruts. “We’re in hillfolk country now. They don’t take too kindly to folks driving their land.”
“Blackjack’s hillfolk?” Phil asked.
“Sort of. And he’s big and nasty, so if it turns out that he is there, don’t cross him.”
“Got’cha.”
Phil didn’t know anything about this guy Blackjack, but whether he was in or not, knowing where he lived was something he could follow up on later, and if Blackjack really had been whacked by Natter—all the better. Phil could go through his place on his own, and maybe find an address book or something with more names and info. Best of all, busting Sullivan was keeping Eagle on pins and needles—the guy looked absolutely paranoid behind the wheel —and the more discreet pressure he could keep on Eagle, the better.
I’ll get what I want eventually, Phil felt sure.
The roads narrowed as they progressed, and the woods grew denser and darker. They passed a couple of old shacks and lean-tos, and several ragged trailers up on blocks. Mucous-like spiderwebs hung like glistening nets in the trees; every so often the headlights picked out the orange glints of possum eyes. Creepier still was the mist; it had rained earlier, but the rain had just been a quick drizzle. Now the hot night sucked tendrils of fog out of the damp woods. It wafted up like steam.
Suddenly, everything looked remote, unearthly…
And Phil began to feel weird.
He knew what it was. The decrepit scenery was triggering memories, taking him back…
To that day. And—
The House.
“Hey, Eagle,” he asked, wiping sudden sweat off his brow, “how’s your Uncle Frank doing?”
“All right. He retired. Moved to Florida.” Eagle cast him an odd glance. “I’m surprised you even remember him.”
“Oh, I remember him. And the spook stories he used to tell us. Remember? He was always warning us not to go into the woods, that there were ‘things’ in the woods that kids shouldn’t see. And remember what we overheard him saying one night? You remember that story?”
“Which story? Frank had enough bullshit to fill a couple of fifty-five-gallon drums.”
Phil rubbed his face. “You know. The story about the big old creepy house way back in the woods—”
“Oh,” Eagle livened up. “The Creeker whorehouse.”
“Yeah. You believe it?”
“You’re shitting me, right? It’s just an old local legend. Frank liked to push that one ’cos he liked to scare the shit out of us.”
And Frank did a good job.
“So you never really thought it could be true?” Phil queried.
“Maybe when I was a ten-year-old snot-nose punk, but not now.”
“But it could be true, couldn’t it? I mean, what’s so unheard of about it? Christ, Natter’s got Creeker girls stripping at Sallee’s. And they’re all hookers, too. Wouldn’t it make sense that they’d have a house to work out of somewhere?”
“And you must be smoking dust,” Eagle laughed. “Those girls are roadside whores, Phil. They turn their tricks in the parking lot. The Creeker whorehouse was just a bogeyman story, that’s all.”
“I don’t know.” Phil was sweating profusely now; he was jittery. His voice filtered down. “I think I saw it once.”
Eagle gaped. “Now I know you’ve been smoking dust. What, you’re telling me you saw the Creeker whorehouse?”
“Yeah. At least I think I did. It was back when we were kids. Remember how we used to prowl the woods every day when school was out?”
“Sure,” Eagle said. “Shit, we’d find all kinds of stuff in the woods. Old shotgun shells, beer, porno mags.”
“Right. And there was one time when you got grounded for beating up on your brothers, so I went by myself that day. And I got lost…”
— | — | —
Twenty-Two
Yes, ten-year-old Phil Straker got lost…
The woods were a tangled maze, as terrifying as they were mysterious in their heaped detritus, skeletal branches, and dense hanging vines. Then he’d stumbled upon the little Creeker girl, her big red eyes staring at him through ribbons of black hair. Phil was afraid at first—he could see her deformities: the misshapen head, the uneven joints, and the wrong number of fingers and toes. Plus, he’d never forget what Eagle had told him—that the Creekers had teeth like Kevin Furman’s bulldog, and sometimes they’d bite you if you got too close…
But that was stupid. Phil could tell right off that this girl, though he hadn’t seen her teeth, wasn’t going to bite him. His fears dwindled away in seconds. She was like him; she seemed fascinated. In chopped speech, with her fallen hair puffing in front of her mouth as she spoke, she told him her name was Dawnie.
Then the voice cracked out of the woods, calling her home, and she quickly ran away.
But Phil didn’t want her to leave. So—
He followed her.
And was lost again in minutes. The dank woods seemed to swallow him whole. The sun beat down through the trees like a hot hammer; sweat drenched his Green Hornet T-shirt till it stuck to him. As his Keds crunched on through the brush, bugs buzzed around his face and shoulders, biting him as he vainly swatted at them with frantic hands.
And just as he feared he’d never get out, the forest opened up into a clearing where high sun-baked brown
