"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. "
"He never gave her no candy 'cause she wouldn't have a-taken it."
"She wouldn't take it?"
"She wouldn't. Not even the kind she liked. I seen her take it from others."
"Fireballs?"
"Wren Maxwell trades'em to me for the toothpicks and I seen him give the candy to her."
"Was she by herself when she was walking home that night with her guitar?"
"She was."
"Where?"
"On the road. About a mile from the church."
"Then she wasn't walking on the path that goes around the lake?"
"She was on the road. It was dark."
"Where were the other children from her youth group?"
"They was way behind her, the ones I saw. I didn't see but three or four. She was walking fast and crying. I slowed down when I seen she was crying. But she kept walking and I went on. I kept her in sight for a while'cause I was afeared something was wrong."
"Why did you think that?"
"She was crying."
"Did you watch her until she got to her house?"
"Yeah."
"You know where her house is?"
"I know where."
"Then what happened?" I asked, and I knew very well why the police were looking for him. I could understand their suspicions and knew they would grow only darker if they heard what he was telling me.
"I seen her go in the house."
"Did she see you?"
"Naw. Some of the time I didn't have my headlights on." Dear God, I thought.
"Creed, do you understand why the police are concerned?" He swirled the liquor some more, and his eyes turned in a little and were an unusual mixture of brown and green.
"I didn't do nothing to her," he said, and I believed him.
"You were just keeping your eye on her because you saw she was upset," I said.
"And you liked her."
"I saw she was upset, I did." He took a sip from the jar.
"Do you know where she was found? Where the fisherman found her?"
"I know of it."
"You've been to the spot." He did not answer.
"You visited the spot and left her candy. After she was dead."
"A lot of folks has been there. They go to look. But her kin don't go."
"Her kin? Do you mean her mother?"
"She don't go."
"Has anyone seen you go there?"
"Naw."
"You left candy in that place. A present for her." His lip was trembling again and his eyes watered.
"I left her Fireballs." When he said "fire" it sounded like "far."
"Why in that place? Why not on her grave?"
"I didn't want no one to see me."
"Why?" He stared at the jar and did not need to say it. I knew why. I could imagine the names the schoolchildren called him as he pushed his broom up and down halls. I could imagine the smirks and laughter, the terrible teasing that ensued if it seemed Creed Lindsey got sweet on anyone. And he had been sweet on Emily Steiner and she had been sweet on Wren. It was very dark when I went out, and Deborah followed me like a silent cat as I returned to my car. My heart physically ached, as if I had pulled muscles in my chest. I wanted to give her money but I knew I should not.
"You make him be careful with that hand and keep it clean," I said to her as I opened the door to my Chevrolet.
"And you need to get him to a doctor. Do you have a doctor here?" She shook her head.
"You get your mother to find him one. Someone at the Burger Hut can tell her. Will you do that?" She looked at me and took my hand.
"Deborah, you can call me at the Travel-Eze. I don't have the number, but it's in the phone book. Here's my card so you can remember my name."
"Thar don't have a phone," she said, watching me intently as she held on to my hand.
"I know you don't. But if you needed to call, you could find a pay phone, couldn't you?" She nodded.
A car was coming up the hill.
"Thar's thar mother."
"How old are you, Deborah?"
"Eleven."
"Do you go to the public school here in Black Mountain?" I asked, shocked to think she was Emily's age. She nodded again.
"Did you know Emily Steiner?"
"Thar was ahead of thar."
"You weren't in the same grade?"
"No." She let go of my hand. The car, an ancient heap of a Ford with a headlight out, rumbled past, and I caught a glimpse of the woman looking our way. I would never forget the weariness of that flaccid face with its sunken mouth and hair in a net. Deborah loped after her mother, and I shut my door.
I took a long hot bath when I got back to the motel and thought about getting something to eat. But when I looked at the room service menu I found myself staring mindlessly and decided instead to read for a while. The telephone startled me awake at half past ten.
"Yes?"
"Kay?" It was Wesley.
"I need to talk to you. It's very important."
"I'll come to your room."
I went straight there and knocked on the door.
"It's Kay," I said.
"Hold on." His voice sounded from the other side.
A pause, and the door opened. His face confirmed that something was terribly wrong.
"What is it?" I walked in.
"It's Lucy." He shut the door, and I judged by the desk that he had spent most of the afternoon on the phone. Notes were scattered everywhere. His tie was on the bed, his shirt untucked.