“What’s going on out there?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“Sheriff Woods, thank God you’re here. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last half hour.”
“Sorry about that. I got into a scuffle with Eric Sizemore. Remind me to call Judge Underhill and set up a hearing for that sleazebag later.”
“We have bigger problems than that,” Heavy said, handing her a newspaper. Her mouth nearly dropped open in shock when she saw the headline. Jezebel had to read over the words twice before they managed to sink in. This was exactly what she hoped would not happen.
“Brooks,” she muttered darkly. How did he find out? Jezebel couldn’t believe she underestimated him this much. “They have everything! Almost every detail we’ve already gathered from this investigation! Do you know what this means?”
“I have a good idea,” Heavy replied. He gestured to the phones, which had not stopped ringing since Jezebel entered the room. “Everyone is worried that Gary Davis or someone else is going to turn up at their doorstep with a pitchfork. Deputy Randall and I have been trying to sort it out since this mess started.”
Jezebel heard the front door slam shut. Thomas Brooks could not have picked a worse time to release his information. Not when she was starting to suspect there was even more to the murders than she originally thought. Her conversation with Percy Durer had given her a lot to dwell upon.
Now, thanks to Thomas, she had no time to think. She could only react. That was a problem. Her number one duty was to keep the people of Gray Hollow safe. That task just grew a great deal harder.
“I hate to ask this, Heavy, but would you continue to work the phones?”
“Of course,” he said without hesitation.
“Thanks. I’m going to find Thomas Brooks and kick his—”
“Well, well,” Logan Randall said, walking inside. “What do we have here?” He crossed his arms.
“Not today, Logan,” Jezebel said.
Logan shrugged and shook his head at Heavy. Not even a minute after the deputies heard the front door close, it opened again.
“Correction. We are going to deal with all the people outside, then I am going to take care of Thomas Brooks.”
***
The Daniels farm was much smaller than Thomas anticipated. Like most of the farms in the rural areas of Gray Hollow, a thin dusty trail covered in gravel led from the road to the two-story house looming in the distance.
Of all the drawbacks to the community, the gravel roads bothered him the most. Thomas was accustomed to having his car clean, since he rarely used it in the city. Now the vehicle was almost always dirty. Dust surrounded the car in a cloud as he traveled down the winding roads.
Tall trees loomed on each side of the road, which served as a reminder that the cleared land was once part of the massive tapestry of forests covering the town. It was no small wonder the police were unable to find Gary Davis. Anyone familiar with the woods would be able to vanish into its vastness, or so it seemed to Thomas.
He finally reached the end of the road at a place where the trees gave way to pastures. The Daniels farm was located in the middle of nowhere. Thomas was alarmed at just how isolated the property was. If Al Pittman hadn’t stumbled across the body of Jeffrey Daniels, it might have been weeks before someone noticed the crash.
Gathering his notes into a folder, Thomas surveyed the land with a watchful gaze. An old barn, much smaller than the one belonging to Gary Davis, was about sixty yards from the farmhouse. From the looks of things, the barn had fallen into disrepair. He got out of his car and began the journey on foot.
For a moment, Thomas imagined he saw someone staring at him from a glass window on the first floor of the house. When he blinked, the figure was gone.
He started walking toward the house. A large cornfield rested about ten feet from the brown house. The cornfield stretched on as far as he could see, ending at the edge of the forest. Thomas looked at the tranquil cornfield to his right as he neared the door. The dry stalks of corn were motionless in the calm of the warm day, yet something about the land made him uneasy.
Thomas frowned. The lights were on outside the house. Although Paul Morris might have simply forgotten to turn them off, the sight of the light aroused his suspicion. Tearing his eyes away from the lights, he rapped loudly on the screen door.
Almost as soon as he knocked the door opened, revealing a stocky older man with peppery hair. The speed with which the door opened made Thomas wonder if the man was watching for him at the window.
“Dr. Morris?”
“Yes,” the man answered. Paul Morris looked him over carefully. “Are you the reporter?”
“Thomas Brooks,” he answered, sticking out his hand. The old man shook it and motioned for him to come inside. Morris peered intently outside before shutting the door once more.
“Thank you very much for allowing me to speak with you, Dr. Morris. I appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem. Truth be told, I’m glad for the company. It can get pretty lonely out here sometimes, especially lately. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Thomas said. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” the man asked. Thomas thought he detected a note of worry in the doctor’s voice.
“According to my notes, you purchased this farm in 1987. Is that correct?”
“Yes. That was the year I closed my practice.”
“Did you ever know Wilbur Daniels?”
“That’s the name of the man who owned the farm before I bought it, isn’t it?”
Thomas nodded the affirmative.
“No, I never met him. I heard about his heart attack when we purchased the house. My wife and I never had children, Mr. Brooks. Over twenty-five years in Detroit left us both wanting a respite. Somehow we found Gray Hollow. I saved up a lot of money while I was practicing, and the Daniels Farm had been foreclosed upon. It was one of the best bargains I’ve ever found.”
“Does your wife live here with you?” Thomas asked. He searched the room for a sign of the woman. Other than in old photographs, he couldn’t see any trace of Mrs. Morris.
“She died of breast cancer six years after we moved here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. The last years we had were the best years of my life. If we hadn’t moved out here when we did, we might have never shared that time together.”
“Did you ever meet Jeffrey Daniels, Wilbur Daniels’ son?”
“Yes. He stopped by a couple weeks after his father’s funeral to pick up some of his dad’s old things, although he left some things behind. I always told him to come back for them, but he never did. It was easy to tell his father’s death was hard on him. Even as old as I am, I still remember the look on his face. He was . . . haunted. That’s the best word for it.”
“It probably wasn’t easy to lose his father and have his dad’s property foreclosed on.”
“Apparently the man was up to his eyes in debt, though I don’t remember the son asking for very much. In fact, it seemed like the boy just wanted to get away.”
It was time for the big question.
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Who, Jeffrey Daniels? No. Why do you ask?”
Thomas was crestfallen.
“You didn’t read about it in the newspaper? Jeffrey Daniels’ body was found not far from here. He was murdered.”
The old man stiffened, genuinely shocked.
“That’s terrible. I didn’t know. I don’t subscribe to the local newspaper though, and I rarely go out. Since my wife died, this house has become a refuge of memories.”
“Did Jeffrey Daniels ever try to contact you? To call you?”
“I’m sorry,” the old man said as he shook his head, “but I haven’t seen or heard from him since he left. Why?”
“Daniels didn’t live in Gray Hollow anymore. When I found out he used to
live at this address, I assumed that he came back to see the house he lived in as a boy. Now I’m starting to think there was another reason he came back, although I don’t have the slightest idea what that is. Have you encountered anything suspicious at all around here?” Thomas asked as he reached for his folder. Sadly, it looked like his conversation with Morris was leading nowhere.
The doctor paused before glancing out the window. This time, Thomas picked up on it.
“I notice that you keep staring out the window. Is there a reason for it?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything before, but yes, I have seen something strange. When you mentioned murders it really got me thinking. This house is almost completely isolated. The adjoining farm is the Alistair Farm, which was also foreclosed on. No one lives there anymore, so I’m totally alone, which is fine with me. Trouble is, recently, this feeling has been growing in my mind that there is someone else here. Like something is watching me. A few nights ago, there was a sound outside of my window that was almost like an inhuman scream. In the morning I found a trashcan next to the porch knocked down. There were birds everywhere.”
Thomas recalled the crows embedded in Daniels’ windshield. “Do you have problems with predators? I imagine that in a remote place like this you would have plenty of animals around your cornfield.”
“You’re right. In the past there have been issues with coyotes, and I thought that might be the case again. So the next evening I waited outside on the porch, but I fell asleep. A strange noise startled me from my nap. Night came while I was sleeping, so I switched the porch lights on. Something was walking in the cornfield—on two legs.”
“You saw someone?”
“Not that night, no; I only saw the dim outlines of whatever was out there. I kept the porch lights on the next two nights. Nothing. Then, last night, I saw something in the shadows just outside the porch lights. Someone was out there waiting for me. I prayed I was seeing things, but I left the lights on in the hopes it would scare whoever it was away.”
“This could be dangerous, Dr. Morris. You have to report what you’ve seen.” Finally, they were getting somewhere. If Davis thought he committed the murders in front of Morris, the killer might want to cut the loose end. Even so, how did Davis find out Jeffrey Daniels was coming to the house? There was still a connection missing.
Someone in the town has to have known Jeffrey Daniels, he thought. I won’t stop until I find them. If Daniels didn’t go to his farm, he had to go somewhere.
***
Outside the brown house, the day was growing late. A sliver of darkness crept into the horizon, waiting for the remainder of the overpowering sunlight to fade.
Through the crow perched on the fencepost on the road, the Keeper watched the two men talking inside the house. Soon, the man who owned the house would be dead. The presence of the reporter, however, troubled the Keeper. The crows saw him near the body of Jeffrey Daniels days ago, and again at the Davis farm.
The reporter was getting closer to the truth. If Thomas Brooks became a threat, he too would be dealt with. For the time being, the Keeper would keep an eye on him. He had plenty to spare.
The crow flapped its wings and flew into the forest. In the darkness of the barn, the Keeper waited for nightfall. It was only a matter of hours until the day faded away.
There was blood to be spilled.
Chapter Nine
The tea on the stove wasn’t ready. Paul Morris returned to the window, staring off into the darkening sky. As if waiting for sunset, the fields were perfectly still—almost unnaturally so.
There’s nothing out there, you silly old fool, he told himself as he peered into the impending night. The doctor made his way back to the kitchen. Surely the only things waiting outside were apparitions construed by the overactive imagination of a lonely old man. The visit with Thomas Brooks frightened him, though he would never admit it out loud. Unlike many of the other local farmers, Paul was not trained in the use of firearms.
It was just him, all alone in an empty house. Paul was being honest when he told the journalist he rarely ventured out of the house other than to buy groceries or get gas. Even at his age, the doctor could still run the tractor, and that was all he needed to do anyway.
“Just a little hot,” he said aloud before pouring the tea into a pitcher next to the stove. Although his wife was long dead, the doctor had developed a habit of speaking as if she were there.
Paul was setting the table for himself when he passed by the kitchen window and saw them. He stepped closer, still clutching the hot pitcher of tea. A flock of birds near the Alistair farm approached from a distance, as if they were flying straight for him. Suddenly, one bird flew against the window. Startled, Paul dropped the pitcher. Glass shattered as hot tea spilled over the floor. Sounds echoed outside the farmhouse.
What in the world? The old man opened the front door and walked outside. His nerves were raw. What is going on?
Dozens of crows covered the thin fence separating the yard from the cornfield in front of the forest. Paul saw the birds watching him with black eyes. He shuddered.
A low hiss, almost snakelike, emanated from the cornfield. In unison, the crows lining the fence cocked their heads in the direction of the stalks.
Something was moving in the cornfield. Or perhaps someone. Paul tried to shout a warning, to move, to do something. Instead, he found himself rooted to the spot in fear.
From its own perch in the sky, the fiery sun began its descent. The faint outline of the moon appeared above, and the hissing grew louder. Paul heard a cackle from within the stalks, carried by the silence of the evening.
A pumpkin head emerged from the stalks, its frozen smile full of mockery. Paul’s heart beat faster than he thought possible. A tall scarecrow stepped out of the cornfield, wearing something that looked like a twisted jack o’ lantern for a head. The scarecrow stood like a man, but there was something inhuman about the way it moved.
For a moment the scarecrow stood motionless at the edge of the cornfield. It stared at him. Paul remained transfixed. His gaze settled on the black holes carved into the pumpkin where eyes should have been. The scarecrow’s patched clothes were stained with blood. Instead of the hands of a man, the scarecrow’s arms ended in branchlike claws of hay.
“Flesh,” croaked a hideous voice from inside the pumpkin, and Paul knew he had landed in a nightmare. The crows looked on as the scarecrow renewed its march forward.
After regaining his sense of self, Paul stumbled backwards, his gaze locked on the creature staggering forward up his lawn. Moving as fast as he could, the doctor ran back into the house. He dashed into the living room, where he tried to stop gasping long enough to call the police.
There was no dial tone. The line was dead.
***
The Keeper of the Crows could hear the old man scrambling around frantically inside the house. He lumbered up the steps to the door, the sunset at his back. The lights the farmer had used in a pathetic attempt to ward the Keeper away fizzled and went out.
The Keeper hit the door with force. The blow knocked the door off its hinges. The scarecrow stepped inside the dark house. He could smell the old man’s fear and savored the taste. The night was ripe for sacrifice.
Paul fell again. This time he landed hard on the wooden floor. He crawled back and tried to fend off the creature with his hands. The Keeper stopped when he saw his face.
“You’re not Daniels,” the scarecrow roared. The Keeper had mistakenly believed the vision from the crows was of Wilbur Daniels, but this old man wasn’t even from the town, he sensed.
A new farmer lived in the old Daniels house. Wilbur Daniels, like his son Jeffrey, was gone. The scarecrow shook with rage. This was not why he had come.
He watched the farmer run into the kitchen. The need was overwhelming, even if the scarecrow did not know the old man. Feeding his children had left the Keeper drained, and the darkness demanded sacrifice.
The old man con
tinued running away. The Keeper followed after him.
***
Minutes after leaving the Daniels Farm, Thomas was no closer to finding the truth. Dr. Morris was as helpful as possible. He had answered all of Thomas’ questions. Unfortunately, the answers Thomas was seeking simply weren’t there.
There were a thousand different pieces, and so far they seemed to be from different parts of the puzzle. Unable to see how things were connected, Thomas knew the story would remain unfinished. His article was a good start, but it was far from enough. People wanted an entire tale. A collection of facts was no good without a more substantial narrative.
He took one hand off the wheel and reached down to check his cell for messages. Almost immediately, the phone began ringing in his hand.
“Brooks? I knew I’d find you eventually.”
“Sheriff,” Thomas said with a grin. “How nice to hear from you!”
“‘Nice’ my left foot. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Let’s see. I’ve provided an invaluable service to the citizens of this community in accordance with the rights and responsibilities of the press under the first amendment?”
“Laugh all you want, but you’ll pay for this.”
“Threats, too? Nice. I think I’m going to have to revise my earlier opinion of you, Sheriff Woods. What exactly are you going to do? Arrest me?”
“It was a mistake not locking you up for obstruction of justice in the first place—a mistake I’ll soon rectify.”
“You can come and get me if you’d like. I’m headed back from the Daniels Farm, where I just interviewed Paul Morris. That’s something you might want to check on, if you get the time. I have to warn you though, if you’re planning on bringing me in, you might want to kiss your job goodbye. Regardless of all the legal ramifications such an action would surely bring, how do you think it would look to the fine citizens of Gray Hollow if you arrested the one person who actually told them the truth?”
“You didn’t tell them the truth. You spun Gary Davis as some kind of serial killer and sent this town in a panic, which is exactly why I didn’t want to work with you in the first place. I had you pegged from the first moment I set eyes on you, Brooks. You’re so wrapped up in trying to get the story you didn’t take the time to care that you might be getting the facts wrong. And for the record, we already interviewed Morris. I handled it myself right after we found Daniels’ body.”
The Keeper of the Crows Page 11
