“Crows. Group of crows is called a murder. There are lots of strange names for bird groups. An unkindness of ravens. A pitying of turtle doves. A watch of—”
Kork raised his weapon, pointing it at the talkative one. “So what do they call a group of two dead assholes?”
This inexplicably widened the tan man’s smile.
“You think this is a fucking game?” Kork asked.
The younger, paler of the duo stared at the crows with obvious interest.
“What are they eating?” he asked.
“Hey! Dipshit! I’m pointing a fucking gun at you, too. That’s more important than a flock of goddamn crows.”
“Murder,” the tan one said. “Not a flock. And I’m curious too.”
The tan man’s eyebrows suddenly arched.
“Uh oh. You see that?” the tan guy elbowed his friend and pointed down the road. “Can’t hear it over the crows, but I think that glint is the sun reflecting off an approaching car. He should definitely shoot us right now.”
Kork fought the urge to turn around and look. There was too much happening at once, too much to process. He needed time to think…
Then an idea came to him.
Kork wasn’t exactly a sharpshooter, but he could damn sure put a few rounds center mass into both of these clowns. Let the crows have them. Then maybe he could start his own car on fire to eliminate the evidence, and take theirs. It was nicer anyway.
Yeah, that was a plan. A good plan. Once the other car passed, he’d make it happen.
But what if it didn’t pass? What if it stopped like these two assholes?
“He might have time to drag us back behind our car before the next car passes,” the tan guy went on. “I figure he’s got about twenty seconds. No big deal if he doesn’t make it. I’m sure whoever drives by has seen plenty of dead bodies being dragged off the side of the shoulder. Probably speed right on by. Hell, I would. Unless…”
Why was the tan guy smiling now?
“Yep….unless it’s a police car. Like the one coming up behind him.”
“Bullshit,” Kork said.
“Might be smart to lower that .45.”
The tall, pale one slipped a hand into his jacket. The tan one had his thumb hooked into the back pocket of his blue jeans.
Kork wanted to look back over his shoulder, wanted to badly, but these guys were too calm, too odd, and he refused to take his eyes off them. They could easily both be packing.
“I’m really not kidding,” the mouthy one said. “Put the fucking gun down or it’s going to be bad for all of us.”
Kork didn’t like being told what to do, and his finger tightened on the trigger. But something in the tan man’s voice, something in his eyes, reminded Charles of Father. Not Father when he was crying, simpering, begging for forgiveness while Kork or his sister Alex beat him with belts and whips. But Father when the darkness overcame him, when he’d checked his conscience at the door and lived to cause pain, when he was the most frightening creature to ever walk the earth.
Kork lowered the gun, tucking it into the back of his pants.
He turned and looked down the road.
Holy shit. It was a cop car approaching.
When Charles looked back at the two men, they were already walking toward him.
“Get the fuck back! What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking it might be smart to pretend we’re changing your tire.”
The noise of the cop car’s engine was loud as hell now—he could actually hear it over the birds—and the two men were standing right in front of him. The tan one knelt down by the left rear tire and glared at Charles. “Let me do the talking. You seem to have some temper issues that could escalate the situation.”
“Fuck you! No, I don’t!”
“He might pass right on by,” the pale one said.
They all looked at the approaching car now.
It was definitely slowing down, but nothing strange about that. Everyone slowed down to look at a broken- down car on the side of the road. Even cops.
Then its light bar lit up, flashing blue and red.
The cop crossed over the yellow line and pulled onto the shoulder in front of Kork’s Honda, its tires crunching over the gravel.
Kork saw him get on his mike, no doubt calling in his plates.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Keep calm,” said the tan one. “You aren’t the only one with things to hide. We don’t want this cop to stop any more than you do. So let me do the fucking talking, or we’re all going to be screwed.”
The cruiser was a Crown Vic, and as the trooper swung open his door, Kork could see the blue and white Indiana State Police logo emblazoned on the black paint of the door.
The trooper must have been six-five. He was corn-stalk thin. A miracle he could even fit in the cruiser. He wore blue pants, a long-sleeved black button-up, and a straight-brimmed hat that hid the color of his close-cropped hair.
He strode up to the driver-side door of Charles’s car, his attention divided between the three men near the flat tire and the veritable swarm of crows just off the road. His right hand rested on his holster, the leather safety snap already unbuttoned for a quick draw.
“Afternoon, Officer,” said the tan one.
The officer stared at them through a pair of reflective Ray-Bans. “Everything okay, sir?” he asked.
“Just getting a workout, changing this flat.” The tan one patted the shredded rubber.
“Is this your car, sir?”
“No, Officer. We’re just being good Samaritans. Helping out a fellow traveler in need.”
“It’s my car,” Charles said. He felt ready to jump out of his skin, and fought not to pull his piece and fucking shoot all of these assholes.
“You’re lucky these gentlemen stopped to give you a—”
His voice trailed off, the trooper’s attention once again distracted by what was happening in the field.
The crows were screaming bloody murder.
“You ever see so many crows in one place?” he asked.
“Damnedest thing, ain’t it?” said the tan one. “We checked it out before you came. Dead coyote. They’re having a good, old chowdown on the poor critter.”
The trooper smiled—a flash of perfect, straight-white teeth. “It’s like that Hitchcock movie,” he said. “God, I can’t remember the name of it. You know the one I’m talking about. All these birds go crazy and start killing people.”
“Psycho?” the pale one said. “Loved that one.”
“What’s your name, sir?” the trooper asked the pale one.
The immortal whore was waving an arm again, and Kork could swear he heard her screaming, but it was almost impossible to pick out amid the cries of the feasting crows.
“I’m Luther,” said the pale one. “That’s Orson.”
“So that must make you Charles Kork.”
Kork panicked for a split-second, then realized the cop must have gotten his name from his license plates.
“Yeah.”
“You staying out of trouble, Mr. Kork?”
“Doing my best,” Kork said through clenched teeth. The gun pressing into the small of his back felt enormous, and he ached to pull it out and start shooting.
The trooper said, “Well, that’s all we can do, brother. Our best. Lord knows.”
