by Blake Crouch
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 Kork 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, to
o 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! What 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.”
“It’s my car,” Charles said. He felt ready to jump out of his skin, and fought not to pull his piece and fucking shoot all of these assholes.
“You’re lucky these gentlemen stopped to give you a—”
His voice trailed off, the trooper’s attention once again distracted by what was happening in the field.
The crows were screaming bloody murder.
“You ever see so many crows in one place?” he asked.
“Damnedest thing, ain’t it?” said the tan one. “We checked it out before you came. Dead coyote. They’re having a good, old chowdown on the poor critter.”
The trooper smiled—a flash of perfect, straight-white teeth. “It’s like that Hitchcock movie,” he said. “God, I can’t remember the name of it. You know the one I’m talking about. All these birds go crazy and start killing people.”
“Psycho?” the pale one said. “Loved that one.”
“What’s your name, sir?” the trooper asked the pale one.
The immortal whore was waving an arm again, and Kork could swear he heard her screaming, but it was almost impossible to pick out amid the cries of the feasting crows.
“I’m Luther,” said the pale one. “That’s Orson.”
“So that must make you Charles Kork.”
Kork panicked for a split-second, then realized the cop must have gotten his name from his license plates.
“Yeah.”
“You staying out of trouble, Mr. Kork?”
“Doing my best,” Kork said through clenched teeth. The gun pressing into the small of his back felt enormous, and he ached to pull it out and start shooting.
The trooper said, “Well, that’s all we can do, brother. Our best. Lord knows.”
He looked over at the crows again and tugged his sunglasses down, squinting in the afternoon light. The field seemed to stretch on forever. Silos loomed several miles away and the sweet, rotting scent of a dairy farm was on the breeze.
“A coyote?” he said finally. “No, that looks too big to be a coyote.” Then he turned and walked around to the front of the Accord, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed with a heightened intensity into the field.
Charles felt the moment slipping out of his control, a mad rage building inside his head, a sound like white noise getting louder and louder, demanding an explosion of violence.
The trooper said, “Could it be a dog?”
“Looked like a coyote to us,” Orson said.
“If it’s a dog, maybe I should check the tags. Could be someone’s pet.”
The trooper had begun to walk off the shoulder into the field.
Charles looked at Orson, who gave him a little nod. Charles reached back, put his hand on the .45.
The trooper walked ten steps into the field and stopped.
He stood just a short distance back from the crows, so many of them now that Charles could only see fleeting glimpses of the purple and red underneath.
The trooper unholstered his firearm
What the fuck?
Raised it toward the sun and fired a shot.
The crows dispersed in a riot of squawking and flapping, like a black cloud rising into the sky.
Orson walked around to the front of the car, motioning for Charles to follow.
The trooper stood with his back to them, staring down at what the crows had left.
He was shaking his head, saying, “That is positively the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
Kork stared, too.
The whore was unrecognizable as anything human. Especially with her insides pulled out and strewn over the cornfield like a massacred piñata.
But she must’ve been delicious.
Because almost as quickly as they’d fled, the crows descended upon their meal again, blanketing the body in an instant.
“If you want to go hunting through that mess for a dog collar, you’re a braver man than I am,” Orson said.
The trooper looked indecisive, chewing his bottom lip.
Radio chatter squeaked through the mike on the trooper’s lapel.
He tucked his chin into his collarbone, said, “Roger that.”
The cop turned and headed back toward his car. “You need me to call a tow truck for you, Mr. Kork?”
“I think we got it under control, Officer.”
“Then you gentlemen have a good day.”
Kork watched the trooper climb into his cruiser and crank the engine.
It whipped around in a one-eighty, slinging dust and gravel, and then the tires bit into the pavement and it screamed off down the road, the deepest tones of the turbo-charged V8 audible long after the car had disappeared from view.
Orson smiled at Kork.
“Well played. So, Charles, why don’t you
tell us about the coyote out there in the field. The one with the human arms and legs.”