Girl With The Origami Butterfly

by Linda Berry

  Dear God!

  The gun exploded. Two ravens spiraled to the ground. The other shot like a missile to the safety of the trees.

  Ann tore down the stairs, out of the barn and across her fields; her boots crushing basil, tomatoes, lettuce. She burst like a big ox through the bordering tree branches and stumbled onto Miko’s cornfield, blood pounding like a war drum in her ears. Two ravens hobbled in the dirt on each side of the tractor, each dragging a wing. Noah stalked one poor raven like a demon, gun aimed at its back, stomping the ground, tormenting the creature.

  “Stop it!” Ann shrieked.

  Noah fired the weapon at the same time her scream pierced the crystalline air.

  The raven exploded into a mass of shredded feathers, some shooting into the air and others gracefully turning and tossing and fluttering on the breeze.

  Noah turned his sight on the other raven, now desperately struggling to take flight, lifting a foot or two before plummeting back to the ground. The creature hobbled frantically toward the safety of the trees, dragging its useless wing across the rich, black earth.

  Cawww! Cawww! Cah. Cah.

  Arthur!

  “Stop!” Ann shrieked. She stumbled through tangled sleeves of dried stalks, willing herself to reach Arthur before Noah unleashed a new round of buckshot. Something moved in her peripheral vision.

  “Don’t shoot!” she screamed.

  Noah bestowed Ann with a long assessing stare. She read fierce determination and malice in his posture. Turning away, he closed the space between himself and Arthur in a few long strides, lifted his shotgun, and aimed it at the distressed raven.

  “No! Don’t!”

  She heard the explosion, felt it reverberate through her body like a cannon blast. The earth seemed to wobble beneath her feet. Then realization set in. The shot didn’t come from Noah’s weapon. The blur at the edge of her vision turned into Miko, aiming a pistol at the sky.

  “Put it down!” Miko yelled.

  Noah locked eyes with his father, and the two engaged in an interminable battle of wills. Ann’s pulse raced. The landscape became a photograph. Silent. Motionless. Finally, Noah shrugged, strode back to the tractor, lowered the shotgun on the floor of the John Deere and resumed work on the field as though there had been no interruption.

  Miko and Ann reached Arthur at the same moment. She fell to her knees and the raven hopped onto her lap with a pitiable squawk, his right wing as bent and useless as a broken kite, his side too bloody for Ann to discern his injuries. “Hello,” Arthur croaked weakly.

  “My God, it talks,” Miko said.

  “Yes. I taught him. Hurry. We need to get him to the vet.”

  Miko nodded, shrugged off his fleece sweatshirt, and gently wrapped Arthur like a baby in a papoose. “I’ll drive. You call ahead.”

  He carried Arthur carefully, and they hurried to an old white pickup truck parked by the barn. Miko transferred Arthur to Ann’s lap, gunned the engine and peeled out of the driveway, wheels spewing dust and gravel. He handed her his cell phone, she stabbed the digits on the pad, and hurriedly related the emergency to the assistant who answered.

  Miko frowned when she handed back the phone. “Please, Ann, leave your gun in the glove compartment.”

  Ann forgot she was armed. If she had remembered, would she have threatened Noah with it? With shaking hands, she unclipped the holster and placed it in the glove box.

  The ride to town was surreal. Ann alternately cooed to Arthur and swiped her tears. The raven’s black eyes shone like obsidian beads, twitching occasionally, signaling he was alive. Ann stole blurry glances at Miko, his gaze trained on the highway, the muscles set stiffly along his jaw, his dry, callused hands gripping the wheel. Their bodies leaned to the left, then to the right. The white lines of the highway rushed up to meet them and vanished beneath the hood. Forest swept by on both sides.

  Miko braked in the veterinarian’s lot and he rounded the truck to open her door.

  Dr. Jacobs met them in the waiting room and gently took Arthur from her arms, then disappeared with his assistant through a swinging door.

  “Evermore! Evermore!” Arthur’s pitiable squawks echoed down the hall.

  Ann stood dazed, Arthur’s blood staining her sweatshirt and jeans. Her perception of the world seemed a bit off kilter; the relationship of physical objects to space out of alignment.

  In this tilted universe, Miko stood next to her as steadfast as a pillar. They had not exchanged a word during the drive, both focused intently on their mission. Odd she thought. He always looked so imposing in his fields, body strong and straight, but standing beside her he was a smaller version of the man anchored in her binoculars, matching her height of five-foot-eight. She peered at his anonymous face, trying to memorize a feature she could use in the future to identify him. His eyebrows were thick and black with a beautiful arch, and his mouth was framed on each side by a deep groove. But what she would remember was his hair—short and stiff and white, with threads of black woven through.

  “Ann, please sit.” Miko gestured toward a row of chairs lining the wall and she sank into the nearest one. “Can I get you coffee?”

  In the corner stood a table stocked with carafes of coffee, teabags, packets of sugar, tiny creamers, disposable cups. This offering of refreshment provided a sense of order, of normalcy, to a room where people waited anxiously for news of injured animals. Would the verdict induce heartbreak, or infinite gratitude, as it did with Bailey only yesterday.

  “Coffee?” he asked again.

  She nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “Please. One each.” The logical part of her mind told her she was perfectly capable of getting her own coffee, while the intuitive side told her she was in a state of shock and needed to be treated gently. She had just witnessed a second act of brutality in as many days, and her mind was reeling. It would take time to find her way back to normal.

  Ann watched Miko cross the room. Despite his slight limp, she sensed strength in the bunched muscles of his compact body. She also sensed his calm. He wore soiled denim overalls over a red plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, forearms ropy, work boots crusted with dirt—yet he exuded an air of dignity. Ann worked at reconciling the man who lived as an image in her binoculars with the life-sized version occupying space in the small room.

  Miko returned with two Styrofoam cups and handed her one. His chair creaked as he settled himself beside her. Stretching out his legs, he crossed one boot over the other. She inhaled his smell—a mix of soil and sweet hay and a hint of motor oil. His fingertips were etched with engine grease and she pictured him working on his farm truck.

  They both sipped coffee.

  “I’m sorry about the bird,” he said in a grave tone.

  “He’s not just a bird. His name is Arthur. And he’s my friend.”

  He held her gaze but she couldn’t discern his expression. Did he think her crazy?

  “Teaching an animal takes time and patience. You must be close,” he said.

  “Very,” she said softly. “He’s visited me daily. For four years.”

  “He’s loyal.”

  “Yes.”

  “I apologize for Noah. He doesn’t appreciate that the life of every creature is sacred. He’s a hunter. He enjoys killing for sport.”

  “What he did today wasn’t sport. It was savage.”

  She heard him slowly inhale.

  “To a gentle soul, it would seem so.” He took a gulp of coffee and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat like a marble. “Growing up on a farm, you get used to seeing where your food comes from. We buy our beef and pork from neighbors who raise animals for slaughter. Many farmers and ranchers kill animals they consider pests. Moles, gophers, mice, rats, and yes, unfortunately, sometimes birds. I will talk to Noah to make sure he leaves the ravens alone.”

  Ann sifted through his words, looking for threads of truth. She bought venison from local hunters, beef and chi
ckens from local ranchers. Animals killed humanely. But what she witnessed in the cornfield today was vengeful. Sadistic.

  “You’ve been through a lot in the last two days,” he continued. “Chief Becker told me what you saw in the woods.”

  Ann’s stomach tightened as her mind shifted to the night of terror.

  “It was a shock to learn there’d been another murder,” he continued. “That young woman was killed in the same area, at the same time of night as my wife. You were there. Did she die the same way as Mimi?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see the crime scene.” She shuddered, not wanting to know. “The way the cops acted, I’m sure they believe it’s the same man.”

  “Three years I’ve lived with this,” he said with a touch of bitterness. “No justice for Mimi. No justice for my family. All the while, knowing a killer’s still out there. Free to kill again. Maybe now they’ll put out more effort to find him, and people will stop pointing the finger at me.”

  “I never believed you did it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, offered as a benediction.

  His dark eyes met hers. “I appreciate hearing that.”

  “Chief Becker is a skilled detective from a big city. She’ll get you the justice you deserve.”

  “We all deserve.” He clenched his jaw, eyes glistening, and looked away.

  Ann was afraid of men, and had not deliberately touched a man in years, other than her son. A quality of decency in her neighbor filtered through her fear. She sensed the rawness of his suffering. His weathered hand rested on his knee, close to hers. Ann found the courage to take his hand in her hands, to cradle it as she would a baby bird before restoring it to its nest. His fingers were rough and callused and foreign.

  Miko didn’t pull away.

  They didn’t look at each other but sat taking comfort in the warmth of touch.

  When she withdrew her hands, Miko spoke, and the tone of his voice sounded lighter. “I had your apple pie for breakfast. It was so good, I ate half of it.”

  Ann flushed with pleasure. “Your beautiful apples inspired me. Such a variety. Pink Pearl. Rustic Gold. You're a gifted farmer.”

  “You are, too. I can smell your herbs when the wind blows from your farm to mine.”

  Ann saw a movement around his mouth and his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, even and white, with three crooked incisors on the bottom, and she knew he was smiling. She had always been able to sense emotion through some unconscious mechanism and resonate with it. She smiled back.

  “Sometime you should come over and see my farm. Get more apples. Some vegetables. I have jeweled yams and Yukon Gold ready to harvest.”

  “I would love to. I’ll make scalloped potatoes and sweet potato pie and save some for you.”

  “Wonderful.” His smile widened.

  “Do you grow tomatoes?”

  “No.”

  “I’m at the end of the season. I need to strip my vines before the frost comes. I’ll bring you some heirlooms. Herbs, too. Do you like basil?”

  “I love basil. I make Caprese salad. Tomato sauce.”

  “You cook?”

  His smile withered. “I used to. Not anymore since Mimi died. It’s not worth the time it takes to cook for one.”

  “I know. I’m alone, too, but I always cook extra for my son. I send Matt home with meals a few times a week.”

  “Lucky man. Noah eats out most nights.”

  She searched her mind for something more to say but the thought of Noah filled her with dread. She despised Miko’s son for watching her house, for shooting her ravens, for touching her inappropriately in her stand at the farmers market. There was something terribly off about him. Hiding her loathing, she asked, “Is your son home for good?”

  Miko shrugged. “That’s up to Noah. How long he wants to do farm work. If he stays, he has to earn his keep and stay out of trouble. I won’t have it any other way. So far, he’s been a big help. He works hard.” He turned his empty cup in his hands, gazing at it as though it were a crystal ball forewarning the future. “I’m not a young man anymore. I don’t want to work this hard forever. The farm’s been in my family for three generations. My daughter doesn’t want to farm, and if Noah doesn’t take over, I’ll be forced to sell.”

  “That would be a shame,” she said sadly. Ann didn’t like change. The thought of her neighbor being replaced by strangers frightened her. But that would be preferable to Noah taking up permanent residence. “I’ll continue with my business for another twenty years,” she said. “It’s not a big enterprise, like yours. My partner, Selena, helps a lot. I don’t know what I’d do without work. I’m not very social.”

  “Me neither. My dogs and chickens are good company.” He chuckled. “They don’t complain as long as they’re fed. It’s been nice to have my son home. With Mimi gone, the house gets too quiet. Too big.”

  Ann heard the warmth in Miko’s voice and recognized his love for his son. She sensed his loneliness, something she also experienced, especially at night. Soon after Mimi’s murder, Noah went to prison. How did Miko cope? Ann recalled his black hair turned white almost overnight. She wished she’d reached out to him back then.

  The door swung open, and the vet’s assistant stepped into the waiting room. Patricia was a stocky woman who dressed like a man, had spiky pink hair, and an amiable personality. “Good news, Ann. Arthur’s gonna pull through. The buckshot only hit his wing. It was broken, but Dr. Jacobs set it. Whether he’ll be able to fly again, time will tell. We’ll keep him here for a few days until he’s well enough to hop around. You’ll have to keep him caged for a while so he doesn’t bang his wing.”

  Ann felt the tension in her shoulders ease up. “No problem. I can do that.”

  “Let me take care of the bill.” Miko rose to his feet and walked with Patricia to the counter, pulling his wallet from a back pocket.

  Ann said nothing. It was only right that Miko should be held accountable for the sins of his son. Her neighbor’s handling of the crisis had been admirable from start to finish. He took control. He knew what to do. Her estimation of him surpassed her imaginings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT WAS 9:00 A.M.

  For the first time since Samantha’s murder, Sidney had gotten a decent night’s sleep and felt reasonably rested. Still, anxiety hummed just below the surface, and would continue to do so until Samantha’s killer was put behind bars. Sidney hadn’t had time to grab breakfast before her meeting with the mayor, and her stomach loudly protested. She drove to Burger Shack, placed her order, parked in the lot, and indelicately wolfed down a hot flaky biscuit stuffed with bacon, eggs, and cheese. Sometimes, nothing hit the spot like greasy fast food.

  It was a cool autumn day with erratic gusts of wind and quick-scudding clouds. Leaves of every shape and color spiraled from the trees and carpeted the earth with vibrant tapestries. Gold and red leaves tumbled onto the hood of the Yukon.

  Sidney pulled out of the lot, drove three blocks down Main Street, and parked in front of the Art Studio. Matt Howard had seen paper sculptures exhibited here, and she hoped to find the source of the origami butterflies. She paused on the sidewalk to admire the paintings and ceramic pots displayed in the window, gratified the studio brought local artists into the public eye. So much talent in the area she’d known nothing about.

  She entered the large room that smelled faintly of oil paint and turpentine. Art of every kind hung on the walls; charcoals, pastels, watercolors, oils—some excellent, some amateurish.

  A man stood facing a canvas on a tall wooden easel, apparently too consumed by his work to notice her. He added vivid color in bold brush strokes to a landscape of Lake Kalapuya and the surrounding mountains. Post-impressionist style, she remembered from her high school art class. From the back, the artist looked like a young man, lean build, broad shoulders, light on his feet. He wore beige linen pants, a blue cotton shirt with the tails out, and boat shoes with no socks. His dark hair curled around his
collar, lightly salted with gray.

  “That’s beautiful,” she said. “Reminds me of Van Gogh.”

  He turned, startled, brown eyes wide, and then he smiled warmly. “High praise. Van Gogh is one of my gods.” His features were pleasantly arranged in a tanned face, and the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes told her he was around forty. His gaze darted to her shield and gun and back to her face. He laid his brush on his palette and extended a hand. “Chief Becker, I presume?”

  “Yes. Are you the owner?”

  “David Kane, at your service.”

  His fingers were strong and stained with specks of paint. She glanced at his other hand. No wedding band.

  “Haven’t seen you at a Chamber meeting, Chief.”

  “I work evenings. I’ve meant to stop by and introduce myself, but you know, been busy fighting crime.” She glanced around at canvases on other easels, all in various stages of completion. “You certainly bring out the best in your students.”

  “I do my humble best. I can only mine the gold that’s in the shaft.” David raised his brows questioningly. “Are you here to talk art? I can’t help but wonder about the timing. Sammy’s murder, I mean.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Certainly. She took classes here this summer.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his tone and expression somber. “A tragedy. Beautiful young woman. Frightening to think she was murdered. One of the attractions of Garnerville is low crime. That’s why I moved here from San Francisco.”

  “Garnerville is a safe community. Our murder rate is nominal. Only four in the last decade.” She didn’t want to defend her town by citing statistics. No murder was defensible. “Low crime is why I took the job of police chief. I moved back here from Oakland two years ago.”