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Standing on the lip of the pitch, LaMastra stared down into the shadows, feeling empty and on edge. He did not notice that all of the trees around him with filled with crows, each of them watching him with bottomless black eyes.
Back at the staging area, Frank Ferro paced slowly back and forth, hands jammed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the deepening cold, thoughts blacker than they had ever been. Ferro knew that he was something of a control freak. Not really a type-A personality, but close enough. He liked answers, he liked patterns, and he liked cases that stayed within the boundaries of police work. Even when he failed to close a case, his world was balanced on the fact that it was all cops and robbers and sometimes the robbers won. This case, though, seemed to be outside of those boundaries. Vince had put his finger on it earlier when he said that the case was getting away from them. Maybe it already was. He didn’t feel that he was in charge of it in any useful way, but he wasn’t blasting himself for it because he truly felt that this case would have gotten away from anyone. It was that kind of case. Outside of all normality, beyond cops and robbers.
He tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and tried for the twentieth time that day to get hold of Mayor Terry Wolfe, but there was still no joy. Annoyed, he jammed the phone back into his pocket as he looked out over the sea of waving corn that was stirred by a piercing breeze out of the north. Night was coming on and Ferro didn’t like the feel of it.
He thought about that feeling, trying to pick it apart. Ferro was never a deeply emotional person, and certainly not one prone to romantic fancies, either in thought or action, so when he realized that he didn’t like the feel of the coming night, he felt a tickle of self-disgust. Or tried to but no amount of personal recrimination would make the feeling go away as he looked out over the corn to the forests beyond. He wanted LaMastra and the others to stop, to turn back, to leave those ugly woods.
“You’re a fool,” he said aloud, sneering at his feelings.
A minute later, though, he used the powerful satellite phone. “Vince? You got anything?”
“Not a goddamn thing, Frank. Nothing, not even a footprint. ”
“I heard from the lab and they matched the shoe impressions they took this morning to the casts they took from around Ruger’s car. Definitely Boyd. ”
“Shit,” LaMastra swore. “What about those teeth marks, though? Don’t tell me Boyd’s walking around wearing a set of dog dentures. ”
“No word from Dr. Weinstock yet. The only new intel I have is that, teeth or no, Boyd is our man to about a ninety-nine percent degree of certainty. ”
“Still makes no friggin’ sense, Frank…but between you and me, if I saw Boyd right this minute I don’t think I’d be wasting time reading him his rights. There’s a lot of places out here to bury a—”
Ferro cut him off. “Look, Vince, it’s getting late. Let’s call it. Bring everyone back. ”
There was silence on the other end for a moment and Ferro thought his partner was going to argue, but LaMastra just said, “Yeah, okay. ”
It took an hour for all of the police and the hunters to come back. One tracker, leading a pair of setters on leashes, came stumping out of the woods past large mounds of dirt torn up by Henry Guthrie’s foreman in order to sink a new irrigation pipeline. The dirt stood eight feet high, like a small mountain range, and as the tracker past it his two dogs suddenly jerked away from the excavation. The dogs didn’t bark, but they moved sharply and nearly pulled the tracker off his feet. The tracker yanked back on the leashes but couldn’t get the dogs to walk in a straight line past the dirt and had to let himself be dragged in an arc that went forty feet clear of the nearest mound.
He frowned at the way the dogs were moving and sniffed the air to see if there was skunk on the breeze, but the air just smelled of ozone and wet earth. Had the dogs barked or been more visibly agitated, the tracker would have investigated the mounds, because the dogs knew the scent and would certainly have barked at even the faintest trace of their prey, but these dogs just wanted to move on and move away. That sent a different message to the tracker. Not prey, but something the dogs didn’t like. Dogs liked prey, and this didn’t look like that, so none of his alarm bells really went off. The day was old, the dogs were tired, and maybe there was a skunk hunkered down in the corn poised to spray. He didn’t feel like going through all that shit tonight and soon forgot about it. The last of the men passed by, and within minutes even the sound of them moving through the corn to the staging area had faded to a whisper and finally died. Silence settled like dew over the excavation.
An hour passed, and nothing moved. Full dark came on, sliding in tidal waves of shadows across the seas of corn, washing up against the wall of pines. Stars ignited coldly overhead, and there was the faint threat of moonlight far away to the east.
The big mound, the one nearest to the front rank of cornstalks, trembled. The piles of loose dirt shivered for a moment, was still, and then abruptly fell outward from the mound in muddy clumps as the whole side of the mound collapsed. As it fell away, an arm was revealed. Waxy-white flesh in a torn and stained sleeve. Dead fingers lay half-curled like worms around a palm that was caked with dirt. The nails were thick and dark, cracked and crusted with old blood.
A night bird cawed and flapped its way out of the trees and lit atop the mound, staring hungrily down at the dead flesh. It waited for a while, listening to the night, hearing no sound, seeing no movement, then it hopped down the slope driven by hunger at the sight of so much spoiled meat. Two others swooped down and landed on the ground near the base of the mound. The razor-sharp blade of the moon sliced through a distant bank of clouds and bathed the hand in a blue-white light. The night bird cawed again and hopped down another few inches. The other two stood and watched. One more hop and the night bird was close enough to bend down and take a single experimental peck, tearing a tiny scrap of skin away from the bulge of muscle at the base of the thumb. The other birds cried out in appreciation and edged forward. Now all three were close enough to dine. The one on the mound took a final hop and stood by the edge of the hand, its clawed feet an inch from the little finger. It swallowed the first bite and bent for another.
The hand shot out and closed around it with such speed and force that the bird exploded in a spray of bloody black feathers. It had no chance to cry out as it died, but the others screamed in terror and threw themselves into the air, racing up and away as the dead thing under the dirt shoved its way out into the moonlight, still holding the crushed bird in its hand. It rose slowly, using its other hand to paw dirt away from its milky eyes and slack-lipped mouth. For a moment it stood swaying there, staring up at the rising moon with a dreadful expectancy. Then it seemed to notice that it held something in its hand and looked down to see burst meat and fresh blood.
Without a moment’s hesitation Kenneth Boyd stuffed the dead crow into his mouth, tearing at it with wickedly long white teeth.
Chapter 5
(1)
Crow tapped on the half-open door as he leaned into the room. “Can I come in?”
In a chair by the window, Mark Guthrie laid his newspaper in his lap and looked up. He was a few years younger than Val, handsome like their father, but softer, less rugged, and unlike his father Mark, was starting to lose his hair. He had a thick purple bruise on his right cheek that had already started to yellow around the edges. There was a thin band of bruising across the bridge of his nose, and deep pain vibrating in both of his eyes.
Mark didn’t say anything, which Crow took for as much of a welcome as he was going to get. He came in and sat on the edge of the bed.
“How’s it going, chief?” he said, pasting an amiable smile carefully on his mashed lips. When Mark said nothing, Crow went on. “Val and I might be getting out tomorrow. What about you and Connie?”
Mark said nothing, but a lump of cartilage began pulsing in his jaw.
Crow said, “I looked in on her, but she was sleeping. ”
“Yes,” Mark said tightly, “she prefers to be asleep. They give her as many sedatives as she wants. ”
Crow digested that for a moment. “What about you? I know this is going to sound like a stupid freaking question, but how are you handling this?”
