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“Hopefully, he’s not that crazy.” Jason didn’t want to acknowledge how much that before I get there cheered him up.
Kennedy’s voice grew urgent. “Yeah, but Jason, listen. Gervase went this far. He’s not going to go down without a fight. Don’t misread the fact he let the Davies girl live. It’s a totally different dynamic with you. You’re the enemy as far as he’s concerned, and if he is coming after you, it’s to kill you. Whether you find that charm or not, he figures you know too much. He may regret it later, but he’s not going to be rational. Stay out of his way.”
“Okay.”
“And he’s familiar with the territory. The advantage is all his.”
“Got it.”
“Jason.”
“Yep?”
“He’s a good shot. A marksman.”
“Roger that.” Jason clicked off before Kennedy weakened his resolve any further.
The silence that followed was so complete he felt like he was standing on another continent, millions of miles from everything he knew, everyone he cared about.
He shook off the feeling, found the high-powered flashlight in the lockbox and slammed shut the trunk of the sedan. He did one quick final weapon check—better OCD than sorry—and set off at a jog down the trail leading into the trees.
It took him about twenty minutes to reach the old mill. He was making excellent time, and there was still no sign of pursuit from behind. And no sign of life ahead.
Either way he was past the point of return.
He continued down the trail, still moving fast but now extra alert to his surroundings. The sun was starting to slide, but there was still warmth to the afternoon and plenty of daylight. A few blue swallows swooped down to investigate, then swooped away.
He thought of Jeremy Kyser and wondered suddenly, uncomfortably, whether he might be lurking somewhere nearby. The idea was a bizarre one, but the whole interview with Kyser had been so strange…
However, after returning to Kingsfield, Jason had run Kyser through the system, and nothing alarming had flagged. Kyser seemed to be just what he appeared: a weird but talented guy who had managed to build a lucrative career out of studying people even weirder than himself.
By the time he reached Rexford, Jason had worked up a good sweat and was slightly out of breath. The good news was he’d given himself a healthy lead on any possible pursuit. The bad news was if he got into any trouble in the basement of the lyceum, help would be at least an hour in coming—and it was unlikely help would arrive first.
He walked north, scanning the hollow-eyed, peeling faces of the buildings falling down along Main Street, and came at last to the Lyceum of the Aquatic.
He’d have liked to know what the story was behind this now defunct institution, but then every building in Rexford had a story.
Crime scene tape was stretched across the entryway. Jason went around the building to the back entrance.
More crime scene tape; black and yellow warnings bobbing in the breeze.
He ripped the plastic tape down and pried opened the tall blue door. The hinges screeched a protest that was going to carry for miles. Especially on such a quiet, clear day.
It wasn’t like Gervase didn’t know where Jason was headed.
He went down the short stairwell, forced open the door to the basement, and turned on his flashlight.
Beyond his range of sight he heard a low, hoarse croaking sound. Something huge and white flew out of the darkness straight at him. Jason yelled and fell back against the wall, grabbing for his weapon, unable to tear his gaze away from great wings…burning eyes…
“Jesus Christ!”
…long orange bill…
Wait.
Long orange bill?
A bird. A goddamned bird. A great white heron. In the goddamned cellar.
