There was a draft inside Dr. Morris’ house. She looked at the broken glass and demolished door and was reminded once again of the killer’s ferocity. The crime scene wasn’t as grim as the Davis household, yet it seemed to leave a greater impression on her. For one thing, she had come face-to-face with the killer just outside the house. It was also isolated, cut off from most of the closest neighbors.
After her encounter with the masked figure, Jezebel swept the scene for prints. Again she was thwarted, just as she was at the Davis house. There was nothing to be gleaned from the forensic evidence at the moment, though she kept her fingers crossed that circumstances would change.
If I were Paul Morris, Jezebel thought, where would I keep Jeffrey Daniels’ old things?
There was one thing working in her favor: according to Thomas, the house was foreclosed on and purchased very quickly after the funeral of Wilbur Daniels. Like Thomas said, the speed implied that Jeffrey left Gray Hollow as soon as he could. Jezebel hoped it also meant that some of the Daniels’ possessions were left behind.
It all comes down to whether Morris threw them away. Twenty years is a long time to hold onto someone else’s possessions.
If Morris kept some of the Daniels’ belongings, chances were they would be in the tool shed outside the house. Thankfully, Jezebel found the door to the shed unlocked. The small building was crammed full of old files and books from Morris’ medical practice. After searching for several minutes, she found signs of Wilbur and Jeffrey Daniels in a group of boxes against the back wall. Aside from several first place sports trophies with ‘Jeff’ inscribed on them, the boxes were filled to the brim with various documents, books, and other papers. Most of them bore the signature of Wilbur Daniels, although there were a few photo albums. Wilbur was a lawyer in addition to managing the farm.
Jezebel fingered through an album quickly, studying the image of a younger Jeffrey. In none of the photos did she see his mother, which led her to think she either left the family or died young. She made a mental note to check for a certificate of death or divorce when she returned to her office. Then Jezebel spotted a picture that captured her attention.
“Bingo,” she said. Jezebel tucked the album under her arm, having found what she was looking for. It was a photograph taken in 1986, featuring Gary Davis, Jeffrey Daniels, and a third adolescent at a basketball game between Gray Hollow and Thistlewood. There were a number of pictures with Gary Davis, who was sometimes pictured with a younger Logan Randall.
That’s the connection, she thought. They were friends.
“Now to get out of here,” she said to herself. Being alone in the tool shed was starting to creep her out.
As she returned to her car, Jezebel looked down at the first photograph, studying the third individual in the picture. She knew him too.
“Rick Pepper,” she muttered. Jezebel thought of the tall student from her high school. Of the three friends in the picture, she knew him the best. They clashed regularly when they were students. Jezebel could clearly remember Rick bullying Salem Alistair.
“Are you involved in this, Pepper?” she whispered while starting her engine. The man was certainly large enough to have worn the scarecrow costume and was probably strong enough as well. It was time to do some more investigative work before she reconnected with Thomas Brooks.
There was a flash of lightning as the car pulled out of the driveway. A drop of rain fell from the sky, and the storm began.
***
It was pitch black when Rick came to at the bottom of the pit. Only the light of the moon provided any illumination in the dark forest. After opening his eyes, he shook his head groggily. Something wet trickled down from his hair to his face. He forced the other eye open. His face was swollen.
Rain poured down hard around him, forming large puddles in the thick mud. Where am I? Rick thought. He tried to remember what happened. A memory of the crow flashed through his head, which prompted a wave of pain.
“Logan,” he called out. Rick prayed his voice carried beyond the sound of the rain. Distant thunder rumbled, permeating into the woods. Where did the deputy go?
Rick attempted to stand, but the pain in his left leg was overpowering. He was sure he had broken it in the fall. After fumbling around, Rick fished around in his pocket for his cell phone. If he could only get his girlfriend to pick up, she would drive him to the hospital without questions. If she could find him in the forest, that was. The phone was not in either of his pockets. He quickly realized it must have gotten lost when he fell. Unable to find the cell phone, Rick looked around in desperation.
That’s when he remembered what else was missing. Rick sat up, startled. He recalled the twisted face of cloth belonging to the motionless figure. It was nowhere to be seen.
The roar of the thunder echoed again, joining with the rainfall and the darkness in a terrifying symphony. Rick heard a crack outside the pit. Upon hesitantly peering outside, he saw nothing other than piles of leaves being flung around in the violent winds.
Then he heard the sound again. Panicking, Rick clawed his way out of the pit. He fell outside the wall of mud and hit the wet earth with a thud. He spent enough time in the woods to know that something was very wrong. In his free time, he enjoyed hunting, both in and out of season. He knew now that he was not alone in the forest—there was something out there.
The leafless trees were crooked, blackened mockeries of their former selves. As his eyesight adjusted, he could see hundreds of crows lining the withered branches. Underneath the trees loomed not one but four darkened, man-sized figures. None of them were moving, yet Rick could feel their invisible eyes watching him.
A soft hiss echoed from deeper within the woods. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the forest long enough for him to see the darkened figures for what they truly were: scarecrows, each as frighteningly grotesque as the next. Rick closed his eyes in terror. He prayed when he opened them that he would emerge from this waking nightmare.
Instead, a new source of dread appeared in the distance. A fifth figure, taller than the others, stood underneath a tree. Three crows perched on the figure’s shoulders. When the lightning flashed a third time, revealing the menacing head of a carved pumpkin, Rick let out a scream.
The figure twisted its head in his direction. Impossible as it was, the creature was staring directly at him.
“Hello, Rick,” creaked a raspy voice.
Using a tree trunk to lift himself up, Rick hobbled away on his right leg as quickly as he could. He didn’t get far. A tree root erupted from the mud and wrapped itself around his left foot. Rick was thrown to the ground. Moaning, he turned in the direction of the scarecrow still watching him.
“I don’t think so,” the monster said. The crows on the scarecrow’s arm seemed to follow him with their eyes. “You’re not getting away from me that easily. Not when I went through so much trouble for this reunion.”
“What—what are you?” Rick gasped. He frantically searched for some way out. He saw none. If only he still had his gun . . .
The creature seemed to laugh, a shrill, horrifying sound echoing outside the jack o’ lantern.
“You of all people should know. After all, it was you and your friends who created me.”
What? Rick thought, too terrified to make sense of the monster’s words.
Suddenly standing above him, the scarecrow bent down until his carved mouth was directly next to Rick’s ear.
“I am the fear that has haunted your dreams for twenty years,” the scarecrow whispered. “You know my name.”
“I don’t—”
“Say it!” demanded the scarecrow.
“Salem Alistair,” Rick said. Tears welled up in his eyes. I don’t want to die, he thought.
“The boy that was Salem Alistair is gone now. I am something wholly new, a mixture of his former self and the Lord of this forest. I am the Keeper of the Crows.”
“What do you want?” Rick trembled. He feared the answer. The Keeper
scraped a blackened fingernail against the tall man’s cheek. The scarecrow held the drop of blood for Rick to see and whispered into his ear again.
“This,” the Keeper said. “All of it. For the twenty years the darkness kept me alive, I’ve thought of nothing else.”
“You came back for all of us? All five?”
“No,” the monster replied. “I want the whole town, and every soul in it. With each death, my power grows. In time, I will bring Gray Hollow to its knees.”
“Please, Salem,” Rick stammered. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t do this.”
With a roar, the Keeper of the Crows threw Rick against one of the withered trees. The white hands disappeared, replaced by claws of straw. As the storm raged, the scarecrow advanced slowly toward the helpless man. Suddenly, the straw seemed to flow and ebb, as if it were alive somehow.
“That’s not my name,” the Keeper hissed. The straw claws tore their way into Rick’s chest. Rick screamed, his cries joining the sounds of the storm.
Chapter Twelve
Steam rose out of the shower and fogged the glass on the bathroom mirrors. Logan Randall enjoyed the cleansing feeling of the hot water washing away the grime, but more than that, he needed it. Deciding that fifteen minutes would provide adequate cleanliness, he turned off the faucet and snatched a fresh towel hanging over the shower. Logan touched his bruised cheek, wincing at the tenderness. His fingers traced the outline of his bloodied lip. The left side of his face was swollen as a result of one of Gary’s kicks.
Other than the death of his friend, nothing had gone according to plan. Logan lost his spare weapon, and while he doubted it could be traced back to him, he despised loose ends. In addition, he had been separated from Rick Pepper, a man he considered a loose end in and of himself. It was after eight and completely black outside, but Rick still hadn’t called him back. Logan hoped Rick was not foolish enough to get himself caught. The more he thought about it, the more Logan believed Rick was another potential problem that needed tending to. He had already killed Gary. It would be even easier to eliminate Rick.
Logan heard a knock from outside the house. His heart raced. Logan was not expecting company, and Rick or anyone else surely would have called first. Gary’s paranoia was affecting him. With a frown, Logan walked into his bedroom and picked up the gun resting on the dresser.
“Coming,” he said gruffly before answering the door. The familiar face that greeted him at the door was no threat. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Logan placed the gun down and motioned for his friend to come inside. The man sat on the couch while Logan listened from the kitchen.
“We needed to talk, and I didn’t want to do it over the phone again so soon after the last time. We’ve both worked too hard to have this come back and bite us in the rear now.”
Logan returned to the living room and handed his friend a drink. He took a seat on the couch opposite from the man and sipped his own drink quietly.
“So tell me, how did everything go today?”
“Wait,” Logan said, arching his brow. “Didn’t Rick tell you?”
“I haven’t heard from Rick all day,” his friend replied curtly. A dark shadow passed over his face.
“Neither have I. We were separated in the forest.”
“Separated?”
“Don’t worry. I handled Gary myself. You were right about him. He was planning to confess everything.”
The other man looked incredulous. “Don’t worry? I’ve tried calling Rick several times. He hasn’t answered. I thought he was with you.”
“Like I said, we got separated in the woods,” Logan repeated, reluctant to admit that he elected to return alone rather than searching for Rick. He didn’t plan on revealing that he left so he could get the mud off his body as soon as possible. He also decided it might be best to omit the part about the lost gun for the time being.
“I don’t like this. Rick is getting dangerously close to entering the same category as Gary Davis.”
Logan noted the casual nature with which his friend addressed a subject as intense as death. Both men shared cold and distant personalities. Both were survivors willing to make any necessary sacrifice.
“What about the sheriff? How much does she know?”
“I’m not sure,” Logan answered honestly. “I’ve been watching her carefully, but I’ve also spent too much time tracking Gary down. Luckily, she seems to be butting heads with that reporter, Thomas Brooks.”
“Brooks?”
“You know him?”
“We’ve met,” his friend said. “Is he a threat?”
“To tell you the truth, I think he’s more dangerous than the sheriff. According to Jezebel, he used to be a big-time reporter in New York. She kept him in the cold and he still managed to break the story.”
“If you think he’s getting too close, you know what to do. Now, why don’t you tell me what else you’ve learned?”
***
Thomas finished the draft, printed it out, and threw it away. Returning to his desk, he shook his head and started typing again. Aside from his lamp, all the lights in the office were turned off. Max had left hours ago, before Thomas even showed up. Thomas admired the editor’s work ethic. The two of them were the only reporters for the small paper. Anna Feather, the graphic designer who pieced the paper together, lived three counties away and did her work over the Internet.
It had been a long day. There were many things he’d learned that he wanted to tell Jezebel Woods. Some of the information wasn’t necessarily pertinent to the case, like the stories of the pagan rituals, but all of it was starting to finally resemble a narrative. He hoped the sheriff’s day was just as productive.
The light at his desk flickered and went out. Thomas stopped, gazing out the darkened windowpane in the back of the office. Suddenly, he remembered the image of the scarecrow and wondered if Paul Morris’ murderer was something more insidious than a killer of flesh and blood. The reporter dismissed the notion, stood up, and walked across the room. He rummaged through the hall closet until he found a new light bulb.
It was just an old bulb, Thomas thought as he screwed in the light.
He was planning on meeting Jezebel at 8:30, which was close to fifteen minutes away. While he anticipated the meeting, Thomas was having a difficult time catching up on his deadlines. He even made an effort to return early from the library to tackle some of his assignments ahead of time. That way he would have more time to devote to tracking down a murderer who had already killed four people.
That story was already in the computer, just waiting to be updated if they discovered new information over the weekend. He would print the story covering the death of Paul Morris in the Monday edition of Hollow Happenings. Jezebel agreed with his decision to publish the piece. They both seemed to be of the opinion that since the cat was already out of the bag, there was no harm in continuing to inform the public.
His cell phone rang, which startled him. Amused at being unable to finish another sentence, Thomas leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and picked up the phone.
“Sheriff Woods?” he asked as he waited to hear what Jezebel had to say.
“That’s the second time you’ve answered the phone that way when I’ve called,” she said.
Thomas’ eyes snapped open as he sat up straight at the sound of Eve’s voice.
“Do you and this sheriff have something going on I should know about?” Although Eve’s tone was playful, Thomas sensed an undercut of irritation in her voice.
“Sheriff Woods and I are hardly even friends,” Thomas replied. “We’re just working on this case together.” He wasn’t sure why he was being so defensive. Did he really believe he and Eve still shared a future together?
“That’s good to hear,” Eve said. “Like I said before, I can’t see you settling down in Gray Haven and raising a couple of kids.”
“Gray Hollow,” he corrected. “Thank you for returning my phone call.”
“Of cours
e,” she answered. “I wish I was more help. There are virtually no records of newspaper stories at any level mentioning Salem Alistair.”
“That was my fear. Even Thistlewood’s paper archives in the library didn’t have anything on his disappearance, and the city is only a few miles from Gray Hollow.”
“The information you sent me wasn’t really enough to go on. Other than the state record of his birth certificate and the names of his parents, Joshua and Bethany, there was practically no information about him. No driver’s license, no speeding tickets, nothing. It’s actually really weird.”
“You’re telling me. My editor was equally surprised. He thinks it’s some kind of town secret or something. A few people I’ve spoken to in town believe the Alistair Farm is haunted—maybe this relates to that.”
“Maybe. I’m surprised you have an editor in Gray Hollow. I thought maybe you country folk operated on a communal system.”
“Ha, ha,” Thomas replied flatly. “That joke doesn’t even make sense.”
“How do you think Salem Alistair relates to the three murder victims?”
“Four,” he said. Thomas instantly regretted sharing the information.
“Four?” she asked. “Your article only mentioned three.”
“A doctor named Paul Morris was killed since then,” he added reluctantly.
“What happened?” she asked, cutting to the point. He normally admired that skill, except when it was pointed at him. “What are you leaving out?”
“I visited Morris earlier in the day for an interview. He was a potential witness. When I tried to call him back, his phones were down.”
“What?” Eve sounded skeptical.
“It’s true. When I went back to his house, I found the man’s body—and the murderer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What happened?”
The Keeper of the Crows Page 15
