Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek Read online

  “Have you ever seen a dead body? Why aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his eyes forming slits, obscuring the wild forest of green behind his eyelids.

  Oh, I see them all the time, I think. I nibble them, like the tasty treats they are. Only thing is, the ones I eat -- they’re not human. Then remembering what I recently consumed, recalling my best friend’s inanimate gaze a few feet away, her sweater soaked with blood, aware I nearly froze to death rather than face Lennon Lusk, naked, I lean over my knees, vomit whatever the heck I ate tonight and fall into a dead faint.

  I’m dimly aware I’m going down in front of the man I’ve been attracted to ever since he rolled into town…the man I now think murdered my best friend, Elena Iris, near my favorite spot—Nightmoon Creek. It’s the place I’ve been fighting to protect for months—ever since Lennon Lusk arrived in town.

  “I went for a walk. I like to walk at night,” Lennon says.

  I blink, coming to on some sort of stretcher, the events of the night threatening to knock me back to sleep. Blue and red lights flash like fireworks, illuminating the trees on Lake Tyler Road, lighting up what’s left of my earlier meal on the side of the road. A teaspoon of bile rockets into the back of my throat. I quickly swallow it, not wanting a repeat performance of my earlier upchuck. There’s a serious disconnect between what’s acceptable to my crow self, and what qualifies as nourishment to my human self.

  “What was I doing at ten? Playing video games at home. Who was I with? I was alone.” Lennon sounds stressed.

  Still swaddled in Lennon’s leather and fur coat, someone had the good sense to pull blue cotton pants, probably hospital scrubs, over my goose-peppered legs. A hot water bottle rests on my belly, underneath a wimpy blue acrylic blanket, and man, oh, man it feels like heaven.

  “Miss McCartney, we’d like to ask you some questions.” The chief of police, TJ Rickman, holds a police log, covered with scribbles. His face is passive, his nut-brown skin lined with stories, no doubt, of the darker side of humanity.

  “Uh, sure.” I gingerly sit up, hoping my fluffy cloud lightheadedness has cleared. My gaze slides to Lennon. His eyes are cast in shadow. He’s scrutinizing me in, perhaps, the same way I’m scrutinizing him—with blood boiling suspicion.

  “Any reason you were out so far with no vehicle, Mr. Lusk?” The officer’s tone comes across in the same manner as the males on the Cops show—firm, kinda friendly to try to get you to open up, and as probing as a surgeon’s blade.

  “I told you, I like to walk at night.” Lennon’s impatience peeks through his tone. His arms wrap tightly around his chest, as if he’s walled off to the entire evening.

  “Most people don’t go for strolls at midnight.”

  “I do.”

  “Miss McCartney? Are you with me?”

  “What?” I bring my attention back to the dark haired police chief. “I’m here.”

  “What were you doing out by Nightmoon Creek? And what happened to make you end up nearly frozen to death, sans clothing, in the middle of the creek? You’re smarter than that.”

  I hope I know what he’s referring to. Chief Rickman is one of the few neurotypicals—those without a hybrid human shifter ability—who may or may not be aware of our presence. I’ve heard he’s shifter friendly, but as I’ve never been arrested, I’m responding only to his reputation. He’s the one who seems to find our caches of clothes in the forest, telling the humans they’ve been set out there by homeless vagrants, but I suspect he knows why they’re there.

  “I didn’t expect to find her…Elena…out there…dead.” Tears sting my eyes.

  His eyes narrow.

  Maybe he wonders if the tears are fake. I sense a risk forming in my throat like a round, smooth pebble awaiting a cough. “Look,” I say, in what I hope to be barely audible tones, outside of the hearing range of Lennon. “I turned into a crow, all right? I went out for a flight. One of the forest crows alerted me to her body. I’m the one who kept her from being consumed by the other birds.”

  “Uh huh,” he says, scribbling furiously, glancing at the cop grilling Lennon. “Brilliant imagination. You writing fiction now? Tell me about finding her.”

  “What’s to tell? I saw all the other birds hopping and squawking on her, I flew over to investigate, and wham! Best friend, gone and gone.”

  “Uh huh.” His pen scratches the paper. “And then you ended up naked in the creek. I’m going with, ‘wandered into the forest, high as a kite.’”

  I guess I’ve eliminated the part about “may be aware of our presence.” Even if he suspects it, he can’t fit it into his pea-sized human awareness. Or is he fronting for the other policeman? “I wasn’t high. Look at my eyes.” I pull my lower eyelids down to show him the whites of my eyeballs.

  He pulls a penlight out of his pocket. Flicks it at my irises, and rapidly flicks it away. “Good response time. All it means is the drugs have worn off. Those new designer drugs peak fast and dissipate in the system until you swallow your next flight.” He turns the small flashlight off and slowly places it in his pocket.

  I’m sure the slowness of his actions is meant to unnerve me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t do drugs of any kind.” None I care to discuss.

  “Uh huh. When did you last see Miss Iris?”

  “I saw her yesterday. Last night. We went out for drinks at Vider’s Pub.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t know, girl stuff.”

  “What kind of girl stuff?”

  “Who’s doing who, I don’t know. Do you remember everything you talk about when you go out for drinks?” My attitude is starting to surface, getting ready to ride the waves of my impatience.

  “Was she seeing anyone?”

  “Don’t think so.” I neglect to tell him about her interest in Lennon Lusk.

  “I thought you were her best friend.”

  “I am her best friend.” I glance toward Lennon to see how he’s faring.

  He’s throwing up his hands, gesturing wildly at the officer questioning him.

  I guess he’s in the same boat as me—a suspect.

  “Don’t best friends tell each other everything?”

  “Usually. Why?” I squint one eye and regard him with my coolest gaze.

  “So you didn’t know about her date tonight with Mr. Lusk?”

  Date? What date? “Uh, I knew about it.”

  “You didn’t think it important to this investigation?”

  I shrug. That bastard! I’ll bet he did it. No account, tradesman, drifter…

  Several men tromp from the woods, carrying a sheet-covered body. I’m sure they’ve taken pictures and soil samples and other stuff for their forensics investigations. I’ve watched CSI a time or two.

  I suddenly go all wild-eyed and frantic, slammed with the view of my deceased, cloth covered companion. “She was my best friend. My best friend. I’ve known her since childhood. Why would I want to kill her?” I want to smack the officer before me for even thinking such a thing.

  “You tell me, Miss McCartney. Matter of fact, why don’t you tell me downtown? We need to ask you more questions.”

  “Am I a suspect? Me? He’s the one you should take in.” I stab my finger in Lennon’s direction. I can’t be a suspect. What if they lock me up? Take away my freedom? How will I cope? Who will protect Nightmoon Creek? Developers from Atlanta want to build a high-end condominium complex along the bank. I’ve been fighting it for months…ever since he rolled into town. I spear Lennon with my eyes.

  He casts a steely, shady look in my direction.

  “Don’t you worry about Mr. Lusk, Miss McCartney.”

  Sure enough, the police officer in charge of Lennon ushers him to a separate police cruiser, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  My hands are seized and roughly guided into place as the same thing happens to me. Everything about being a suspect is harsh, rigid. The metal handcuffs dig into my wrists. The hard, unwelcoming seat allows n
o comfort. I peer through a stiff metal screen at the back of my police escort’s head in the driver’s seat. Not liking that thick-necked, hairy view, I turn to stare at Lennon in the car next to me.

  He drills holes into my face with his eyes.

  Serial asshole, I mouth.

  Murdering bitch, he mouths.

  Our relationship is getting off to a great start. I wonder how act two will turn out.

  After a wearying night of questioning, and a firm demand to not leave town, both Lennon and I are released at the same time. I imagine they want us to connect so they’ll see how we’ll react to one another. I’ll tell you how we’re going to react to one another…like a warring dog pack, that’s how.

  I practically bare my teeth at him.

  He nearly snarls and lunges at me.

  We each totter into the frigid pink blush of a new day and stumble in opposite directions. I’m going to get to the root of this. I’m going to find out who killed my best friend, starting with a thorough investigation of Lennon Lusk. Then, I’ll fight to the death to save Nightmoon Creek. I have a long agenda.

  Standing at the sidewalk, my breath forming white cloud puffs, my numb, bare feet resisting the icy sidewalk, I scan for signs of a taxi. Since I don’t have my phone, Uber’s out of the question. There are perhaps two taxis that patrol this town, shuttling residents from one end to the next. One of the two is heading my way.

  I wave my hand frantically, eager to get home to a shower and clean clothes. I’m still dressed in no underwear, flimsy cotton pants and a plush, tan and black, fur-lined coat that smells like Lennon Lusk.

  When the driver—an old guy named Dirk Marriott—pulls up to the curb, he rolls down the window and says, “You can share or I can come back and pick you up.”

  I peer into the back seat and see Lennon glaring back at me, his mouth bunched like he’s eaten rotten eggs over sauerkraut. Coppery scruff lines his jaw.

  “No, thanks. I’ll wait.”

  “Get in, Mercedes,” Lennon commands. “I’d like to get my coat back. It’s my only one.”

  “So, what, we’ll stop at your house first and I can remove it and toss it to you, and ride home bare chested?”

  “Works for me,” he says with a smirk.

  “Meter’s ticking,” Dirk says, chewing on a toothpick, his graying hair sticking every which way. He reminds me of the roadkill meal I consumed last night—grisly and tough.

  “Fine.” I open up the back door and slide in next to Lennon, pressing myself against the door. I cross one leg over the other and rub my foot back to warmth and feeling.

  “Fine,” he says, spreading his legs wide in a manspread, no doubt designed to take up space and intimidate. His head falls back against the seat. His colorful tattooed, muscled arms hang between his legs drawing attention to the place I used to think might be worth investigating.

  Now that dream has disappeared, like soap bubbles floating into the sky. More like blood seeping into the soil.

  I refuse to let him get to me. “Keep to your side,” I say, giving his leg a shove. “Trying to air your balls?”

  He splutters, coughs, lifts his head, eyes wide. “What?”

  Dirk snorts.

  “You heard me. That’s the argument some men are giving on the New York subway—they have to manspread to air their poor testicles.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters, his mouth turning into a slash. His legs retract together. “I’m tired, Mercedes, having spent the night being interrogated. Did they give you a little bunk and a soft pillow so you could take a nap?”

  “No,” I snap. “Why’d you do it, asshat?”

  “Why’d I do what? Go for a walk in the woods?”

  “No.” I lower my voice to a hiss. “Why’d you kill Elena?”

  “Oh, nice try, Ms. McCartney. Talk tough, I don’t care. You’re the perfect suspect.”

  “Why me?” My hand lifts as if to slap him silly.

  His face jerks slightly as if mission accomplished. “Why not you? She told me you were jealous of her going out with me.”

  “Me? We were best friends. We supported one another. If you were who she wanted to mess around with…” I wave my hand in the air and hope for a dismissive glare, indicating I thought she was a fool for liking Lennon.

  Lennon lets out a mirthless laugh. “Ha! She stood me up because you stabbed her to death. No one stands me up. I knew something was amiss.”

  She stood him up? “How do you know how she died? Because you did the deed?”

  “Did you see all the blood?” His face drains of color.

  For the first time since this whole ordeal began, I wonder if he actually, truly feels something besides annoyance. “Of course I saw it.”

  “That’s because you plunged the knife.” He glares at me. “She was a nice woman. I wanted to get to know her. Guess you kyboshed that plan, huh?”

  “What? You barely know me. You’ve never given me the time of day. What makes you think I’m a killer?”

  He shrugs. “Conjecture, time and place…they make for a compelling argument.”

  Dirk eyes us with a rheumy-eyed gaze. “Either of you two want to tell me where you live? I can sightsee all day but you won’t like the price.”

  “I’m right up here.” Lennon points to a street leading from Old High Street.

  Dirk turns and slowly glides up the road.

  “All the way to the end, on the left. Right there.”

  Old Mrs. McMurphy’s house, I think. She was a sweet old gal. Gave Elena and me cookies when we’d ride our bikes through the neighborhood as scruffy twelve-year-olds. Invited us into her home for lemonade. We’d pet her cat, Muffin, and listen to her parakeets squawk. Watch cartoons on the TV. Lounge about, immersed in her doily and lace living room. It smelled like lemon furniture polish, old lady rose water, and baked goods, all the time. Sometimes she’d bake cinnamon rolls and serve them hot, fat, bursting with gooey, sugary spice.

  As we got older and our interest lay between the legs of teenage boys, we seldom visited her house, and noticed, somewhat disinterestedly, as her home fell into disrepair. The yard clogged with weeds. The siding peeling from the house.

  When she died a year ago, the house quickly went on the market, Lennon moved in, and all traces of Mrs. McMurphy were auctioned off, sent to Goodwill, or hauled to the dump, as if to cleanse the house of all traces of her. In short order, the house was restored to something new and unrecognizable; its Victorian charm tarnished and replaced by modern blasé.

  It all happened when this murderer moved into town and took over her dwelling. My eyes slice toward Lennon.

  He fishes his wallet free from his jeans and pays Dirk before directing his gaze at me. “Coat. Now.”

  “Right. We’ve already gone over that plan.”

  “Then, come in the house so I can get you a shirt and sweatpants. I’ll give you a lift home.”

  “Sure. So I can end up dead, too? Nice try.”

  “Give me my goddamned coat, Mercedes. I have a job to get to. I need my coat. I’m not going to be wandering around the job site in a long-sleeved T-shirt. It feels like the temperature dropped ten degrees since last night.” His eyes blaze.

  He’s not nearly so handsome when he’s pissed. So why do I feel tingles of arousal? I must be insane. I glance at Dirk, who’s watching us, amused.

  He taps on his meter and says, “I’ll wait.”

  I gaze at Lennon attempting to carve holes with my intention into his bloodshot eyes.

  His hand is extended, palm up. His entire forearm is inked with a deep, pussy pink water lily, floating in swirling blue and green lines of water.

  Something about that tattoo is sensuous…kinda sexy…like it’s meant to arouse. “Nice ink. What’s the meaning?”

  “Seriously? You want to ask me about the origins of my body art? Now?”

  His tone of voice pours over my head like a bucket of ice water. “Excuse me.” I cross my arms over my chest and say to Dirk, “Go
ahead and go.”

  “I want my goddamned coat. Do I have to wrestle it from you?” His hand reaches through the window, snagging the lapel.

  “Stop it! Fine! I’m coming!” Against my better judgment, I push open the door and haul myself outside.

  “You sure about this?” Dirk asks. The toothpick bobs up and down as he speaks.

  Does he know something? Does he fear for my safety? I consider his face a second, decide he’s only concerned about his cab fare, and follow Lennon into the house, glancing over my shoulder to see Dirk driving away, and me about to enter old Mrs. McMurphy’s house at the isolated end of the road.

  The interior of the house looks nothing like I remember, not that I’d expect it to be frilly lace and tatting, like before. A brown leather couch sits where Mrs. McMurphy used to keep her white painted parakeet cages. A leather man-chair rests in the place her flower print couch used to be. A huge flat-screened television hangs on the wall that used to hold old tin-type and sepia tone photographs of her great aunts and uncles and great, great grandparents. It’s like her parents, any kids she might have, siblings, never existed. I always found that curious. Other than me and Elena, I never saw anyone enter.

  “Follow me,” Lennon says brusquely. He steps into the hall of his reasonably tidy home.

  I wander through the house, wondering how it could look so different. Everything, and I mean everything, has been replaced, from the paint on the walls, to the wood trim floorboards. It’s like Mrs. McMurphy was exorcised from the place, as if she were an evil spirit. She was anything but, at least not to me and Elena. “Did you do all this?”

  “What?” he asked, glancing over his chiseled shoulder.

  “All this personality elimination,” I say, with a swish of my arm.

  “Are you saying I have no personality?” His voice sounds fatigued.

  “No, only…well, I liked Mrs. McMurphy. That’s whose house we’re in.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s no trace of her here. All gone. Did you do that?”

  “Most of it.”

  The back of my neck prickles.