Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek

by Calinda B

“How can you tell? There’s no ammo in the gun. Wait a sec, I’ve got an idea.” Lennon jumps from the chair, runs toward the house, a porch door claps. A few minutes later, he returns, wielding something wrapped in canvas in his hands.

  The kid, holding the tip of his skateboard so it swings by his side, saunters to see. He spins the board by the nose on the sidewalk, catching it and dropping it on the ground. “Whatcha got?” he asks, placing his Vans clad foot on the board.

  “Check it out. Let’s play with these. I’ve got to get some of today and last night’s shit out of my system.” He unfurls the bundle and several gleaming knives glint in the waning wintery sun.

  Murder weapons, I think, pressing my palm over my mouth to keep from crying out.

  “Shit,” the kid says. “When was the last time you threw those? No way are you going to throw one at my head.”

  “Yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  Yesterday? When you stabbed Elena to death?

  “But don’t be stupid. I thought we’d set up a target and try to hit the center. Best three out of five wins.” Lennon picks up a knife by the handle and tosses it up and down. “I’ll even let you stand closer than me.”

  “What do we win?”

  “I’ll take you out for a beer.”

  “Right. I’m seventeen. And you’ve got plenty by your side.”

  “We’ll get to shots of Jack Daniels later as the prize. Or we can get high. I got some new bud you might like.”

  “Seriously? My mom would shit if she knew what we do. Deal.” The kid’s eyes light up.

  Since I’m not one of Lennon’s favored friends or girlfriends, I’ve never seen this side of him. Stupid man-child, I think.

  “Okay, hold on.” He disappears into the house and returns holding a can of paint and a paintbrush. “I have to tear this old fence down anyway. That will be the finish of this job. And then I’ll be hitting the highway again.”

  Lennon’s leaving? I practically whimper like a schoolgirl. What is wrong with me?

  “This place hasn’t been as welcoming as I was told.”

  What is he talking about? Woodland Creek is welcoming of everyone.

  The kid looks stunned. “You’re leaving? What’s going to happen to me?”

  Lennon’s gaze flicks away. He looks at the fence, at his shoes…anywhere but at the male by his side. “I, uh…I’m trying to figure that out.”

  “You promised me!”

  “I know I did. I’m going to find a way to keep my promise.”

  “You’re just like all the adults. I thought you were different. I thought you were my friend.” He picks up his skateboard and looks like he’s going to storm in my direction, when Lennon puts a hand on his shoulder.

  “I am your friend. I’m also your uncle. We share blood, don’t forget. Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I’m not going to leave you to the authorities.”

  What authorities? I’m learning an earful about Lennon and none of it makes sense.

  “But…this isn’t what I thought it would be. They told me I’d be welcome here. Now I’m being accused of murder.”

  “Murder? You?” Hawke’s face crumples into a frown. “Again?”

  My veins ice hearing the word “again.”

  “Yeah.” Lennon pries off the lid of the paint can, dips the brush in, and paints a huge red circle on the faded cedar boards. He adds two smaller circles inside; a large dot in the center. “That’s why I lost my job today.”

  “Because they think you did it?”

  “Because it won’t look good for me to remain in case I did it. It’s the old guilt by association. Guilty until proven innocent.” He steps away from the fence, paintbrush in hand, hauls back his arm and flings it forward, causing a ghastly smattering of red paint spray droplets to dapple the fence.

  “Unless you did do it,” the boy says in a teasing tone.

  “Right,” says Lennon. “Unless I did it.” He picks up one of the knives, hefts it in his hand, and throws it smack dab in the center of the circles. “Bull’s eye. I win.”

  Wow. He’s got deadly accuracy.

  “I was starting to like it here. Thought I could maybe remain here for a while, but…” His shoulder lifts and drops while the expression on his face falls into something that, for a second, makes me want to weep.

  I wonder why he’s so unhappy. Ever since he arrived after Mrs. McMurphy died a year ago, he seems like one of the most popular guys in town. At least with women and co-workers. But whether he’s a shifter or a human makes no matter. We’ve got shifters and wizards galore co-existing among neurotypicals. They live here or they make pilgrimages for the energy cascading from the ley lines that cross and run through Running Deer Forest. The magical ones they keep to themselves. We don’t share our secrets. We all get along.

  “At least I’m getting some money for the restoration of this property.”

  “Yeah. Mom appreciates you helping her out.”

  “It’s the least I could do to help with the legal fees to get you probation, and her a single parent, thanks to your asshat of a father. Sucks I no longer have a real job, though. This job—the restoration project—gives me the creeps. I swear Mrs. McMurphy’s ghost slinks through the house every night.”

  “Why do you have to modify it? I thought it was fine when you moved in.”

  “I did, too. Not my style, but good bones.”

  The word bones makes me shiver. It’s not a bad word, but the way he says it, chills me.

  “So why’d they make you do it?”

  “I don’t know, don’t care. It’s easy money. I just got the order to eradicate all traces of the old lady Mrs. McMurphy. Who knows why? She apparently kept to herself, stayed out of trouble, and served a purpose to the community.” He tosses another knife at the fence. Thwack! It lands with deadly accuracy, right next to the first one. “Don’t worry, kid. I’m merely warming up. These don’t count as my throws.”

  “Let me take a turn.” Hawke reaches for a knife, hefts it in his hand like his uncle, takes aim and throws wide, missing the painted lines completely. “Damn. My hand must have slipped.”

  “Must have,” Lennon says agreeably. “Try again.”

  Once more, Hawke lifts the blade, aims, and throws wide.

  “Here. Try this.” Lennon picks up the sharp steel, positions his body, and says, “Imagine something in the middle of the target that pisses you off. But don’t let anger mess up your head. Use it. I’m going to place my GM’s face right there.” He lets loose the blade and it flies, the point gripping the wood with a satisfying twang when it lands. “Got him.”

  I shiver. If it were the GM, he’d be deader than dead right now.

  “And now this one’s for the way it felt to be stood up. That sucked.” Whack. “And this one’s for the reason why. That was brutal.” Twang. The steel vibrates, flashing in the weak sun.

  Is he confessing? My eye’s getting tired from peering through the hole. It’s also getting dust and particles in it. I wish I had my crow eyelids.

  “Your turn.”

  Hawke takes the knife from his uncle, and says, “Okay, I’m going to put my parole officer’s face in the middle.” He positions his body like his uncle did, studies the target, and throws. The blade lands in one of the inner circles.

  “Nice job,” Lennon says, patting him on the back. “You clipped him in the shoulder.” He strides to the target and pulls the knives, handing a couple to Hawke. “My turn. I’m going to put the image of a saucy woman who drives me fucking nuts…right...here.” He makes an X in the center with the tip of his knife, a scratching, wood-tearing noise marking his actions.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Girl around town. Don’t know her all that well. She was friends with the woman I’m accused of murdering. She’s a real piece of work. Smart, cute, and extremely annoying.”

  He’s talking about me! He wants to put a knife through my head? Yipes! Wait. Did he say I’m cute?

  �
��Ever seen me throw two-handed?”

  “No. Can you really do that?”

  “Maybe. Might as well have a go at it.” He faces the fence, positions his arms and says, “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do it.”

  “It’s going to be fast.”

  “Do it, Uncle.” The teen’s practically vibrating with excitement.

  “I’m not so sure. Haven’t done this for a while.”

  “Come on, Uncle L, give it a try.”

  A blur of movement happens and one knife lands squarely in the center of the target. “Oops,” Lennon says, flinging his other arm overhead. The knife flies backwards and zings through a crack in the fence, where two boards meet, right by my stunned face.

  I might have let out a scream. May or may not have. Can’t say for certain. If I did, I’d never admit it.

  “You can come out now, Ms. McCartney.”

  I stare at the gleaming steel, inches from my face. It still vibrates from the impact. I get to my wobbly legs, leaning against the fence, breathing hard. That could have gone through my eye or sliced my cheek off, or…

  Male footsteps tromp closer and the gate near me swings open with a hearty squeak.

  “Were you trying to kill me the way you killed Elena?”

  “How long have you been out here?” Lennon asks, ignoring the question.

  “How long have you known I was out here?”

  “A few minutes. Answer the question? How long have you been here? How much did you hear?”

  “Just got here, matter of fact,” I say, trying to appear cool, even though my legs are shaking so hard I probably look like a dried cattail in a windstorm.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Not a convincing argument for the accused to be playing with knives,” I say, brushing off my knees. Crap. My hands are trembling, too.

  “Not a convincing argument for the accused to be spying on me, either.”

  “I wasn’t spying.”

  Instead of bickering with me, he gives me a long, withering stare.

  “Is this the girl?” the kid asks.

  “One and the same,” Lennon answers, glaring at me.

  “Are you the nephew whose clothes I borrowed? I’m Mercedes McCartney.” I hold out my hand.

  “You borrowed my clothes?”

  “Long story. She was naked last night.” Lennon smirks.

  The kid returns the smirk and bumps knuckles with his uncle. Then, he pumps my hand as if in on a secret between him and Lennon. “Nice to meet you,” he says with enthusiasm.

  “Not like that,” I correct, giving Lennon my fiercest glare. “Definitely not like that.” As he releases my hand, I say, “Do you have a name or should I call you Lennon’s nephew?”

  “Oh, sorry. The name’s Hawke…with an E at the end.”

  “Well, Hawke with an E at the end, I came to return your clothes.” I rummage around in my backpack and pull out the shirt, sweatpants, and shoes. “Not my size.”

  “Thanks.”

  We all stand awkwardly for a moment, looking from person to person, at the sky, at the fence, at our shoes.

  Finally, Lennon turns and prepares to leave. “Come on, kid. We haven’t finished our game, or my beer, or lit the joint. All things way more pressing than standing here with Suzy Sunshine.”

  Hawke looks at me, looks at his uncle, shrugs and prepares to follow.

  “Wait! What do you mean you’re being paid for eradicating Mrs. McMurphy? Are you in some sort of mafia?”

  “You’ve been here quite a while, I see.” Lennon places his hands on his hips, resting them at the top of his Levis. He’s snagged his shirt with his hands, allowing me a glimpse of male skin.

  My eyes widen briefly, staring at the defined dip between his abs and his hip, then shift to meet Lennon’s leafy green, mirthful gaze. “I didn’t want to interrupt your therapy session,” I say, waving my hand in a circle. “Nor did I want to interrupt target practice. It’s good to stay in practice for when you need to do the deed.”

  “We’re done here,” he says, refusing to take the bait. “Hawke?”

  “Wait! I’m sorry. You have to admit, it looks pretty suspicious.”

  “Yeah, if you have a paranoid mind, I suppose it does. I happen to be good at throwing knives. Someone’s dead. Must be my fault.” He heads into the backyard, followed by Hawke.

  I skitter after them. “How’d you get so good?”

  Lennon tromps to where the growler of beer rests. “I worked for a traveling circus one summer. I was the knife thrower.” He lifts the jug, pours some down his gullet, passes it to Hawke who does the same.

  “Come on, how’d you really learn?”

  “He’s not kidding. I watched him whenever I could.” Hawke wipes his mouth with the hem of his hoodie. “He was awesome.”

  I roll my eyes. Guys. “So you were part of a traveling circus.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why?”

  “It was fun. I got to travel all over the country, got paid to travel, got to eat, got a bed, always had someone to share it with...” He gives me a pointed stare, loaded with meaning.

  “Knife thrower by day, man whore by night. Nice.” I shake my head. “What did you do before that? Traveling salesman?”

  “I moved around a lot, yes. But I didn’t sell things.”

  His eyes practically set my face on fire, and not in a good way.

  “And what are you on probation for?” I ask Hawke.

  Lennon’s glare turns to ice. “None of your fucking business, that’s what.”

  Whoa. The intensity he’s throwing off ices me to the bone. “Are you both criminals? In trouble with the law?”

  “Not both,” Lennon says. “Look…I’d really like to finish this day in peace. Not in the mood to be grilled. Do you need anything else?”

  I remain quiet for a few seconds, strategizing. It might be better to befriend him. If he is a killer and tries to off me, I can quickly shift and freak him out. Clearly, our acquaintance of one another has been marred by hostility and that’s no way to earn trust or learn secrets. “I’m sorry. You’re right, we don’t know each other. We got off to a bad start. Let me at least buy you a drink. We can head over to Vider’s.”

  “I’ve got plenty of beer. Don’t need a drink.”

  “Dinner then. You need something to sop up all the alcohol in your stomach. Fibber McGee’s has great pub grub. Have you tried the truffle fries? I could die eating those.” The hair on the back of my neck draws my attention in a prickly shudder. I don’t mean that literally, Lennon.

  He gives me a flinty stare, looks at Hawke and shrugs. “He comes, too.”

  I make a mental scan of my bank account. I have a decent amount, thanks to a recent sale of an entire, custom set of raku-fired dinner dishes and accompanying pieces. “Fine. I, uh…I only have my bike, though, so you’ll have to drive.”

  “Fine.”

  “But wait, you’re inebriated. Hand over the keys.”

  “To you? I don’t think so.”

  Hawke gives him a pleading look.

  “Suit yourself,” I say, turning to pick up my bike.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Hawke wring his hands together in front of Lennon.

  Don’t they ever eat? Is Lennon in dire straits? Or does he send every spare dime to his sister?

  “Hold up.” He fishes his keys from his pocket and tosses them to me.

  I deftly catch the jangling keyring. “Thanks. Let’s roll.”

  We all trundle toward the pickup and open the doors.

  “You get the back seat,” Lennon says to his nephew.

  “I’ll never fit back there,” he says, eyeing the narrow seat.

  “You think I will? You’re lean and mean. I’ve got more muscle.” He flexes his arm. Even with his jacket on, I can make out the outline of a bulge.

  Hawke scoffs and squeezes into the back of the super cab.
/>   Lennon settles into the passenger seat.

  And we’re off.

  When we arrive at Fibber McGee’s, the parking lot is jammed, like it’s Friday night instead of Monday. The three of us saunter toward the building and enter. Words like “Elena” and “murdered” and “Nightmoon Creek” assault my ears. The news must have spread. The room, which bustled with lively conversation when we opened the door, turns deadly quiet. All eyes point in our direction.

  “It’s them,” someone shouts. “The pair who offed Elena.”

  The room explodes in accusation.

  “We did no such thing!” I shout, trying to be heard above the ensuing din.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lennon says quietly.

  Hawke seems to shrink behind us both.

  “No way are we getting out of here. We didn’t do it!” I shout again.

  “She was a good girl. An angel,” someone says with a sob.

  “None better on this planet or the next,” another cries.

  “You were always jealous of her,” someone accuses.

  “Come on. We’re going,” Lennon says, tugging my arm.

  My mouth has dropped open and the floor tiles seem to be holding me in place, gripping my shoes fiercely. This is my community. I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve fought for the downtrodden, encouraged the weak. I’m fearless in this town. So I’m not Elena. People still like me…at least I thought they did. And now, it’s as if I’m on stage, tomatoes and rotting fruit flung at me. As I scan the room, my eyes land on Bill Holloway.

  He sits with a smirk on his face, staring at me.

  I want to punch that haughty expression right off his face.

  “Come on,” Lennon says for the third time. “There’s no reasoning with a mob mind—trust me.” This time he drags me out of the restaurant.

  “But wait,” I say in protest, letting him have his way.

  Once we’re back in the cab of his roomy truck, I say, “This is mortifying. You might be fairly new to town but I’ve lived here all my life. This is awful.” I ball my hands and pound the steering wheel.

  “It happens.”

  “How would you know? You’re a drifter. You sail from place to place.”

  “Ouch,” he says, his face turning stony.

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t know what it’s like. I love living here. They’re my people. I wanted to be their champion, the person you can turn to when you aren’t strong enough to speak up. I fight for change. But you saw them. They now think we did it. Gah! This is your fault. I’m consorting with a murderer. I’m sorry I ever met you. If I hadn’t tried to get to know you this wouldn’t be happening.”