The Bird Eater Read online

  Aaron pressed a hand over his eyes to momentarily shield himself from that bathroom’s glare, leaving the open prescription bottle beside the sink to search the floor for the white plastic lid. Kneeling down to peer beneath the lip of the counter, he found it there, nestled into a corner between the counter and wall. Catching its edge between a pair of fingers, he rocked back onto his feet with a groan, turned on the tap, and shook three yellow tabs into the palm of his hand.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as the tap hissed cold water into the dingy basin of the sink. But the man who stared back at him was no longer a man Aaron knew. His face was sallow and gaunt, the dark circles beneath his eyes giving them a sunken, holocaustic appearance. His hair needed cutting, a three-day-old beard made him look like a man he could only guess was an image of the father he’d never met.

  The tattoos were the only things that were familiar: a murder of crows spiraling up his ribs and toward his heart like a cyclone, the dead branches of a tree coiling up his arm—home to a single owl hidden against his side. The eagle’s wings that circled his neck looked like hands beneath the glare of an old light bulb, choking him with the lightest touch—so light it had taken thirty-four years to squeeze the life from his lungs.

  A soft whisper sounded from behind the shower curtain, like someone fluttering their fingers against the draped plastic that hung from the rod.

  Aaron spun around, his back pressed to the bathroom counter as he stared at the clouded plastic sheet.

  It swayed ever so slightly, as if having been pushed by the faintest breeze.

  Small citron-colored pills clinked against porcelain as the prescription bottle tipped into the sink, pushed over by a misplaced palm. There was someone behind that curtain; he was certain of it.

  Aaron pushed himself away from the counter—the tap still hissing behind him.

  He slowly lifted his right arm.

  Fingers grazing across the filmy sheet that hung from cheap plastic rings.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, his hand closed around the curtain.

  He sucked in a shallow breath.

  Shoved the valance away.

  He staggered backward, the drape popping off a few of its rings.

  The floral appliqués were gone, submerged beneath a bathtub brimming with blood—so full that it lapped at the lip of the tub, dozens of dead crows bobbing up and down in the gore. By the time Aaron’s back hit the counter, thick claret poured onto the floor, rolling down the sides, coating the tile in viscous red.

  Live starlings clawed their way out of the rusted faucet, far too big to fit and yet defying logic as they spread their wings and frantically flew around the room, slamming their bodies into the walls, the small window above the toilet, the mirror, the cabinets.

  A strained yell bounded out of Aaron’s chest.

  He turned to run but his feet slipped on the gore.

  Clutching the counter in an attempt to stay on his feet, his legs shot out from beneath him and he hit the ground. His briefs and T-shirt soaked up blood as he ice-skated around the bathroom on his hands and knees, desperately trying to get to the door. But the more panicked he became, the more impossible escape seemed to be. It was as though the world had tilted on its axis just enough to make the floor pitch toward the back wall, that invisible incline keeping Aaron where he was—scrambling to move but somehow frozen in place.

  He shot a wild-eyed look at the tub, that deep red seemingly endless, coming from nowhere, the birds still crawling out of the faucet like roaches, only to take flight and break their own necks.

  But his gaze froze on what hadn’t been there before—the top of a head, a girl floating in that bloodied tub, her eyes open, her mouth agape. Despite his fear, Aaron found himself staring at this new face, one that brought with it a distinct sense of déjà vu, as though he knew this particular victim from some distant life, as though he’d seen her in old photographs in Aunt Edie’s family album.

  He swallowed the saliva that had collected in his mouth, thick and cloying as it slithered down his throat. Carefully pulling himself to his feet, he gripped the edge of the counter with blood-sticky fingers, gave himself a better vantage point from which to look down on to the dead girl in the tub.

  With his breath held fast in his chest, Aaron took a single forward step toward the tub.

  And as if awakened by that small movement, the girl turned her head to face him with a snap, her mouth pulling up in a joker’s grin.

  Aaron screamed.

  He flung himself at the door.

  His shoulder caught on the jamb so violently that his entire right arm went numb.

  Somehow, by some unseen mercy, he managed to stumble back into the room, trekking blood onto dingy brown carpet, his ears throbbing beneath the sound of his pulse.

  He veered around, gaping at a bathroom that was no longer yellow but unnervingly red, hot and glistening like the insides of a fresh kill. Reaching for the bathroom door with gore-slicked fingers, he slammed it shut, then bolted across the room, ready to sprint into the Arkansas night.

  But he caught something from the corner of his eyes.

  The kid crouched in the far corner of the room, naked and crimson-smeared, a giant crow held in both his hands. He dipped his head down, tore at the bird with his teeth, meat shredding, tendons stretching, the kid’s eyes fixed on Aaron as he leered with a mouth full of flesh and blood.

  Aaron exhaled a strangled cry.

  The last thread of sanity snap snap snapped from its moors.

  He struggled with the door, fumbling with the lock that Cheri had twisted into place before slipping out into the night.

  It swung open, and Aaron bolted into the darkness—barefooted, in nothing but his boxer shorts and undershirt, tearing across the parking lot like a track and field star as two words pounded against the inside of his skull.

  Go home.

  Twenty

  The late-night drive home from the diner was the most soothing part of Hazel’s day, especially after a double shift of slinging coffee and clearing plates.

  Larry had left a message on her voice mail—strange for Larry, because he didn’t often call, not unless he wanted her to stop by the motel with a cinnamon bun or a slice of cherry pie. Hazel and Larry hadn’t ever been much for talking, even as kids. The sibling duo were more likely to sit around the TV set watching Howdy Doody than chat about which teachers they mutually disliked or which kid got shoved around on the playground during lunch. But it was far too late for cinnamon buns or pie, and besides, Larry hadn’t said much on the phone—Heya, Hazel, just saw something I thought you’d be interested in hearin’ about. Gimme a call. If it had been an emergency, he would have been specific; if he had really wanted her to call in the dead of night, he would have made a point of telling her how long he was working the front office that night. At half past eleven, Hazel was sure her brother had been relieved of his post, sure that he was sleeping safe and sound next to Marcy, who’d chew Hazel’s ear off if she dared call so late.

  Hazel would return Larry’s call first thing in the morning, but for now all she wanted was to get home, kick off her shoes, and settle onto the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and Boardwalk Empire on DVD. Harold hated the show, said that Steve Buscemi’s face reminded him of a worn-out shoe—she was pretty sure Harold was just jealous; Hazel had a little crush on him, and she was pretty sure Harold knew. But Harold wouldn’t be home for another two nights driving back from New York State, and Hazel was free to binge on Prohibition-era gangsters to her heart’s content.

  At least it’s better than Sons of Anarchy, she thought to herself. You can keep up with Buscemi, but there’s no way of keeping up with those young biker boys. Not anymore, Harry, not at your age, my dear.

  Cruising down Main Street at a good ten below the speed limit—she’d always been a slow driver, preferring t
o enjoy the scenery rather than worry about talking her way out of a ticket—she eased her little Peugeot hatchback around the roundabout and gave the giant lumberjack a salute as she cleared the intersection. It was a move both she and her two brothers had adopted via their corporal father, God rest his soul.

  But despite Hazel’s eagerness to get home and marathon a couple of episodes of her favorite show, she couldn’t help but lean forward and narrow her eyes at the peculiar figure walking along the side of the unlit road. A man walked toward the same intersection she was driving to, one that would fork and give her the option of either going home or driving up Old Mill to Edie’s old place.

  Ironwood didn’t have many hitchhikers. It was nearly three miles from the highway, and most of the folks who wanted to grab a bite to eat or stop in for gas took care of their business at the truck stop just off the exit. It was rare to get travelers at the Blue Ox, let alone wandering the streets after everything was closed. But that wasn’t what caught Hazel’s attention. The wanderer looked as though he was half-dressed, walking the shoulder in what she could only assume were his pajamas.

  “What in the world?”

  She slowed the Peugeot to a creep despite every nerve in her body insisting she floor it and rocket past this potentially homicidal maniac. If this was a hitchhiker, picking him up certainly wouldn’t be wise. Hazel watched shows like that, too. She’d seen every episode of Dexter; she knew how psychos worked. But Crazy Hazey had always been the curious one of her family. She couldn’t resist slowing enough to get a look at the wanderer anyway, blinking at the copious amounts of ink that decorated the man’s arms and legs.

  She recognized Edie’s boy long before he turned his head to look at her. Ten miles from home, it would take him hours to get back on foot, if that was what he was doing in the first place.

  Keep driving, Hazey, Harold told her. Go watch your stories. Don’t go stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong.

  Except that Hazel felt like it was her business. Ironwood was her home, and while Edie’s old place out at the end of that road hadn’t bothered nobody for over twenty years, it was liable to bother somebody now.

  Aaron slowed his steps as Hazel’s hatchback came to a crawl. He eventually stopped completely and stepped up to the car, and for a second her blood ran cold.

  What the hell are you doing, she screamed at herself. What if what you believe about that house is true? Last thing you want is Aaron Holbrook inside your car.

  And yet, there she was, leaning across the center console to roll the window down.

  “You need a ride, sugar?” she asked, because this was Edie’s nephew; this was one of her closest friend’s little boy. How would she ever explain herself to Edie on the other side? Standing beside the pearly gates, what would she do—lift her shoulders in a helpless shrug and say, Sorry, Dee, I was running scared?

  And what was there to be scared of anyway? Edie had broken her neck. The police hadn’t suspected any foul play, and even if there had been something sinister going on, Aaron had been fourteen and at school. It was ridiculous, ridiculous to think that Edie’s sweet little boy had anything to do with it.

  Except you don’t think he had anything to do with it, she reminded herself. It isn’t the boy; it’s the house. It’s always been the house, and it’ll always be the house.

  “Nonsense,” she whispered to herself, Aaron standing mutely just beyond the passenger window. “Come on,” she said, nodding to the man on the street. “I know where you’re headed. I’ll take you home.”

  When Aaron grabbed for the handle to pull the passenger door open, Hazel’s heart clambered up her throat. Suddenly she was terrified, because maybe her daddy had been right; maybe the house at the end of Old Mill belonged to the devil and anyone who dared go inside slowly lost pieces of their soul. Maybe Edie’s nephew was a nut and this was the last night of her life; he would drag her into the woods and rape her, pummel her face in with a rock until there was nothing left but unrecognizable, bloody pulp. Harold would come back home but Hazel wouldn’t be there. He’d call the Ox, but they’d tell him she hadn’t come in for days.

  Harold didn’t even know how to run the dishwasher without flooding the kitchen with soapsuds; how in the world would he live without her? The kids would be burdened by her disappearance, all because Hazel was overwhelmed by the need to help out a long-dead friend.

  Ridiculous, she reminded herself. Aaron hadn’t been the one responsible for Edie’s death. If anything, he was the one who had suffered the most.

  But her daddy’s stories…

  That kid, Isaac, he ate birds. I saw it with my own two eyes. Crouched in the corner of the school yard, he turned to look at us boys and he had a crow grasped in his hands like one of them giant turkey legs you get at the fair, his mouth nothing but blood, and when we started yelling all he did was smile, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

  The possibility…

  Two boys had gone over to the house out on Old Mill on a dare. Nobody wanted anything to do with that Isaac kid, but nobody wanted to be called chicken either. I was supposed to go, but someone was looking out for me that day…

  That had been in the thirties. She remembered the date because Daddy said it was during the Dust Bowl. When Bonnie and Clyde were killed by the police, Daddy had skipped class to buy a paper about the death of his two favorite folk heroes instead of going to school—it was the day the bird eater had been asked not to return, exiled to a life of being taught by his adoptive parents rather than sitting in class with the rest of the Ironwood kids.

  Hazel shuddered and gave Aaron an unsure smile.

  He looked bad, almost unlike the man she’d seen at the diner earlier that morning. His cheeks were sunken, making his face look skeletally gaunt. His bottom lip was split and his nose swollen, as though he’d gotten into a row with someone—maybe with Eric Banner; they had left the Ox together, after all. Though Hazel knew Eric better than that. He wasn’t that kind of boy.

  And then there was the fact that Aaron wasn’t responding to Hazel’s offer of a ride. He simply stared at her like a lost animal, and while it made her want to reach out to him, it gave her just as much pause. His gaze looked distant, like he was a million miles away.

  “Aaron?” She dared call him by his first name, wondering if it would snap him out of his daze.

  Hearing it, Aaron blinked, then leaned down to the window as if only realizing then that Hazel was waiting for him to climb aboard.

  “Can you drive me home?” he asked.

  His question gave her the creeps. He hadn’t heard a word she had said, but she certainly couldn’t leave him there now. She’d feel terrible about it, and feeling terrible would ruin her entire night.

  “Sure.”

  Her response was reflexive—a nervous tic—but she hesitated when he pulled on the handle of the locked door. Was he really okay? Did she genuinely think she knew him that well? Sure, he was Edie’s kid, but some nice people were baddies in disguise.

  When the boys didn’t come home, the police drove out to the house at the end of Old Mill and found them and Isaac’s ma. He’d killed them all—pushed one out the window, beat the other one to death with a baseball bat, stabbed his momma until his arms got tired, and then he just up and disappeared. Just like that…a phantom. A ghost.

  Hazel nearly jumped at the sound of the passenger door opening.

  Aaron slid into the seat next to hers and slammed the door shut. He stared ahead, studying the woods that were illuminated by the headlights, studying them as though he belonged there rather than where he was.

  Hazel gulped as he slowly turned his head to look at her.

  He was obsessed with birds.

  Her gaze drifted across his arms, inching up the jagged branches that decorated his skin.

  He just up and disappeared, as though he’d run off int
o the

  branches that slithered up his left arm, branches that belonged in the

  woods.

  Hazel’s heart leaped into her throat.

  She choked on her own pulse.

  Jerking her gaze away from her passenger, she stared though the windshield, gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white.

  “Can you drive me home?” Aaron asked, repeating his question.

  “Yes,” she whispered, nearly croaking out the one-word answer.

  Pressing her foot against the gas, she stared ahead at the road, a million questions rolling through her head. What if her daddy had been right—not just right about the house, but about Isaac’s father as well? What if the bird eater’s dad had been a locked-up lunatic who hadn’t lived long enough to see Isaac born, frying in the electric chair for murders he’d committed throughout Arkansas, murders he had marked with a pair of bloody handprints?

  They called his pops Birdie, her father had said, because of the prints he’d leave at the scenes of his crimes. They hauled him off to Cummins State Farm and fried ’im before Isaac was born, but the devil got in ’im anyways. Maybe his daddy wasn’t ready t’go.

  She calls him Birdie, Edie had whispered of Miranda with a shake of the head. We don’t know what’s wrong with her. I’m worried that Pa will finally get fed up and send her away.

  But that’s impossible, she remembered thinking, because everyone in town knew Edie’s sister hung around empty buildings with whatever boy would have her. Everyone knew that Miranda was easy. Nobody, except maybe Edie’s daddy, had been surprised to find out that she was pregnant at fourteen years old.

  She screams that Birdie did it, Edie insisted. She screams that she’s having the devil’s son.