“Headed somewhere in particular?” Bob asked, staring out from behind his thick glasses. “Chasing down the latest gossip?”
“You’re more right than you know. I was planning on going by the sheriff’s office when I finished here. Then it’s back to the paper for me.”
The residents of Gray Hollow would have plenty to gossip about when the details of the crash were eventually revealed. Thomas hoped Bob and the rest of the town would be able to enjoy the peace for as long as they could. If the murderer killed again, things were going to get ugly. Thomas stepped into the old-fashioned diner and was instantly confronted with the overpowering scent of freshly brewed coffee.
Just what I need, he thought, anxious to get a jumpstart on the day. After finding his place in the small line, the reporter looked at the rows of empty booths. The normally crowded diner was all but abandoned. A broken light flickered near the bathrooms at the end of the hallway. No one seemed in any hurry to fix it, allowing a thin specter of shadow to perforate through the back of the store.
Thomas struck up small talk with several of the other patrons while he waited, hoping to glean some information about the mysterious Jeffrey Daniels. No one seemed to know anything about the murdered man.
It looks like Max was right, he thought when he reached the front of the line. This is probably a dead end.
“I’ll have the caramel mocha,” he said politely. Thomas reached for his wallet. “Pretty quiet in here today.”
The man across the counter grunted noncommittally.
“That’ll be $3.53,” the cashier said, waiting expectantly for payment. Thomas handed over what happened to be exact change and left the diner with his beverage in hand.
The warmth of the diner faded almost as soon as his hand let go of the door handle. Thomas exhaled, his visible breath rising to the level of his eyes. The police station was only a few blocks away, well within walking distance.
“Well, I’m off,” he said, waving goodbye to Bob. Then he stopped. “You’re pretty informed of what goes on around here,” he began. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of it or not, but the sheriff picked up Al Pittman yesterday. I heard it might have something to do with some trouble he was in around the Daniels Farm—or the Alistair Farm.”
“If you’re looking for a news headline, you’re looking in the wrong place,” Bob replied in an amused tone. “Al Pittman getting into trouble isn’t exactly news. That being said, I don’t think he would have anything to do with the Alistair Farm.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
The man folded his newspaper. “Back in the day, there used to be plenty of rumors about that old farm. It’s been abandoned for years, and some folks believe it’s haunted. Rumors breed superstition.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Thomas said. He shook his head. Ghost stories weren’t exactly the substantial lead he was hoping for.
I think it’s time to pay the sheriff a visit myself, he thought. That ought to straighten things out. He knew he probably needed to apologize again for his outburst the night before. Touching base with Jezebel might be a helpful start before he delved into the day’s work. Other than Paul Morris, Thomas didn’t have many leads at the moment. Now that the sheriff’s department should’ve finished their reports, he hoped the results would point him in the right direction.
Thomas took the long route and walked through the county park on his way to the sheriff’s office. Small as it was, Gray Hollow had a certain charm to it, he thought as he enjoyed his coffee in the crisp morning air. There was an unpolluted quality to the town, which seemed suspended in time. Thomas wandered down a winding path cut through the grass, surrounded on each side by trees and the occasional bench. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, giving life to the multicolored leaves of the trees.
Finally he came to the police station, which stood beside Rex’s Grocery. Inside, Thomas was greeted with mountains of paperwork and the smell of worn leather seats. In a way, the police station reminded him of the offices at the newspaper. Much like the town itself, the station was virtually devoid of activity.
“Deputy Markham?” Thomas asked the heavyset older man busy with paperwork.
“What’s that?” the man replied quickly, as if surprised by the reporter’s sudden appearance.
“Sorry if I startled you. I’m Thomas Brooks, in case you don’t remember me.”
“Not at all, Mr. Brooks. We’re in the middle of a big case, and I was a little preoccupied.”
Big case? Thomas thought. From the tone of the officer’s voice, it sounded like they were investigating something recent. Was the deputy referring to the wreck or something else?
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I just wanted to touch base with Sheriff Woods. Is she in?”
“She’s out at the moment. Want me to take a message?”
“No thanks,” Thomas answered. Something felt strange, but he wasn’t sure what. “I’ll give her a call later.”
He thanked the deputy for his help and made his way outside. Thomas started to call Jezebel before stopping, his fingers still on the cell phone. If the sheriff found out something important about the murder, she would have called him.
Or would she? Their arrangement was fragile at best. Neither completely trusted the other, and their most recent argument didn’t help matters. After throwing his coffee cup in a trash can, Thomas walked briskly down the sidewalk in the direction of his car.
Then something behind the grocery store caught his eye. It was an aged mountain bike, stained with rust. He knew that bike. More importantly, he knew its owner. Thomas walked toward the bike, propped up next to a garbage bin. It was quite by accident that he saw the man leaning against the wall.
“Al?” he stammered.
“Hey, Thomas,” Al Pittman replied, waving lazily at him. Thomas stared at Pittman, surprised.
“What are you doing out here? I thought you were in jail!”
“The deputy let me out early this morning. Gave me my bike back.”
There is no way Jezebel did this to appease me, Thomas knew. Not when she was so adamant about keeping him in custody. She said she wanted to be sure Al wasn’t related to the killing.
If she was willing to release Al, the sheriff must have known something he didn’t. Something new. Perhaps even another murder.
“That’s what she’s investigating,” he muttered, stunned. What if Jezebel was playing him, looking further into the murder without keeping him informed?
“What did you say?” Al asked, keeping one eye open. The man looked like he was on the verge of drifting off to sleep. That surprised Thomas, who would have guessed that the level of comfort in the jail cell was better than sleeping on the street.
“Nothing,” Thomas said. “They didn’t happen to mention why they let you go, did they?”
Al shook his head. Thomas excused himself and tried to put the pieces together. Whatever development had occurred was fairly recent, since Pittman wasn’t released until that morning, which suggested the big case Deputy Markham referenced was indeed related to the murder of Jeffrey Daniels.
The simplest solution would be to call Jezebel Woods and demand answers. Thomas knew that strategy wasn’t going to work on the sheriff.
Besides, he thought, she kept me in the dark. Now it’s my turn. Two can play at that game. An idea crept into his mind, and he veered off in the direction of the courthouse while scrolling for his editor’s number. Max picked up almost immediately.
“Thomas? What is it?”
“You’re not going to believe who I just ran into outside Rex’s Grocery. Al Pittman.”
“The sheriff let him go?”
“Yeah.” Thomas briefly recounted the details of his agreement with Jezebel once more, this time adding in his argument with her the previous night.
“Max, something bad is going on. The sheriff is dead serious about protecting Gray Hollow—I’m thinking she believes it’s bad enough to cause a panic.”
“Another killing?”
“That was my guess, too. It would explain why she’s trying to keep me in the dark. She wants to suppress the story as long as she can.”
“If she’s locking us out, we have to go to press. Special edition. The public will force her to come clean. I don’t care if she blames you.”
“Not just me. Us. I’m going to need your help on this.”
“What for?”
“If we’re going to print this, I want the whole story. Including what she’s investigating now.”
“If she isn’t sharing with you, there’s not much we can do to force her hand.”
“Let me finish. If someone else is dead, Jezebel may have a suspect this time. That might explain why she wants to keep it so hush-hush. And if she is looking for that suspect then she probably obtained a warrant.”
“A warrant,” Max repeated. “Brilliant. Where are you?”
“Outside the courthouse. You’ve dealt with these people far longer than I have. An expert touch is in order, and not one from a stranger.”
“Let me grab my jacket,” the editor muttered hastily. Thomas could hear rustling in the background. “I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”
The day was warming up faster than Thomas anticipated. He enjoyed the change in weather and waited outside the courthouse at the center of the town square.
Town Hall was usually a calm place. Most of the elected officials worked other jobs during the week, and many meetings were held in the evening. Everything revolved around a slow but steady pace. All in all, it made for a boring experience when Thomas found himself assigned to cover those meetings.
Even so, despite the laidback attitudes of many of the participants, politics was a serious business in the tiny community. Connections were incredibly important, something that depended on the fact that everyone seemed to know everyone.
Except me, Thomas realized. Being an outsider wasn’t always a good thing, which was one reason he needed Max. The editor would know exactly how to find the information they needed to obtain.
“Speak of the devil,” he said while watching the stout editor jog toward him, coffee in hand. “I see you took time to load up on the caffeine.”
“Didn’t take two minutes. The diner was quiet today.” His expression grew suddenly serious. “Are you ready to get down to business?”
“Absolutely. Where do you propose we check?” Thomas asked. He held the door open for his boss as the two passed under the giant clock affixed to the top of the courthouse.
“I say we start at the source.” The two newsmen walked over to a desk in the front hallway. “We’re here to see Judge Underhill,” Max said to the receptionist inside. “I called ahead.”
“You managed to set up an appointment in ten minutes?” Thomas asked incredulously. Max deserved more credit than he gave him.
“It doesn’t hurt that Judge Underhill gets sinfully cheap rates for ads when he runs for reelection.”
The two went up a flight of stairs. After stopping outside a massive wooden door, Max knocked gently.
“Come in,” bellowed a voice from behind the other side of the thick door.
The editor opened the door and stepped into the darkened room. A robed man sitting at a desk looked up and set his pen down in front of him.
“Hello, Judge Underhill,” Max said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not a problem,” the judge said as he stood. “Please, come in. And I told you to call me Charles.”
Thomas was surprised at how young the judge appeared. Somewhere probably in his early forties, he guessed.
“Thomas Brooks, meet Judge Charles Underhill,” Max said.
Thomas shook the judge’s outstretched hand. His attention was drawn to a line of portraits on the walls overlooking the room. All were of former judges. The one closest to the judge’s desk was of a Jeremiah Underhill. Thomas guessed that he was Charles Underhill’s father.
“This one might be a keeper,” Underhill said with a warm smile. “I read your article on the tax hikes. I suspect it will stir up certain members of our little community, but that’s the price we pay for keeping the politicians honest, eh?”
Thomas wasn’t sure how to reply.
“I seem to be getting a lot of reaction from that article,” he said. Underhill cocked his head and returned his attention to the editor.
“Now, what can I do for you two?”
The judge listened as the two men began with the tale of the discovery of the wrecked Ford truck and of the body of Jeffrey Daniels.
“Poor Al Pittman,” he said. “Most people treat him nicely, but he doesn’t have it very easy. Always getting into trouble. I got into trouble myself every now then in my youth. My father used to sit me down and say, ‘Son, if you’re ever going to follow in my shoes, you’re going to have to start opening your eyes to the needs of people other than yourself.’ And you know what? It worked.”
Thomas fought the urge to roll his eyes. Max finished the story by recounting the events of the morning. While attentive, Judge Underhill didn’t seem to be the most sincere person Thomas ever met. Unlike the story he told, he seemed to be focused on his own interest, though he hid it very well.
“This story is important not just for the paper, but for the safety of the community. If there is someone out there killing people in Gray Hollow, the people in this town have a right to know so they can protect themselves.”
“We can’t publish anything based on theory,” Thomas interjected. “We need facts.”
“So you want to know if Sheriff Woods has asked me for a warrant?” The judge pieced things together quickly.
“Yes.”
“Sheriff Woods is fairly popular around these parts. The people trust her to keep them safe. Having said that, I’m not a politician. I trust you, Max, and I’m happy to do you this favor.
“There’s no warrant, but I can tell you there’s an APB out on a man named Gary Davis. He’s a person of interest in a case the sheriff is looking into, and that’s all I can tell you.”
“Thank you,” Max said. He shook the judge’s hand again. “I owe you for this, Charles.”
“I know,” the judge replied with a smile. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Brooks,” he called as the two men left the room.
“Wow,” Thomas said. “I take it you and the judge are friends?”
“Judge Underhill is everyone’s friend, Thomas. That’s why he’s such a good politician.”
“I thought he wasn’t a politician,” Thomas replied.
“Don’t believe a word of it. He’s the best one there is. He likes to pretend that as a judge he’s somehow above the fray. His position is an elected one, and he’s more involved in local affairs than you might suspect.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Thomas made a mental note to stay on Judge Underhill’s good side. “Whatever the case, we have a name. I’ll find out where Gary Davis lives. If we’re lucky, we could have our crime scene.”
“I’ll go with you,” Max said. “With any luck, the sheriff will be gone by the time we arrive. Let’s stop back at the office so I can pick up another camera.”
I can’t wait to see Jezebel’s face when she reads Thursday’s paper, Thomas thought. A grin spread across his face. “We have work to do.”
***
A storm was brewing.
Hours after Thomas’ discovery, night crept over the barren forest. The dim light of the waxing moon was not enough to penetrate the darkness swimming inside the cave like a vortex.
A ripple ran through the grasses of the lifeless forest, and the animals in close proximity of the cave quickly scurried away. The deformed branches of the trees remained frozen in place.
The blood of the newly dead fed the darkness, giving it form. Form enough to fulfill its task.
It was time.
Hundreds of crows poured out from the confines of the cave. The birds tore through the forest in a whirlwind and formed a
cloud in the night. It was the darkness that kept them and now guided them toward the place where it all began.
The moon shone more brightly over the abandoned pastures of the farm, glowing over the silent cornfield.
Shrieking, the throng of crows descended into the cornfield and swarmed the dead earth below. Thunder coursed through the sky, followed swiftly by a torrent of rain.
Then came a faint echo from below. The echo grew stronger as a force unseen pounded against the wet soil. Finally, a white hand erupted from the ground. Rain dripped down the sharp black nails on the hand’s twisted fingers.
A second hand wrenched itself free of the soil. In the dead of night, a body emerged from his shallow grave. He dragged himself across the mud. Lightning flashed, illuminating mud, flesh, and straw. The corpse opened his eyes. He sought out a puddle of water clear enough to see his reflection in.
The corpse struck out at the puddle with a scream. He battered the reflection with his heel until the mud churned. Then he walked toward the barn, through the rows of pumpkins. The pumpkins glimmered in the moonlight, raindrops sliding down their slick skins. Tearing a pumpkin from the patch, he smashed the bottom against the ground and ripped out the insides. The figure hacked at the shell of the pumpkin with its nails. Within minutes he had holes to see through, and a mouth to breathe.
As the lightning lit up the darkened field, the figure placed the pumpkin over his decayed face.
The walking corpse looked up at the moon with glowing eyes. Then he faded into the darkness.
The Keeper of the Crows was free.
Chapter Seven
Jezebel lunged forward in bed, breathless. Her hands were tightly clenched around sheets drenched in sweat.
“Just a dream,” she whispered to herself. Save for the continual whirling of the fan, the house was totally quiet. “It was just a dream,” she repeated.
The nightmares had started again. Jezebel climbed out from under the sheets. There was no way she was getting back to sleep, no matter how tired she was. She trudged to the kitchen and rubbed her eyes. It was still pitch black outside.
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