Black Bird of the Gallows(22)

Reece crouches down next to the smashed side window. He pulls out his cell phone and so help me, he had better be calling 911. He speaks rapidly, then places the phone on the ground. He tries to wrench open the driver’s side door, but it doesn’t budge. With a heavy sigh, he kicks broken window glass out of the way and reaches inside the car. Checking for a pulse?

I jog up alongside him. “Reece.” My voice a strangled croak.

His head snaps up. His eyes are wrong. They’re solid black, like empty sockets. I suck in a breath, and he ducks his head. Hair falls over his eyes, shielding them from view. The movement is immediate, like a reflex.

Dawning horror slides over his features. Horror at seeing me—arguably the least horrible thing that he has witnessed in the last five minutes.

“Angie?” His voice is incredulous, edged with anger.

“Did you call 911?” I point to the phone on the ground.

He nods. “Not that it matters for this guy. What are you doing here?”

He frowns, squeezes his eyes shut, and when he looks up again, he looks normal—or did I imagine that? Maybe he’s in shock. That might explain why his reaction seems so wrong.

I move closer, gulping air and steeling myself for what I’m about to see. He holds up a hand. His fingertips are dark with blood. “No, Angie,” he commands. “No closer.”

Anger floods my head with a set of chemicals far different than the fear that had momentarily paralyzed me. “Let me help.” I come to his side and yank on the door handle without looking inside. “I want to help.” It’s immediately apparent that there’s no opening this door without special equipment. Still, I yank again, bracing my feet and pulling with all my strength. Reece is on his knees next to me, silent and still.

“Help me, damn it!” I shout at him, even though I know why he’s not helping. It is too quiet inside this car.

“Angie, stop,” Reece says quietly. “Just…stop.”

The high whine of a siren cuts through the crisp night air. It’s in the distance, but coming closer. Coming here.

My hands unwind from the door handle. I look inside.

I will forever wish I hadn’t. Some things, you just can’t unsee. The man inside the car is crumpled against the roof like a pile of laundry. Blood pools against the broken window and spills onto the pavement. The pungent smell of alcohol wafts from the car interior. It mixes with burned rubber and death for a stench I can’t describe.

It will not take the police long to piece together why this man lost control of his car.

I spread my hands on the pavement and swallow back a wave of nausea. I’ve witnessed many awful things, having lived with a drug-addicted mother. I have seen exactly two people die—this one makes three—and countless others who were already dead inside, but waiting for their bodies to catch up. It takes a piece of you, seeing death. Every time, it rips something away. I don’t want to lose any more of me. I’m terrified there isn’t much left to spare.

Tears fill my eyes. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. Suddenly, the origin of Reece’s sadness is obvious—this isn’t the first time he’s seen someone die.

Reece’s hand touches my arm. “Are you…okay?”

I jerk back and turn to him. He’s breathing hard, but his face is flushed to the point of glowing. A light sweat shines on his cheeks. A very weird reaction to what we just witnessed. He looks almost rapturous, as if…

“Oh God.” I draw back in horror. “Are you enjoying this?”

“No!” Grief twists his features. “No, it’s…” The fingers of his clean hand press to his temple. “I can’t explain this to you. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“What are you?” The question slips out—suddenly, vitally relevant.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, our mingling breath making white puffs in the cold air. He drops his gaze. I know, then, the answer is horrible. He’s kept his secrets for a reason, and that reason may be as scarring as the scene before us.

“Get out of here, Angie,” Reece grinds out. “Before the police come. We’ll talk. But not now.”

“I witnessed this,” I say, waving to the car. “I have to stay.”

He closes his eyes. “This wasn’t a crime.” He draws in a long breath through flared nostrils. “It’ll be better for you if you go. I’ll meet up with you.”

“But…” The sirens are louder. If I stay, I’ll have to answer questions about why I—a girl from the fancy Estates—is down here in The Dredge. The assumption will be drugs. Not a stretch. I surely look strung out right now. “What about you?”

“I’m new here.” His voice sounds sluggish, weary, even though he looks the opposite. “I wandered into a bad neighborhood. Got lost.”

I get to my feet. “I’m parked on Second Street, in the Shopmart parking lot. Tan Civic. I’ll wait for you there.”

His shoulders drop in resignation. There will be no avoiding my questions this time. He turns back to the dead man in the car. “Fine.”

I walk back toward the street, away from this horror. Stalking Reece had been a bad idea. The worst. Only then do I see it—my crow. Its single white feather winks, nestled in its black plumage. A silent sentinel, perched atop a telephone pole. A dark shape against a dusky sky. It turns its head slowly, following my progress up the sidewalk. I tug my coat tight around me, but nothing can chase away this chill. The crow watches, holding something in its beak.