Blake Crouch - Birds of Prey

The tiny sting of embarrassment overwhelmed by his urge, his need.

“Would you like some private time with Winston, Charles? We could cut away the plastic if you want to have a go at it. Turnabout is fair play, they say.”

“Don’t need you to take off the plastic.” Charles removed a folding knife and placed it above Winston’s flabby stomach, looking for a spot where he could cut deep. “I can make my own hole.”

“This must be like the best day ever to be a crow in Indiana,” Orson said.

There were at least four hundred birds perched on top of Winston, who had finally stopped struggling after an hour of being dined upon.

Several cars had driven by in the interim, and a few had even slowed down.

But no one stopped.

The sun was already halfway between its apex and the horizon, and the first hint of the hard freeze that was coming nipped at the tips of Orson’s ears. He and Charles were sitting on the shoulder, leaning against the Lexus, watching the show.

Luther sat out in the cornfield, just a few feet away from the hungry birds, absolutely still save for his black mane of hair that the wind was blowing back behind his shoulders.

He looked like some terrible scarecrow.

“So your buddy finally got his long-awaited revenge,” Kork said. “How did you find old Winston after all this time? You said Luther’s family was attacked, what? Almost twenty years ago?”

Orson grinned mischievously. “Want to hear a secret?”

“Sure.”

“That man out in the field? He’s the fourth Winston we’ve found in the last two months. Whenever Luther sees a man with green eyes, he sees Winston again.”

Kork laughed. “So that poor fucker wasn’t Winston?”

“Nope. Just some poor fucker. Winston’s partner, Ben, was short and stocky. We’ve killed a few short and stocky guys, too. It’s all a healing process, and I’m doing what I can to help.”

“You mind giving me a ride to the nearest gas station? Still gotta get my car fixed.”

“Of course. We wouldn’t leave a fellow traveler stranded. Birds of a feather, and all that.”

“It’s been good meeting you, Orson. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.”

“It’s a small world, Charles. Anything can happen.”

The One That Got Away

Hinsdale, Illinois, 2001

-1-

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Alex Kork crossed her arms, unable to believe the words that had just breached her brother’s lips.

Charles Kork’s mouth formed a thin, colorless line, making him look like Father.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Alex demanded.

“You’re being an asshole,” Charles said. “I need your support on this.”

“I’m being an asshole? Are you serious? You’re fucking getting married, for chrissakes.”

Alex turned away. The anger raging inside her was quickly being overtaken by another, more frightening emotion. Fear.

“It doesn’t change anything between us.” Charles put a hand on her shoulder, which she quickly shrugged off.

“Do you love her?” Alex asked, surprised by the tremor in her voice. She couldn’t comprehend even asking him that question.

“Of course not. It’s a disguise. So I don’t draw attention. I don’t want to go to jail again, and with all the crazy shit we’ve been doing—”

Alex spun around, jabbing a finger into her brother’s chest. “Don’t fucking drag me into this. You’re not doing this to protect me.”

“Then let’s do it at your place next time. You take the risk.”

Alex felt mad enough to spit in his face. “Laws? You’re getting married because you’re afraid of breaking some goddamn laws? What we have, Charles, is a lot bigger than any law. We have something special…”

“I know,” Charles said, looking grim. “And I don’t want that to end. But I also don’t want to get caught.”

“So instead, we’re going to do it in your house, with your wife home?”

“She’s an airhead. She won’t ever suspect a thing.”

Alex searched her brother’s dark, pitiless eyes. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that things could go on just like they had been.

But deep down she knew the world wasn’t suited for people like them. They were brother and sister, and the things they did together not only broke the law, but also caused knee-jerk revulsion in the majority of the population.

That shouldn’t matter though. Alex knew, fucking knew, she and Charles were above the rest of the world. Better than they were. Stronger. Superior in every way.

And now he wanted to hide that superiority in a cloak of normalcy.

“What’s next?” she asked, bitterly. “You going to knock the bitch up?”

“Can we discuss this later? Let’s just go downstairs and—”

“You think I’m just going to forget this and go downstairs with you? Are you crazy?”

“Why not? Things don’t have to change, Alex. Maybe we won’t be able to do this as much, but we won’t ever have to stop.”

Alex shook her head. “You’re an asshole.”

“Come on.” He reached out, stroking her arm. “We’ve got the rest of the night. Let’s have some fun, forget all of this.”

Alex pulled away, refusing to cry. “I’m leaving. You can go downstairs by yourself. Have fun with your whore.”

Then she got the hell out of there.

-2—

A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.

Stained PVC pipes.

White and green wires hanging on nails.

What she sees.

Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.

Can’t.

The memory comes, jolting.

Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue. Not a single john in sight.

When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.

Didn’t have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.

But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.

Freak eyes.

Moni didn’t do freaks. She’d made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren’t out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn’t going to take a beating for it.

She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.

No handle.

Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.

And now…

Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.

She’s in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.

Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don’t move. They’re bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.

Her clothes are gone.

Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.

She takes in her surroundings. It’s bright, brighter than a basement should be. Two big lights on stands point down at her.

Between them is a tripod. A camcorder.

Next to the tripod, a table. Moni can see several knives on top. A hammer. A drill. A blowtorch. A cleaver.

The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.

Hair. Long, pink hair.

Moni screams.

Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who’s been missing for a week.

Street talk was she’d gone straight, quit the life.

Street talk was wrong.

Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.

The twine doesn’t budge.

Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.