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Authors: Mary Downing Hahn

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Mysteries & Detective Stories, #Mystery and Detective Stories, #Detective and Mystery Stories

The Dead Man in Indian Creek (4 page)

BOOK: The Dead Man in Indian Creek
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But Dad wouldn't listen to her. He hopped in the station wagon and drove out there all by himself, gathered up everything, even Parker's stuff, and brought it back home.

By the time Dad returned, we had another visitor, a reporter from the
Woodcroft Sentinel.
Accompanied by Parker and Otis, Julius Fisk appeared at the door, laden with cameras, a tape recorder, and notebooks. He was trying to persuade Mom to let us go out to Indian Creek for some pictures.

"It's perfectly safe," he told Mom. "The police are all over the place, doing their scene-of-the-crime routine. I just want a few shots of the boys pointing at the creek. A little human interest, nothing more."

Although I wasn't at all excited about going to Indian Creek, Dad thought it was a good idea. "Matthew should see the police in action," he told Mom. "It will be reassuring for him to realize how quickly things return to normal."

So, thanks to Dad, I found myself sharing the backseat of Julius Fisk's small car with Otis while Parker rode up front, pointing things out to Fisk and filling him in on all the details of our morning.

"And then Armentrout threw up," Parker concluded. "You never saw such a mess."

As he described the scene, I scowled at the back of Parker's head and slumped a little lower in the seat. I just didn't see why he had to tell Fisk that. With my luck, the entire account would be in the paper for everyone to read and laugh at. Some friend, I thought.

We got to Indian Creek just as the rescue squad was carrying the dead man up the hill in one of those orange plastic body carriers you see sometimes on the evening news. As they slid the man into the ambulance, I wondered who he was and if anybody was worrying about him. It seemed so awful to end your life like that.

After Fisk had taken a few pictures of the rescue squad, he made Parker and me show him exactly where we found the body. The water was dark and still beneath a gloomy sky, and it scared me to go under the bridge again. Fisk kept firing questions at Parker and me. "How did the dead man look? Could you really see the bullet hole? Were you scared? Did you see anybody else? Did you notice anything suspicious? Do you plan to camp here again?" And on and on. His voice bounced off the bridge and echoed in my ears till I felt dizzy.

Although Parker was excited and eager to talk, he didn't say a word about Evans. Since I thought the creep's presence on the bridge was just a coincidence, I didn't mention him either. In fact, I kind of faded into the background and let Parker take over. He always was better at talking to people than I was.

By the time Julius Fisk drove us home it was almost five o'clock and I hadn't had anything to eat since the horrible Twinkies. I was tired and I was hungry, and all I wanted to do was have dinner and go to bed.

***

Later, Mom came in to say good night. "Is everything okay, Matt?" she asked. "That reporter didn't upset you, did he?"

I shook my head. "The whole thing was just kind of scary, that's all," I said. "A dead man, you know, really dead. Shot in the head. I never in my whole life expected to see anything like that."

Mom patted my hand. "Certainly not here in Woodcroft." She folded her arms across her chest and shivered a little.

I looked around my room. My model airplanes dangled from the ceiling, moving a bit in a draft from the window, and the glow from my fish tank illuminated a poster of Sylvester Stallone in his Rambo getup. Somewhere out there in the darkness beyond my windows was a murderer, and I wasn't going to feel safe again until he was in jail.

As Mom stood up, I grabbed her hand to stop her from leaving. "George Evans was on the bridge. Parker and I saw him just before we found the body."

"What could George have been doing there?" Mom sounded puzzled.

"Parker thinks he killed that man and threw him into the creek."

Mom stared at me. "For heaven's sake, Matthew, that's the silliest thing I've ever heard. George is a very nice person."

I sat straight up, almost too shocked to speak. "You think Evans is
nice?
"

"Matthew, what's gotten into you? George has been very generous to this town. Why, he donated several hundred dollars to the high school band when he heard they needed new uniforms, and he also contributed a great deal to the fund drive for the new library. I can't believe Parker would say such a terrible thing."

"If Evans didn't have anything to do with the dead man, what was he doing on the bridge?"

"I'm sure there's an explanation, Matt," Mom said.

"He could have been jogging or just walking, who knows? You and Parker were both there too-do you think anyone suspects you?" She laughed and gave me a little hug.

Then she drew back and thought a moment. "Isn't Pam dating George?"

"How did you know?"

"Woodcroft is a small town," Mom said. "It's common knowledge he's taking her out."

"Well, so what if he is? What's that got to do with anything?"

"You know how Parker feels about his mother." Mom patted my hand. "Don't you think he might be a little jealous?"

When I didn't answer, she added, "In other words, Parker could be trying to make George look bad, honey. Just bear that in mind, and don't let your imagination run away with you." She gave me a quick kiss. "Now you get some sleep," she said. 'Tin sure you need it."

As Mom closed the door behind her, I slid down in bed and wondered about what she'd said. Was that the explanation? Parker was jealous of Evans?

But there was more to it, wasn't there? We'd seen Evans on the bridge–or had we? After all, the morning had been foggy. Maybe Parker had just thought it was Evans. True, the car had sounded like the MG, but it could have been some other car with a bad muffler.

While I tried hard to remember every detail of the man's appearance on the bridge, a branch scratched against my window, making a sound like a bony hand knocking on the glass. Once again, I saw the dead man's face under the water, his hair floating around his head like weeds. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I rolled over and shut my eyes. I wasn't going to think about Evans or the dead man or anything else. I was going to fall asleep and forget it all.

6

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
I woke up moaning from a nightmare. Parker and I were at the creek again, but this time the dead man got up from the water, all dripping and horrible, and started chasing us. It was one of those dreams where you try to scream but you can only go "Uh uh," and you try to run but you can only hobble.

Lying there with my heart thumping, I thought I heard somebody creeping up the stairs-the dead man maybe, or Evans-and I was too scared to move. I just watched the door and wished I'd locked it. Then a breeze billowed the curtains, and I thought Evans was trying to climb through my window. Telling myself to grow up, I squeezed my eyes shut, but the dead man kept flashing in front of me, staring at me with those awful eyes.

Turning over on my stomach I pressed my face into my pillow. If only Parker and I had never gone camping at Indian Creek.

***

Monday morning, I picked up the
Woodcroft Sentinel
and almost lost my appetite for breakfast. The murder was on the front page, along with a picture of Parker pointing at the place where we'd found the dead man. I was standing beside him looking fat and sad, and Otis was in the background. Julius Fisk had garbled everything Parker and I told him, so we sounded kind of stupid in print. To make it even worse, he put in a detailed description of me throwing up in the police station, just as I had feared he would. As a result, Parker came out the hero, while I was the comic relief.

The only thing I learned from the article was that Parker was right. The man really had been shot in the head with a small caliber bullet. But nobody knew who he was or where he came from. The police suspected he had been killed somewhere else and dumped in Indian Creek. In fact, Sergeant Williams was quoted as saying it looked like a drug war execution.

"Drugs," Mom said. "Can you imagine? That's the kind of thing that happens in Washington or Baltimore, not in a nice little town like this."

I shoveled some cereal in my mouth and tried to choke it down. There were a lot of things Mom didn't know about Woodcroft, I thought. If I was the kind of kid who wanted drugs, I knew a dozen places to get them.

"What's the matter, Matthew?" Mom watched me shove my cereal aside, half eaten. "Don't you feel well?"

I tried to convince her I was too upset about the dead man to go to school, but I ended up slogging to Letitia B. Arbuckle Junior High through a cold drizzle. The wind was blowing a bunch of ragged clouds across the sky, and wads of leaves eddied around in the air and slapped down on the sidewalk, all wet and slimy.

It was the dreariest day of the year, and when I met Parker on the corner, he looked just as miserable as I felt. The rain had plastered his hair against his skull, and his eyes were shadowed. I had a feeling he hadn't slept any better than I had.

"Do you think everybody at school saw the paper?" I asked him.

Parker nodded. "We'll be famous," he said, but he didn't sound particularly excited.

"They'll all know I threw up. Why did you have to tell Fisk about it?"

"I didn't think he'd put it in the article," Parker said.

I sighed. Not too far ahead of us, I saw Jennifer Irwin and her friends, Linda Greene and Melissa Woltzman. Jamming my hands in my back pockets like Parker, I slowed down. If there was one person I hoped hadn't read the article it was Jennifer. I've been half in love with her since she kissed me in third grade; unfortunately, she's never done it again, but I keep hoping. Who wouldn't?

Parker didn't seem to notice how slowly I was walking. Head bent, he was thinking his own thoughts, so I was free to admire Jennifer's long blond braid swinging just below her waist and the way she tilted her head when she talked and the sound of her laugh floating back to me.

Much as I would have liked to catch up with Jennifer and see her smile, I let the distance between us grow. For one thing, I never had the nerve to say more than "hi" to her, and after I'd said that I'd have to walk on past her. Then, instead of me seeing her back, she'd see mine.

But even worse, if she'd read the paper, she'd probably have a million questions about the dead man, and it would be Parker she'd be talking to, not me. And worst of all, she might tease me about my performance in the police station. If Jennifer didn't, I knew Linda and Melissa would. Especially Linda-she's the kind of girl who just loves to make a fool out of you.

So I dawdled along until Parker finally noticed our snaillike pace. By then we were only a block away from school, and Jennifer, Melissa, and Linda were waiting on the corner ahead of us for two other girls in our class.

"We're going to be late, Armentrout," he said.

"What do you want? Detention with Miklowitz?"

Parker hurried ahead and caught up with the girls as they started to cross the street. Just as I thought, he was immediately surrounded and bombarded with questions about the dead man. Like a rock star being interviewed by his fans, Parker turned from one to the other, giving each of them a few details. Until Linda asked me about throwing up, nobody even looked at me. Then, of course, they all started laughing and making fun of me.

All except Jennifer. "If I saw a dead man I'd throw up too," she said. "Just like Matt."

After that, I didn't care what Linda said or did. Ignoring her, I pushed my way through the crowds in the hall, stuffed my jacket into my locker, and went to homeroom on my own little cloud.

All day I had to tell the story of the dead man over and over again. Even to my teachers. By the end of sixth period, I was sick of Indian Creek and eager to go home and forget about it.

When I met Parker in the hall, he said, "Let's get out of here." I could tell he was just as tired of being a celebrity as I was.

"Why don't we go to the quarry and work on our fort?" I suggested. The clouds had blown away, and the sun was shining again. Out in the woods, we'd be all alone. No questions to answer, no more teasing about throwing up, no more worries about the dead man.

***

We went home long enough to pick up our bikes and Otis. Then we rode about two miles out of town to Bluestone Quarry. It was abandoned years ago, sometime before World War II, so it's way back in the woods and full of water now. There are "No Trespassing" signs posted along the road, but everybody swims in it anyway, even though it's real murky and cold as ice. Kids say it's bottomless. If you drown in it, they say, your body will never be found.

You can imagine what my parents would do if they knew Parker and I started building a fort there last summer. To hear them talk, you'd think a kid drowned in the quarry every day. Once in a while, maybe every ten years or so, somebody does drown, but Parker and I are very careful. And we always bring Otis with us for a little extra protection.

Actually the worst thing about the quarry isn't the water. Parker and I are pretty sure teenagers do drugs and stuff in the woods. Sometimes we find charred logs where they've had fires and beer cans and whiskey bottles lying around. The rocks are covered with the names of weird rock bands and drug sayings, sprayed on with black paint.

Once we saw a gray van parked way back in the woods. There were some motorcycles lying around and guys smoking joints, so Parker and I didn't work on our fort that day. We dragged Otis away before he started barking and went home.

Today, though, the woods were all ours, golden yellow and red, smelling like fall. A woodpecker was banging his brains out, hammering away at the trunk of a tree, the quarry water was blue and sparkling, and a cool breeze rustled through the leaves.

We worked on the fort for a while. The main part is sort of a dugout, with stone walls and a roof of boards we found at a construction site. Right now it's big enough for two people, if you don't stand up, and a dog. We're planning to enlarge it, but that afternoon Parker wanted to finish our defense system.

It was his idea to surround the fort with traps. Even though it was camouflaged with dead leaves and branches, he was worried the motorcycle guys would notice it and decide to use it themselves.

BOOK: The Dead Man in Indian Creek
7.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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