The Bird Eater (17 page)

He swore he could see Ryder’s familiar Big Bird shirt.

Please God, let it be him
.

Aaron leaned in, his eyes wide, his breath exhaled and forgotten, his fingers clasped around the camera in front of him, teeth clenched in expectation.

The picture on the screen flickered like bad reception on an old TV, threatening to cut out completely.

A sinister grin cut through the darkness and the kid stepped forward, his hands held out before him, dappled with something dark, something that at first looked like ink but became clearer the closer it came.

Feathers.

Black feathers glinting in the dim light as the boy leaned forward.

Tipped his chin down to his chest.

And
sneered
.

Sixteen

Stepping into Banner Goods, Aaron searched the front of the store for anyone who could help him.

“I need to see Eric Banner,” he told the kid at the closest checkout counter—a bagger more than likely working a summer shift.

The blotchy-faced teen didn’t bother looking up from his task of refilling a plastic bag stand—probably for the better, because if Aaron looked the way he felt, there was no doubt the kid would have backed away with his hands held aloft.

Aaron felt like hell—exhausted, toeing the line of insanity. Terrified to spend another night in that house, he had driven the ten miles it took to get into town and pulled into a Laundromat parking lot facing the town square. It was where he sat for the rest of the night, slowly rocking himself into the closest thing he could come to calm, waiting for morning, staring over the curve of the steering wheel at the giant lumberjack with the wooden smile—the only constant in a nowhere, phantom town.

“Do you have an appointment?” the bagger asked.

The question only pushed Aaron closer to the outer edges of self-control.

He stared at the bagger with a bewildered expression, then shook his head, waiting for the punch line.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The kid finally looked up from what he was doing, looking like he was ready to shoot off some snappy comeback, but his expression quickly shifted from brassy to hesitant. Aaron could see it on his face; the bag boy had developed the ability to sniff out a patron-on-the-edge before a scene could occur. From the way the bagger was looking at him, Aaron could tell he knew better than to push.

“I know he’s here,” Aaron said, the volume of his voice going up a notch. “So go get him.”

“I…” The bagger hesitated, shot a look over his shoulder to the remaining registers before looking back to the lunatic customer before him. “I can’t do that, sir. He’s in a meeting.”

Aaron clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. He’d never been the type to anger quickly, and the flash of indignation left him feeling unlike himself—a stranger in a body that was no longer his.

“He’s the manager of a goddamn grocery store,” Aaron snapped. “Not the President of the United fucking States.”

Heads turned their way.

A gasp from someone in line.

Narrowed eyes from a few cashiers.

He recognized one of the patrons—the waitress from the Blue Ox, her expression pulled into a taut look of concerned dismay.

Someone’s grandma—rifling through a pocketbook full of coupons—shot Aaron a hellfire glare.

I fucked your mother,
Aaron thought.
And now she’s burning in hell.

The bagger’s face bloomed bright red, his fading acne scars making him look like a pink Dalmatian, and for a second—even in his heightened state of ragged agitation—Aaron felt like a dick. He couldn’t remember the last time he blew up on someone, let alone someone he didn’t know. Had he ever? Was this a milestone? Yet another freak occurrence to tack on to a growing list? Paranormal activity: check. Turning into King’s Jack Torrance:
I’m gonna bash your brains in…

“Look,” Aaron said, trying like hell to steady his tone. “I’m sorry.”

Bullshit.

“I didn’t mean to snap.”

I should tear you limb from limb.

“But I need to see Eric Banner. Like, now.”

Before I lock you in here, set this entire place on fire, stand outside the double glass doors, and watch you burn to death.

“So why don’t you do me a favor and go get him before I lose my goddamn mind?”

It hadn’t been meant as a threat, but it certainly came out sounding like one.

The bag boy backed away, recognizing that he was in over his head. He nodded cautiously and speed-walked to a cashier wearing a sparkly badge—a brick of a woman with salt-and-pepper hair who looked as joyless as Aaron felt. The woman snapped a command at the boy and he jogged down an aisle toward the back of the store.

The young cashier who had helped Aaron on his first visit to Banner’s glanced over her shoulder at him, her high ponytail bobbing, her mouth pulled into a frown. The entire store was staring at him—the guy with the Einstein hair and the bloodshot eyes, the wrinkled clothes and misfit tattoos. All he needed was a handgun to wag over his head. Or maybe a bomb to strap to his chest.

He stepped outside, hovering just beyond the sliding glass doors.

Eric appeared beside him a few minutes later, blinking at the fact that the psychopath described to him was one of his oldest friends, not the ax murderer or venomous coupon clipper he had probably expected.

“What the hell?” he asked, his expression terse. “The kid said there was a crazy person at the front of the store.”

“There was,” Aaron said. “I’m it.”

A nervous laugh punched its way out of his throat, startling Eric into a worried stare.

“…are you okay?” he asked. “I mean, you look…” Eric hesitated. “You look like you just dropped a shitload of acid or something.”

“I’m not okay,” he said. “Not in the slightest. I need to talk.”

Eric squinted against the sun, his red polo making Aaron more edgy than he already was. “I was in an interview. I have another one in ten minutes. One of our cashiers decided to screw us and quit without notice.”

Aaron shoved his fingers through his hair, looked up at the sky, and let his hand fall back to his hip. “Look, I know this is cutting into your schedule, but do me a goddamn favor, okay?”

“Can we do it later? After noon?” Eric asked.

“
Eric
.” The name left Aaron’s throat in a rush of air, punctuated by a sense of urgency that made Eric’s mouth snap shut.

A moment later Eric was nodding, suddenly convinced. “I need half an hour, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Meet me at the Ox. I haven’t eaten breakfast.”

“This isn’t appropriate diner conversation,” Aaron protested, but Eric’s expression assured him that he’d already bent to Aaron’s will enough. “Okay,” he murmured. “The Ox. Thirty minutes.”

Eric narrowed his eyes and stepped backward, the double doors yawning open behind him, a blast of refrigerated air wafting out into the summer heat. He gave Aaron a dubious look, then pivoted on the soles of his shoes and stepped back inside the store.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

The waitress was the same one he’d seen at Banner’s fifteen minutes earlier, the same one who had served him chocolate chip pancakes on his first morning in town. Her name tag read
HAZEL
.
She gave him a wary smile and slid two menus onto the window-side table, Aaron trying to look normal rather than tweaked out of his skull.

He attempted to smile in return but it felt wrong on his face.

He didn’t dare look her in the eye.

“Coffee,” he said, his attention riveted to the kid standing across the street—wild black hair, coveralls, and a red-trimmed name patch catching the morning sun.

“You want to order now or wait for your friend?”

Aaron tore his gaze away from the kid who was ruining his life—the
thing
that was screwing with him; delusion, hallucination, whatever the fuck it was—shoved his hands beneath the table, and squeezed them between his knees. “I’ll wait.”

“All right,” she said, hesitated as if about to say something, then turned away to fetch his drink.

As soon as the waitress left him, he closed his eyes and took a breath, trying like hell to not jump out of that booth and start clawing his way out of his own skin. A few patrons were watching him, proof enough that he looked insane, and why not? He
was
crazy. Was this what it felt like to lose your mind?

Hazel returned a minute later, slid a fresh cup of coffee in front of him, and gave him a wary look. “You okay, sugar?”

He nodded without a word.

I’M FINE.

“I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” She scrutinized her other tables, but not before allowing her smile to nervously bend down at the corners.

Aaron cupped his hands around the warm mug, bent down to the table to take a sip off the brimming top, and reached for a little white bucket of nondairy creamer from next to the sugar caddy. He tried to keep from looking across the street, knowing without having to see him, that that goddamn kid

ghost, phantom, poltergeist, demon

was still there, still watching him,

waiting for his body count
.

He fumbled the creamer, dropped the entire contents and packaging into his coffee as it slipped from his trembling fingers. Fishing it out, he tore the corner off a packet of Splenda, then another,
three, four, five,
only realizing how many he’d stirred in after the empty packets came into focus the way shadows came into focus, revealing themselves in the darkness, watching, waiting, knowing, leering.

His gaze snapped to the window—just for half a second,

half a second,

just to check
.

The kid wasn’t on the opposite side of the street anymore. He was in the diner’s parking lot, standing on a parking curb almost exactly the way he had at the truck stop. Aaron clamped his eyes shut—

don’t look

—
his teeth chattering inside his mouth—

it isn’t real

—
his entire body trembling beneath his clothes.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, looked again only to see a palm hit the window, mere centimeters of glass separating him from the outside world.

He jumped, a strained mew sliding from his lungs, but it was only Eric trying to be funny, not having the slightest clue that he’d just scared the shit out of someone on the brink of madness.

Eric stepped inside the diner, the little bell at the corner of the door marking his entrance, giving an angel its wings. He made a beeline for Aaron’s booth, both intrigued and a little worried. Aaron looked like hell since he’d arrived in town, but this was a whole new level of not looking good. It seemed impossible, but Eric swore Aaron looked even worse now than he had thirty minutes before. It was the lighting. Had to be.

Sliding into the booth, Eric frowned at his friend; and when Aaron failed to look up from his hands, he grabbed a menu, inspected it momentarily, placed it back on to the table, and cleared his throat.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked.

Aaron opened his mouth as if to speak, but snapped it shut as soon as the waitress approached.

“Heya, Hazel,” Eric greeted.

“Morning, sweetie. How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain.” He shrugged. “You?”

“Busy as always, honey. You boys ready to order?”

“The usual for me,” Eric told her, then shot Aaron a glance.

“I’m not hungry,” Aaron murmured.

“He’s not hungry,” Eric echoed, offering the woman he’d known for the better part of his life an apologetic smile.

Hazel glanced to Aaron in a maternal sort of way. “You sure you don’t want anything, darlin’?”

“Yeah,” Aaron replied. “Thanks.”

“I’ll leave a menu just in case.” Hazel plucked up one of the menus, left the other where it was. “Back with your coffee and OJ in a jiff,” she told Eric, then pivoted on the soles of her therapeutic shoes.

Eric watched Aaron pull his coffee toward himself like a child pulling a favorite toy or a blanket closer in search of comfort.

“You don’t remember Hazel Murphy?” he asked after a moment.

Aaron shook his head at his mug.

“She and Edie used to be close,” Eric said, trying to jog Aaron’s memory. “Them two and my mom would always get tipsy at my parents’ Christmas parties. Hazel was the one who nearly tipped over our Christmas tree.”

Nothing.

Eric furrowed his eyebrows and leaned back, allowing his attention to settle on his friend. “So,” he said, waiting a beat to see if Aaron would pick up the conversational slack. When he didn’t, Eric filled the space between them with the obligatory question: “What’s up?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“I think I might be losing my mind.”

“Is this about the crow?” Eric asked. “Because it’s really not that big a deal. Birds fly into the store windows all the—”

“It’s not about the crow.”

Eric pressed his lips together in a tight line, shifted in the booth seat, waited to see if Aaron would continue.

He didn’t.

“Then what, the vandalism?”

“The house.” Aaron spoke beneath his breath.

“The house,” Eric repeated, leaned forward on his elbows, pressed his knuckles against his mouth. Finally, he sighed and let his hand fall to the tabletop. “Look, I didn’t mean for those stories to freak you out. If I had known they would screw with you so bad…”

“They didn’t screw with me,” Aaron snapped, his voice a little too loud.

Eric blinked.

Hazel returned at precisely the wrong moment, setting Eric’s coffee and juice in front of him before giving him a private look.
Is everything okay?
Eric nodded and took a sip of OJ, but the truth of it was, he wasn’t sure if things were okay or not; and the longer he sat there, he wasn’t sure he
wanted
to know what was wrong.