A Circle of Crows

by Kelsey Kingsley

  “Where is Alec?” I asked the Chief Inspector, just as a nurse intruded on our conversation with the request for blood.

  I offered my arm to her, as the man said, “He's at home. He was released from hospital last night.”

  Now, with the investigation essentially over, it seemed that was also the case for our brief relationship. It felt wrong to ask if I could see him, assuming he wouldn't want to, but I asked nonetheless. To my relief, the Chief Inspector nodded profusely.

  “Aye. He did say to give him a ring when ye were awake, and I have every intention to do so as soon as I leave.”

  Then, I was told that I would need to give my statement about what had happened since I arrived in Scotland—a formality, he said, as it was now very obvious to him what had occurred. I agreed to do whatever it was they needed before I flew back home. Then, with one last apology, he left me alone in the strange, sterile room of medical equipment and nurses, and I settled in to wait for a visit from the man who saved my life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ALEC

  Constable Stirling Sharp had lived in a wee cottage to the east of Coille Feannag with his pregnant wife, Shannon. Together, they shared a life that, on the surface, seemed fairly normal to the casual, wandering eye. But now, standing inside the kitchen where he had murdered Shannon two days ago, it occurred to me that there was nothing remotely normal about Stirling Sharp or his life.

  “Are ye okay to be here, Brodie?” Constable Abernathy asked, coming to stand beside me at the table covered in rotten food and mouse droppings.

  “I'm fine,” I grunted with a nod, as I frisked my eyes around the room and readjusted the mask over my mouth and nose.

  The putrid scent of feces, old food, and death slipped beneath the mask and into my nostrils, and I fought against the urge to gag and vomit. How any human being could live in such filth, I would never understand.

  “Are ye sure?” He gestured toward the crutch I leaned on, and I nodded, resisting the desire to smack him with it.

  “If I wasnae sure, I wouldnae be here.”

  He nodded, before briefly running me through the events that had happened over the past couple of days since that night in the woods.

  After we'd been discovered in the woods and rushed to a nearby hospital, the Fort Crow police stormed the home of Stirling Sharp and discovered his wife, dead on the kitchen floor. While nobody would ever truly know what had happened and why, it seemed she'd been brutally stabbed after Sharp had seen the receipt from the abortion clinic, which was later found on Sharp's body.

  Within the house, they found a box in Sharp's bedroom of what appeared to be mementos from a number of women, who we now suspected to be his victims. Then, there was the cellar, a dingy, dark room with a dirty, blood-stained bed and an assortment of knives. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that he had killed several women in that room, and how his wife had managed to live with it for all those years, not a soul would ever be able to understand. I liked to believe she had just been scared; the alternative was far too upsetting.

  Nobody could say for sure just how many women Sharp had killed, not until the forensics team was finished with their DNA analysis of his trophies. But it was a consolation to my heart, to know that their names would be known, and their families could finally be notified.

  “Ye should be checkin' all nearby accidental deaths of tourists,” I mentioned to Constable Abernathy, as we walked through the kitchen and into the living room, where a broken TV sat in front of an old, grimy sofa.

  “Aye,” he replied, nodding. “I think they're already on it, but I'll tell them back at the office.”

  Then, he pointed at an open closet by the front door. “Right in there, we found an arsenal of illegal firearms. I dinnae ken why he didnae bring them all with him, but …”

  “He didnae have to,” I said, limping over to peer inside the closet. The carpet was matted to the floor from water damage and mold trailed up the wall and over the ceiling. “He never intended to kill more than he had to.”

  “But then, why have so many?”

  I turned from the moldy closet to look him in the eye and asked, “Why did he kill so many women?”

  He blinked and considered the question, opening his mouth a number of times as though he might've come to a conclusion, before finally saying, “I dinnae ken.”

  “Because it excited him,” I explained. “There was a thrill in it that he wasnae gettin' anywhere else. I suspect that obtainin' illegal guns wouldae done the same thing for him. Remember, as far as we know, he didnae shoot any of his victims—”

  “Well … he did,” he replied, gesturing awkwardly toward me, as if to remind me of recent events. As if I could have forgotten.

  I held up a finger, forcing the memory from my mind. There would be time to reflect on that, but not now.

  “Only when he had to,” I said pointedly. “He used the gun as a last resort. He was much happier to kill his victims with his hands, or in close combat. A gun was too …” Open yer eyes. I want ye to look at me. “Too … impersonal.”

  The images of Sharp's disgusting assault on Rosie would forever be burned against my mind. I cringed to know how long I'd be having those nightmares, and how long she would suffer with them as well. But I would gladly live with those terrors every night of my life, knowing that she was at least alive, with the chance to heal.

  “There was one other thing I wanted to tell ye for now,” he said, and I raised an inquisitive brow. “We found a diary, written by Sharp. Ye can read sometime, but he had written somethin' I thought would be of interest to ye.”

  He told me that Sharp had written about his childhood. Of the beatings he suffered at the hands of his father and the verbal abuse he'd endured from his mother. He had also noted the physical torment he'd witnessed his father deal to his mother on a regular basis for disrespecting him in one way or another. Then, he wrote of siblings—a brother and sister. His sister had been the favorite of the family, their little princess, and never suffered the same treatment their parents had forced upon the boys. So, Sharp and his brother had enjoyed dealing her the same torture they were made to live through.

  It was a heartbreaking tale, the evidence of how a boy could be broken and turned into a cold-blooded killer. A part of me wanted to pity the man and apologize for a childhood I had nothing to do with, but at some point, we all need to be held accountable for the choices we make. Sharp had made his and had paid for them, too.

  “There's more, but let's step outside. I cannae stand to breathe in this shite anymore,” he said, and I agreed. I was done there, with nothing more that I cared to see, and so, we left to stand beside his car.

  Abernathy pulled out a carton of cigarettes and offered one to me. I declined with a wave of my hand, and he nodded. “I'm tryin' to quit,” he muttered, then shook his head with a roll of his eyes. “Ah, who am I kiddin'. I've been smokin' since I was a wee laddie. Why stop now, when I'm already an old fuckin' man?”

  Then, he sighed and said, “Sharp's brother, William, went to school with ye. Did ye ken?”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to recall a William from my youth, only to come up with a few vague memories of several. “I knew a few lads by that name. Wasnae aware one was related to him.”

  “Aye. A real shite, apparently. But I suppose he wouldae been, seein' how they were treated at home, the poor boys,” he said, giving his head a forlorn shake. “Sharp wrote about an incident, in which his brother and a few of his arsehole friends lured an unsuspectin' wee laddie into those woods and roped him to a tree. They tormented him for a time, before leavin' him out there to freeze to death. That was their intent. To kill this wee boy. Is that ringin' any bells for ye?”

  A cold shiver ran the length of my spine, as my eyes slammed shut and I swallowed against the immortal taunt of the past. “I-I-It d-does, aye.”

  “Brodie …” He looked away, unable to look his superior in the eye, knowing now about the demons lurking in
his past. “Christ, man, I'm sorry that happened to ye. I thought maybe ye had some idea they were related.”

  I shook my head. “No.” Then, after taking a deep swallow of air, I asked, “What ever happened to Sharp's brother and sister?”

  He sucked on the end of his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke toward the sky. “Well,” he began, “his sister owns The Whisperin' Crow Inn. We questioned her yesterday, and she told us that Stirling regularly came to visit her. They were verra close, as twisted as it seems, and I actually pitied the poor woman, knowin’ her entire family is no longer with her.”

  Laying a hand over my eyes, I sighed and said, “That explains how he even found Grace in the first place.”

  “Aye,” Abernathy concurred. “We figured as much. She feels responsible, even though we told her not to, but …”

  “How could she not?” I grumbled, shifting against the crutch.

  He nodded solemnly, then threw his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomped on it.

  “Ye said she doesnae have any family left?”

  “No,” he said. “Their brother William killed himself some time ago, after confessin' to Stirling that he had, ah … urges to do horrible things to women. Apparently, he couldnae stand livin' with the demons inside his own head, and instead of gettin' himself to a doctor, he decided to rid the world of his existence instead.”

  Then, he reached out to nudge my elbow with his knuckles and said, “I guess that's some kinda twisted consolation prize, though, isn’t it?”

  I considered it, as I recalled those hours I’d spent tied to a tree in the middle of Coille Feannag and the years of nightmares and chilling memories that had followed. My peers had tortured me for something I had no control over, and even though I couldn't remember their faces or names, I’d spent all of this time hating every single one of them since. But had I ever wished death upon any of them? Had I ever hoped they'd suffer or do themselves harm?

  “No,” I grumbled, turning to look once again at the sad little house and its disheveled state. “Nobody deserves that.”

  Then, as I started to limp around the car to get in, my mobile began to ring.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ALEC

  “Rosie Allan.”

  I allowed her name to roll over my tongue, enjoying it like a rich, smooth whisky, as I entered her room with a less than grand entrance. She turned to me with her mouth open from being in mid-conversation with the man at her side. Her smile was slow to form, but then, there it was, and I could describe it only as relief personified.

  “Alec.”

  Without further invitation, I hobbled into the room, before regarding the tall man who looked to be the older clone of her son, TJ. I knew her ex-husband had come to be with her, and I knew this had to be him.

  Extending a hand toward him, I said, “Inspector Alec Brodie.”

  As he stood, he grasped my palm between both of his. “Tom Dawson, Rosie's ex-husband.”

  “Aye,” I said, nodding. “I ken who ye are. It's a pleasure. Rosie speaks verra highly of ye.”

  “I could say the same of you,” he replied, smiling and releasing my hand. Then, with his eyes glistening, he held my gaze with a firm stare and said, “You have no idea how grateful we are to you, for saving her life.”

  I was never one to take a compliment well, so I shrugged.

  “It's my job.”

  “No,” he replied. “It was more than that for you, and I know it. I just want to thank you for caring that much about her. Our son, her parents, and I are all forever in your debt.”

  I chuckled uncomfortably, as my eyes drifted to Rosie's, happy to find them looking back at me. “Well, I promised to get the bad guy or die tryin', did I not?”

  She swallowed as her eyes glazed over with a sheen of tears. “You weren't supposed to actually die, though. Nobody was.”

  Inspector Brian Finley came to mind, and I bowed my head in memory of my friend.

  Tom cleared his throat and I looked to him, as he headed toward the door. “I'll give you guys some space,” he said, before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

  Now, we were alone. I had rehearsed this moment the whole car ride here, certain I knew exactly what I wanted to say. But facing her now, knowing that beneath her hospital gown were a number of bandages and scars, every word I had wanted to say felt insignificant. She deserved more than what I had to say, and so much more than anything I was capable of doing.

  “Sit,” she ordered, and I did without protest. Then, she asked, “How badly were you hurt?”

  I leaned the crutch against the wall and settled into the chair, as I said, “Some bumps and bruises. Nothin’ I cannae handle.”

  I tried to downplay my injuries, not wanting to point out the fact that she had been shot and I hadn’t. But Rosie saw through the lie, and said, “I watched you get hit in the head with a tree branch. You can’t tell me you’re fine.”

  “I never said I was fine,” I pointed out. “Only that I can handle it.”

  “Tell me what happened to you. Please.”

  I sighed and ran a hand over my face, desperately in need of a good trim, and said, “I have a concussion. Doctors say it’s a miracle I didnae have a brain bleed, with how hard he bashed me in the head. I also needed fifteen stitches.” I laid a hand gingerly over the wound to the back of my skull. “Hurts like a fucker, too. He broke my leg and bruised a few of my ribs, as well, but really, the worst of it is in my head.”

  Rosie closed her eyes and laid her head against the pillow. Her face took on a pained expression as she said, “I’m so sorry, Alec.”

  “Ye have nothin’ to be sorry for.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then, tell me,” I said. “What exactly is it that ye think ye should be apologizin’ about?”

  If I had known that question would insight a hysterical sob from the woman’s lips, I never would have asked. But that’s exactly what happened. It was as if weeks of pain had suddenly been given permission to leave her body, as she began to cry, and all I could do was listen.

  “Alec,” she began, laying one of her bandaged hands over her eyes, as if to hide the tears so obviously pouring from her eyes, “none of this ever would have happened if it weren’t for me. I’m the one who told Gracie to go to Scotland for her honeymoon. I’m the one who insisted she go anyway, even after her fiancé cheated on her. I’m the one who convinced her to talk to that guy. I’m the one who came here and got wrapped up in all of this shit. If it weren’t for me, Gracie would be alive. Finley would be alive. And you and Rick never would have gotten hurt.”

  I slowly shook my head and reached out to take her hand, fearing that she might pull away. But I was relieved to find that she didn’t.

  “Rosie, if it weren’t for yer insistence, this might never have been solved. Stirling could still be on the streets, killin’ unsuspectin’ women. You helped to end a life of rape and murder, and for that, ye should be verra proud.”

  “How am I supposed to feel anything, when my sister is dead?” she asked, her tears quickening. “Oh, God, Alec. My sister is fucking dead. She’s gone, and how the hell am I supposed to go on with my life without ever hearing her voice again? I-I don’t know how to do this. How the hell do I do this?”

  Grief is a strange and unpredictable beast. If you dare to tame it, you’re likely to get yourself killed. I watched in a helpless stupor as Rosie finally unleashed weeks’ worth of emotional torment. At last, without the distraction of catching her sister’s killer, all of Rosie’s anger and sadness was released in the form of tears and gut-wrenching sobs. Her wails drowned out the surrounding machines, every beep letting us know that she was the surviving sister.

  Then, after moments of being unable to do anything but watch, I finally found it in me to react and be more than just Inspector Brodie and be the man who kissed her just days ago. I climbed onto the bed beside her, injuries be damned, and wrapped her tightly in my arms until my shirt was soaked throug
h with her tears.

  Catching her breath, she wiped her face and lifted her head from my shoulder. “I’ll be okay,” she said, dismissing her emotions with sudden nonchalance. “I just need to go home and get back to my life.”

  “Ye will be okay,” I agreed, stroking the hair from her forehead. “But it’s all right to admit that, right now, ye’re not.”

  “But it doesn’t make a difference either way.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  She turned to face me, and as her eyes met mine, the world of hospital beds and medical equipment disappeared. I heard nothing else, saw nothing else, but the whisper of her breath and the pain in her eyes. In those few seconds, I longed for the power to make it better, to take her pain away, and as she laid her hand against my cheek and gently moved her parched lips to mine, I sensed she wished for the very same thing.

  Then, she said, “It doesn’t make a difference because Grace is still gone, and I’m still leaving. Allowing myself to acknowledge the pain changes nothing about either of those facts, so the best thing to do is just push forward.”

  “I dinnae want ye to leave,” I heard myself saying, as I laid my hand over hers, as if that alone could keep her here.

  Rosie smiled and kissed me again, harder than before. Her tears wet my face and I licked them from her lips, wishing that somewhere amidst the grief, we could find a place where we could stay together. But then, as she pulled away and winced from all of the physical pain she had endured, I realized that a place that lovely and wonderful would also require a perfect world and that was something we didn’t have.

  “You know,” she said, lacing her fingers together with mine and holding on tightly, “when Grace was found and I was told that she was dead, the first thing I thought was that I didn’t want her to become just another memory, because they fade. Even now, I find myself struggling to remember the way she said certain things or the way she smelled or the way she looked when she smiled in the sunlight. It’s so stupid how badly I want to remember all of these little things that never mattered before but all of a sudden matter so much, and I know the fight is pointless because there’s no way I can remember all of it. There’s no way I ever could. I-I didn’t take enough pictures, I didn’t take enough videos, I didn’t do any of these things I had never thought to do because I was so busy spending time with her, and now, it’s too late. At some point in life, it is always too late.”