The Keeper of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “What a stupid holiday,” he muttered before sneezing from the dust.

  Still, if it will shut the kid up, maybe it’ll get Mary to shut up too.

  He smiled at the thought. Gary had never been a very sentimental man. Farming involved making a living the hard way, and it was a tough life. His son, Ben, had no way of knowing that; Gary provided for him his whole life.

  I work myself to the bone, he thought while wiping soiled hands against a formerly white t-shirt. And for what?

  When he finished his chores on the farm early, Gary expected that Mary would be happy to see him before Ben got home from school. Instead, she sent him out scouring the dark barn for Halloween decorations.

  “Halloween’s still more than two weeks away,” he had protested—for all the good it did him. He sneezed again, his nose crinkling at the intake of stale air.

  “Now where did I put that light?” After spending almost two full minutes feeling around for the light bulb, Gary pulled down on the chain. Nothing happened. After years of disuse, the light bulb had finally gone bad. Now it was just something else around the farm needing to be replaced.

  Great. Now I have to do this in the dark.

  Gary rarely ventured into the room at the back of the barn, which always made him feel claustrophobic. Since the room was just large enough to store Mary’s Christmas and other holiday decorations, he had the perfect excuse to leave it abandoned most of the time.

  After allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows, Gary looked under the wooden cabinets and went through stacks of crates. He separated out the Christmas decorations before finally opening the crate containing orange lights and glow-in-the-dark pumpkins.

  “It’s about time,” he muttered, setting the crate aside. He went deeper into the room, combing through the older decorations. The uneven wood of the table felt unsettling to his touch. Gary moved a sheet out of the way as he looked over things stored away so long ago he had forgotten them. He moved his hand under another sheet, one obscuring a man-sized figure.

  Something rustled underneath the sheet, brushing up against his fingers. Startled, Gary stumbled back. The sheet fell down off the table, and a black crow fluttered quickly out of the barn.

  “Get out of here,” Gary yelled after it. If only it was hunting season, he would have had his gun nearby.

  Gary looked up, only to find himself staring into a pair of sinister eyes. This time he was not so quick to laugh off the feeling of apprehension. He stared at the straw scarecrow that rested uncovered on the wooden counter against the wall. Gary hadn’t seen that particular scarecrow in a long time, but he remembered it all too well.

  Gary stared at the wide stitched smile, which seemed to be grinning at him.

  It’s just a scarecrow, he thought. He grabbed the figure and turned to take it outside with the rest of the decorations. As he started toward the door, he caught a glimpse of its face in a sliver of light; its eyes still appeared to gaze into his. Unnerved, Gary decided to leave the scarecrow in the barn and replaced it on the tabletop.

  “Maybe next year,” the farmer muttered. Gary shut the door to the back room, crate in hand. He hoped Mary would be appeased.

  A few minutes after Gary left, something started scraping against the door. The scratching sound continued for a few moments before slowly ebbing away.

  ***

  “Let me get this straight. The first murder in God knows how long, and you want to sit on the story?”

  Thomas cringed at the words but tried to keep his expression emotionless. He had rarely been accused of timidity. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure it was a murder yet, but he needed to sell his boss on the story.

  “That’s right. Sheriff Woods thinks it might cause a panic.”

  “Cause a—” The editor threw his hands up in the air. “I would expect this sort of thing from an intern. Of course she’s going to say that.”

  Thomas sighed. He knew this was going to be a tough sell. Like him, Max Harper needed a big story. It was a difficult time for all media in general, let alone a rural newspaper with declining readership.

  “Trust me, I understand. My gut tells me to wait on this, though. This is more than a simple mugging. You should have seen the man’s throat.”

  Max started to speak, then fell silent. The editor was a husky man, who might have been a linebacker if not for severe asthma. Thomas could see the man’s fingers unconsciously reach for the inhaler in his shirt pocket.

  “Trust you? That’s rich, coming from you.” Thomas glared at him but remained silent. Max saw the look on his face and bit his lip. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. You’ve done great work since you arrived. I do trust you.”

  “Then listen to me now. If we do this right, Sheriff Woods is offering full access to the investigation. She knows I have experience handling this kind of thing.” It was an embellishment, of course. Jezebel had offered no such arrangement, at least not yet, but Thomas felt more comfortable lying to his pushover boss than the formidable sheriff.

  Max collapsed into his chair and shook his head. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he muttered. “Fine. Have it your way. Just don’t expect me to let the rest of your workload slide.”

  Thomas grinned. “You’re the boss,” he said cheerfully, heading out the office door.

  “And, Brooks,” Max called after him. “Keep me in the loop on this. I want a report tomorrow. Remember, that property tax story is still due before you leave.”

  “Absolutely.”

  That was easier than I thought. Thomas secretly thought the editor was a little intimidated by his time at the New York Chronicle. For all his bluster, Max was very easy to get along with.

  Now, he thought, what to do about Jezebel Woods? The truth was, he was in a bit of a gray area legally—though that had never bothered him before. There was no statute barring an officer of the law from sharing and receiving information from a reporter, but such collaborations happened more rarely than conveyed in film and television. Thomas’ unofficial participation in the investigation was largely within the sheriff’s discretion, so he needed to find a reason for her to keep him involved. He could do that by showing her he actually could help her. He might be morally unscrupulous, but he was a darn good reporter, even if other people seemed to have forgotten that fact.

  He sat down at his desk and made room amongst the mess for his notepad. After firing up his computer, the reporter stared at the notes he made earlier. He immediately spotted something that bothered him.

  “That’s just between us, right?” Al Pittman had asked him during their phone conversation. It was a reasonable request given the circumstances. If not for the strange way Al acted in the woods, Thomas might not have thought anything of it. He circled the words with his pen.

  Could Al Pittman have killed the man in the truck? Thomas doubted it. For one, Al wasn’t covered in blood. More than that, Al called the sheriff’s department in the first place, something most killers would be more than reluctant to do.

  A killer. Despite his experience, Thomas still had trouble picturing a murderer stalking the quiet streets of Gray Hollow. He wrote the word motive on the notepad and underlined it. Money? Thomas wondered. That was one possibility, yet the truck didn’t appear to belong to the type of person with money to flaunt around.

  Maybe it was drug related. He tried doing a search for all the most recent drug arrests in Gray Hollow. Aside from a couple of kids busted for smoking pot, Thomas was unable to find anything. Even when he widened his search, he found little evidence to suggest Gray Hollow had a drug problem.

  “Make a note to ask Jezebel about that,” he mumbled while reading the rest of the notes. The brutality of the murder stood out. The man in the truck bore several cuts across his body. Thomas recalled his theory that the man’s throat was slit before he made it into the vehicle. Then there were the dead crows in the windshield. That stumped even Thomas.

  If the murder wasn’t about money, was it about revenge? Witho
ut knowing the identity of the victim, it was virtually impossible to determine—but that was something he thought he could change.

  Thomas took out his cell phone to call up an old number from another life. He wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Jezebel to call him. He hesitated, staring at the name in his contact list, and then pressed the call button.

  “This is Evelyn.”

  Thomas swallowed.

  “Eve?”

  “Thomas? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. It’s been awhile, I know. How’ve you been?”

  “What is this about? I’m kind of busy right now, and I’m not sure I’m up for a heart-to-heart at the moment.”

  “It’s not that. Listen, Eve, something’s going on down here in Gray Hollow, and I could use your help.”

  “Gray Hollow?”

  “It’s where I live.” The words hung in the air, so he continued. “I’m working for a small paper in Kentucky called Hollow Happenings.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said hesitantly. “Sorry I haven’t kept in touch.” He couldn’t tell if she was being sincere.

  “It makes sense,” Thomas said. “Things ended badly between us. My fault.”

  My fault. He closed his eyes, thankful she couldn’t see him now. He felt pathetic for having to do this. Time numbed him to the pain of their breakup, but speaking to her brought back memories of the life he once had. Those memories were all too fresh.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I need a favor. We found a body in the forest today, and—”

  “We?”

  “I’m working with the sheriff. Can you run a license plate for me?”

  “If you’re assisting the sheriff, why do you need me to get you a name?”

  “You know how this works. Our partnership is shaky at best. It’s too early to see how far I can trust her.”

  Evelyn laughed.

  “It almost sounds like you’re worried about getting played. This sheriff sounds formidable for the backwoods.”

  “If she tries to withhold information from me, it would be helpful if I already had a head start on her.”

  “That sounds more like the Thomas I know. You’re still trying to play everyone, aren’t you? Still not willing to trust anyone. That’s why it didn’t work out between us.”

  There were a lot of reasons it didn’t work out between them, he knew. It was true he was mostly to blame, but she wasn’t entirely faultless either. Still, he couldn’t help caring about her, and it felt wrong to him that she didn’t feel the same way.

  “Will you do this for me?” he asked. He waited while she considered the request.

  “Yes,” she replied after a pause. “Give me the numbers.”

  Thomas read the license plate to her.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back when I know something more.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate this.”

  He hung up the phone and stared at the blank screen of his computer for a long moment. Deciding it was better to attempt something constructive than to wallow in self-pity, Thomas pulled a meager phonebook out of his desk. He flipped through the book until he found what he was looking for.

  Clayhorn Feed Mill, he read, copying down the address. It was relatively late in the afternoon, but Thomas still had time to do a little more investigating of his own before he finished the property tax article for Max. If he timed things right, he could even quell the growling of his stomach while he was at it. He winced, remembering the grotesque imagery of the crows embedded in the truck windshield.

  Fifteen minutes and one drive-thru later, Thomas pulled his car onto the gravel road of the Clayhorn Feed Mill. The taste of the sandwich was fresh in his mouth. He placed the sunglasses over his eyes to shield himself from the bright sun.

  There is one thing to be said for small towns, he thought. You can get from one end of town to the other in less than fifteen minutes.

  In actuality, Thomas wasn’t all that far from where the body was found. The mill was situated on the outskirts of Gray Hollow. As Al had said, a dense forest surrounded it from behind. After seeing the area himself, Thomas found it easy to believe a habitual drunk would seek refuge there. He needed to be sure Al was telling the truth. Other than Jezebel, the man was his only source of information. Thomas continued looking around. It wasn’t surprising that Al’s bike was gone. He guessed it was at the sheriff’s department.

  There were only a few customers at the moment. Two trucks were parked in spaces beside the seed store, and three others were next to the loading area in the back. There were piles of feed and fertilizer stacked around everywhere, left there completely unattended. That would never happen in New York. Thomas shook his head and walked inside the store.

  “Can I help you?” a man behind the counter asked in a thick drawl.

  “I hope so,” Thomas replied. “Do you know who worked the morning shift?”

  “You’re looking at him. The name’s Joel Grayson.”

  “I’m Thomas Brooks,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Sure,” Joel said skeptically. He raised an eyebrow.

  Thomas was glad he wasn’t originally from New York; a northeastern accent would have set him apart from the others.

  “Did you see Al Pittman around here this morning?”

  “What’s this about? Is Al in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Thomas said carefully. “He left his coat at the bar last night, and I thought I’d bring it back to him. I heard he was in the area recently, but for the life of me I can’t find him.”

  It was a lie, but Thomas had the feeling Joel might be less than forthcoming if he thought Al was in hot water with the law.

  “That’s good to hear,” Joel said, coming out from behind the counter. He looked around the store as if scanning for more customers. Seeing none, he turned and faced Thomas. “Al’s not as bad as a lot of folks seem to think. Judy doesn’t mind me letting him stay here sometimes.”

  “Judy?”

  “Judy Conway. She owns the mill. To answer your question, Al slept outside last night. He comes around this place every now then for some quiet.”

  “I can see why. It certainly seems peaceful out here.”

  “That wasn’t always the case. Tell you the truth, this place isn’t what it used to be. The mill’s kind of run down, if you ask me. When I first started here, tons of customers came from all across the county, even though the place is out of the way. Now, not so much.”

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “Eleven years,” Joel answered proudly. Then he returned to the reason Thomas was there. “If you’re looking for Al, I haven’t seen him after this morning.”

  “So he did come back.”

  “Yes. Actually, it was odd. Al came peddling in here on his bike, like he was in a hurry to get someplace. He went out there to use the phone,” he said, pointing to an old pay phone. “I would have let him in myself, but Judy says phones are for paying customers only.” He shrugged as if to say, rules are rules.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing. He pedaled toward town when he finished.”

  Thomas stopped. Something in that sentence struck him as strange.

  “He didn’t ask for money to pay for the call?”

  “Come to think of it, he didn’t. In the past, he’s always been able to get a quarter out of me.”

  Thomas started piecing together what he had learned. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He looked down at the text. It was from Evelyn.

  The truck is registered to a man named Wilbur Daniels.

  “One more thing,” Thomas quickly added before he turned to go. “Have you ever heard of Wilbur Daniels?”

  “No,” Joel replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “Tell Al I said hello when you give him that coat.”

  “Sure,” Thomas said as the door clos
ed behind him.

  ***

  The wind shifted, scattering a carefully raked pile of leaves under a large oak tree in Jezebel’s mother’s front lawn. Carried by the wind, some of the leaves swept toward the road in front of a discolored white house. The house was of meager size, surrounded by a wooden fence marking the edges of the small property.

  As Jezebel walked across the yard, she frowned at the state of disrepair of the fence. A trace of sadness momentarily softened her habitually professional demeanor. She knocked on the door.

  “Mom?” she called. “Are you in there?”

  It wasn’t an entirely foolish question. Emma Woods, Jezebel’s mother, possessed no car. Taking the keys away from her mother was a painful decision to make. As Emma’s dementia worsened, however, it was the safest option Jezebel had.

  The lights were off inside the house, which wasn’t a good sign. Jezebel twisted the knob on the screen door and stepped into the house. It was chilly inside, only a little warmer than being out in the elements. The sheriff raised the temperature on the thermostat while looking for a sign of her mother.

  “Mom, you can come out now.”

  Jezebel never thought twice about returning to Gray Hollow to care for her mother. Like all other teenagers during their adolescence, she once dreamed of getting far away to the big city. The diagnosis of Emma’s disease put a definite end to those plans. In the end, Jezebel found her place in the department, and everything worked out for the best.

  Jezebel made a mental note to ask her mother’s part-time sitter to start locking the door.

  “This isn’t another game, is it?” she asked lightly while creeping down the dark hallway. Her mother claimed her eyes were sensitive to the light, but Jezebel found the dark house unsettling. She offered to move in with Emma when she first came back to Gray Hollow. Emma, stubborn to a fault, would have none of it. It was an independent streak they shared. Jezebel was born with it. Emma, on the other hand, acquired the characteristic after years of suffering through a disastrous marriage.

  Despite her mother’s obstinacy, the sheriff made sure to drop by her mother’s house regularly. If her mother fell or injured herself somehow, everything would change. Jezebel feared what was to come, though she was powerless to stop it.