A Hayward Halloween Double Feature

THE WITCH OF SIREN LAKE & A MURDER OF SCARECROWS

 

“Like many of her sister states, Wisconsin too experienced a period of “witch hysteria” (however briefly) but due to its later induction into the Union (1848), it is generally believed that the relative advancements in both science and education prevented it from reaching the levels of the Salem Witch Trials (circa 1692) with no actual legal proceedings having taken place. Most of the “witch sightings” were recorded in the greater Hayward area between the years of (document obscured).

–Midwest Historical Surveyors Organization, 1962

 

“One of the gayer (yet vital!) aspects of the farmer’s life is the creation and implementation of the omnipresent scarecrow! These watchers of the corn are utilized in the never ending game of sportsmanship between the sower and the crower. It must be noted though, that many of these straw filled, sentinels of the maize, are very often used as perches by the very fellows, black and iridescent feathered (and quite noisy), they are meant to scare!

–Midwest Historical Surveyors Organization, 1939

 

“A witch is a witch is a witch, in the days of ’39,”

–The Days of ’39, American folk song

 

“Leets called,” said Murray, into the phone at Safe Haven. Murray was talking with his friend Lowell. They had not seen each other for some years now. He missed him and was glad to have called. He would have preferred the call to have been made under a different set of circumstances.

“And?” asked Lowell, inquisitively, not impatiently.

“She’s back.”

Not one to mince words, Lowell hung up.

Murray smiled a grimace. He tilted his head to the side and said, “Anyway, it will be good seeing him again.” Wistfully, he wiped down his service counter.

 

…

 

Morgan sat on his barstool. Or maybe, the barstool had affixed itself to his spine and now he was simply a part of it. He wasn’t sure anymore. He had started drinking gin at one in the afternoon. When he had woke up at ten that morning, he had started drinking beer. He had made himself a plate of eggs and sausage at his painting studio before walking half a block to the Clover Tavern on the south end of the city of Hayward. He hadn’t had a real day off for two months and all that painting had made him thirsty. Finishing his meal he had said to his roommate, a large orange cat named Ajax, “Need a good base if I’m going to spend the day drowning my sorrows!” The cat had not replied, being busy with his consumption of flaked tuna. Closing the gated entrance to his second floor studio, Morgan had called up to Ajax, “Be good. Catch a mouse or two. Be home around ten or so.” Again, the cat did not respond.

Crossing the highway by foot, he had scanned south and north. The west side of the road was lined with cornfields looking desperate with their withering stalks, adorned with flags of paper sharp leaves and random unpicked ears of hardening corn. Morgan had looked up at the gray skies of October and could see the chill of the coming winter. The tourists were gone and the only thing which would bring them back was ice and snow. Ice for the lakes for fishing and snow for skiing and snowmobiling. Morgan didn’t care for any winter activities and typically spent it indoors, painting the paintings he had spent the summer wanting to paint. A “festival artist,” Morgan spent his late spring, summer, and early fall months going from art festival to art festival, hawking what he politely referred to as “crap.”

He had a wonderful display tent with wonderful stands he had purchased from a retiring artist who had also sold “artistic stool” to the masses. The retired artist had specialized in paintings of sunsets, Morgan specialized in birds. They had both specialized in commiserating their fate in the local bars after the end of the festivals.

“Just like Michelangelo and Leonardo!” they’d toast one another ironically, as neither Michelangelo or Leonardo drank much.

The retired artist had squirreled away enough money to move to Florida where, due to the weather, the art festivals ran all year round.

“Sounds a bit like Hell,” Morgan had said to his friend.

“Indeed,” the retired artist had said, “But what better place for an artist than Hell?”

 

…

 

Billy Burke, (just “Burk” to his friends) had not had a good run. He’d just been fired from his job as a caregiver at one of the local residences for senior citizens. He hadn’t done anything to deserve the firing he knew, in fact, he was quite sure that he’d done too good a job, had made the other employees and his manager resentful of him. He knew nothing bothered lousy co workers more than someone who came in and did a good job.

Now, he sat on a barstool at the Clover Tavern, stirring his drink, looking into it. He was on unemployment now and, while he wouldn’t be making much from it, he’d be making enough to get by for awhile, get by until he could figure out what he was going to do next. There were plenty more caregiving jobs he could take, he knew. He also knew that, unfortunately, many of them were of the same ilk as the one he’d just been canned from: Long shifts, low pay, phantom benefits, and bosses who sat at their desks all day, in between their seemingly endless smoke breaks.

“How can you take a smoke break from work,” Burk said outloud, “If you never actually work?” At the Clover Tavern, talking to oneself was not only acceptable, it was standard practice.

For the next eighteen months though, Billy Burke resolved to paint as much as he could, run as much as he could, and he’d get out and canoe or kayak as much as he could. He lived close to tiny Lake Siren, itself part of the the Totagatic Riverway which in turn was a tributary of the Namekagon and Saint Croix rivers (both of which, of course, were parts of the mighty Mississippi’s vast watershed).

Siren Lake, imperiously, was no where near the small town of Siren, Wisconsin, had nothing to do with it in fact. As a student of the area waterways, Billy Burke knew that Siren Lake had received its name because of the way one’s voice echoed up and down its smallness, right up and out the Totagatic as it flowed into it on the north end, and as it flowed out of it, on the south end. People had lobbied to call it Echo Lake over the years but when the city of Siren had complained about Siren Lake having “their” name attached to it, the proud citizens had unanimously passed a resolution to “Never” change it, Haywardians not liking much being told what to name their lakes (Especially not by a rabble of Sirenians.).

Siren Lake also had the rare distinction of staying open most of the winter–the river flowing through and its deepness creating a never ending turnover of water vertically and horizontally. Billy was going to kayak all winter long–he had the gear, and now he had the time!

He’d started drinking at three that afternoon. He was nursing his drinks though and was only a little, pleasantly buzzed. His studio apartment was close by, within staggering distance. The television bracketed to the wall across the horseshoe shaped bar was playing a scary movie, some silent film about witches. “Can you turn it up please?” he asked, thinking himself funny.

 

…

 

Morgan was pretty drunk now. It had been a good day and night of drinking, but he knew when to say when and so he separated himself from his friend the barstool and stood with a lurch. “Got to call it a day,” he said to the bartender.

The bartender, whom everyone in town called Toons Junior, smiled at Morgan pleasantly. It was Toons’ lot in life to serve alcohol to the masses and he did not mind this much as he liked to sleep late and stay up later. He enjoyed sports too and there was always some kind of game on, what with the marvel of cable television! And, Toons liked a beer or two himself. All things considered, he thought he’d landed fairly well in life. “You take care now, Morgan,” he said, meaning it. Morgan was an infrequent visitor to the Clover Tavern, and Toons Junior always wondered when he would see him again.

Morgan had found the night air refreshing at first, but now it was just cold. He pulled his army jacket up against himself and scanned the highway, north and south. To the north he saw the lights of the city of Hayward proper. To the south, blackness. “Nothing out there ‘cept the crows and cows!” he shouted, to no one. He looked across the highway, looked at the rows of corn surrounding the industrial park. The stalks seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, seemed to move in a wave of harvest gloom.

His head whirring, he started stumbling towards them.

Step by step, stumble by stumble, Morgan made his way across the newly divided road. Hearing the caw of a crow, he turned his head sharply towards its source. “Uh oh,” he prophesied. Knowing he had turned too hard, too quickly, Morgan felt himself going down–going down hard. “Ugh!” he cried out as the back of his head hit the pavement.

He lay there a minute, maybe unconscious, maybe just dazed. The crows couldn’t tell. Opening his eyes saw the stars in the harvest sky, they twinkled at him, each one sending him light years of pain. Morgan turned his head south and saw no car lights coming towards him and so he remained on the highway a little longer, listening to the crows, wondering why they were not asleep, as they should be.

 

Somewhere else in Hayward, Chief of Police Baum was cruising the little city in his squad car. Actually, it was a sport utility wagon all tricked out to his exacting specifications. The city council had made it his vehicle too–well, it was the Chief of Police’s vehicle but Baum wasn’t going to give that title up without a serious fight! He had worked hard to become the chief of police of this place. Worked hard and kissed a lot of ass. He had worked hard with the casino’s security patrols too. It was a nice area, but not as nice as it once had been. He knew the glory days of the greater Hayward recreational area were probably gone for good but couldn’t they make things a bit more respectable? Couldn’t he and his officers, along with the security officers of the casino bring some order back to this area? Some fresh paint on the tourist buildings and shops, some actual enforcement of fishing and boating and recreational regulations, some cracking down on cabin robberies…all of these things, Chief Baum knew, they all added up to better livelihoods, better lives, for all of the citizens of Hayward.

Snow dotted his windshield. “Already?” he said plainly. He was the chief of police, it was unsightly for him to lose his patience or temper over something like snow. “We’re gonna have to crack down on the snowmobilers too,” he said to nobody. “And the fish house thievery too.” And this was true: In this part of the world, people didn’t just break into your ice fishing shack and steal your stuff. No, in this part of the state, they stole the actual ice fishing shack. Since the people ice fishing were almost always lit up on schnapps or rum, this led to heated feuds, some of which went back decades. Officer Baum shook his head. Was he really from here?

A call came in on Chief Baum’s radio, snapping him out of his reverie. “Chief Baum?” asked the voice on the other end.

“Yeah Dottie, what ya got for me?” he asked. He really liked Dottie, thought she had a real future, with the police force, with him.

“Aw, it’s not much sir,” she said. “It’s just Raymond Wallace just called in, said he seen Morgan Oswald staggering out on the highway, south of town–was afraid he might get hit by someone.”

“Again?” said Chief Baum. “Maybe we should just let him get hit eh?” Baum rolled his eyes–the local alcoholics were always crossing the flippin’ highway drunk!

“You’re terrible sir,” said Dottie, ten years his junior, and ripe for pumping out his future children. “Maybe we’ll get lucky sir, maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will knock his head right off!”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you Dottie?” He said. “You’d like to see a man’s head shoot right off–cum off like a geyser eh?” Turned on at the image of her swallowing him whole, Chief Baum groaned.

“I sure would sir!” said Dottie laughing, though she was very innocent in these things, and hadn’t a clue of his piggish innuendo.

“I’ll check it out Dot,” he said. “And then I’ll check you out.”

“Yes Sir,” she said. She had understood what that meant. Chief of Police Baum sped south, wishing against wish that Morgan would still be there by the time he got there–he’d set him straight and get rid of all of these wandering drunks if it was the last thing he did! As he sped through town he couldn’t help but notice a large group of crows, flying over and then past, his vehicle.

…

     Billy Burke had moved to a booth. He had no one to sit with but he preferred to stretch his legs, preferred to lounge a little while he nursed his drink. His silent movie was still playing and he was fascinated by how graphic it was, being from the precode era. He now knew it was clearly about witches and torture and he couldn’t believe it had been made so long ago. They were watching some game at the bar and he thought, they really were missing out on a gem of a show,

especially with it being the Halloween season.

That’s when he met Marge.

“That’s Christensen’s best film,” she said. “Too bad no one’s seen it. Well, no one these days.”

Burk looked up at her, stared at the woman wearing a black cloak over her bright red, satin top, stared at the white, pearl skin of her face, encircled by her black hair. Her lips matched her top and Burk thought they seemed to pulse with each beat of her heart…or his.

He summoned his best pick up line and said, “Hi,” cleverly.

“Umm, are you gonna ask me to join you?” asked Marge. She was being generous in giving him an assist.

Gathering his wits and shaking his head, Burk said, “Oh sure! Sure, sure, sure. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting anyone, that’s all.”

Marge scooted into the booth, sitting across the table from Burk and with a coy laugh said, “Well, one thing I know is, you weren’t expecting me!” They both laughed. They shook hands and introduced themselves. Burk had then asked her who Christensen was and how in earth she even knew the film. She had told him all about the film, Haxan, an old Swedish and Danish silent movie by Benjamin Christensen, how it had scandalized more than a few people and entire countries, how it not only set out to explain witches but also demonstrated their talents…and their doom.

Like the time, like their drinks, Marge’s words flew by, one after another, like the spell one feels himself under when in the early stages of love. Burk was not surprised to hear that she “wasn’t really from around these parts” because, it being the greater Hayward recreational area, there were always people passing through. There were much fewer of those people at this time of year of course, but they were always around, to some extent.

He found her voice to being incantatory, enchanting, and he had to admit that her way of gently touching his arm whenever she emphasized a point to be charming, fetching. More interested in talking than drinking, neither of them was more than a little buzzed–they’d not set out that night to get intoxicated. Having met each other, having stumbled upon a classic silent film to watch together, having become fast friends, had only decreased the amount of alcohol they had each consumed.

When Morgan had gone up to the bar to order two more drinks from Toon’s, he’d come back to the booth to find Marge sitting on what had been his side. Another silent movie was playing, one he’d heard of, and they agreed to stay and watch it. With a smile Marge said, “I hope you don’t mind, it’s easier to see from this side of the booth.” She patted the booth seat next to her, playfully.

Setting their drinks down, Burk said, “I do not mind at all. Not…at…all!” They both laughed together as Murnau’s Nosferatu began and before long he found Marge’s arm wrapped in his, their bodies press one to the other, for safety from Count Orlock.

“Ewww!” she said, rats scrambling on the screen. She pressed her head into Burk’s shoulder.

“Uh uh,” he said with mock seriousness. “If I gotta watch, you gotta watch.” He lifted her chin up and off his shoulder and found himself staring into her eyes. They seemed, at this moment, to be as green as Ireland. Did they stay that way, face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes for five minutes? For an hour? He didn’t know. All he knew was that slowly, deliberately, like heavenly bodies, they were pulled together, gravity’s greatest success being love. Their lips met and Burk felt a current enter his body, pulsing as her lips had earlier.

When, finally, their lips parted, Count Orlock planted upright on the screen, causing her to quickly kiss Burk again for safety. Wordlessly, they parted and she turned his body so he could see the screen, his back to her, she held him in her arms. As they sat there in comfort, their bodies on celestial fire, the anticipation of what was to come burning through them, she would, from time to time, plant gentle kisses upon him, quietly uttering little phrases so quietly that he could not hear them. He felt he didn’t need to, felt he had a good enough idea of what was being said.

Later, he would come to find, just how wrong he had been.

 

…

 

Morgan had staggered up and onto his feet. He felt the back of his head and was a bit surprised to have found not a little blood. “Oh goddammit goddammit goddammit,” he said. Why did he always have to fall? He knew people, heavy drinkers, was related to some of them, they’d been drinking all their lives, and they had never fallen once as far as he knew! “Sweet Jesus!” he said, moving the red blood on his fingers back and forth.

That’s when the first crow came.

Cawing noisily, it dove at Morgan’s bleeding head, just missing him. “Sonofabitch!” yelled Morgan, frantically waving his arms up into the air. Trailing the mad bombing crow with his eyes, he watch the bird disappear into the darkness of the Wisconsin night. South of town, with relatively few houses or business, and no street lights, the night held sway, ruled in cruel blackness. In futile protest, Morgan shook his fist at the moon, causing snow to fall.

Immeasurably capable of learning, of improving their skills, the crow dove at Morgan again. This time, it did so in silence. It grazed its talons across the bloodied scalp before whooshing up and away from its prey. “Ow! Sononabitch!” howled Morgan as again he watched the bird sweep its wings up into the cover of the inky sky, into the cover of the early snow season flakes, which were attacking him too. But this time, this time he saw that the crow was not alone, and as he dumbly watched six, seven, eight more crows come hurtling down and towards him, their silent yellow beaks pointed right at his head, he thought that, yes, of course there are more of them–they live in families, groups called…gaggles? No, that wasn’t right. As they swooped at him, as he cupped his coat over his head, as some hit him, and as some cawed terribly, it came to him, what a group of crows was called. “Murders!” he yelled. “Murders! It’s a murder of goddamn crows!” he shouted as he bolted across the rest of the highway.

Under the swirling snowflakes, under the black crow fighter jets flying strafing sorties at him, and flailing his arms over his coat covered head, he was grateful to see some headlights approaching him from the north–from Hayward! Shouting “Help!” and “Please!” as a large vehicle came driving towards him, watched as it whizzed right on by, watched as it blew right past him.

It had been a cop! “Sonofabitchin’ cop!” he yelled as he watched its tail lights disappear up the road, suddenly, as if it never been there. “Son. Of. A. Bitch!” he cursed, crows flying everywhere around him. Standing on the west side of the divided highway now, he looked back towards the bar–it seemed to be miles away, and he was hurt, and he was drunk, and he was sure they would think he was crazy–dive bombing crows!

He looked at the cornfields, looked at what he thought was salvation. “Do you know how to pick mother fucking corn?!” he said gleefully at the jet fighter crows and, with great confidence, ducked into the rows of stalks for safety.

But still came the crows, cawing now, their prey being trapped.

 

…

 

Burk and Marge had not finished watching Nosferatu. She had asked him to smoke with her and so he did. It was, he thought, kind of sensual, the way she smoked. He also found it hot, no pun intended, how she’d lit a wooden match with one hand, her red fingernails scratching it to fiery life. He wasn’t usually a smoker, but for Marge he thought, he’d probably smoke a dead raccoon.

After smoking, she had asked him where he lived, was it close by? Burk had pointed towards bricks and said, “Thataway!”

“I can do a lot of things,” said Marge, “But I can’t see through brick! Show me where you live!”

“Okay, okay, we can walk there but I warn you, it’s just a studio, nothing fancy. Certainly not as fancy as Count Orlock’s pad!”

Marge kept laughing while asking him to get her some water, she was thirsty from the cigarette. “Want to keep these lips fresh!” she said, winking.

“In that case–you got it!” He hurried back to the bar and Toons provided the necessary potion, knowing his buddy was going to need it. With great pomp and ceremony, Burk presented the water to Marge. Like a chalice, she took it from him, being careful not to spill the water, as if it was the blood of Christ himself. Holding the glass at her side now, “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

She found Burk hadn’t been kidding when he’d pointed towards the brick, he really did live just down from the Clover. They had crossed at the light and were already there when he had dramatically waved his arm towards a large brick building, more of a warehouse than an apartment complex. “Ta da! My humble castle my lady, my fairy princess!” He bowed and she brushed her slim waist against his fingers. Her bosom heaved within the shiny red satin and she spread her black cloak out, her legs, in black nylons, splayed under her short skirt, splayed as far as they could, as she splashed the glass of water at the front door.

“Abracadabra!” she chanted.

“Alakazam!” yelled Burk. Grabbing her behind, he pressed hard up against Marge and she pressed back into him, reached around, and grabbed his neck. She dropped the glass onto the sidewalk and as it shattered, each shard announcing their arrival, the count and his bride entered his studio castle, their bodies walking together.

She had marveled at his space, marveled at his work. He did as he always did and downplayed it. It was an affordable space and that meant he didn’t make much money doing what he did, but he liked what he did and he was fine with that. She loved that he supported himself by helping others, she said. She loved his lips, she said, too.

They had fallen onto his futon with great carefulness. Their bodies were greedy for one another, wanting to better know each other. They interrupted bouts of frenzied sensuality with sudden discussions and admissions about their lives, where they’d gone, what they’d done, where they wanted to go, what they wanted to do.

This continued for what seemed like hours when Burk was surprised to find her on top of him, found himself about to be inside of her. “Marge…” he stammered. “You don’t have to…”

“I don’t,” she said. “But you…” she lowered herself onto him, “maybe you do.”

 

…

 

Terror now, for Morgan. Crows bombarded him, shrieking now, their caws trilling in the vocalizations they saved for the hunt. Hitting stalk leaves away and away from his face, Morgan rushed down a row of dirt. He didn’t want to go too far south, he lived due west from the Tavern, but he needed to shake the crows!

One dove and squalled at him. He turned left. Another came right down the aisle of stalks, screeching their special cue, and he turned left again. Yet another, and another, and he turned again, and again. Running in a panic now, knowing absolutely that there were as many as twenty, even thirty of these unholy terrors swiping at him, Morgan managed a staggering sprint as he headed what he was sure was due north. He’d turn at the end of the cornfield and he’d be to the warehouses in no time! If nothing else, he thought, those goddamnsonofabitchin’ crows will be sealed off from one direction! And the building would shield him from the goddamn snow too!

On and on he stumbled, staggered, sprinted as best he could, due south, due west, away from the industrial park, away from his painting studio, away from safety. Further and further he scraped on into the field of corn. From above, the crows circled, seeing that he was in the direct center of a field of cornstalks, a mile wide. Within the sprawls of spindly snow, they flew. Cawing, they funneled down towards him, a black tornado, spiraling closer and closer to the gray yellow stalk tombs. With complete aplomb the murder of crows shot through and between the obelisks of corn, felt the leaves brush against their shiny black coats of perfect feathers. Pilots of the sacred harvest, the priests and priestesses of the moon, the crows showed off, to Morgan, to each other, their skill as they flew through the canyons of maize, each thrust, each dive, each cascading vertical or horizontal twirl accompanied by their chorus of crying caws.

Falling to his knees, the stalk leaves whipping around him, the crows encircling him, ever closer, ever louder, Morgan clamped his coat around his drunken head, clamped his hands to his ears, shouting over and over that this couldn’t really be happening, that he must really have gotten drunk, that he just wanted to be home, safe in his little studio!

When suddenly, the cawing stopped. The snow stopped too.

Kneeling on the gray, used earth of the cornfield, his head and face covered by his arms and jacket, Morgan kept his body stilled, fearful the slightest gesture might encourage the crows to reengage their air assault, might continue their caws of madness.

But he heard nothing. Slowly, ever so slowly, Morgan lowered an arm, used a hand to gingerly move his coat, the wind bickering the stalks, ushering forth a clapping sound, causing him to jerk the coat back over his head suddenly. The wind having escaped, took the clapping with it as well, they echoed off towards the south, towards safer cities, safer states.

Emboldened by the silence now, Morgan eased the coat off his head again. He moved his arms off his eyes, he opened them, he looked forwards and from side to side.

There were crows everywhere.

Lined up as neatly as you like, in between each stalk, placed as perfectly as they were, the crows stood silently, their wings stretching in and out, their beaks opening and closing in silent display of their unity, their strength, their resolve. The moon provided a spotlight for all of them, the hunted man Morgan, and his audience of murderous crows. Suddenly, the crows, as one very appreciative group of spectators or concert goers, appeared as if to bow before Morgan.

But he wasn’t who they bowed for.

Hearing a bumping, bumbling noise coming towards him from behind, Morgan cranked his head to see, of all things, a pumpkin, a wonderfully round pumpkin come rolling towards him. He followed its path as the pumpkin rolled right up to the back of his dirt caked boots. Dumbly he thought, he hadn’t even carved a jack o’ lantern this year.

Even more dumbly, Morgan watched as the stalks parted, were swept away by a silver slash. With his head still turned around, his mouth dropped open at this latest, strangest development and he muttered, “If that’s a goddamn crow coming through those goddamn stalks, I don’t wanna goddamn know!”

At the return of their prey’s voice, or was it at the arrival of their master, the crows started singing again–chiming together as one glorious murder, chanting the caw.

Quickly, Morgan turned his attention back to the crows, looked over his captive audience as their beaks bayed over and over again, laughing, laughing at this joke of a man in front of them. Hearing another slick cut and parting of the stalks, he turned his head back around again. He glanced down at the pumpkin at his feet and then he looked up to see a scarecrow–the most terrible scarecrow he had ever seen. The most terrible because it was standing like a real man, and it was laughing, laughing just like his children, the crows.

“Tit for tat,” it said.

The laughter resumed and was then joined by the cutting of the October night as Morgan saw the blade of a scythe slicing through the scream he had just unleashed, saw it slicing the chilled air coming from his own mouth just before it sliced through the neck attaching his head to his body.

His bodiless head lay on the gray ground. Morgan heard the crows and their master laugh together before the scarecrow kicked the pumpkin to the neck of Morgan’s headless body, saying, “Tit for tat.”

 

And then Morgan’s bodiless head saw and heard no more.

 

…

 

The days (and nights) had really flown right on by for Burk. He was truly awe struck by his new friend Marge. She’d been so unbelievably understanding about everything–his unemployment (“They don’t deserve someone as good as you!”), his small living quarters (“The main thing is that you’ve got a good space to work on the stuff you want to do!”), his almost complete lack of money (“Trust me honey, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you learn that people are the important thing, anyone can get money, not everyone can get people!”). He was so completely willing to do whatever she said that he started accusing her of “bewitching” him.

To which, she only smirked.

She seemed absolutely perfect except for a few small quirks, quirks he could mostly live with, he thought.

First, she was always lighting matches. Wherever they went, at any moment, without care or notice, she would flick a wooden match to life. Sometimes, actually, very often, as the flame burst into existence, she would coo. And then…cackle.

Secondly, and this wasn’t something she could really control he knew, she had some very peculiar places on her body which were very strangely…insensitive. She had explained it away as some kind of nerve condition, skin thing…that didn’t really matter to Billy Burk. What he found strange about it was that she had gotten these areas tattooed, tattooed with little droplets which he couldn’t help but think looked like…claw marks. The tattoos and the desensitized areas weren’t anywhere obvious and they weren’t anywhere too important (like…down there) but still, it was a bit odd.

The third thing was, and this was the one that probably bothered him the most (the pyromania being a close second, obviously–what if they had kids someday?), was that she absolutely refused to go canoeing or kayaking with him. He always felt that a good relationship was a melding of like minded people–like minded souls if you wanted to get deep about it. But, this lovely lady, this unbelievably sexy, luscious, funny lady…no matter what his approach, she wasn’t going to be melding with him on no water.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he himself hadn’t gone canoeing or kayaking in months. Months! That didn’t make any sense to him, didn’t make any sense at all. He loved canoeing! He loved kayaking! He loved them like he loved…painting. All of a sudden, a chill came over Billy Burke.

He hadn’t painted in months.

Getting up off of his futon to the protestations of his orange cat Jon Jons, Billy Burke went to his studio window and looked out at Siren Lake. Snow lined the banks and he saw kids had built sturdy looking snowmen. What month was it?

Noticing it was dark out, Bill knew this was normal for Wisconsin days during the winter, but what wasn’t normal was that no lights were on. What time was it?

How long had he been asleep?

Where was Marge?

Then, her voice…he could hear her voice singing. He crept out into his studio, groggy, and off balance. There were no lights on. Why wouldn’t she have the lights on? What was she doing? He stepped on a paint brush, stiff with dried paint. The shock and the hard bristles caused him to yelp a little and then he heard a terrible voice say sharply, “Who’s there!”

That couldn’t have been his Marge thought Burk. But he had just heard her singing. “It’s just me dear,” he called out.

“What? You’re up already?” she said. “I thought you just went to sleep.” Billy Burke could hear just the faintest, just the slightest hint of irritation in her voice. Even more quietly she said to herself, “Must be losing my touch.”

“What are you doing? Why are you in the dark Marge?” he asked, a little confused, still just a little groggy.

“Oh dear, I’m just doing…woman things…you know, as much as I hate to admit, I don’t just wake up all beautiful these days…a girls gotta put on her face you know!” She laughed, and her laugh became a bit of a song, and then it seemed to be something of a chant and then Billy Burke found his eyelids getting heavy once again. “And I’m not in the dark dear,” she honeyed her voice, “I’m right here, see?” And with that he heard the familiar sound of a match grinding against one of her finger nails. The fire burst out from the wooden stake and it seemed all the room was aglow for a moment before reverting back to darkness lit by one match stick. In its glow, he saw the lovely face of his Marge. She was standing in the doorway of the studio’s bathroom.

But it was what he had seen, what he had witnessed in the mirror on the bathroom door which stuck in Billy Burke’s mind and memory. For in that split second of illumination, the light had reflected off of the mirror to the side of Marge. In the mirror Billy had seen someone else…something else. He had seen an old woman, a crone, an elf with wicked ears and teeth, a succubus, a demon, a witch!

…

 

Charley Blandick had been farming for a long time. He had farmed for a long time and so he knew a thing or two about crops, knew a thing or two about crows too. He thought himself one of the singularly best makers of scarecrows in the entire Hayward recreational area. But even he had never seen anything quite like this before. Charley had just been at the Drive In Motel for an hour or two with the lovely Miss Clara Grapewin. He always called her Miss Clara even though she was what Charley Blandick’s wife referred to as “a whore.” It was true, Charley Blandick knew, that Miss Clara was indeed a…prostitute (he didn’t care for that other word) but it was also true that she worked awfully hard at her job (At least she did with him, and Charley Blandick was not so naive as to think she was doing anything special on account of him or his lovemaking skills!) and Charley really felt that anyone who worked hard for a living, no matter what they did, well, gosh darn it–didn’t they deserve a little respect?

So, he’d been driving home, still thinking about that last thing Miss Clara had done with him, thinking about that but hard, when he’d seen the darnedest thing…he could have sworn he’d seen an entire murder of crows, sitting perched on a scarecrow.

That alone hadn’t caused Charley Blandick to turn his truck around and head back towards Hayward. No, what he thought he saw them crows doing is what caused his nifty little maneuver in the ditch of the divided highway. When he drove up to the scarecrow planted on the corner of the highway and the service road leading to the industrial park his close up view confirmed what he thought he had seen. Them crows, those rascals, they weren’t just sitting on that scarecrow, showing off to all the world how unafraid they were of it! No, those sumbitches were pecking at it, tearing at it, ripping that scarecrow right apart!

Jumping out of his truck, Charley Blandick ran towards the scarecrow, yelling and shooing the crows away. Begrudgingly, they flew away, these crows recognized Charley Blandick by sight and sound and knew he was a pretty good shot. They didn’t see a gun but the crows weren’t about to chance it. Cawing like mad, the crows told Charlie where he could stick his gun.

Running up to the scarecrow, Charley Blandick was impressed by the sheer size of it. Someone had really taken the proper time to stuff that sucker. He saw the customary straw jutting out of the sleeves and pants and the shirt collar too of course. They had really gone all out and put a pumpkin head on it too–not an easy trick to pull off. But something didn’t add up right for Charley Blandick, something didn’t feel right about it when he gripped the leg. It felt a little too stiff, had a little too much…heft. And why had the crows been pecking at it, tearing at it? They were equal opportunity eaters he knew–true omnivores! But they didn’t eat or nest with straw, not typically. He stuck his finger into one of the tears and pulling it out, he instantly knew why the scarecrow had such heft, why it seemed so solid, why the crows, who fed on everything–including carrion, were pecking at it. For, while the scarecrow had been stuffed as usual, with straw, the straw had just been for show, been put in the clothes to fool passers by into thinking it was just another scarecrow.

But it hadn’t fooled the crows. They were much too wily for such a superficial ruse. They had teased out the real stuffing of the field’s latest scarecrow.

It was a body, a delicious, nutritious human body impaled on a stick for their dining enjoyment! They had cawed and cawed, calling distant relations, letting them know of their special find.

Charley Blandick, being a farmer, was quite accustomed to the comings and goings of life and death, it was all just part of the job he knew, everything, him, crows, crops, Miss Clara, his missionary wife, hell, even his car…it was all just the seasons, the spring, the harvest, winter, summer…the blooms and dead petals.

But this was murder. And the thought of it caused Charley Blandick to throw up a little on himself. Gagging, he wiped his mouth on his shirt and thought he could smell a little of Miss Clara. This caused him to wipe a little more vomit on his sleeve, to cover the scent.

Then it came to him again–this was murder. But who was murdered? And why? Wiping some more of the vomit on his fingers, and rubbing his fingers together really well (he really didn’t want his missionary wife to smell that part of Miss Clara!), Charley Blandick crept up and under the pumpkin head of the scarecrow, trying to see the face under it, trying to discern just who had gone and ended life as a scarecrow. But he couldn’t see anything, the pumpkin was stuck tightly onto the neck…the bloody neck.

With a strong hunch, Charley Blandick hobbled back to the bed of his pickup truck. Reaching over the side, he grabbed the shovel he always kept in it–shovels could save you in many situations, could be used for a lot more than just plain ol’ shoveling!

Now he went back to the unfortunate scarecrow person stuck on a piece of wood, blood pecked all the way through many spots on its clothes now, went back to it and ever so lightly lifted the bottom of the pumpkin with the end of the shovel.

Nothing.

Putting a little more thrust into the blade of the shovel, Charley Blandick thrust it at the pumpkin head’s edge again.

It fell off the neck with a thudding plop! Charley Blandick stared at the pumpkin head, which lay smushed just next to his feet. In slow motion he thought to himself, but there’s nothing in it! In equally slow motion, he then began to raise his head back towards the scarecrow impaled on the big wooden stick. As his head and his eyes seemingly took hours and days to lift all the way to the scarecrow, the thought came to Charley Blandick that he need not even bother looking because he already knew what he was going to see when his eyes and head finally caught up to his thoughts. When they did catch up, his eyes and mind and thoughts all shot down to his heart and electrified him with a terrible jolt. Falling to his knees and clutching his chest, Charley Blandick thought he should just divorce his missionary wife and ask Miss Clara to move in with him. She probably wasn’t the marrying type, but he wasn’t the jealous type and so, he thought, they’d probably make a good couple. He thought the pumpkin head was a really great idea for his future scarecrows and wondered how one could go about preserving a pumpkin head so that it would last longer. Then Charlie Blandick thought, who the hell cuts off the head of someone and stuck their body on a pole? And finally, just before the pulse to his heart caused him to pass out completely, Charley Blandick thought to himself, where’s the goddamn head?

 

…

 

Billy Burke was not one to panic, was not easily rattled. He’d heard a thing or two in his days, he’d seen a thing or two and now he’d seen a witch. That this witch happened to be his loving girlfriend, well, that just chapped his hide, didn’t it? But Billy Burke knew that he could stay as mad as he wanted to but that wouldn’t change the situation: He’d been enchanted by a witch, a witch who would use him, bleed him dry, until there was nothing left to lose, no more blood, no more life, no more…soul.

It’s your soul they’re really after, he knew.

It had taken a great deal of self will (and strong coffee) but Billy had finally gotten up the strength to tell Marge that he needed to get out of the studio for awhile, needed some food for the place, needed some fresh air. She had protested something awful but, not wanting to risk her enthralled pawn getting too upset, she had acquiesced, had played it off as a good idea for both of them to have some “me time.”

Me time? Marge laughed. Only idiot mortals thought there was anything but “me time!” Exiting onto Burk’s walkout roof, she looked at the holy mother moon and cackled. All of her life had been spent living for herself, as it was, truly, for all living creatures. If someone, or something, gained any benefit from anything she’d ever done, it was strictly incidental. Touching herself, Marge knew that even the sex, even the sweet, sweet love she and Burkey Boy had together, well even that was about her…for each time they made love, each time they came, she grew stronger and stronger, and Burkey grew weaker and weaker. He was fast approaching that delicious spot now, that place where he was strong enough to go at it with her all night (and boy could that man go!) but too weak to leave her. She could keep him at this level for as long as three years before appearances and finances necessitated her dumping him (literally) and finding a new pawn.

For now though, she meant to enjoy her “me time.”

Taking flight, she did.

A few days later, Marge was nearly inconsolable. Her Billy, her Burk, her Burkey Boy was growing more and more distant. He was even refusing to have sex with her! She’d worn her most alluring gowns, her push up bras, her red nylons, worn extra shades of eye shadow, spent an hour rubbing oil all over her body and still, nothing, not even a raised eyebrow from the boy.

Was she really losing her touch? She couldn’t be! She’d been honing her craft for decades and decades!

“I just need to be honest with you about things,” said Billy Burke. “I feel like we never get out, never go out, never eat out…Yesterday was the first day I saw my grandpa for months! Come on now Margie, I get if you don’t want to go and meet him, some people just can’t handle an old folks home. I get it. But he’s one hundred and four Marge!”

“So you feel like you need to see him, I get it,” said Marge, who didn’t get it at all. Old people? Who needed to see old people as long as she was around?

“Need to see him? I want to see him!” Billy Burke was exasperated now and, for the first time, had raised his voice to her.

A true witch, Marge had never once been yelled at, not a single time. Shuddering, but a little turned on too, she walked up to her Billy and place her hand on his thumping heart. She could feel the energy it was pulsating with, and she wanted to eat it, literally wanted to eat Billy’s gorgeous heart.

But she would settle for a little sex.

Dropping to her knees she grabbed his belt buckle and started unbuckling it in a near frenzy–Sweet Prince of Lies was this going to be hot!

But Billy was having none of it. “No way Marge, no way. You’re not screwing your way out of this fight.” He was adamant.

I really am losing my touch, she thought. She whimpered at him, telling herself she was just trying to manipulate him, but, she wasn’t, she really was begging this mortal dirt to make love to her.

What was going on?

“And another thing,” said Billy, feeling more and more sure of his ground, his position, now that Marge was on her knees, begging him for attention. “We’re going canoeing, we’re going canoeing today. Siren Lake is right down the road, it’s open, and it’s a balmy forty degrees out. Good couples do a good couple of things together. And we’re going canoeing.”

“But it’s too cold!” she screamed in a near panic. The very last thing on earth she wanted to do on a winter day–on any day–was to get into a god forsaken canoe! “It’s too cold, too cold, too cold!”

Billy Burke stood firm. “There isn’t even a hint of wind Marge,” he said. But he didn’t yell this, even worse, he had said it evenly, plainly, in his “non-negotiable” voice. Walking over to his closet, Billy took out two life jackets, some heavy jackets, and all the other accouterments. He thrust a life jacket at Marge.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I surrender. You win.”

…

 

Charley Blandick lay on the field for quite some time before he had been spotted. The field went down a bit from the road, not a severe ditch, but enough of one to make him a bit obscured from the view of the passing traffic. As it turned out, several cars had seen him but had thought his body and truck part of a rather elaborate Halloween scene (what with the headless scarecrow and all). It hadn’t been until one of the farming neighbors had recognized his truck that anyone had bothered to really investigate.

Officers Haley and Garland had been hastily dispatched from the police station by Dottie to look into the situation. Hastily dispatched not because she thought the call anything urgent but rather because she was urgently busy at the moment–busy with Chief Baum, busy with what she liked to call his billy club. She laughed to herself a little. “Watch it now,” said Chief Baum. “Oh now, yes, that’s better,” he cooed. He really did admire this girl’s work ethic. And such an eager student too!

The two of them were very put upon when the screech came through the station radio, the screech of Officer Haley’s panicked voice yelling, “Goddamn! Goddamn! Get the chief Dottie! Get Baum and tell him to get his ass out here to the goddamn industrial park!”

“Excuse me?” said Dottie, her mouth free of encumbrance. “I don’t believe I heard that quite right.” Dottie, wearing only her bra, was holding the microphone in her free hand, her face was deadly with seriousness. No one talked about her Baumy Baby like that, no one! Especially not his subordinates officers. “Would you like to try that again, or should I relay the message exactly as it came in?” The other officers assumed Chief Baum had left hours ago, left after his shift had ended.

“Um, hell no! Of course not! Jesus Dottie. I mean, Officer Dottie. I apologize.” Haley, who had been in a state of panic when he had first radioed in, was now in a complete state of fear, the prospect of being on Chief Baum’s bad side being even more terrifying than a headless corpse in a cornfield.

“Go on,” Dottie said coolly, before finishing her meal.

“Please contact Chief Baum, Officer Dottie, please contact Chief Baum and inform him that we have come upon a situation which myself and Officer Garland strongly believe the Chief would want to investigate himself, him being chief and all.”

Dottie was pleased at this rephrasing of Officer Haley’s original statement. She was also pleased at the timing as she had just finished learning what her Baumy Baby had meant earlier when he had talked to her about blowing a man’s head. “Impeccable timing sir,” she said to the chief. “Impeccable timing, and impeccable taste.”

Chief Baum grabbed the microphone. “Officer Haley,” he said. “I myself have trained you and Officer Garland. Unless you’re in a gunfight, I expect you two can handle the situation. But I thank you for bringing it to my attention. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go get myself a drink down at the Clover.” He winked at Dottie, whose mouth was much too full to talk. God! She loved how this man gave orders. She was going to let him breed her until her legs came apart. But that would come later. Right now, her replacement would be in soon, and there were appearances to keep!

Kissing her on the cheek, Chief Baum raised his eyebrows to Dottie and she nodded her head yes, that she did want to go have a drink with him. The more out in the open they were, the less likely anyone would suspect anything, he always said. And she really, really liked watching him work a crowd. Everyone liked him, everyone respected him, but sexiest of all, everyone respected him. It drove her crazy–gave her baby lust, that is, the lust to have his babies.

 

…

 

Marge did not feel like a Mistress of Darkness. At the moment, she felt like a tourist–an unhappy one at that. Here she was, an enchantress, a keeper of the eternal flame, a wielder of the rare twelve pointed star (a point on which to impale each of the Twelve Apostles!), caller of Legion, conjurer of blood spells…and she was sitting in a god forsaken canoe in the middle of a god forsaken lake.

She dumbly held a paddle, looking out at the white lined shores encompassing the gray lake. Her love, her heart, her no longer quite enslaved slave, had explained to her why this lake stayed open the entire year, why the eagles flocked to it, why it was called Siren Lake. She laughed to herself, depressingly, “Here I am, the witch of Siren Lake.” She sulked, her chin against drawn up knees. Terrified of water, she clutched inward to herself, trying not to move at all, wary of tilting, wary of falling in.

“You know, I just want to say,” said Billy Burke, “while I appreciate your agreeing to go canoeing with me, since it is my second favorite thing on earth to do,” he laughed. “It isn’t really that fun to have you sit there and sulk and act like we’re on the Titanic, Marge. Even if we were, I gave you the best life vest I own.”    She couldn’t argue. It probably wasn’t much fun canoeing with her. She was terrible at paddling and she was terrified of water. But, she knew she needed to put a good face on things, get him back to his studio and start working her spells again. And, feeling the heavy, oh so heavy life jacket he’d securely strapped her in, she knew he really was safety orientated. (“Safety first!” he always joked.) Managing a bewitching smile, she said, “I’m sorry Burk, I really am. I am trying. That’s worth something isn’t it?” She made the blood flow into her lips, swelling them. She felt the blood pulse against her teeth and she knew he could see it. It’s working, she thought, this is all going to work out just fine. “Do you think, Burk, think I deserve just one little itty bitty kiss for at least trying?” She knew, if she could get one good kiss, just one, she could get him going again, get him under her spell just enough, to get him to end this god forsaken canoe ride!

Turning around carefully, she felt her full breasts pushing against her life preserver, they were useless under this thing! She stuck her neck towards the back of the canoe, towards her beloved slave, towards Billy Burke, who for the first time in days, actually seemed receptive to her advances!

Billy Burke hesitated, but just a little. “Well, okay baby, I do appreciate you trying, that means the world to me. Hold on now.” Billy carefully scooted towards Marge, stretching his neck and pouting his lips into a kiss. He had been waiting days for this!

So had Marge. Leaning ever closer to her pawn, Marge couldn’t help but think how good he would feel inside of her again, how good it would feel to drain his life from him, how she could sip his blood while he slept–the mortal fool!

Ever closer the two lovers lips came, Marge taking one last glance before the moment of contact, the moment which would lead to Billy Burke becoming her’s forever!

And just then, just when the barest breath was still between them, her heavy lidded eyes closed, just then the strangest thing happened to Marge. She felt herself being lifted and thrown right out of the canoe!

Wet! She was wet! She needed to get out of this accursed water before it was too late! Wet! Wet! Wet! She was shrieking and shouting out incantations of flight in her hoary, devil voice, as deep as the lake she found herself in. A burst of the Prince of Lies’ breath came up from the depths of Siren Lake and she burst out of the lake in a mad explosion of water!

But then she sank back into the lake. Over the commotion of the water’s turbulence, she heard Billy Burke laughing.

“Yeah right!” he yelled. “Just go ahead and try flying with that ‘life preserver’ on you stupid bitch! Go on now! Fly! Fly, fly away!” He was standing in the canoe, his legs evenly spaced, his hands on his hips, laughing himself hoarse.

The life preserver–still trying to fly, she grabbed at it with her claws, her true fingers, exposed as they really appeared. Gurgling screams in the water, she ripped it, and wet sand came tumbling out, jumbling into the lake.

“Sand!” the old hag screeched.

“That’s right–baby!–sand. I filled your Goddamn life preserver with sand! So go ahead now, tell me how much you love me, tell me how much you need me, tell me as you try to fly your sorry ass up and out of Siren Lake!” Screaming, Marge was now completely exposed, her crooked, hooked nose, her green skin, her warts, her jagged teeth, her white hair, all exposed as she shrieked over and over, failing again and again to take flight until finally she felt Billy Burke’s strong painter’s hand push her down, completely underneath Siren Lake. Looking up at him through the surface, she screamed, “No!” as she saw Billy’s hand tap the lake three times, trapping her, for as Billy’s grandfather told him, a witch underwater, tapped thrice, will fly no more, shall, within the body of water, remain…forever.

Lowell entered the Clover Tavern. It wasn’t his favorite place to visit. But, all the same, duty called, and when called, Lowell always answered. He’d met Murray at the Safe Haven, it was the end of his shift. The timing had worked out just fine. Murray had called him at the very beginning of his shift and now, eight and a half hours later, Lowell was here, back in Hayward again. He’d made good time driving, construction season being over.

There’d been quite the commotion in town, the finding of Charley Blandick barely alive on the old edge of town, just south of little Siren Lake, near the industrial park. What’s more, Lowell had found out, the body of some poor painter named Morgan had been found stuck on a pole, dressed up like a scarecrow. But his head, his head had yet to be found.

“Lucky for the cops that, whoever did it, wasn’t a thief,” said Murray, dryly. He had watched Officers Haley and Garland fumbling around the scene of the crime, watched them try to figure out who the headless corpse belonged to, heard them arguing about it. He’d watched the morbid comedy for twenty minutes, along with about forty other people, before Murray himself had walked past the police tape, tapped on the corpse’s back pocket, and had pulled out the wallet in it, and then in turn, had pulled out the corpse’s driver’s license.

“That don’t prove nothin’!” Officer Haley had yelled, causing the crowd to laugh.

“Well,” Murray had replied, even more dryly, “I think it gives you something to go on,” causing the crowd to laugh even harder. Admitting defeat, Officers Garland and Haley began laughing too, but only for a short bit, after all, a murder had taken place!

Lowell had arrived several days later, when several more “scarecrows” had been found, all fitting the same profile, all of the headless bodies belonging to drunks known for staggering home late at night. But that wasn’t what had brought Lowell back.

 

…

 

Under the water, the witch of Siren Lake stirred. Her arms flapped in the cold depths, withered and burnt, collapsing into themselves, like her bones, her face, her heart. Her beloved Billy, her beloved Burk had tricked her, had trapped her under the mirror of the water’s surface. Gray clouds flew miles overhead, where she should be, where she longed to be once again. In despair, the witch’s tears merged with the lake which merged with…the river! She felt her tear, felt it find the current, the current of the river, the river, the river!

Siren Lake was part of the Totagatic, Namekagon, part of the Saint Croix flowage, part of the Mississippi! And the Mississippi went all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico! But first, first the Mighty Miss flowed into…New Orleans. And if a witch couldn’t revive herself in New Orleans, well, then, she wasn’t much of a witch at all! So many rivers–it would take years! She had them.

 

EPILOGUE

 

Lowell was not enamored with the Clover Tavern but he knew its secrets, and it knew his. He also knew that a tavern such as the Clover knew everything about everyone who lived in its town, lived in its surrounding area, and you could know it, if you just knew where, and how, to look. Taking his drink from the bartender, Lowell said, warmly, “Thank you T.J. Good to see you again.”

The “Scarecrow Killer” had added yet another drunk to his (or her) list of victims. This time it was Nikko Walshe, found, again, on the south side of town, not far from the Clover. But that wasn’t why Lowell and Murray were there, all in all, they didn’t care that much about the Scarecrow Killer. They knew the police chief would have things under control, sooner or later.

No, Lowell and Murray were calling on some old friends, friends they’d gone far too long without seeing. As is often the case, they were reuniting for the occasion of a funeral. In Hayward, after a funeral, you went to the Clover. That’s just what you did.

But that’s not why Lowell had come up to Hayward, the funeral itself, was incidental. Though, Lowell had to admit, he’d always had a soft spot for Billy Burke. Raising a glass, Lowell, his fedora on the bar, looked up to the ceiling, looked past it, all the way to Heaven, where he knew with a fair degree of certainty, that Billy Burke was now reunited with his beloved grandfather, the renowned hunter of witches, J.M. Roy. Lowell’s dark hair gleamed in the red lights of the neon signs lining the wall behind him. He looked at Murray, and then glanced towards Chief Baum, who was also toasting old Billy Burke.

“One hundred and ten years old! Can you even believe it!” yelled Police Chief Baum, who thrust his glass even higher. Murray spied it instantly. But so did Officer Dottie, and she was quicker on the draw than he. Tenderly, she wiped something away from the chief’s collar, and then quickly stuffed it into her back pocket.

Murray glanced back at Lowell, who, shook his head, raising his eyebrows, somewhat bemused by it all.

The toast over, the group started breaking up a little, with the Chief and Officer Dottie splitting up now, to further throw people off their scent. Siding up to Dottie, a regular at the Safe Haven, Murray said to her, as politely as you’d like, “Got anything interesting in that back pocket of yours’?” She stopped. She stopped quite suddenly, eying Murray carefully. Blinking, he smiled.

Reaching into her back pocket, she casually pulled out what she had taken from the Chief’s collar. “Just some straw,” she said, as coolly as you’d like.

“Funny,” said Murray, who took it from Dottie’s hand and rubbed it between his until it disintegrated, falling to the floor of the Clover, to be ground down into nothing by one hundred pairs of shoes.

“Funny what?” said Dottie, evenly.

“Funny, I thought it would be a feather.” Smiling, he shrugged, “Guess we all make mistakes. It’s nothing to crow about.”

Lowell scanned the room. He knew exactly what he was looking for, but didn’t know who he was looking for. That he had arrived in time for the funeral festivities, that Hayward had some maniac playing scarecrow with real bodies…this, again, this was all incidental to his being here.

Billy Burke had outlived his grandfather, had lived to be one hundred and ten years old; he had never been in any danger.

The dead scarecrows? Well, Lowell just shook his head. But, this–this was something he could use his considerable talents to address, this was something worthy of his worries, worthy of his attention. In the corner of the bar, in one of the booths, sat Billy Burke’s grandson, Bert Bulger, whom everyone called B.B. Like his grandfather, he was aging well. And like his grandfather, he attracted the attention of a lot of women.

He was with one now, sitting with her, looking up at the flat screen movie, playing some silent film. She was laughing, and as she turned Lowell thought it might be her. He watched her drape her arm over B.B.’s shoulder and saw her purring honeyed words into his ear.

Lowell really thought it might be her.

Then, without hesitation, the woman stopped purring into B.B.’s ear, reached into her purse and pulled something out. Turning her head now and looking Lowell right in the eye, the woman smiled, her red lips pulsing. She smiled at Lowell and then, as neatly as you like, lit a match against a red fingernail.

 

 

 

 

The End.

(For now.)