Instead, Birdy hollered toward the driveway, “Sheriff’s Department. Come out and identify yourself.” With the pistol pointed at the ground, she walked toward the whip and crackle of branches.
I couldn’t run off and leave her, so I used the flashlight-painted the tree canopy and tracked the sound-but was always a second behind. All we saw were moving branches and a cascade of falling leaves. I stabbed the beam ahead at a massive oak. I hoped to intercept whatever it was. When I did, the tree exploded with a thumping, squawking cloud of birds… birds the size of vultures.
Birdy, the cop, ducked and said, “Shit,” while I kept the light steady.
That’s what I thought they were-vultures-until one soared toward me, its clumsy wings struggling to stay airborne and follow the others, who also appeared too large for flight. The birds scattered overhead. The sound of falling rain pattered around us, then they regrouped and crash-dived toward the river while I chased them with the flashlight.
“What the hell!”
I responded, “My heart damn near stopped!”
“Are they pelicans?”
“Turkeys,” I said. “Wild turkeys. My lord, they scared the fire out of me.”
Birdy took a deep breath and made a whistling sound. “I hope you noticed not once did I point my weapon at them. That’s training-wait until you’ve identified your subject.”
My reply was equally off topic. “My uncle took me turkey hunting two or three times, but this is the first time I was ever close enough. There had to be at least a dozen. Wild turkeys, they’re very smart.”
We went back and forth like that-nervous talk-until I saw a glob of gray goo on my shoe that matched a streak of gray on my jeans. Birdy noticed something on her shoulder… then in her hair. She touched it and sniffed. “Bird shit.” She made a queasy noise.
“Turkey shit,” I amended, my vocabulary still out of control while my beating heart slowed.
“What a night. First, a scorpion bites me, then my hundred-dollar blouse gets turd-bombed. A foot of snow and Boston is sounding pretty good right now.” Birdy found hand wipes in her purse, then proved my instincts right by adding, “No way in hell am I going to bed without a shower. We either get a hotel or I’m following you home. What time is it?”
It was ten-twenty, which I told her while my brain settled and began to work again. I wanted to believe my flashlight had tracked turkeys clattering through the trees. But I didn’t believe it. The turkeys had been roosting. Something else bothered me: I had smelled fermenting fruit and garbage, not limbs and broken furniture. To confirm the incongruity, I swung my light to the trash container ten yards away. It was piled high with wood.
Birdy sobered. “Yeah… let’s check for tracks.”
“Why? That’s not what I was looking for.”
“Stay here, if you want.”
I couldn’t do that, so only muttered, “Lucia must’ve slipped a crazy pill into your drink.”
I dreaded what we might find but felt better when Birdy knelt by the can and used her index finger to trace a deep impression in the sand. “It was a man wearing shoes,” she said. “See? He turned around here-the tracks aren’t as deep-and walked back to the vaccine place. Size seven or eight in ladies’ shoes, I’d say. Tiny for a man, so he’s short but wide and strong as hell.”
“Sandals,” I corrected her, “no heel prints.” I wanted to share my friend’s relief but couldn’t muster the conviction.
Birdy sensed it. “Chimps don’t wear sandals or heels. Let’s find a Holiday Inn.”
“After I get Captain Summerlin’s journal,” I replied.
WHAT WE FOUND was better, the River’s Edge Motel on Old County Road 78, just across the bridge from Labelle, a pretty little town with a friendly cowboy flavor. The motel had large, clean rooms that overlooked the Caloosahatchee River and a dock where three trawlers and a houseboat were moored among smaller boats.
“Screw sleeping with scorpions,” Birdy said after she had showered and joined me on the porch. “I like this place. How about we book two rooms for the week and bill my aunt? It’s only thirty minutes to the old house and no more than forty for me to get to work on Sunday morning. That way, I can stay tomorrow night.”
I agreed it was a nice motel but was in a foul, suspicious mood. “There’s less chance of being robbed, at least, or people snooping,” I said. I was referring to what I’d found after returning to the Cadence house. The door was still padlocked and Capt. Summerlin’s journal was on the mantel, but not exactly as I’d left it. I’m particular about how I place things. Right away, I knew. The box lid was sealed; I’d left it ajar so air could circulate. Further proof was a torn page and new cracks in the binding; the cracks could have been caused by flattening the book to photograph the contents.
Birdy, whose room was three doors down from mine, said, “We’re off duty. We’ve got clean sheets and bathrooms, so stop with the paranoia. What you need is a drink.”
There was no nearby bar to provide mojitos, so we’d bought a bottle of red wine at a 7-Eleven, a store not known for fine wines. That didn’t seem to matter at eleven-fifteen on a Friday night, the two of us eager for a shower and beds to sleep in.
I replied, “You said yourself that Theo disappeared long enough to break in. I don’t trust him. Was he still hitting on you?”
Birdy, fussing with her buttons, nodded. “He put his hand on my ass. I told him it was a little early in the game for heavy petting, but maybe after the doctor took his cast off.”
“That’s all you said?”
“Threatening to break his arm wasn’t enough? Besides, being a pompous prick isn’t a deal breaker with me. Not if he’s got nice bone structure and nice hands. Did you notice Theo’s? Kind of delicate for a man his size.”
“There’s a word for that kind of behavior,” I told her. “Are you sure the witches didn’t drug you?”
Birdy smiled, “Hold that thought,” and returned with the wine and two glass tumblers, the River’s Edge being a mom-and-pop motel with kitchenettes and cupboards fully stocked. She poured the glasses, handed me one, then offered a toast-“To separate bathrooms”-before telling me about her time alone with Theo and the three women.
“They knew that my aunt sent us. And she knew way too much about me for it to be a series of lucky guesses. I’d like to say I don’t believe in paranormal powers, but…” Birdy sipped her wine, made a face, and said, “God, this is awful.”
“You’re talking about Lucia?” I asked. “What did she say?”
Birdy sniffed her glass and focused on the dock, where the trawlers were buttoned up for the night but the houseboat’s windows were bright. On the roof deck, two long, lean silhouettes listened to Garth Brooks, the music softer than male laughter. “I bet those men have an extra cold beer or two. If there’s a God in heaven, maybe even some decent tequila and a lime.”
I replied, “It’s too late to go begging drinks from strange men. Answer my question.” I was tired-another reason I wasn’t in good humor. This was the first chance we’d had to talk because Birdy had followed me in her BMW rather than leave one of our vehicles unattended at the Cadence place.
“You’ve got a prudish streak in you, Smithie.”
“It’s a good thing one of us does. Maybe this wine needs to breathe a little. Tell me what happened while we wait.”
“C-P-R and a respirator can’t change vinegar into merlot. How much did you pay for this?”
I said, “About the same as a gallon of gas. Now, tell me what happened.”
What happened was, Lucia had done a good job of proving-in Theo’s words-that she could splice into the thoughts of certain people, especially those who also had psychic gifts. That made Birdy an especially difficult subject, according to Lucia, an insult my friend fumed over while explaining, “I don’t know how the bitch did it. She told me things about my childhood that no one-I mean, no one-knows. I’ve gone over and over it in my head. It’s an act, a fortune-teller’s act, but how did she do it?”