“Thar’s a doctor,” Deborah said to him. He stared at me some more as blood dripped from his thumb, and I guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair was long and black and in his eyes, his skin sickly pale, as if it had never seen the sun. Tall and thick through the middle, he stunk of old grease, sweat, and alcohol.
“Where’d you get her from?” the man asked the child. The other children stared vacantly at the TV, which as best I could see was the only electrical object in the house besides the one light bulb.
“Thar was looking for thar,” Deborah said to him, and I realized with amazement that she used thar for every pronoun, and that the man must be Creed Lindsey.
“Why’d you bring her?” He didn’t seem particularly upset or afraid.
“Thar hurt.”
“How did you cut yourself?” I asked him as I opened my bag.
“On my knife.”
I looked closely. He had raised a substantial flap of skin.
“Stitching’s not going to be the best thing to do here,” I said, and I got out topical antiseptic, Steristrips and Benzoin-glue.
“When did you do this?”
“This afternoon. I come in and tried to pry the lid off a can.”
“Do you remember the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
“Naw.”
“You should go get one tomorrow. I’d do it but I don’t have anything like that with me.” He watched me as I looked around for paper towels. The kitchen was nothing but a woodstove, and water came from a pump in the sink. Rinsing my hands and shaking them dry as best I could, I knelt by him on the mattress and took hold of his hand. It was callused and muscular, with dirty, torn nails.
“This is going to hurt a little,” I said.
“And I don’t have anything to help with pain, so if you’ve got something, go ahead.” I looked at the jar of clear fluid. He looked down at it, too, then reached for it with his good hand. He took a swallow and the white lightning or corn liquor or whatever the hell it was brought tears to his eyes. I waited until he took another swallow before cleaning his wound and holding the flap in place with glue and paper tapes. When I was finished he was relaxed. I wrapped his thumb with gauze and wished I had an Ace bandage.
“Where’s your mother?” I said to Deborah as I put wrappers and the needle inside my bag, since I didn’t see a trash can.
“Thar’s at thar Burger Hut.”
“Is that where she works?” She nodded as one of her siblings got up to change channels.
“Are you Creed Lindsey?” I matter-of-factly asked my patient.
“Why’re you asking?” He spoke with the same twang, and I did not think he was as mentally slow as Lieutenant Mote had indicated.
“I need to speak to him.”
“What for?”
“Because I don’t think he had anything to do with what happened to Emily Steiner. But I think he knows something that might help us find who did.” He reached for the jar of liquor.
“What would he know?”
“I guess I’d like to ask him that,” I said.
“I suspect he liked Emily and feels real upset about what happened. And I also suspect that when he feels upset he gets away from people like he’s doing now, especially if he thinks he might be in any sort of trouble.” He stared down at the jar, slowly swirling its contents.
“He never did nothing to her that night.”
“That night?” I asked.
“Do you mean the night she disappeared?”
“He saw her walking with her guitar and slowed his truck to say hi. But he didn’t do nothing. He didn’t give her a ride or nothing. ”
“Did he ask to give her a ride?”
“He wouldn’t have ’cause he’d know she wouldn’t have a-taken it.”
“Why wouldn’t she have?”
“She don’t like him. She don’t like Creed even though he gives her presents.” His lower lip trembled.
“I hear he was very nice to her. I hear he gave her flowers at school. And candy. “