“So, is this the design you and Francis came up with?” Segal asked.
“No, that’s the original version. Government issue. Here’s our version. Richard was wearing it when he showed up a couple of days ago.” Without getting off his stool, Lewis leaned back, opened a drawer in the lab bench, and extracted a lighter and what appeared to be a more streamlined version of the device Segal held.
Lewis handed it over.
Even to Segal’s untrained eye, the Asheville version was a clear improvement. He sat still for a moment, holding the two devices, trying to let the information and its implications soak in. He looked at Richard, then at Lewis. “That’s what you meant by staged. You think the crows that Richard fought—the ones that attacked us when we were on the roof—were trained by someone and sent there for a specific reason, or at least to relay pictures of something. Like a drone, or more like a living drone.”
Lewis nodded. “Here’s another thing I’m not telling you about.” He picked up the dead crow and pointed to the end of its beak. “See this? This guy’s beak has been reinforced with some special composite material. Makes him a killer. Same with the tips of the claws. That’s another thing the government wanted to do with Richard, but Francis wasn’t having it.”
Segal thought about the cut on his forehead and the marks on the door. No one had mentioned the cut. Not Gloria, Lewis or the doctor. Segal pointed to his head. “Should I be worried? No poison tips or anything?”
“No.” Russel smiled. “Nothing like that. As far as I know.”
Super, Segal thought. If Segal could believe what Lewis was telling him, and he saw no reason he shouldn’t, the scenario was strange indeed. Someone sent trained crows to the Grove Arcade, for possible observation. Or attack? The obvious thing to observe was Francis’s apartment and family, maybe to spot Francis if he showed up. Richard was there, too. Maybe he was there to watch over the family as well, then he ran into this other flock. But who sent Richard? All this went on in plain sight in downtown Asheville, and no one noticed a thing until a full-scale crow war broke out. Even then, if Richard hadn’t killed that other crow and brought back the camera, the fight would have been over and the humans would have shrugged their shoulders and gone home. Just some random act of nature.
“Do you think Richard wanted you to know the other trained birds were there?” Segal asked. “I mean, is he capable of that kind of thinking?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Lewis said. “Our bird, Richard, is capable of stuff that would blow your mind.”
Segal thought about this, still holding the cameras, one in each hand, weighing them back and forth as if on the scales of justice. He looked more closely at the government-issue one, holding it close to his face. His expression suddenly changed as he looked at the lens. “Hey, you don’t think this thing could still be transmitting, do you?”
“Oh, snap!” Lewis grabbed it from him in a panic.
CHAPTER 12
Freeze Frame
The image on the computer screen jostled around chaotically before blanking. The young technician leaned forward and moved the cursor over a command at the edge of the screen labeled Signal strength. The number beside that label changed to zero. The young man made a nervous, self-soothing gesture of rubbing the palm of his left hand over his crew cut. He clicked the update button, with the same result.
He glanced at a worktable set up in the room. In contrast to the state-of-the-art computer station, it was an old room, originally the dining room of the house. At the table was another, larger man in a green golf shirt. The man in green seemed intent on a square of ivory paper in front of him, manipulating it with surprising delicacy, given the size of his body and his hands.
“We lost signal,” the technician said.
The man in the green shirt gave him no response. He rose and walked into the kitchen.
The tech heard coffee being poured. He glanced out the window. Across the backyard, an odd platform had been affixed to the trunk of a walnut tree by the alley.
“The birds have not returned,” the tech said.
“You better let the colonel know,” the man in green said, coming back in from the kitchen with his steaming cup.
The technician checked his watch, then pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number. “Colonel, we lost bird signal just now,” he said. He listened to a question on the other end. “No, I don’t think it’s the battery. It didn’t fade out. It went out all at once. Either the device failed, or someone turned it off.” He listened, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up. “The colonel said he would be here in a minute.”
He turned to the computer, using the keyboard and mouse with great speed and precision. He reviewed the video recording he had been watching. Most of it was jumbled movement, difficult to follow. Occasionally, he halted on a frame and studied it more closely, cropping and magnifying part of the image. After that, he clicked some other controls.
Across the room, a printer came to life. When it spit out five sheets of paper, he got up from his chair and retrieved them. He took them to a whiteboard that covered the opposite wall and put them up with Scotch tape. He backed up to take in the impact of his work.
At that point, the backdoor opened and a third man joined them. He was not a large man. His build was trim and fit and he held himself poker straight. He wore a khaki shirt, dark slacks, and hiking boots. Like a uniform without being a uniform. He moved with authority directly to the board. The technician stepped aside to give him room.
“We have a few new photos, Colonel,” the tech said, stepping back to the board.
A new picture of Lewis Abraham, a close-up of his face and shoulders, was taped up under the heading “Creatures 2.0.” Under it in small, neat letters the tech wrote the date, the word Source, and a number. There were already a couple of older photos showing Lewis getting out of his car and going into the lab. They were labeled with his name, earlier dates, and different source numbers.
In the same section of the board, the tech taped up the new picture of the Creatures 2.0 receptionist, Gloria. This one was a full-body shot of her looking surprised; lips open, eyes wide. She had her hands raised, which, the young man noticed, also raised her skirt. Under his breath, he muttered “Damn” as he added a date and source number.
On a section of the board labeled only with a question mark were pictures of two cops. Their full names were taped beneath the photos. The first cop, Segal, was standing with his hair disheveled, looking down and to the right. The second cop, Rudisill was caught in midstride of a sprint, giving the man a great view of her athletic thighs in action. “Double damn,” the tech said to himself.
Finally, he hung up the last picture, a close-up of Segal and Lewis at Creatures 2.0. He pointed to the pictures one at a time, as though putting together the sequence. The significance hit him all at once.
The tech said, “Colonel, I think the camera has been compromised.”
The man in the green shirt swore softly.
The tech said, “This looks like a selfie. This guy is holding the camera in his hand.”
The colonel was holding a photo of his own, this one apparently cut from a magazine. He raised his hand and flicked it back and forth as if air-drying the image. The colonel approached the board and picked up the marker. He erased the question mark above the pictures of the cops. In its place, he wrote, “Local Complications.”
Then he took the picture in his hand and taped it up near, but not exactly under, the Creatures 2.0 section. He connected the picture to the label with a dotted line. The photo showed a glossy image of an attractive woman with wavy hair. On her raised arm was a crow, which was eating from her other hand. Under this picture, he wrote the name Lucile Devroe, date unknown, source “Public.”
“New lady?” the tech asked.
The man in the green shirt said nothing but studied the board and sipped his coffee.
“We found a reference that she’s a trainer who worked with Elah,” the colon
el explained over his shoulder. He pursed his lips, seeming to assess the board with the satisfaction of a person who had magically fit together three pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
On the extreme right of the board was the word Countdown in large block letters. Beside that was the number seven, which the colonel erased, replacing it with the number six. Below, perhaps for even more emphasis, was a list of dates. He crossed off yesterday’s date.
The man in the green shirt scowled. “There are getting to be a lot of pictures on that board,” he said.
The colonel only nodded.
“Maybe we could get rid of some local complications. Clear the field a little,” the man in green said.
The technician watched the colonel as he seemed to consider. He understood the intuition guiding the colonel and the man in green, like a chess master having a feel for the board without a precise picture of how the game might play out.
“Maybe,” the colonel said. “It would have to be the right kind of situation. Target of opportunity. We may have to.”
“What about this new lady, Lucile Devroe?” the man in the green shirt asked.
“Let’s find out more about her,” the colonel said.
The man in green grunted from the table.
CHAPTER 13
Biltmore Estate
“Let’s find out more about her,” Segal said.
He held a picture of Lucile Devroe. It was her number on the back of the card they had found in Chickey’s wallet, so she was on his list of people to interview. After they found out from Andrew Roche that Lucile had worked with Francis, she moved to the top of Segal’s interview list.
Dinah grinned and said, “I see why you offered to take this interview. She looks like a Hollywood movie star from the 1940s.”
Segal frowned. “I’m not looking for love in all the wrong places.”
“Maybe you should, Segal. It might improve your outlook on life.”
Segal turned into the Biltmore Estate entrance and drove through the stone-and-brick archway. Passing through this portal, he left the modern city behind and moved smoothly along the narrow lane. It took him through thickets of ancient rhododendrons growing on both sides of the road, allowing occasional glances of the Swannanoa River on the right and open fields on the left. Segal lost track of the number of stone arched bridges he crossed, mounted over creeks and drainage ways.
He came to a building used as an information center and for ticket sales. It had been built recently, in harmony with the other structures on the estate, adhering to the conventions of the Arts and Crafts tradition. Beyond that, uniformed guards stopped cars, asked for tickets, and gave directions. Segal stopped, rolled down the window, and showed his badge. “I’m meeting one of your people at Antler Village,” he said. He hated saying that name out loud because it was so out of character with the elegance of the rest of the estate. It reminded Segal of one of those cheesy Christmas villages that department stores set up at the holidays. Even though he’d visited Biltmore many times, he still allowed the ticket taker to give him directions. The place covered eight hundred acres, and the winding access roads were complex.
He drove through another forested area of large oaks and poplars, through wide meadows where Black Angus cattle grazed, and through fields where hay was almost ready for cutting. It was hard to believe he was five minutes from the center of Asheville.
He drove up a short incline and though a wide gate in a stone fence and found himself looking at the Biltmore mansion off to his right. He took in the view of the elaborate stone building across two hundred yards of perfect green lawn. This view was familiar even to people visiting for the first time because the mansion had been the setting for several popular movies. It was a castle in light-colored stone, built in the late 1800s, ahead of its time. The center entryway had a smooth façade leading up to lacy masonry work at the eaves. The slate roof was sharply pitched and fitted with copper flashing, eaves troughs, and spouts. To the left of the center structure was a series of diagonal lines corresponding to the flights of the grand stairway inside. To the right of the entry was Segal’s favorite feature, a large conservatory built from panes of glass set into a copper-clad frame. As impressive as these details were, the sheer scale of the building and grounds and the spectacular setting with the gardens and fountains in the foreground and mountain ridges in the distance made it more majestic still.
Segal eased the car away from the main house and drove past the formal gardens and onto the winding roads toward his meeting place.
Antler Village was a stupid name, but the buildings and layout were beautifully done and fit seamlessly with the rest of the estate. It had a couple of restaurants and a shopping area constructed next to one of the old stable buildings, which was now used for demonstrations of various farm and village crafts. More to the point, it also had a small farm and next to the farm an ice cream shop, which was where the meeting was arranged.
Segal recognized her immediately. Lucile Devroe did look like a movie star from the forties, as Dinah had said. She seemed very much at home where she sat. He could easily imagine her as one of the summer guests at the estate in its high society days, mixing with the writers and artists and Wall Street tycoons and politicians. Part of the impression was her hair, light brown and curled slightly under at the shoulder. Then there was her clear complexion. Yet, the whole was more than the sum of the parts. She possessed an aura of complete comfort with who she was.
Seated as she was on a bench beside the ice cream shop, her eyes appeared focused toward the little farm area. She was wearing khaki shorts and a light khaki shirt with the emblem of the Biltmore Estate on the sleeve. Her shoes were clunky—couldn’t run in those, Segal thought—as he realized that somehow instead of detracting, they drew more attention to her long legs, which were crossed.
As he approached up the walk, she turned her gaze from the farm and toward him. Her face lit up in a smile as she uncrossed her legs and stood in one fluid motion. She said, “You must be Lieutenant Segal. I’m Lucile Devroe.” She extended her hand, and he met it with his.
He needed a beat or two before he could get words to form in his mouth. “Thanks for meeting me.”
She smiled wider. “Buy me an ice cream cone and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
This gets better and better, Segal thought.
“I met Francis when I was in grad school. He came to the conferences and meetings sometimes, but he never presented or published papers. I remember him always surrounded by people or sitting in hotel lobbies talking one on one with important men and women. My advisor introduced us, and I remember he talked to me about my research project. He asked some really good questions, questions no one else asked and that had never occurred to me either.” She was looking at a bowl of fudge ripple ice cream as she talked, swirling a wooden spoon around on the top of it. She put a small spoonful in her mouth and closed her eyes.
Segal was thinking he could understand Francis or any other guy taking time with this lady, research or no research. He tried to steer himself around the business at hand. “I’ve been told he was good at what he did.”
“You’re speaking of him in the past tense,” she said. “Is there something I should know?”
“No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I guess I mean he is good at what he does, or he was good before he left, anyway.”
“Have you seen the raccoons at the VA hospital?” she asked.
Segal nodded and smiled.
“Do you have any idea how far advanced that kind of behavior modification is, especially in only partially controlled conditions?”
“Partially controlled conditions?” Segal asked.
“Most trainers maximize the control they have over the animal. They confine it in a cage or on a leash. They control the animal’s source of food and water so it is dependent on the trainer. They do everything they can to command the animal’s complete attention. Francis didn’t do that. He didn’t want to command its attention. He
wanted to earn it. Even in the presence of the normal distractions of life. It was one of his guiding principles. The work you want from the animal has to make sense—make sense in an economic kind of way, he meant. The animal has to get a fair return for what it is being asked to do. Otherwise, the whole deal doesn’t make sense, and you’re fighting an uphill battle.”
They each took a spoon of ice cream while Segal digested that thought. “So, in partially controlled conditions, the animals can come and go as they want?” he asked.
“Come on, I’ll show you the training station for my flock of crows,” she said.
Within moments, they were riding in a golf cart, cutting through a narrow path to a place near the greenhouse and the formal gardens. She explained that part of her compensation for taking care of the little farm was the opportunity to continue her animal research on the estate. She stopped outside the stone wall of the gardens. Across a few yards of lawn, a forest grew. On the edge of the forest, an oak tree stood out from the rest. About ten feet above the ground was a wooden platform affixed to a forked branch. On the platform were a couple of boxes and some kind of apparatus. As they waited, several crows appeared, some sitting on the platform, some on the branches, and one, presumably the lookout, in the topmost branch of the tree. One of the largest of the birds on the platform called out. Lucile put a whistle in her mouth and issued a short tweet, then gave a hand signal, and the bird flew down to the cart. She reached into a bag of cat food in the rear of the cart and held a piece out to it. It ate from her palm while keeping a sideways eye on Segal.
“So, this is a place you use for training and testing?” Segal asked.
Lucile nodded and gave the bird another signal. It flew to the platform.
“And all this you learned from Francis?”
“The basics, yes,” she said. “We did a lot of Richard’s training here.”
As the Crow Dies Page 9