Snowbirds of Prey

by Ward Parker

  She stood in front of the dishwasher and willed it to open. It was an ancient-looking model. Nowadays, the latest dishwashers had such advanced technology you could probably open them with your phone. But that was still not as cool as telekinesis.

  Focus, Missy.

  She tried to empty her mind of all thoughts except the vision of the latch clicking and the door swinging downward. A bird sang outside. She tried to ignore it. Palm fronds scratched the window in the breeze. She forced herself to block all sensory input.

  Concentrate.

  There was only silence. There was only darkness. There was only emptiness. And in the center of it all, a dishwasher door slowly lowered itself until it rested in the horizontal position.

  Missy opened her eyes. The door really was open now!

  She took a deep breath and moved on to Step Two while she was still in the zone.

  And the bottom dish rack, filled with clean dishes, rolled out a few seconds later. The process was getting easier now. Though the trickier operation came next: moving a plate from the rack and onto the counter.

  This time, she didn’t close her eyes because she needed to follow what was going on. She set her gaze on a white dinner plate all the way to the right, standing adjacent to the cutlery basket. She envisioned it lifting vertically until it rose above the counter, rotating to a horizontal position, moving over the counter, and slowly descending to rest on the laminate surface (no, she didn’t have granite or quartz countertops, but don’t judge).

  She ushered all her strength and willpower. Finally, the plate began to ascend.

  But not just the one plate—all the dishes in the lower rack rose into the air. In her confusion, her concentration faltered.

  And all the dishes fell, clattering upon the dishwasher rack, half of them bouncing off and shattering upon the floor.

  Okay, she thought, a little more practice is needed. But her head was aching from all the effort.

  Instead, of cleaning up the mess manually, she decided to attempt one of the new spells she’d been working on. It was the very literally named Sweeper Spell. It wasn’t the pure telekinesis she had used in her attempt to empty the dishwasher. Rather, it combined that ability with earth magick. She supposed most witches performed it without possessing any innate telekinetic abilities, but she wanted to hone her gifts and be better than most witches.

  She focused, breathed deeply, and chanted the incantation. Simultaneously, she grasped a power charm in her hand and formed a mental image of the desired outcome.

  And it worked. The pieces and shards of porcelain all began sliding across the floor, moving at the same speed, slowly at first and then faster. They slid toward each other and the entire mass began swirling in a circle. Soon it rose from the floor like a miniature cyclone of broken plates and moved to the trash can a few feet away. The cyclone rose off the floor, hovered over the open can, and then dissipated. All the pieces of the plates dropped neatly into the trash.

  Missy was thrilled. She was finally getting the knack of magick and harnessing her power. It was a waste of time, she realized, to attempt telekinesis alone when combining it with magick was so much more effective.

  Rather than resting, she had some sleuthing to do. After microwaving a mug of water to make a quick cup of tea, she sat at the kitchen table with her laptop and looked online for stories about the mayor’s daughter, Taylor Donovan. A nice, high-resolution photo was available of the pretty young woman smiling with every bit of charm she had.

  Missy printed out the photo and drove back to the beach.

  24

  Support Your Local Businesses

  The Cone of Uncertainty was named after the feature on NOAA weather maps so familiar to Floridians: the possible path of a hurricane, becoming wider like a cone farther in time and distance from the present position. Locals jokingly referred to it as “the Cone of Death.”

  The Cone of Uncertainty was not a good name for an ice cream shop or any eating establishment, never mind the wordplay. The little restaurant decorated its walls with old newspaper clippings of hurricanes that hit Florida over the years and cheap reproductions of Winslow Homer shipwreck paintings. Each day, the shop featured a different “flavor of uncertainty” which you could buy at fifty percent off if you didn’t mind not knowing what flavor you would get.

  Missy arrived late in the afternoon, and hoped the night crew had already begun their shift. She asked the pimply teenaged boy at the counter if he recognized the woman in the photo.

  “I think I saw her on TV. Isn’t she in the reality show with the naked people eating bugs?”

  “Have you seen her here eating ice cream?”

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  You’ve got a great future ahead of you, sport, she thought. “Can I speak to your manager?”

  A wispy young woman emerged from the back. She was not much older than the kid at the counter. Missy made her inquires and showed the photo.

  “Oh, yeah, Taylor, the mayor’s daughter. It’s so sad what happened to her. She was in here that night with her friends,” the manager said. “It was really late. They were kind of drunk.”

  “Have you ever noticed an old man hanging around in the parking lot? Really pale skin. Pot belly. His eyes were probably glowing a bit?”

  “Yeah, the old pervert. Has he done something bad?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Missy said. “Does he harass your customers?”

  “No, he just stares at them creepily. It’s weird, but he ignores them when they arrive and walk inside, but when they come out, he’s like a horny hound dog. Especially if they’re licking an ice cream cone. We’ve called the police a couple of times, but the old pervert is always gone when they get here.”

  “Did he follow Miss Donovan when she left?”

  “No. Some scary-looking biker showed up and she left with him.”

  “You saw her get on his motorcycle safely without being accosted by the pervert?”

  “Yeah. I looked outside because the bike was so noisy when it drove off.”

  Missy thanked her and was about to leave when something bothered her like an itch.

  “The guy on the motorcycle, have you ever seen him before?”

  “No. And he didn’t look like the kind of guy who hangs out in ice cream shops,” the manager said. “What does he have to do with the pervert?”

  “The old man isn’t really a pervert. I’m friends with his daughter,” Missy lied, “and she’s afraid her father is considered a suspect in Taylor’s murder. I’m just helping her out, asking some questions. Hopefully her dad didn’t do it.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  The scary-looking biker was beginning to concern her. He could be the murderer after all, though she couldn’t imagine why he would make the murder look like the work of a vampire, unless he was one of those vampire cultists. Or if he knew the secret of the vampires of Squid Tower and wanted to cast suspicion upon them rather than himself, just as the vampires were accusing the werewolves of doing.

  “What about the friends who were with the mayor’s daughter?” Missy asked. “Do you know who they were, or any way I could find out? I really need to speak to them, just to ask a few questions.”

  “Sure. Taylor was with Ashley and I can’t remember the other one’s name. I knew them from school. Ashley lives in a condo nearby. I can text her your number and if she’s willing to talk to you, you’ll hear from her.”

  Missy thanked her and left. The manager watched her, standing at the window next to the decorative hurricane flags.

  The parking lot was full on this bright, sunny afternoon. An ocean breeze was picking up, slipping between the condo towers across the street. But just the thought of Schwartz lurking outside in an empty parking lot late at night made her feel uncomfortable.

  Missy met Ashley at her condo the next day, after Ashley returned home from work and just before Missy began the home visits of her elderly patients. It was a one-bedroom, not large but definit
ely luxurious. Light hardwood floors, stainless-steel appliances, quartz countertops, marble tiles in earth tones. The ocean view from the living areas was stunning.

  “I love your place,” Missy said. “Where did you say you work?”

  “An event-planning agency. And yes, Daddy bought this place for me. As an investment.” Ashley assessed Missy up and down. She wasn’t overly impressed. “Now what did you want to know about Taylor?”

  Ashley had long, full, auburn hair and vacant brown eyes. She looked like the typical twenty-something with rich parents: pretty, thin, expensive clothes, expensive hair, and the personality that goes with them. The kind of woman who looked down on Missy as not cool enough when she was her age.

  “I want to know who killed her,” Missy said, “and I don’t trust the police. I hear she was last seen leaving with a guy on a motorcycle?”

  “Yeah, Kyle. She met him when she was in recovery and they had a fling. She’s always been in love with an a-hole named David who dumped her when she fell into addiction. She saw him at a party the night she was killed. He was with a girlfriend and Taylor took it very badly. On our way to the ice cream shop after the party, I overhead her talking with Kyle on the phone, begging him to pick her up. She said something about getting some Reboot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Some new synthetic drug that’s been going around. Bad news. She was using it, among a lot of other crap, before she went into recovery.”

  “Why would Kyle help her get it if he’s in recovery?”

  “Because he’s a dirtbag. He never fully left the druggie world and now he’s even dealing, I hear.”

  “If he’s a dealer, why didn’t he deliver the drugs to her? Why did he take her somewhere to get it?”

  “Because there’s only one guy in town who sells Reboot, according to Taylor. Even Kyle isn’t bad-ass enough to handle the kind of people who use that stuff. I’m guessing he brought her to the guy. He lives in Seaweed Manor just up the beach.”

  “And how do you know this?” Missy asked.

  “Because I like to party now and then. The dude sells everything, including pot and coke and stuff my friends like. He’s like a retail store—you just show up whenever you want and buy what you want. The gate guards there never give you a hard time.”

  “Do you think Taylor went to visit this guy with Kyle.”

  “That’s what it sounded like based on what I overhead her say on the phone.”

  It was a good bet that Seaweed Manor was the last place Taylor went, Missy thought. After all, her body was found on the beach nearby. She didn’t know the time of death like the police probably did. She could have been killed at the drug dealer’s condo and moved to the beach. She could have been killed right after she left by Kyle or by some other druggie. She could have been hanging out on the beach doing her Reboot and been killed by just about anyone. But Missy had a gut feeling that Taylor’s visit to the drug dealer had led to her demise one way or another.

  “Just speculating here,” Missy said, “but do you think Kyle killed Taylor?”

  “He was the first person I thought of,” Ashley said. “And Cindi thought so, too. I could see him wanting to get it on with Taylor for old times’ sake and she says no because she hasn’t gotten over David. So Kyle freaks out and kills her. Yeah, I could see it happening that way.”

  “Any reason he made it look like a vampire did it?”

  “Vampire? What do you mean?”

  Missy explained the exsanguination and the throat wounds.

  Ashley snorted with contempt. “He probably stabbed her in the neck with a screwdriver or something and hit her jugular vein.”

  Missy didn’t mention there was no blood found at the scene. She doubted Ashley would have a convincing theory about it.

  “What’s the dealer’s name?” Missy asked.

  “Chainsaw.”

  “How do I get in touch with him?”

  “He’s in A-305. Just show up. Cash only, of course. He’s there most nights.”

  It was not the best night to visit Seaweed Tower. Missy hadn’t even realized it was a full moon until the howl of a wolf startled her when she got out of her car. Sure enough, a full moon shone low in the sky above the ocean, its long luminous reflection stretched across the churning water like an arrow pointing toward the condos.

  Dark shapes slipped across the water’s surface. She walked to the dune crossover to get a better view. Surfers—eight of them—wearing wetsuits, carving on the faces of five-foot-tall waves.

  No, they weren’t wearing wetsuits. They were naked and the dark material covering them was their fur. It was the werewolf surfing club. She recognized the Roarkes, who were actually pretty good surfers for people their age, as well as a few others whose names escaped her. One of them wiped out. The others rode the same wave with aplomb, howling with bravado, jumping off their boards as they slid to a stop in the shallows.

  Missy quickly turned away. Even thick pelts of fur did not sufficiently cover saggy senior private parts.

  She headed for Building A, but hesitated. Was it too risky to be here with werewolves running around? The owners’ association here had the same rule the vampires had about no hunting allowed on the property. But just in case, she grabbed her scrubs top, with its Acceptance Home Care logo, and slipped it on over her blouse. Even if any werewolves didn’t recognize her, hopefully this would remind them not to eat the hired help.

  The open breezeway leading to 305 was empty, shadows pooling between the yellow exterior lights. As she walked past each condo, the windows facing the breezeway had their blinds closed, but interior light seeped out. Hard rock blared from 303 and she smelled frying hamburger and onion.

  It wasn’t just the noise and rowdiness that differentiated Seaweed Manor from Squid Tower—it was the cooking smells. There were never such smells where the vampires lived, of course. There were almost no scents at all, because the vampires’ ultra-sensitive sense of smell led to rules outlawing strongly scented cleaning solutions. Even the chlorine in the pool was barely noticeable there.

  She reached the door to 305, hesitated, and then rang the doorbell. Chimes to the tune of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells” rang, but no answer. She knocked. No answer.

  Was that a voice inside?

  She knocked again.

  “Help me,” someone cried faintly.

  25

  Eau de Wet Dog

  Matt had been certain he was going to die right then and there.

  The creature snarling in the shadows rose until it towered over him. The dentures that had fallen on Matt’s shoe must have belonged to Chainsaw, but where was he? This creature must have killed him in one of the bedrooms. And now it was Matt’s turn to die.

  The creature lunged, its front paws punching Matt in the chest so hard he went flying backwards into the bedroom, landing on the bed. The mattress quivered like a bowl of Jell-O.

  “A waterbed?” Matt said in amazement. “Really? People still use waterbeds?”

  A tremendous roar like a tree grinder came from the doorway as the monster stepped into the light. It was a wolf with a vaguely hominid appearance standing on its hind legs, covered in black and silver hair, with very un-wolf-like genitalia. Actually, the creature looked a little bit like Chainsaw, just bigger, stronger, and much more dangerous. It even had a stud in its tongue like the drug dealer.

  The monster came closer to the bed, its nostrils flaring as it took in Matt’s scent. Matt took in the monster’s scent, and it was bad—eau de wet dog and human armpit.

  As Matt pushed himself away on the roiling waterbed, the creature leaned in, its face just a couple of feet from Matt’s. The eyes below a bony ridge were bloodshot but looked human. The brown fur covering its head was thick but graying around the mouth. Half a dozen or so long white whiskers stuck out from its slightly elongated muzzle that looked like a wolf’s but wasn’t as long.

  It snarled and bared its fangs—four canine teeth, but the rest of the
mouth was toothless. It dawned on Matt that it was probably Chainsaw’s mouth. The canine teeth had grown and pushed out the dentures that had replaced his other teeth.

  The canine teeth themselves, however, were more than capable of ripping out a human throat.

  “Chainsaw, is that you? Are you a werewolf?” Matt asked.

  Chainsaw growled at the stupid question and grabbed Matt’s neck with both hands (or were they paws?), lifting him off the bed, squeezing as Matt dangled in the air.

  Matt couldn’t breathe. Spots swirled in front of his eyes. Then his vision narrowed, surrounded by a circle of darkness. He struggled to free himself, kicking the Chainsaw-creature.

  The monster growled in frustration and tossed Matt against the wall, denting the drywall above the headboard. Matt collapsed onto the heaving sea of the waterbed, gasping for air.

  Chainsaw stared at Matt, seeming to weigh a decision. He shook his hairy head in disgust and left the room. Before Matt could recover and get off the bed, the werewolf returned with a bicycle lock and cable. He wrapped the cable around Matt’s neck and through an opening in the metal headboard between the post and a vertical slat.

  During this operation, the monster’s hairy torso pressed into Matt’s face. Its feral, unclean stench singed Matt’s nose. Chainsaw’s paw-hands were surprisingly dexterous, despite having long claws instead of fingernails. The hands were covered with thick fur but were still human-like with opposable thumbs. They pulled the cable ends together and the lock snapped shut. Chainsaw patted him down, pricking him with the claws, and found the phone in his pocket, tossing it into the corner far from Matt.

  The monster then slid the window open, howled with pent-up energy, and jumped out. The bedroom was on the beach side with no hallway outside and two stories below it. Why he didn’t just walk out the front door would remain a mystery.

  Matt lay there for hours. Or at least it felt like hours. He had no idea, since he didn’t wear a watch and normally relied on his phone, which had ended up in the corner of the room, to check the time. He had plenty of it to wonder why Chainsaw hadn’t killed him. And to study the interior design of the bedroom. It was illuminated by the single lamp with a bare bulb on the dresser and tastefully decorated with old posters of oiled-up, naked women on motorcycles hanging above the piles of dirty clothes on the floor.