dragged off to be devoured elsewhere. But most carrion eaters would
strip the squirrels where they were found, leaving at least several
bones, the inedible feet, scraps of fur-covered hide, a well-gnawed and
pecked-at skull.
The lack of any remains whatsoever could only mean the squirrels had
been removed by the traveler. Or by its sorcerously controlled
surrogates.
Perhaps, having tested them to destruction, the traveler wanted to
examine them to determine why they failed--which it had not been able
to do with the raccoons because Eduardo had intervened and taken them
to the veterinarian. Or it might feel that they were, like the
raccoons, evidence of its presence. It might prefer to leave as few
loose ends as possible until its position on this world was more firmly
established.
He stood in the meadow, staring at the place where the dead squirrels
had been. Thinking.
He raised his left hand, from which dangled the broken crow, and stared
at the now sightless eyes. As shiny as polished ebony and bulging from
the sockets.
'Come on,' he whispered.
Finally he took the crow into the house. He had a use for it. A
plan.
The wire-mesh colander was held together by sturdy stainless-steel
rings at top and bottom, and stood on three short steel legs. It was
the size of a two- or three-quart bowl. He used it to drain pasta when
he cooked large quantities to make salads or to ensure that there would
be plenty of leftovers. Two steel-loop handles were fixed to the top
ring, by which to shake it when it was filled with steaming pasta that
needed encouragement to fully drain.
Turning the colander over and over in his hands, Eduardo thought
through his plan one more time--then began to put it into action.
Standing at a kitchen counter, he folded the wings of the dead crow.
He tucked the whole bird into the colander. With needle and thread, he
fixed the crow to the wire mesh in three places. That would prevent
the limp body from slipping out when he tilted the colander. As he put
the needle and thread aside, the bird rolled its head loosely and
shuddered. Eduardo recoiled from it and took a step back from the
counter in surprise. The crow issued a feeble, quavery cry. He knew
it had been dead. Stone dead. For one thing, its neck had been
broken. Its swollen eyes had been virtually hanging out of the
sockets. Apparently it had died in mid-flight of a massive brain
seizure like those that had killed the raccoons and the squirrels.
Dropping from a great height, it had hit the ground with sickening
force, sustaining yet more physical damage. Stone dead.
Now, stitched to the wire mesh of the colander, the reanimated bird was
unable to lift its head off its breast, not because it was hampered by
the threads with which he'd secured it but because its neck was still
broken. Smashed legs flopped uselessly. Crippled wings tried to
flutter and were hampered more by the damage to them than by the
entangling threads. Overcoming his fear and revulsion, Eduardo pressed
