Trace of Evil

by Alice Blanchard

  Covering the narrow band of torn paper, in the tiniest handwriting she’d ever seen, were the words, What the hawk eats, What the hawk eats, What the hawk eats … Over and over again.

  “‘What the hawk eats’?” Luke repeated. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He looked at her significantly. “What do hawks eat?”

  “Rodents, squirrels, roadkill, and … other birds.”

  “What?”

  “They eat crows.”

  “Birds eat birds?” He shook his head, repulsed.

  “I witnessed it a couple of times at my grandfather’s farm.” The wind stirred through Natalie’s hair. “We used to visit him every summer up in Kripplebush. A flock of crows would follow Grandpa’s plow and devour all the earthworms that were churned up in the soil. The red-tailed hawks would hide in the trees and wait until the crows started pecking at the ground, searching for worms. Then they’d glide through the air, swoop down into the final run, and grab a crow in their claws and beak.”

  “So maybe the Crow Killer grew up on a farm?” Luke surmised.

  “He knows how to snare birds, that’s for sure.”

  Over the years, Natalie had encountered bird snares in the woods made of simple materials. Poachers and hunters used a few wooden poles tied together with twine, a fist-size rock, and a cord. Once a bird had perched on the trap, the stick would be displaced, the rock would drop, and the cord would loop over the bird’s legs, trapping it. Simple materials, but it took skill and practice to construct such a trap.

  “My grandfather told me that crows have two sides to them—good and bad,” she said. “On the one hand, they ate his corn, which was why there’d sometimes be a dead crow hanging around the scarecrow’s neck. He claimed it got rid of them for months at a time. On the other hand, he liked that they ate the weevils, grasshoppers, and June bugs that infested his crops. It was a mixed blessing.”

  “What did your grandfather say about hawks?”

  She shrugged, trying to remember. “They’re solitary hunters. Birds of prey. They prefer to kill shortly before nightfall, when the nocturnal animals emerge and hawks have a visual advantage.”

  “Is that how the Crow Killer thinks of himself?” Luke posited. “As a bird of prey?”

  “Could be,” she said, thick braids of discomfort knitting into her muscles.

  A pair of turkey vultures glided in ever-widening circles above their heads. The rain was beginning to dissipate. They heard a shout from across the field. In the tall grass beyond the barn, a police officer was waving his arms.

  Her heart made slow wing beats as they headed across the field.

  Officer Keegan was holding up an army jacket—very familiar-looking, with pink and purple sequins on the back spelling out, I’VE GOT THIS. There were drops of blood on the denim fabric.

  38

  In this cynical modern day and age, there was something almost subversive about Natalie’s desire to be good in a bad world, to hunt down the bad guys and expose their deeds to the light of day. To admire men like her dad and the gritty heroes of old TV westerns. The simplicity and moral certainty of it all, the lines drawn in the sand. White hats and black hats. Good was good, and bad was bad. It felt naïve to want to save the world. But with Daisy’s case, and now the Crow Killer, Natalie knew she had touched real evil. Evil felt like something slipping into you—as deceptive and sleek as a scalpel blade. Like a rustling sound deep in the woods, when everything else grew quiet and the wind stirred your hair with a ghostly hand.

  She fought off these ropy, feverish thoughts. Bunny Jackson was missing. Natalie had to find her. She sped past the old brick warehouses with their busted-out windows and chained-shut doors. Road surface noises whistled through her wheel wells as she drove farther north beyond the posh, high-end estates and entered the vast tracks of farmland—meadows, orchards, nature preserves. Beyond the nature preserves were the retail outlets, which skirted the highway—Walmart, Rite Aid, Pep Boys, Kohl’s, Costco.

  Natalie took the nearest exit off the highway and passed several big-box stores before she came to the A&P supermarket, one of Bunny’s favorite haunts. She pulled into the lot and drove around back, where the parking field was sprinkled with idling delivery trucks. She braked in front of a cement loading dock, spotted a homeless man digging around in a dumpster, and stepped out of her SUV. “Hello, Marvin,” she said, approaching the dumpster.

  The homeless man squinted down at her. Marvin Brooner’s hair was shaggy, as if he’d cut it himself. He wore new-looking sweats from a clothing giveaway. “What’s up, Detective?” he said with a toothless grin.

  “I’m looking for Bunny Jackson. Have you seen her?”

  Marvin half climbed, half fell out of the dumpster.

  “Careful. Watch your step.”

  He righted himself. “Bunny? Not since last week. Why?”

  “We found her army jacket behind the Hadleys’ barn, and I’m worried she may have gone missing. Any word on the street?”

  He scratched his head. “Bunny never goes anywhere without that jacket.”

  “I know,” she said apprehensively. “If you see her, would you tell her I’m looking for her? And please ask someone at the shelter to contact me. It’s very important.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And get yourself a hot meal, Marvin,” she said, handing him some cash for his trouble.

  He took it and said, “Bunny always shows up eventually, though, doesn’t she?”

  “Let’s hope so. Take care of yourself.”

  Natalie spent the next several hours searching for her friend. The Goodwill was closed. The Fitzgerald overpass was abandoned. Panhandlers in front of the Rockaway Café hadn’t seen Bunny lately. The dank alleyway behind the art house movie theater where The Last Picture Show was playing was vacant. She wasn’t in any of the local shelters, churches, or food banks. She wasn’t camped out on the village green or asleep in the courtyard behind the town library, where transients sometimes occupied the benches.

  Natalie took comfort in the fact that everybody down at the BLPD was searching for the missing homeless woman tonight. A BOLO had gone out. Bunny was loved. People cared. Hopefully, one of the night-shift officers would find her and transport her to the women’s shelter. That was Natalie’s best hope.

  Her palms grew sweaty on the wheel. Throughout the years, every once in a while, some ambitious rookie would pick up Bunny on charges of loitering or panhandling, and Luke would have to set them straight. Natalie had personally escorted her friend to homeless shelters dozens of times this past winter, in order to prevent her from freezing to death. Once in a while, Bunny went missing, but she always showed up a day or two later. It was a fine line between help and harassment.

  This time was different.

  This time was terrifying.

  Blood on the jacket. Nine dead crows.

  Natalie squeaked through a yellow light, then took the next exit, eased her foot off the gas, and came to a stop in the roadside weeds next to a stand of birch trees, their slim white trunks making a spooky contrast against the dark woods. A few yards away, a crumbling stone wall encircled a large meadow full of wildflowers, like a golden sheath of velvet in the moonlight.

  Natalie’s flashlight created liquid shadows as she headed toward the centuries-old ruins of a colonial house covered in wild grapevines. She walked past the old stone foundation and came to a carved-stone sundial that’d fallen on its side. “Bunny?” she called out, parting the Queen Anne’s lace and sidestepping a broken terra-cotta pot. Sweet ferns and gentians grew on the bank of a small pond, bordered by skunk cabbage and pickerelweed. She found the cast-iron chair where Bunny sometimes sat in the sun, next to a fallen statue whose limestone face had been chipped off.

  The air smelled marshy sweet. Natalie’s flashlight beam settled on a small swarm of insects, their elliptical dance mesmerizing. Flitting and darting in acrobatic loops. She watched their veined, gossamer wings reflecting iridescent spikes fro
m her flashlight beam and imagined Bunny trying to catch one in her hands.

  Her ringing phone startled her. She checked the caller ID.

  “Luke? Anything so far?” she asked anxiously.

  “Nothing. You?”

  “Nothing to report, but I’m still looking. I’m not giving up.”

  “She’s done this before,” Luke reassured her. “She always shows up eventually. At least it’s not the middle of March.”

  “But she never goes anywhere without that jacket. I’m scared for her.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted. “In the meantime, we found her abandoned shopping cart. I’m at the impound lot now, and there’s something you should see.”

  “Be right there,” she said and hung up.

  39

  Luke greeted her in the front office. “Murphy’s coordinating with all local search-and-rescue organizations, along with department personnel and the police academy,” he said. “We’re putting together a team of volunteers and cadets tomorrow morning at dawn. In the meantime, we’ve issued a countywide BOLO, and the night shift will be canvassing for information on Bunny’s whereabouts. Everyone is aware. Everyone is concerned.”

  He led the way through a maze of hallways toward the impound lot’s suite of storage rooms on the ground level, past the entrance to the multilevel parking garage. He unlocked the storage suite, flicking on the lights as they walked into a windowless room, where the contents of Bunny’s shopping cart were spread across the cement floor, fluorescent lights buzzing distractedly above their heads.

  “Technically,” Luke explained, “this cart is stolen property, so it’s legal for us to search it without a warrant.”

  The room smelled bad. Natalie studied the items of soiled clothing, crumpled aluminum cans, several rolls of toilet paper, a broken MP3 player, moldy food in wrappers, receipts for coffee and snacks, a few battered paperbacks, a tattered blanket, old shoes, and more.

  “We found the shopping cart inside the barn,” Luke explained. “No sign of a struggle. The cart was upright. Bunny had lined dozens of water bottles and empties against the wall next to her sleeping bag, and nothing had been disturbed. We’re having the blood on the army jacket tested. I’ve made it a priority. Also, we found this in the cart.” He bent down and picked up an evidence bag with a dead crow inside.

  Natalie’s heart began to race. “Another one?” She took the bag and studied the dead bird. Its neck had been broken and twisted around several times so the head flopped over to one side. The tattered wings were pinned against the bird’s body with a length of heavy-duty twine. “This looks like an initiation binding,” she said, a sick awareness curdling inside her.

  “What’s that?” Luke asked.

  “During Wiccan initiation rites, you stand with both arms behind your back, and the priest or priestess will loop a red cord over your left wrist, tie it with a square knot, then loop it over the right wrist, and up around your neck. It’s called a binding, and it forms an inverted triangle.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Joey used to say ‘Treat every crime scene like a psychiatric examination, and you’ll get closer to the heart of the matter,’” Natalie said. “What if the Crow Killer is initiating his victims? Maybe he has his own private version of Wicca?”

  “A delusional version.”

  Something passed through her. A blurry awareness. She noticed the pink corner of a box sticking out from underneath a pile of clothes. “What’s that?”

  “Just an empty bakery box.”

  She pawed through the smelly clothing, shirtsleeves and pant legs braided together. Printed on the lid in red cursive was Sweetie’s Bakery. She opened it. There was nothing inside but crumbs and smears of chocolate icing. “Daisy snuck out of the house a few weeks ago and bought these cupcakes for Bunny, according to Brandon.”

  “What do you mean—snuck out of the house?”

  “She made up some excuse about needing more milk, but Brandon said they had some in the fridge. So he got suspicious and followed her across town to Sweetie’s Bakery, then to the Hadleys’ farm, where she gave Bunny the cupcakes.”

  “Why would Daisy lie about something as innocent as that?”

  “I don’t know.” She dug through the rest of the trash, pulling things out and hoping to find other clues, but there was nothing of significance.

  She sat back on her heels, peeled off her latex gloves, and said, “When I ran into her the other day, Bunny told me the Devil was watching her. So now I’m wondering … what if the Crow Killer’s been to the Hadleys’ farm, staking it out. Maybe he figured Bunny was an easy target?”

  “Why leave so many clues behind? Nine dead crows. The markings on Teresa’s grave. And now this crow in the shopping cart.”

  She repeated her theory. “He wants us to see him.”

  “Catch him, you mean?”

  “No. See him. He feels invisible. He wants to tell his story.”

  “Or else it’s a game,” Luke said cynically. “Like walking up to the edge of a cliff without falling off. Maybe he thinks he’s impervious.”

  “Or else he figures we aren’t all that bright.”

  “He’s right,” Luke admitted. “All these years later, we’re fucking clueless.”

  “Not anymore,” she said.

  “No. Not anymore.”

  She stood up and dusted off her hands. “I hope this is all a misunderstanding. I hope he doesn’t have Bunny. God, I hope not. No way this turns into the Missing Ten. Not on my watch.”

  He shook his head, then said, “If he wants our attention, he’ll like the name we’ve given him. The Crow Killer.”

  “Maybe if we put it out there, he’ll contact us?”

  “I’ll give it a shot. In the meantime, we need a picture of Bunny for the missing-person poster.”

  She felt a spike of self-consciousness, as if someone were maliciously singling her out. “I know where to find one.”

  40

  Around ten P.M., Natalie headed for the neighborhoods where Burning Lake’s upwardly mobile professionals lived, full of historic homes designed by nineteenth-century architect Stanford White. Grace’s Mini Cooper was parked in the driveway. The house was all lit up—porch lights, outdoor floods and spots, an interior yellow warmth. Natalie could see Grace and Ellie through the bay windows, having a heart-to-heart on the living-room sofa. She watched them for a moment, and then Ellie hugged her mother and went upstairs.

  Natalie got out of her car, crossed the yard, and rang the doorbell.

  Grace greeted her at the door. “Hey, Nat.” She wore tight low-riding jeans and a red T-shirt with pink sequins on front that read LIFE IS A SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE. Her skinny jeans hugged her slender hips and gave her a shot of youthful vigor.

  “They let you run around like that?” Natalie teased.

  “Hey, free speech. I can wear whatever I want inside my own home, can’t I?”

  “Don’t let the PTA sluts see you.”

  “Ha. PTA sluts. That’s a good one.” Grace smiled weakly.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Better, thanks. I’m hate-watching some stupid reality show. Come on in.” She drew Natalie inside with a warm maternal gesture.

  “I know it’s late, Grace, but I need to ask you a favor. We think Bunny’s gone missing. Do you have any recent pictures of her?”

  “Bunny? She’s done this before, hasn’t she?” she asked anxiously. “Gone missing? She always shows up a day or two later.”

  “We think it’s different this time. I can’t explain why.”

  “Hold on.” Grace hurried upstairs with quick footsteps, and Natalie could hear her moving around directly overhead.

  A few minutes later, Grace came bounding downstairs and handed her a framed photograph of the four of them—Grace, Bunny, Daisy, and Lindsey—taken at the women’s shelter. You could tell it was Christmas from the decorations. “This was taken a few years ago. Daisy had copies framed for each of us.
She was trying to get social services to move Bunny into her own apartment, maybe get her a part-time job, but it didn’t pan out. You know Bunny. She won’t stay on her meds for very long. This was the last time the four of us got together.”

  “Thanks, this is perfect,” Natalie said.

  “Did you check the A and P yet? What about the Goodwill? Sometimes she hangs out behind the library.…”

  Natalie nodded. “I’ve been to all those places. We’ve got a BOLO out. All the guys will be looking for her tonight.”

  “What happened? Did she find out about Daisy and freak out?”

  “I don’t know,” Natalie hedged, unwilling to fill her sister in on the details, which were much more grim.

  “Because she loved Daisy. Daisy was the one who made sure we all stayed in touch.” Grace rested her hand on Natalie’s arm. “Why haven’t you arrested him yet? Riley Skinner?”

  “You know I can’t discuss the case with anyone,” she said gently, concerned about her sister’s pallor, the miserable tension around her eyes.

  “I keep getting questions from friends, students, other faculty members. The grocery clerk. The freaking gas station attendant. What’s going on? When are the police going to make an arrest? What if the killer’s still out there? We could all be in danger. They think I have access to the information, since you’re my sister. I tell them I have no idea what’s going on, but listen, everybody’s scared. What happened was so horrifying.…”

  “I know,” Natalie said. “But we have to power through it.”

  She took a deep, uneasy breath. “That’s it? You can’t share anything else?”

  “Can I sit down, Grace? I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, sure. Of course.”

  Natalie took a seat in the living room while Grace went into the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. She got a couple of mugs down from the cupboard.