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And it worked. As Tean got closer, he could make out the shape of Auggie and the other figure wrestling on the ground, rolling through the ryegrass, flattening the stalks into a clear patch. At Tean’s approach, the attacker sprang up.
Auggie grabbed at his attacker, but the movement was dazed and uncoordinated. But he caught something—a bag hanging off the figure’s shoulder. For a moment, the attacker lurched back, caught by Auggie. Then fabric tore, the sound filling the night, and the bag came loose. The figure stumbled, threw a single backward glance, and sprinted toward the poultry house.
Tean skidded to a stop next to Auggie and crouched to inspect the younger man.
“Are you ok?”
Auggie nodded, but his voice unraveled. “They had a needle.”
“Did they inject you with something? Did they hurt you?”
“No, no.” Auggie seemed to struggle. “I hit my head. I—”
“Auggie!” Theo roared behind them.
“Stay here,” Tean said and sprinted after the fleeing form.
For the next ten yards, the attacker’s shadow wove back and forth in front of Tean. Then, as they entered the deeper darkness cast by the poultry house, the shadows melded together, and the figure was gone. Tean kept running. The shock of his feet hitting the earth ran up his legs; the staccato of those hard, clapping steps echoed in the night’s stillness. The tall grass whispered against him. Like silk. Like razor blades. The compact humidity of the Midwestern air was so dense it was almost solid, packed in around his chest until he couldn’t tell if he was still breathing, and sweat stung his eyes. Then the darkness of the poultry house swallowed him too.
For a moment, he was blind. A moment later, as his eyes adapted, he could make out the dark solidity of the poultry house’s panel walls, and the deeper darkness that marked ruptures in the steel: openings in the structure. Taller, rectangular ones that were doors for humans. Smaller, squarish ones that were popholes for the birds—access to pasture was another requirement for organic poultry farms. Tean headed for the closest door.
When he stepped inside, a wall of sensation met him: the drone of an industrial fan that circulated air through the poultry house; the stink of ammonia and rotten eggs and straw and hot animal bodies; soft noises of discontent from the chickens—clucking, fluttering wings, a lone, disgruntled squawk.
The sound of running steps came from deeper in the poultry house, and Tean started after them. He made it two strides before he hit something. His brain processed several details simultaneously: metal catching him at the knee, the sloshing sound of water, the initial resistance and then give as something heavy started to turn over under the force of the impact. He decoded it without really thinking about it—a drinker, the catch-all name for any device used to water the poultry. Tean stumbled, trying not to overturn the drinker, and his ankle hit wood. A perch, his brain told him. Straw slid under foot. He windmilled, trying to stay upright, and for a moment, he caught his balance. Then the white sneaker that Jem had insisted he wear came down on something soft. Meat. But no squawk, no eruption of wings.
Tean landed on the soft meat thing, scrambled away, the lights in his head all flicking to panic. It took him a moment to gather himself. Farther down, wings flapped, chickens bocked, and wood slammed against wood. One of the popholes, a distant part of him acknowledged. I lost them.
Hand shaking, Tean found his phone and turned on the flashlight. Sleepy chickens stared back at him, feathers ruffled, pacing nervously on perches, scratching at the straw and dirt. He swept the light back and forth until he saw the body.
He’d seen Una Marchesi twice when she’d been alive. In death, she seemed smaller.
After a moment, he checked her pulse and breathing, but it was perfunctory, and the tremors in his body were already stilling. She was dead. When he turned her head, he found where part of the skull had been caved in. Only a trace of blood, he noted with dazed detachment. The scalp hadn’t been lacerated.
“Tean?” Jem’s question was a shout as he lurched through the doorway.
“Here,” Tean said. And then, before Jem could ask, “I’m fine.”
“Jesus God.” Jem limped through the straw, and when he crouched to hug Tean, Tean turned into the embrace. He ran a hand through Tean’s hair and squeezed him.
“Is everyone ok?” Auggie asked a moment later, as he and Theo stepped into the poultry house. His gaze settled on Una. “Oh God.”
The dim light from Tean’s phone did little to illuminate the men, and the shadows that shifted and passed over Theo’s features made Tean think of statues and firelight. “Is everyone ok? You’ve got a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion.”
“They could have killed you.”
“Theo, I’m fine.”
Theo didn’t say anything; his face said enough. He massaged his knee as he peered into the darkness. His other hand, gripping the strap of what appeared to be a fanny pack, tightened until his knuckles popped out.
“Is that her?” Auggie asked, voice small.
Tean nodded. He tapped Jem’s arm, and Jem released him. “Someone killed her. She was struck on the side of the head—a single blow, I think.”
Theo threw him a look.
“No,” Tean said, “I’m not sure; I’m not a pathologist. But we do some forensic work with animal attacks, and anyway, it’s not like it’s rocket science in this case.”
