Interesting, Thomas thought. Morris hadn’t mentioned that to him. Even if Jezebel hadn’t figured out the connection between Jeffrey Daniels and his father’s old house, Morris still lived in close proximity to the murder scene.
He decided to change his tone and adopt a less combative stance.
“Listen, I understand that you want to protect your town. I’m not trying to fight with you. But honestly, don’t you think it might help to have told them that Gary Davis might show up in their back yards with a gun?”
“That wasn’t your call to make. I had this investigation under control until you got involved.”
“With all due respect, I don’t think you did. Do you even know why Davis killed those people? Every single person I found that knew Gary Davis told me point blank that he would never have harmed his family. None of this makes sense. Why would he kill Jeffrey Daniels? Why leave his vehicles behind?”
“You’re the one who painted Gary as a murderer in your story. I’m still treating him as a missing person. Don’t think for a second you’re not going end up with egg on your face when this is over, if you don’t end up in jail. You know what else? Suddenly I feel like having this conversation face-to-face.”
Thomas grimaced. Jezebel clearly wasn’t backing down, and her repeated references to jail time were starting to unsettle him.
He heard her siren from the other end of the phone before she hung up. Thomas swore and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. He suddenly regretted telling her where he was. She’d called his bluff, and now she was going track him down. He had seen her on the verge of anger before, and he wasn’t eager for it to be directed at him.
Thomas kept his eyes peeled for any sign of car lights and eased his foot off the accelerator. The last thing he needed was for her to catch him speeding too. As usual, his conversation with the sheriff left him angry. Making things worse, her points struck a little too close to the truth. In the past few days, he had impersonated and lied to others in hopes of getting information. The old Thomas Brooks was still alive and well, despite what he promised himself when he came to Gray Hollow.
So much for turning over a new leaf.
She was wrong about one thing, though: The murders weren’t just parts of a story for him. This was personal. Even if he didn’t know the victims, Thomas felt more connected to this case than any he ever worked before. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t from Gray Hollow; as much as he wanted to deny it, the town was becoming a part of him.
I should probably call Max, he thought. It was hard to imagine the laidback editor faring well in any heated conversation with the formidable Jezebel Woods. Thomas was grateful he hadn’t told Max where he was heading when he left the office. Otherwise he might already be in handcuffs.
Then Thomas stopped. Something about what he said to the sheriff came back to him. What was it he said about ‘connections?’ Flipping on the light above him, he hastily pulled out his interview notes from his visit with the doctor. In all his time speaking with Morris, he never once asked about Gary Davis!
“I can’t believe it,” he said out loud. He was approaching it from the wrong angle. Paul Morris may not have seen Jeffrey Daniels before the murder, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have seen Gary Davis. It was a long shot, to be sure, but it was one that was worth taking. If Jezebel interviewed Morris right after the first killing, she wouldn’t have had a reason to ask him about Davis either.
His hand flew to the phone he had thrown into the passenger seat. Although the sun was setting in the sky, it was probably early enough that the doctor would not mind taking his call. Hurriedly, he dialed the number and punched the call button.
Rather than the ringing noise Thomas expected, he was greeted by an operator’s voice.
“We’re sorry, but this call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”
The words the old man said less than an hour before returned to him.
“Something was walking in the cornfield.”
“The killer,” Thomas exclaimed. Morris was in danger.
There’s no one else around for miles, he thought, except me. Thomas knew he had to go back for the old man. After wheeling the car around, he put his foot down hard on the gas pedal.
A few minutes later he heard the roar of a police siren. Impossible, he thought, trying to get a better look at the driver in his rearview mirror. There’s no way she could get here that quickly.
“Jezebel,” he whispered. He blinked at the flashing lights. She was trying to pull him over. The sheriff could not have picked a worse moment to find him. Thomas was going seventy-five miles an hour. He didn’t have time to stop; not when someone’s life depended on it. So he did the only thing he could think of to do. He kept going.
Hopefully, he would lead Jezebel back to the doctor’s house. Gaining speed, he glanced over his shoulder. She was getting closer. Thomas could see the sheriff’s perplexed expression in the mirror and forced himself to look at the road in front of him. The forest appeared to stretch out toward him, with each new twist or turn in the road bringing him closer to careening down the same hills that led to the demise of Jeffrey Daniels.
His phone was ringing again. This time, he knew exactly who it was without speaking. Trying not to look away from the road, he answered the phone and managed to switch it to speaker.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” she shouted through the phone. “Pull over!”
“I can’t do that!” he shouted. “Paul Morris is in danger! He told me he thought he was being watched, and now there’s no dial tone at his house.”
Thomas turned quickly onto the road leading to the Daniels Farm. Jezebel, who was not prepared for the turn, passed the road by. In his rearview mirror, he saw that she threw down the phone, came to a screeching halt, and threw her vehicle in reverse.
This time, the dust from the gravel road was the least of Thomas’ worries. As he jumped out of the car, he prayed he wasn’t too late.
***
Inside the house, the scarecrow wrapped fingers of straw around the old man’s throat. Pinned against the living room wall, the doctor’s struggles were becoming weaker and weaker. The Keeper paused, staring into the old man’s eyes. The need for the offering was overwhelming.
“Help,” Paul tried to say as his eyes started to close. “Please, God.”
“Save your prayers,” the scarecrow said, squeezing harder on the man’s throat. “There’s no one who can hear you now.”
The old man slumped to the floor.
Grabbing Paul’s foot, the Keeper began dragging the man behind him. The scarecrow walked through the glass door at the edge of the living room, sending shards of glass spilling to the ground as they passed into the cool night air. In the sky, the sun had almost completely vanished.
The Keeper walked toward the cornfield, still dragging the body. There was more work to be done. His children were waking, and the crows were his eyes.
“Stop!” a voice shouted. The Keeper turned until his black eyes were staring at the reporter standing on the shattered glass.
“Get away from him,” Thomas yelled, his voice betraying fear.
“As you wish,” the scarecrow hissed. He released his grip and allowed the doctor’s body to rest on the grass. The man’s blood ran into the ground, which was enough.
Then the Keeper turned his full attention to Thomas. The man had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong too often, and now he would pay the price.
***
Thomas didn’t know why the killer was dressed up like a scarecrow, and at that moment, he didn’t care. Paul Morris lay on the ground, bleeding. The doctor wasn’t moving.
Thomas grabbed a large stick from the ground and swung at the intruder as hard as he could. Moving faster than Thomas could believe, the scarecrow caught the stick and ripped it from his hand. Then the killer caught him in the stomach with a punch that sent him reeling backwards.
Thomas tried to crawl away fro
m the house to catch his breath, but the killer followed him. The scarecrow lifted him into the air as easily as someone might pick up a piece of paper. As he stared into the swirling darkness inside the pumpkin, Thomas struggled vainly to free himself. The killer’s breath was rancid, like the smell of death.
The sound of a gunshot pierced the silence of the night. Thomas felt the bullet whiz through air, passing by him.
“Put him down!” Jezebel Woods shouted, standing outside the doorway. She held her pistol in both hands, her hair blowing in the wind.
“Put him down,” she repeated. “Or this time I won’t miss.”
The Keeper stared at the sheriff. Part of the scarecrow’s brain was filled with memories of another time—his memories. It knew the sheriff. He knew the sheriff.
“You,” the Keeper hissed. He watched the woman inside the house. Before Jezebel could fire again, the scarecrow threw the reporter toward the house.
“Thomas!” Jezebel shouted, her voice filled with concern. She ran toward him, her gun raised. The killer disappeared into the cornfield. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said as she helped him sit up. “I don’t think Morris is, though. You need to call an ambulance!”
“No,” she whispered after feeling for the doctor’s pulse. “He’s dead.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” Thomas said. “We just spoke an hour ago. He was right across from me.”
“What was that thing?”
“Whoever he is, he’s strong. If you hadn’t come along, he would have killed me too. You saved my life.”
“Stay here,” Jezebel said. “I’m going after him.” Before he could say another word, she vanished into the cornfield, holding her gun at the ready. He waited for what felt like hours until finally she returned.
“He’s gone,” she said, staring into the cornfield, as if expecting the killer to return from his hiding place within the stalks of corn. Thomas followed her gaze. Together on the grass outside the brown house, the two stared at the cornfield until the darkness of night finally claimed possession of the sky.
Chapter Ten
“Something’s going on in Gray Hollow,” Chuck Howard said. The surface of the conference room table felt cold under his hands, as if the frost from outside had managed to find its way inside the news station. Most of his important colleagues sat gathered around the conference table. Susan Washington and Fred Keller, the two lead anchors, were watching him skeptically.
Let them stare, Chuck thought. He fought the impulse to smirk. The anchors both knew the ambitious young reporter was angling for a spot at their news desk. In fact, Chuck planned to advance far beyond the limitations of RB-KAR. If not for the media’s current financial crisis, he told himself, he would already be on the ascent. At least he was in television.
Chuck felt that waiting for Jim Doyle, the associate producer, to finish discussing increasing the time devoted to national issues amounted to little less than torture. Now that it was Chuck’s turn to speak, he intended to woo the crowd. Or at least the people he needed to persuade. The RB-KAR channel television news station wasn’t particularly large. Despite this, the news program was carried by most of the south-central portion of Illinois.
Chuck pointed to the screen from the website of Hollow Happenings. He had checked into the small town newspaper. Hollow Happenings was a joke, employing only two full-time staffers. It would be child’s play to scoop the newspaper.
“In the last week there have been three murders in Gray Hollow.”
“There’s violence all across the state, Chuck,” Jim Doyle said. “These are hard times. I don’t see why that warrants sending a news crew to Gray Hollow for an extended amount of time.”
Of course you wouldn’t agree, Jim, Chuck thought, irked. The associate producer had never liked him. Chuck kept his eyes trained on Eric Howard, the executive producer, who also happened to be his uncle.
“‘Extended’ is hardly the word I would use. The article makes it sound like this could all be over shortly.”
“Sounds like a waste of time to me,” Susan Washington said.
“My gut tells me that this could be huge. This man, Gary Davis, is suspected of murdering a stranger, as well as his wife and son. He’s been hiding in the forest for days, potentially armed. More than that, the story left a lot out. The reporter didn’t seem to know why any of this was happening. There is a story here. I can feel it. Besides, what do we have to lose? Other than the town newspaper, no other news organizations have jumped on this yet.”
“What do you want to do?” Eric asked. The producer lowered his glasses. Chuck grinned, realizing he had won the argument.
“Go to Gray Hollow for three days to see how this plays out. I’ll only need one cameraman and one assistant. Jennifer Dunlap can handle my assignments when I’m gone.”
Jennifer would depart from the station in three months for maternity leave, which meant she wouldn’t threaten to eclipse him in his absence. Chuck had planned for everything.
“Fine,” the producer said.
Sitting through the rest of the meeting was excruciatingly painful. Chuck practically ran from the conference room when the meeting was over, stopping only to thank Eric for his support. It was good to have an uncle in the business.
***
Thomas slumped back on Jezebel’s couch. He had only just arrived at her home and sat in the living room, waiting for her to return from the kitchen.
Unnerved as he was after his assault by the killer, it was all he could do to retain his composure. When Jezebel allowed him to leave the crime scene the night before, Thomas headed for bed as soon as possible, but sleep proved impossible. He found himself rising out of bed at the slightest of sounds.
That was one of the reasons Thomas was relieved when she scheduled their meeting for noon. After the sleeping pills he’d taken, even the continual beeping of his alarm clock hadn’t been able to rouse him until eleven.
Like his own residence in Gray Hollow, Jezebel Woods’ house did not have a very homey feel to it. Other than a few sparse framed photographs on the wall, he could see very little evidence of a life beyond her job.
When Jezebel welcomed him inside only a few minutes ago, she had offered him a cup of coffee, and he gladly accepted. As he reached for the cup on the table across from him, Thomas noticed that his hands had finally stopped shaking. In the aftermath of Paul Morris’ death, the two agreed to meet to air out everything they knew about the case. Initially, Thomas was surprised when she invited him to her house, but he realized why she picked that particular venue when he saw the crowd outside the police station on his way through town. He couldn’t imagine being able to accomplish anything inside the swarmed station. Thomas also realized that was probably the fault of his article, although Jezebel kindly chose not to comment on it.
He took another sip of the black coffee. The caffeine stirred him from his near-catatonic state, which left him free to reflect on the events of the previous night. In the background, he could hear Jezebel running the sink water.
Suddenly, an old woman stood several feet from him. Thomas watched the woman, who returned his gaze with a vacant expression.
“The darkness is watching you now,” she whispered. She pointed at him with an arthritic finger. “It knows who you are.”
“Excuse me?” Thomas asked, shocked at what the strange woman said.
“Mom?” Jezebel said, concern in her voice. She quickly walked into the living room from the kitchen, drying her hands with a rag. Jezebel gently took the old woman by the hand and led her from the room.
Thomas watched the two until they were out of his line of sight. After a few minutes, Jezebel returned to the living room.
“I’m sorry for that,” she said. “My mother has dementia. She probably just sensed something was bothering you, that’s all.”
“No worries,” Thomas said. “Does she live here with you?”
Jezebel shook her head. “Not yet.
She has a part-time sitter at the moment, but I’m not sure that’s enough anymore. I picked her up earlier for a checkup later today.”
Thomas felt a new tinge of pity for the sheriff. He briefly wondered how hard it would be to manage all of her responsibilities and deal with a sick mother.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Thomas said, taking another sip from the cup.
“No problem. You looked like you could use it. I know I did, after last night.”
Thomas caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror. They were bloodshot.
“Before we start, I need to get something off my chest. I owe you an apology for the way I’ve acted toward you. You were right when you said I was acting in my own self-interest. I guess I managed to convince myself that wasn’t true.”
Jezebel laughed. “I guess that’s a start,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me everything you’ve found, and we’ll see how it goes from there?”
Thomas held his notepad carefully in his hands. He stared at some of the most pertinent questions. “Let’s start from the beginning.”
“This all started when Al Pittman found Jeffrey Daniels.”
“Somehow I think this hinges on Daniels,” Thomas commented. “His death started everything else. Someone wanted him out of the way badly enough to risk all of this. Otherwise, there is also the possibility of a serial killer operating here.”
“I don’t even want to contemplate that,” Jezebel said. “What have you found on Daniels?” she asked. “Thanks to you, we know Jeffrey Daniels once lived in Gray Hollow with his father.”
“Wilbur Daniels. He died of a heart attack in 1987, I believe. No one I spoke to had any contact with Jeffrey after that. Morris implied he left town and never looked back.”
The Keeper of the Crows Page 12
