“That’s right,” Logan said. “We’re going to bury you alive.” He grinned underneath his mask, delighting in the utter fear they had evoked in the boy. Of all the pranks they had ever pulled on Salem Alistair, this was by far the best. The boy eventually stopped squirming as the soil was heaped over him. They kept at it until only his head remained above the earth, and even it was almost covered by the dirt.
“Enough,” Jeffrey Daniels finally said, wresting the shovel away from the figure in the pumpkin mask. “It’s over.” He took off his mask.
“Sure,” Logan Randall said before popping open another can. “We got him good.” He ripped off his own costume mask. “I bet he wet his pants, didn’t you Salem?” He turned around to look at Jeffrey, hoping for a laugh from his tense friend.
Jeffrey wasn’t laughing. His face was wrapped in an expression of horror. He toppled to the ground, the shovel falling with him.
“What’s the matter?” Gary asked.
“He’s not moving,” Jeffrey whispered. Jeffrey worked swiftly to try to free Salem from the earth. When he cleaned off the last level of dirt, he held his ear to Salem’s chest. There was no heartbeat. He pulled off the boy’s mask.
Jeffrey’s eyes widened. What had they done?
“Jeff? You’re joking, right?” Gary asked. He knelt over the body. When he checked for Salem Alistair’s pulse for himself, he turned deathly white.
Salem Alistair was dead. Suffocated.
“What are we going to do?” Jeffrey shouted. “We killed someone.”
“We’re going to prison,” Rick mumbled, holding his head in disbelief.
This wasn’t happening. Surely they’d just had too much to drink, and this was a dream. Only it wasn’t a dream. He could feel the cold air, could hear the silence of the night.
“They’re going to find us,” Gary said. “We were pulled over!”
“So?” asked Logan, frowning. He and his friend seemed calmer than the others.
“So, that policeman will remember us. He has your name, Logan. The police might figure out we were headed here!”
“No, they won’t,” the figure in the pumpkin mask said, finally removing his mask. “My dad will take care of that. You all just have to keep your mouths shut, and we’ll all be OK.”
Jeffrey’s mouth fell open in shock. He was trembling. “How can you even say that? This is our fault. We did this. We have to take responsibility for it.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want, Jeff?” the boy asked bluntly. “To spend the rest of your life in prison? You know what they do to people convicted of murder? You’re pretty close to eighteen, aren’t you? Do you honestly think you can just go back to playing basketball after something like this?”
“He’s right,” Logan said. “Salem’s aunt is out of town. Most of Gray Hollow thinks his family is cursed, anyway. You know the stories. If we hide the body, no one would ever know it was us.”
“There are tons of other kids who picked on him,” Rick Pepper muttered, almost to himself.
“I’m not sure,” Gary said, shooting a quick look at Jeffrey. “How are we just going to ‘hide’ the body so it won’t be found?”
Logan Randall smiled. He pointed down at the hole in the ground. “We already have an answer to that,” he said. “That hole is already almost three feet deep. We have plenty of time to bury the body even deeper. It will be awhile before anyone finds out he’s missing. Then they will probably search for him outside the farm, thinking he’s gotten lost or something.”
“Remember,” Logan’s older friend added. “Just because he’s missing, that doesn’t mean everyone is going to assume he’s dead. Given how unpopular he was, I could easily see people thinking he ran away. All the while, the cornfield will help decompose his body and hide the evidence.”
Gary stared at the ground. “Fine,” he said finally. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail.”
“Jeff?” Logan asked. “We’re all in agreement. What do you say?” The other boys turned and looked at him.
“I’m sorry I ever met any of you,” he whispered, near tears. “Salem Alistair didn’t deserve this.”
“Think about what you’re doing. What would your father say?” Logan asked.
Jeffrey lowered his gaze.
“I won’t say anything. I promise. But I never want to see any of you again.”
Forming a circle, the boys took turns enlarging the hole, sealing the bond between them. Salem Alistair’s body was lowered unceremoniously into the hole, still dressed as a scarecrow. Jeffrey clutched the mask in his hands. Salem’s eyes, not yet closed, seemed to bore into him as if the boy was still alive.
***
It didn’t take long to fill the hole. Soon Salem’s body was buried deep under the earth, where they hoped it would never be found. The search for Salem Alistair would instead lead nowhere, becoming yet another unsolved missing persons case. After checking to make sure there was no sign they were ever at the Alistair Farm, the boys piled back into the car and began the protracted drive back to town. It was all over.
Except it wasn’t.
Deep in the cave, the demon roared in triumph. Its moment had come. Darkness poured from the cave, taking a good deal of the demon’s remaining power with it. The darkness slowly slid into the grave, reaching out for the boy who had denied it. He could deny it no longer.
The corpse was still for a moment. Then its heart thumped loudly, echoing through the earth. The entity would keep the boy’s body alive. Though the demon could not take the soul itself, it could fill the vessel with evil, creating a new servant for itself. It would be a servant with more than enough power to deliver Gray Hollow back to the dark.
Drained from the depletion of its energy, the demon rested. It would take time to gather its strength back. In time, the demon would harness the boy’s powers from the grave. When the moment arrived, the new Keeper would be reborn into the world.
Salem Alistair was dead, but the darkest part of him survived. Hidden under the ground, the monster waited to be awakened. The corpse fed off its own memories. With each day, its desire for revenge grew stronger. In time, Gray Hollow would burn, and the demon would be set free.
Part Three
The Keeper of the Crows
Chapter Sixteen
Crows poured from the sky as the gray RB-KAR van sped across Gray Hollow. Chuck Howard stared at them through the window while adjusting the heater. The small town’s chilly air seemed to seep into the news van, which agitated the reporter.
“What’s with all the birds?” he asked, putting his hands up to the vents.
“They must be moving south for the winter,” a squeaky voice said from behind him. Chuck turned back and looked at Elaine Ferris.
“I’m sorry,” he said contemptuously. “Did you film a documentary on birds?” Already he was regretting his choice of camerawoman. At the time, Chuck picked her for her looks, like he usually did. That was before he realized how vocal she was.
“No,” she said. “I just thought it was common knowledge. Birds migrate south for the winter. That’s where they’re headed.”
Chuck rolled his eyes at Clark Dickenson, who was too busy driving to notice. They were only in the van for a couple of hours, and already the camerawoman was proving to be incessant. He didn’t consider himself to be the type of reporter who cared about getting to know his colleagues. Chuck didn’t even bother with those who weren’t movers and shakers at the news station, and he liked even fewer. He wasn’t inclined to hear Elaine’s life story, and he certainly didn’t want to hear her opinions.
“Welcome to Gray Hollow,” Clark said as the van passed over the bridge. “Also known as the state’s outhouse. Remind me to thank you again for dragging me all the way out here.”
“Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” the reporter replied. “This is going to be huge. When the next victim is found, we will be the first television news station to cover the emergence of the state�
�s latest serial killer.”
“Where to?” Clark asked after driving around the town to familiarize the news crew with Gray Hollow.
“Let’s stop at the town square,” Chuck answered while watching Elaine prepare the camera equipment. He found her infinitely more appealing when she wasn’t babbling. Chuck knew he would have to be careful around her. He didn’t want any more harassment accusations against him, not when his uncle was still angry over the last time.
“This diner looks like a nice place to start,” Chuck said. It looked like one of the few places in the community that wasn’t a hole in the wall. Clark pulled the van off into a narrow parking spot while Chuck noticed a man sitting at a sidewalk bench as he exited the van. He walked over to the man, who seemed amused when he noticed Chuck’s suit. The reporter resisted the impulse to scowl at the man and grabbed a microphone from the truck.
“Get me over here, Elaine,” he said. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “This is Chuck Howard, reporting in the town of Gray Hollow for RB-KAR news. Are you concerned about the rash of recent murders in Gray Hollow?”
“What do you think?” the man replied sarcastically.
Chuck sighed at the tedious response. “Is the camera bothering you?” he asked. “We won’t put you on television if you don’t want, Mister . . .”
“Lipton,” the man said. “Bob Lipton.”
“Right,” Chuck said. “As I was saying, Mr. Lipton, we’ve come a long way to assist the people of your town, and I was just hoping you would be able to help us out.”
“I only know what I read in the papers.”
“He’s not going to be any help,” Chuck whispered into Clark’s ear. The reporter was not looking forward to dealing with the rest of the locals. Sadly, it was necessary. “Let’s head into the diner. Maybe we’ll have more luck in there.”
Unfortunately, Chuck could tell things were not going to turn in his favor from the second he stepped foot in the diner. When the doorbells jingled, every head seemed to move in his direction. All gazed skeptically upon the man in the suit. Once inside, he introduced himself one by one to successive locals. Other than a few good video clips showing how frightened some of the people were, Chuck failed to learn anything new. Finally, he noticed a well-dressed man in a black jacket standing just outside the coffee line. The man was studying him carefully.
“Hello there,” Chuck said in an effort to introduce himself to the man, who looked like someone who might know what he was talking about. “I’m Chuck Howard,” he added, extending his hand.
The man shook his hand.
“So I’ve heard. You’re here to investigate the murders?”
“That’s right.”
“What about Thomas Brooks?” the man asked. “I thought he was looking into the killings.”
Chuck flashed a wide grin. The reporter walked over to the man, microphone in hand, winked, and looked him in the eye.
“Let me let you in on a little secret,” Chuck said. “Thomas Brooks is a has-been. You know why he’s in Gray Hollow? He got caught faking sources in a big New York newspaper. You can’t count on him for fair, accurate reporting. I’m here to get to the truth of the matter.”
The man laughed, and Chuck could see some of the people standing next to them laughing too. He frowned, looking at his camerawoman in an effort to see what was so funny. Elaine shrugged.
“That’s news to me,” the man told the reporter. “I’m Thomas Brooks.”
Thomas watched Chuck Howard’s expression turn to shock. Then, just as quickly, the television reporter composed himself once more. Smiling again, Chuck slapped Thomas on the back.
“Well then, it’s good to meet you. No hard feelings about that little speech, I hope? Just trying to get a leg up on the competition. Not that I need to.”
“What does that mean?” Thomas frowned.
“Look at this place. You reach what, six hundred people an issue, tops? Even with the internet, there’s no way you can manage to go toe-to-toe with a television broadcast station.”
“Try me,” Thomas said. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you.”
Chuck Howard leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
“And where are you now? This must be one of the smallest towns in the state. You’re a fallen star, Brooks, and mine is on the rise.”
Thomas laughed again and shot Chuck an equally forced grin. Just before leaving the shop, he cast a look over his shoulder.
“That might be true, but for all of your cameras and airtime, only one of us is working with the local sheriff inside the investigation. Only one of us just published a new story that has had over a thousand online hits in an hour. So if I were you, I’d stop making accusations and start doing some reporting. If you were a real journalist, you would know that there are people out there dying. So instead of trying to score points at my expense, you might try showing some compassion around these people.”
Chuck wanted to pick up a coffee cup from the table nearby and hurl it at Thomas as he walked away. Instead, he clenched his fist and watched Brooks head down the street. After a few minutes, he followed out the door, motioning for his crew to join him. There was no way anyone in the diner was going to talk to him after that.
“Can I see that paper you’re reading?” he asked Bob Lipton politely.
“Sure,” Lipton said. “If you buy it from me.”
“What?” Chuck said, his eyes widening. “I’m not going to pay to—”
“Then you don’t get to read it,” Lipton said flatly.
“Fine,” Chuck said, hastily thrusting a five-dollar bill into the man’s hand. “I don’t have change. Now let me see that.” He grabbed the newspaper.
Fourth victim found dead, read the title of the lead article. Journalist and sheriff witness attack.
The reporter crumpled the paper up in his fists. After realizing he needed the information, he tucked the section inside his jacket pocket.
“Wow,” Elaine said. “Brooks is actually heading for the police station. He’s already got the best scoop.”
“Shut up,” Chuck shot back. “This isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. Get the van, Clark. If Brooks knows the town so well, maybe we’ll just tag along for the ride.”
***
Thomas couldn’t suppress a sense of pride as he approached the sheriff’s desk. The line outside the station had only thinned slightly, which made it difficult for him to gain entrance. Luckily, Deputy Markham was kind enough to unlock a side door for him.
“Sheriff Woods is on the phone,” he said, gesturing to her office. “You’re welcome to wait here.”
“Thanks.” Thomas studied the layout of the station. The faint aroma of breakfast lingered in a small lounge across from a reinforced door that led to the holding cells.
“Look who we have here,” a bitter voice said behind him. Thomas turned just in time to see Logan Randall emerge from the room, a bagel in hand. Logan stared at the journalist. He walked up to face Thomas until they were almost standing chest-to-chest.
“You’re lucky you have Sheriff Woods watching your back. If I were in charge, you’d be rotting in a holding cell right now. First Amendment or not,” he snarled, as if baiting Thomas to strike.
From close up, Thomas could see a host of abrasions covering the deputy’s face. Half of his face seemed swollen, and his mouth was bruised. The reporter wasn’t sure, but it looked like Logan had a few scratches on his arm as well.
“You do anything to make my life harder again, and I promise you, you will regret it,” Logan finished. “Any questions?”
Thomas didn’t back down. “Just one,” he replied. “Are you wearing makeup? It looks like you’re covered in cuts. Get into any fights lately, Deputy?”
Logan instinctively touched his hand to his face but quickly moved it back down to his side.
“Mind your own business,” he snapped before turning away. “I’ve got work to do.”
Thomas stood there for a moment and watch
ed Logan Randall head for his office. It suddenly occurred to him that not only did he dislike the deputy, he also didn’t trust him. He wondered if Jezebel felt the same.
“What was that all about?” Jezebel said, opening her office door.
“Just your deputy being his regular charming self. Actually, while we’re on the subject, has Logan Randall been involved in any arrests lately?”
“No,” Jezebel said, confused. “He’s heading the search for Gary Davis. You already knew that.”
“Are you sure you haven’t received any reports from him lately?”
“None,” Jezebel replied. “For once, he seems focused on the task. In fact, Logan has hardly spent any time at the station since the Davis murders. Today is the first full day he’s spent at the office in a while. Why so curious?”
Thomas finally looked away from the blinds covering the Logan’s office windows. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was bothering him, but his instincts told him something was out of place.
“His arms are covered in scratches, and there are bruises on his face. Unless he tripped and fell down the stairs, the deputy got into a fight with someone who hit back.”
“That’s odd,” Jezebel said. “He’s such a neat freak, it’s hard to believe he would even risk a fight.”
“Neat freak?”
“That’s putting it mildly. The man is obsessed with cleanliness. He always carries hand sanitizer around with him.”
Thomas laughed. “That man has issues.”
“I could tell you some stories. Back in high school—” She froze.
Now it was Thomas’ turn to be confused. “Jezebel? What is it?”
“Maybe nothing. In high school, Logan Randall was a senior when I was a freshman. One of the students he was friendly with was Gary Davis.”
“What?” Thomas said. “And you let him run the search for Gary? How do you know Logan isn’t protecting him?”
“I asked him about it when we were investigating the murders at the Davis Farm. Logan insisted the two were never that close. At the time I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though I thought his answer sounded a little evasive. Now I’m not so sure.”
The Keeper of the Crows Page 19
