Jezebel could hardly bring herself to believe anyone would sleep in that place.
“But I’m distracting you with my prattle, I can see. What brings you here?”
“An item was found at a crime scene I was investigating. Something very old. It was something I hadn’t seen in a long time. I knew if anyone could help me determine where it came from, it was you.”
“You are too kind,” Durer said as he watched her. Jezebel could tell he was intrigued. “What item was it?”
“It was a scarecrow,” she finally said after a slight pause. She stopped. “I expected you to laugh.”
“Why would I?” asked Durer. He seemed completely unfazed.
Jezebel wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Can you describe the scarecrow for me?” he continued. “There must be a reason why you sought me out in particular.”
She took a picture out of her wallet and placed it on the counter. “I thought I had seen it before—or something like it. But I have to be sure.”
A strange look came over the proprietor’s face as he looked at the picture. For a moment, Jezebel thought he was about to grin. “You mentioned you saw it before. What exactly did the scarecrow remind you of?”
Jezebel shied away from telling this man what she really thought. She kept her words impersonal and casual. “When I was younger, there was a boy who made scarecrows. It was his hobby. Many farmers bought them from him. The scarecrows sprung up all over the town. I thought maybe you might have one, by some chance.”
“And what was the name of the boy?” Durer asked in a hushed voice. He studied her closer than ever.
“Salem,” she said. “Salem Alistair.”
“Salem,” he repeated in a whisper. “Come with me, Miss Woods. I have something I would like to show you.”
Jezebel followed the old storekeeper down an aisle of books leading to a winding staircase near the back of a store. The two walked down the staircase.
“What is this place?” Jezebel asked as Durer opened a door. “I never knew this was down here.”
He replied with a thin smile, “This is my special place. I keep only my rarest and most fascinating possessions in the cellar.”
He flipped on a light, revealing a cluttered, colorless room filled with even more peculiar objects. Many of the books on the shelves were about New Age and the occult, and there were several unfamiliar charms and symbols hanging from a shelf.
“Don’t mind those,” Durer said. “I’ve long been interested in spirituality. It is part of the culture, after all.”
Jezebel let the comment pass, as she did not fully understand what he meant. An image flashed through her mind of Durer trying to lock her inside the cellar, and chill bumps covered her arms. At times like this, she was glad she was allowed to carry a gun.
“Over there,” Durer said. The old man pointed to a shelf near the back of the room.
Jezebel gasped. She hoped the storekeeper might have come into possession of one of the scarecrows, but she never would have guessed this. Sitting on the shelf were five hideous scarecrows.
“This is what you’re looking for. You’ll notice that all of them are different. You will also no doubt recognize the design as similar to the picture you showed me.”
“They’re horrifying.”
Durer smirked. “Some might call them that. I regard them as works of art, expressions of the darker part of a young man’s soul.”
“Salem gave these to you?”
The storekeeper cackled. “Not exactly. In the beginning I was very interested in the young Mr. Alistair. We spoke often. Like me, he shared an interest in the supernatural. I believe I frightened him in the end, and he stopped coming by my store. I acquired these scarecrows from others, most-ly farmers who purchased them from the lad. When they saw the price I offered for them, they sold the scarecrows gladly. Salem never charged much for them, I believe.”
“Salem designed the scarecrow we found,” Jezebel said aloud, as much to herself as to the man watching her. Durer led her back up the stairs.
“Before you are on your way, there is one thing I would very much like to know.”
“Yes?” Jezebel asked.
“What sort of crime scene did you find one of these scarecrows at?”
“I can’t comment on that,” she said. “And now I really need to be going.”
Durer remained nearly motionless. “It must be fairly serious then, judging by your demeanor. Can you imagine why one of these scarecrows would be at such a place? Just a thought.”
“Good day, Mr. Durer. Thank you for your time.”
“No, thank you, Sheriff Jezebel Woods,” Percy Durer said. “Perhaps we will meet again soon.”
The bell sounded again as she left the store.
“Wow,” Jezebel said once she was within the confines of her police cruiser. “That was even creepier than I remembered.”
Just as with the Thistlewood forensic information, she was now filled with more questions. Durer’s question reverberated in her head. What did a scarecrow made by Salem Alistair have to do with the murders of Jeffrey Daniels and Mary and Ben Davis?
This day is filled with old memories, she thought. I need to check the case files on Salem Alistair when I get back to the station. Ironically, since she had become sheriff, she had never looked into that particular case, despite her personal investment—or perhaps because of it. After all, it was over twenty years old. The disappearance of Salem Alistair was a mystery that was never solved.
Now it was dangerously close to being reopened.
***
Logan Randall removed his gloves and carefully applied sanitizer to each hand. The wind picked up, which chilled the air of the hill he was climbing. He ignored the wind easily; the deputy’s focus was elsewhere.
A day of searching yielded no visible results. Even though he wasn’t sure what he would do if he actually found Gary, Logan was disappointed his friend hadn’t tried to contact him. If Gary was on foot, it was possible he didn’t have a phone. He thought of the blood on the floor of the house, and the deputy wondered if Gary was injured. Perhaps he was dead already.
That might even make things easier for me. Just as Logan opened the door to his cruiser, his cell phone rang. “Hello?” he said after recognizing the number.
“Any sign of him yet?”
“Not a trace. It’s like he’s gone invisible.”
“That’s impossible,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “There have to be some footprints somewhere, or something.”
“If there are, I’ll find them.”
“You have to. If this gets out, it could destroy us both and everything we’ve worked hard to create.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Logan, you have to be prepared to deal with Gary when you find him.”
“What do you mean, ‘deal with’ him?”
“You know exactly what I mean. I don’t know if Gary killed Jeffrey Daniels or not, but either way, what he knows puts us all at risk.”
“So you want me to kill him?” Logan said, as if asking for permission.
“If it comes to that. You can ask Rick for help if you need it. We’re all in this together, Logan. Now find him.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Eight
He was lost. Gary dropped to his knees in exhaustion. Sounds and sights blurred together as he drifted in and out of consciousness. What day was it? After traveling for so long, he couldn’t be sure. He crawled to the creek and gulped down as much water as his weary body could handle. His instincts told him to press forward, but Gary could not muster the energy to move.
They stalked him at night. Somehow, they always found him. So far he had managed to elude them. That might not be the case much longer. Gary’s injuries were getting worse with time.
He needed medical care and food. Gary’s stomach rumbled with hunger. Even though they would be looking for him, it was worth the risk. Survival was the only t
hing on his mind now. He felt trapped in a strange nightmare, unable to wake up. At night he scrambled through the woods, rifle in hand. During the day he could feel the eyes of the crows following him.
Most of all, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the death of his family was his fault. Perhaps the best course of action would be to admit everything to the police. What else did he have to lose?
A horn sounded in the distance. Was he close to the road? Gary slowly picked himself up.
As always, the crows followed.
***
“I’m sorry,” Max said into his office phone, grinning. “The story is an exclusive. You’ll have to read about it in Hollow Happenings.”
Thomas shook his head once again at the name of the newspaper. Corny though it was, if the paper propelled him back into the big leagues, he would never laugh at it again.
“You’re a genius,” Max said as he placed the phone in its cradle. “Without a doubt, this will be the biggest story in the history of this newspaper. The best part is, there’s still more to come.”
A few months ago, Thomas had persuaded Max to start a website for Hollow Happenings. The traffic was slow, which was expected, but the web address now afforded them a unique opportunity. When Thomas finished his story, they were able to send it online to every news agency in the region. In addition to being seen in Gray Hollow, the chilling tale of the murders would be read by people across the state.
“Thank you,” Thomas said seriously. “I mean it. If you hadn’t hired me . . .”
“Don’t mention it,” Max replied. “The way I see it, I owe you one. This story hasn’t been in print over two hours, and already our phones are ringing off the hook.”
I bet the phones are ringing off the hook in the sheriff’s office as well, Thomas thought with a smile.
“Let’s not get carried away, boss. There’s still a lot of tough work ahead of us. As far as we know, Gary Davis isn’t in custody yet, and we don’t have the slightest idea what his motives are.”
“Leave the motives to the police. I just got off the phone with the publisher of The Capital. This could be bigger than we thought, Thomas.”
Thomas could feel the excitement radiating from his boss. All of the nervousness Max experienced in the hospital had vanished. Unlike Thomas, Max wasn’t hoping to be snatched away by a prominent media outlet. He was passionate about one thing: bolstering the circulation of the small town newspaper he already ran.
After working with Max one-on-one for several months, Thomas was starting to learn what made the man tick. Since there were only two full-time staff members of Hollow Happenings, they were in frequent proximity. It was hard to spend so much time with someone and not get to know him.
Like Thomas, Max was not originally from Gray Hollow. Once he graduated from a community college in the Midwest, the editor became a reporter for a large newspaper in Springfield. He worked at the paper for nine years, until one day he came home to a note from his wife and an empty house. Opting for a slower pace, Max left his career and his former life behind when he moved to Gray Hollow. Max grew to love working in the tiny community and threw himself into his work. When he took over as owner and editor, he worked tirelessly to revive the failing paper. That was probably the only reason he hired a scandal-ridden reporter like Thomas.
“I’m going to be honest,” Max had said when he hired him. “I’m not just hiring you for your skill, I’m banking on your notoriety to pick up a few readers.”
Thomas came to admire Max’s courteousness and relaxed demeanor. Both were characteristics highly unusual for a newspaper editor anywhere. Max genuinely loved Gray Hollow and its people. He never married again; Thomas suspected that he was still in love with his ex-wife. But that was in the past. Hollow Happenings was Max’s life now. A revival of the newspaper’s local popularity would literally embody the realization of all of his dreams.
The phone rang again.
“I’ve got to take this,” Max said, practically skipping back to his office. Thomas decided to keep his cynicism to himself for once and let Max enjoy the moment. After returning to his own desk, he decided to continue his break a moment longer before jumping back into the investigation.
That’s more like it, he thought as he stared at his computer screen. There were twenty-five messages in his inbox already. The story was already big; the fact that his name was attached to it helped even more. Despite his fall from grace, Thomas’ infamy would help the story spread.
“Wait a second,” he muttered. He frowned when he began reading the tenth email. The email was from a television news reporter in Springfield named Chuck Howard.
It’s a little too early for the TV crews, Thomas thought. The idea was unsettling, and for good reason. At this stage in the investigation, it would be all too easy to get scooped by an ambitious television reporter with resources Thomas no longer possessed. The email was polite, but Thomas had no doubt that if this Chuck Howard became involved things would get messy. It would turn into a competition—and print rarely fared well against television media.
Even though the email was tentative, Thomas knew the fact that Howard had jumped on it so early was not a good sign. He sighed and quickly sent a delicately worded response designed to diminish the reporter’s curiosity.
The phone rang again.
“Max,” Thomas called out, amused. “Your adoring public demands more answers!”
He peered through the open blinds to the editor’s office. Max was still on the phone. Buzzing on Thomas’ desk was his own cell.
“Hello?” he asked, picking up the phone.
“Thomas, it’s me. Is it true?”
“Eve?” Of all the people he expected to have heard of the story, he would never have guessed this. “How did you hear about it?” Thomas managed, fumbling for words.
“You’re not as cut off from your old friends as you think,” she said. “When the words ‘Thomas Brooks’ and ‘murder’ appear in the same article, some people are bound to notice.”
She must have checked into me after I used her as a source for the license plate, he realized.
“What do you want?” His voice sounded colder than he intended.
“To talk. I’ve been thinking about us since you called me.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Thomas replied.
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Everything. New York. Working for a real paper.”
“Maybe,” he said after a pause. “Gray Hollow is starting to grow on me though.”
“Is that what this story is about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I read your article, and I have to ask. Is everything in your story factual?”
“What? Of course it is!”
“With your history, you know there are bound to be questions.”
“We’ve been over this. My sources lied to me. It was one time. Once. I’ve suffered for it long enough. How many times do you have to bring this up?”
“There’s no need to get so defensive. Believe me, I feel sorry for you. It’s doubtful I would last ten days in a place like that.”
“So what is this about? I’ve got work to do. I suspect you do, too.”
“Like I said, I wanted to talk. You may find this hard to understand, but you’re not the only one with regrets.”
What does that mean? Thomas wondered. Was she sincere, or was she after something else? After all they had been through, he had a hard time trusting her.
A prolonged silence occurred as he waited for her to finish.
“If you need any more help on this, Thomas, please let me know. Call me.”
“I will,” Thomas replied mechanically. He wasn’t sure he meant it.
***
The air was unusually warm for the fall season. Sunlight beamed down from the cloudless blue sky. Weather so perfect seemed made for relaxation. Unfortunately, Jezebel didn’t have that luxury.
Things wer
e not exactly going her way. Hours of working late finally caught up with her, and the sheriff stumbled out of bed over an hour late that morning. To make matters worse, she was forced to deal with a case of domestic abuse before even making it to the station.
“Jeez, lady, are you trying to kill me? I’m dying back here!”
Jezebel kept her jaw clenched tightly shut and mobilized every ounce of energy to repress her anger. She was almost to the breaking point. It didn’t help that Eric Sizemore, the man she arrested for spousal abuse, wouldn’t stop badgering her.
“For God’s sake, at least put the window down!”
“The air conditioning is working fine. If you have an aversion to being handcuffed and incarcerated in the back of a police vehicle, then I suggest you avoid giving your wife black eyes.”
“This isn’t Constitutional. Torture’s illegal.”
Jezebel turned around, her eyes flashing with anger. “Mr. Sizemore, you’ve been told you have the right to remain silent. I highly recommend you exercise it.” She sighed deeply and returned her attention to the road. She slowed the car down when she neared the town square. Ordinarily she didn’t mind waiting for the pedestrians to cross the street; it gave her a chance to wave at the people she recognized. But today she couldn’t wait to get out of this car and into the office.
On the bright side, at least this day can’t get any worse.
Then the station came into view.
“What on earth?” she muttered. Several people were waiting outside the police station, and the parking lot was full. She could see Logan Randall arguing with one man next to the front door. Reluctant to be caught in the crowd until she knew what was going on, Jezebel pulled into the back of the station. She prayed there hadn’t been another murder.
Eric Sizemore allowed himself to be led into the station easily, perhaps intimidated by the crowd out front. Most wife-beaters weren’t too keen on publicity. When she walked into the front of the station, the room was filled with the sound of ringing phones. Deputy Markham was seated at the desk, where he was attempting to manage all of the lines.
The Keeper of the Crows Page 10