Birds of Prey

by Crouch, Blake

  Luther said, “You might want to—”

  Orson quickly removed the man’s ball-gag and he spewed what must have been a gallon of sour beer onto the floor.

  “Too much cerveza?” Orson asked, laughing.

  The man launched into a stream of Spanish that sounded to Orson like quite a bit of begging so he jammed the ball-gag back into his mouth.

  “You remember that time we went for coffee back in Vermont?”

  Luther nodded.

  “I thought I saw something in you then. Something in your papers, too. They were god-awful, don’t get me wrong, but I think you’ve got…potential.”

  “For what?” Luther asked.

  Orson smiled and pulled his Morrell knife out of a leather holster attached to his jeans.

  It was a beautiful weapon. He took a moment to appreciate the view, how it felt in his hand.

  He set it on the concrete floor of the shed within range of his student, and then took a step back.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Orson said. “This is a test.”

  “Your tests were always too hard,” Luther said.

  “Well this one is a little outside the curriculum. Go on. Pick up the knife. You should be able to reach it.”

  Luther leaned forward, the chain allowing him to move four feet out from the pole.

  “Pretty blade,” Luther said as he lifted it.

  “Now I’m wheeling Juanito over,” Orson said, pushing the wheelchair within range. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Get a good grip on that beautiful ivory handle and—”

  Before Orson had finished his sentence, Luther sprang to his feet and thrust the blade into Juantio’s throat, twisting it so violently it cocked the man’s head at a funny angle.

  The arterial spray was spectacular, and Orson was still laughing uncontrollably by the time it had diminished to an irregular spurt.

  The wheelchair had rolled back after the initial blow, just out of Luther’s reach.

  He was straining desperately, the knife still in his hand, to deliver another thrust.

  Orson clapped as he walked back over to Luther.

  “I swear I had a feeling about you,” Orson said.

  “Yeah, well, it was mutual. Ever since that day in class when you lectured on the Inquisition, I thought you might have the Darkness, too.”

  “The Darkness?”

  “It’s what my father calls it.”

  “Calls what?”

  “Whatever you and I are.”

  Somewhere out on the desert, a coyote yapped.

  Orson was still smiling.

  “Luther, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  A Murder of Crows

  Indiana, 1995

  Charles Kork had seen movies where a character got a flat tire and was so mad he kicked it. That had always seemed pointless and stupid until now. Staring at the shredded tire and ruined rim on his Honda Accord, Kork didn’t just want to kick the damn thing. He wanted to take out his hunting knife, stab the fucker about a hundred times, and then toss it into a bonfire while imagining its screams of agony.

  And of course he didn’t have a spare, because that was currently serving as one of the front tires, which had chosen to pop a week prior. Some asshole mechanic had warned him, last oil change, that his tires were bare and constituted a hazard. It had turned out to be prophetic. While the first flat was just a slow leak, this one had been a full-force blowout at sixty miles an hour, causing him to spin the car in a complete circle before fishtailing onto the shoulder alongside the road. Lucky he didn’t flip the car.

  But that wasn’t the worst part.

  The worst part was that Kork had the mutilated body of a stripper in his trunk.

  He kicked the tire a few times, swearing into the empty, mid-afternoon sky, and then stepped away and tried to think.

  Middle of goddamn nowhere.

  But he’d seen a state patrol car an hour ago. Even on lonely country roads like this, cops patrolled. Eventually, one would pull over, offer to call a tow truck.

  What were the odds that he could buy a new tire without anyone knowing about the body?

  Worst of all, he’d bought the car using his real name, and his goddamn fingerprints were all over it.

  Kork took a deep breath, let it whistle out through his clenched teeth, watching his breath steam. He knew what he had to do. And it had to be fast, before a cop—or just as bad—some nosy motorist, stopped by with a big cornfield smile and a “got you a flat tire there, friend?”

  Kork looked up and down the road. Indiana had to be the flattest fucking state in the country. He could see for miles in either direction. In all directions. He might as well have been on stage at Woodstock. Anyone coming would see him immediately.

  And the fucking crows!

  They were everywhere.

  Circling and dive-bombing the fields. Scavenging for missed ears of corn.

  So he’d better hurry.

  It was a fall day. The morning had been colder than shit, a hard freeze overnight, but the sun had burned through the cloud cover and now it blazed down onto his face. He could feel the early pressure of a headache building.

  Fumbling for his keys, Kork walked around the rear of the car to the trunk. He popped it, staring at the blue plastic tarpaulin, recalling all of the fun things he’d done to the whore only a few hours ago. His new favorite toy, a propane torch, lay next to the body. He’d gone through a whole fourteen ounce cylinder on the girl. It not only prompted screams so loud they made her throat bleed, but it smelled positively delicious.

  Charles didn’t go there, of course. Cannibalism was for psychos. But he could admit to salivating a bit. Barbeques would be a lot more fun if the pigs and chickens were alive when you cooked them.

  The same smell wafted up at him now, making him wish he’d stopped for lunch earlier. All he’d had was a few handfuls of popcorn from a jumbo bag he’d bought at a gas station last night.

  Kork reached for the body, ready to lift it out, and got a pleasant shock when the bag jerked.

  “Holy shit. The bitch is still alive.”

  Charles had been pretty sure the whore was dead when he wrapped her up. He’d slit her throat pretty deep.

  “You’re a fighter, I’ll give you that,” he said, hefting her out of the trunk and onto his shoulder. Moving quickly, he carried her ten yards into the cornfield and dropped her squirming body onto the cold, plowed earth.

  He kicked at a clod of dirt, his work boot bouncing off without it budging an inch.

  Frozen. Fucking frost.

  Charles had a little hand shovel in his tool kit, but it wouldn’t be enough to bury a body. Especially with the ground so cold.

  But leaving her exposed was just asking for trouble. He’d been planning on dumping the body in a river. Water washed away a lot of trace evidence. Creepy-crawlies nibbled at the feet and fingers. And with new DNA technology, where the cops could get a genetic fingerprint from a strand of hair or a drop of saliva, he had to be extra cautious.

  Genetic fingerprint? Hell, she was probably covered with his actual fingerprints. This whore’s body was basically a billboard that read CHARLES KORK KILLED ME.

  He took another quick look around, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Still no cars. Nothing but empty fields and those fucking crows.

  Those fucking crows…

  Jogging back to the car, Kork grabbed the bag of popcorn from the passenger seat. Plenty left. He walked out to the body and then reached down, unrolling the tarp.

  The hooker looked like a slab of raw flank steak.

  She twitched and moaned, obviously in shock.

  Kork sprinkled the popcorn over her body.

  “Dinnertime! Come and get it, you bastards!” he shouted.

  He took a few steps back so he didn’t spook the birds.

  The first one landed a few seconds later, attacking the popcorn.

  And then something happened, prompting Ko
rk to smile.

  The crow’s beak began to stab down faster and faster.

  Ravenously.

  Because it had realized that there was something even tastier under the popcorn.

  Soon, the whore’s body was covered in a thick blanket of crows, flapping and squawking and peck-peck-pecking away all the physical evidence.

  Kork was still watching, still smiling, when a car came into view about a mile up the road.

  Grabbing the tarp, he hurried back to his Honda and locked the blood-stained covering back in the trunk.

  He looked at the crows, still feasting. While they were doing the intended job, they were also quite the spectacle, impossible to miss.

  Kork felt even more exposed than he had earlier.

  He squinted at the approaching vehicle, wondering if he should go for the gun he kept in the glove compartment. The car was a sedan, white. Possibly a cop.

  If it was a cop, he’d have no choice. Have to take him out. But there was no damn place to run to. Killing a pig would lead to a nationwide manhunt. Maybe just taking him hostage would be smarter. But even then, Kork would have to leave his car behind. His car, in his name, covered in his fingerprints.

  Why did killing a whore have to be so goddamn hard?

  Kork went for the gun, checked the clip, and held it alongside his body, keeping his arm straight down.

  The sedan was slowing.

  Kork shot a nervous glance back at the crows, saw a glimpse of pink.

  That damn whore was holding up her arm, trying to wave.

  Fuck! Die already, you stupid bitch!

  The car continued to slow.

  It wasn’t a cop. No cop drives a Lexus.

  Still, Kork couldn’t kill them. It would lead back to him. But what choice did he have if they saw the whore?

  Even though it was a chilly autumn afternoon, Kork wiped some sweat off his brow.

  Come on, keep going, keep going you nosy fucker. Nothing to see here.

  But it rolled to a stop, fifty yards away.

  For what seemed an eternity, no one got out.

  Kork squinted to catch a glimpse inside, but the windows had a slight tint, making it impossible to see the driver.

  He glanced back at the crows, squawking and fighting over their afternoon meal.

  Looked back toward the car.

  Still no movement there.

  Had they seen the crows? They must have. The air was thick with them now, as if they could communicate by telepathy and were calling in their siblings, cousins, and buddies from out of state to join in the hooker feast.

  Kork gave a short wave and a nod to tell them he was fine, everything fine, I don’t need any help, and then started for his driver-side door. He would need a ride, eventually, but maybe the time for that ride would be when two hundred crows weren’t devouring a half-dead whore ten yards away.

  He opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.

  All’s well here, feel free to move right the fuck along.

  Kork checked the rearview mirror.

  Goddamn it.

  Now the front passenger-and driver-side doors of the Lexus were swinging open, two men stepping out.

  One was tall and thin, wearing bib overalls. His lanky hair hung over his gaunt, pale features like a black spiderweb. The other was shorter, muscular, tanned the color of old leather. Or maybe he just looked tan in comparison to his partner, who was paler than a newborn baby’s ass.

  What do I do? Wait for them to approach? Meet them halfway?

  He jerked his eyes back at the crows. The whore was waving both arms now, and above the cacophony of caws and squawks, Kork thought he heard a thin, keening wail.

  Fuck, fuck fuck….people always died too soon. He was always losing control, accidentally killing them prematurely. Who the fuck was this whore? Superwoman?

  Kork didn’t have to jack a round into the chamber of his .45—there was always one in the chamber. He thumbed off the safety and exited his car, keeping the gun behind him.

  An outrageous thought entered his head: killing these two, dragging them to the crows, then another car coming by, and another, until there were fifty cars parked along the shoulder and a giant pile of corpses in the field.

  “Got a tow truck coming,” he said, not bothering to be friendly. “Don’t need any help.”

  “Did we offer any?” the shorter man said. He was grinning.

  They stopped on the shoulder, fifteen feet apart. Kork glanced back—no cars coming at the moment.

  “Got yourself a right fine murder there,” said the tan man.

  Kork raised an eyebrow, his heart skipping a beat. “Excuse me?”

  “Crows. Group of crows is called a murder. There are lots of strange names for bird groups. An unkindness of ravens. A pitying of turtle doves. A watch of—”

  Kork raised his weapon, pointing it at the talkative one. “So what do they call a group of two dead assholes?”

  This inexplicably widened the tan man’s smile.

  “You think this is a fucking game?” Kork asked.

  The younger, paler of the duo stared at the crows with obvious interest.

  “What are they eating?” he asked.

  “Hey! Dipshit! I’m pointing a fucking gun at you, too. That’s more important than a flock of goddamn crows.”

  “Murder,” the tan one said. “Not a flock. And I’m curious too.”

  The tan man’s eyebrows suddenly arched.

  “Uh oh. You see that?” the tan guy elbowed his friend and pointed down the road. “Can’t hear it over the crows, but I think that glint is the sun reflecting off an approaching car. He should definitely shoot us right now.”

  Kork fought the urge to turn around and look. There was too much happening at once, too much to process. He needed time to think…

  Then an idea came to him.

  Kork wasn’t exactly a sharpshooter, but he could damn sure put a few rounds center mass into both of these clowns. Let the crows have them. Then maybe he could start his own car on fire to eliminate the evidence, and take theirs. It was nicer anyway.

  Yeah, that was a plan. A good plan. Once the other car passed, he’d make it happen.

  But what if it didn’t pass? What if it stopped like these two assholes?

  “He might have time to drag us back behind our car before the next car passes,” the tan guy went on. “I figure he’s got about twenty seconds. No big deal if he doesn’t make it. I’m sure whoever drives by has seen plenty of dead bodies being dragged off the side of the shoulder. Probably speed right on by. Hell, I would. Unless…”

  Why was the tan guy smiling now?

  “Yep….unless it’s a police car. Like the one coming up behind him.”

  “Bullshit,” Kork said.

  “Might be smart to lower that .45.”

  The tall, pale one slipped a hand into his jacket. The tan one had his thumb hooked into the back pocket of his blue jeans.

  Kork wanted to look back over his shoulder, wanted to badly, but these guys were too calm, too odd, and he refused to take his eyes off them. They could easily both be packing.

  “I’m really not kidding,” the mouthy one said. “Put the fucking gun down or it’s going to be bad for all of us.”

  Kork didn’t like being told what to do, and his finger tightened on the trigger. But something in the tan man’s voice, something in his eyes, reminded Charles of Father. Not Father when he was crying, simpering, begging for forgiveness while Kork or his sister Alex beat him with belts and whips. But Father when the darkness overcame him, when he’d checked his conscience at the door and lived to cause pain, when he was the most frightening creature to ever walk the earth.

  Kork lowered the gun, tucking it into the back of his pants.

  He turned and looked down the road.

  Holy shit. It was a cop car approaching.

  When Charles looked back at the two men, they were already walking toward him.

  “Get the fuck back! Wh
at are you doing?”

  “I’m thinking it might be smart to pretend we’re changing your tire.”

  The noise of the cop car’s engine was loud as hell now—he could actually hear it over the birds—and the two men were standing right in front of him. The tan one knelt down by the left rear tire and glared at Charles. “Let me do the talking. You seem to have some temper issues that could escalate the situation.”

  “Fuck you! No, I don’t!”

  “He might pass right on by,” the pale one said.

  They all looked at the approaching car now.

  It was definitely slowing down, but nothing strange about that. Everyone slowed down to look at a broken-down car on the side of the road. Even cops.

  Then its light bar lit up, flashing blue and red.

  The cop crossed over the yellow line and pulled onto the shoulder in front of Kork’s Honda, its tires crunching over the gravel.

  Kork saw him get on his mike, no doubt calling in his plates.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  “Keep calm,” said the tan one. “You aren’t the only one with things to hide. We don’t want this cop to stop any more than you do. So let me do the fucking talking, or we’re all going to be screwed.”

  The cruiser was a Crown Vic, and as the trooper swung open his door, Kork could see the blue and white Indiana State Police logo emblazoned on the black paint of the door.

  The trooper must have been six-five. He was corn-stalk thin. A miracle he could even fit in the cruiser. He wore blue pants, a long-sleeved black button-up, and a straight-brimmed hat that hid the color of his close-cropped hair.

  He strode up to the driver-side door of Charles’s car, his attention divided between the three men near the flat tire and the veritable swarm of crows just off the road. His right hand rested on his holster, the leather safety snap already unbuttoned for a quick draw.

  “Afternoon, Officer,” said the tan one.

  The officer stared at them through a pair of reflective Ray-Bans. “Everything okay, sir?” he asked.

  “Just getting a workout, changing this flat.” The tan one patted the shredded rubber.

  “Is this your car, sir?”

  “No, Officer. We’re just being good Samaritans. Helping out a fellow traveler in need.”