Omens (17 page)

My cheeks warmed. I cleared my throat. “About your offer, the book deal…”

He pulled out of the parking space. “You have no intention of entertaining my offer. You never did. You simply needed a way into that prison.”

“I—”

“Don’t deny it. Worse, don’t apologize. I was the only way in, and I wanted something from you, so you used that.”

“So why did you agree?”

“For the same reason I’d take a reluctant client to dinner. Laying the groundwork. In the meantime, five thousand dollars was an acceptable fee for my afternoon.”

“Even if it’s already your money?”

“Money that I’m unlikely to see otherwise.”

When we reached the highway, I said, “There’s something else I’d like. Access to your files on my mother’s case. Not just the official record of the appeal, but your complete file.”

“A lawyer is not permitted—”

“I’ll pay.”

He glanced at me.

“You heard Pamela. She wants me to pass her case on. Reasonably then, one could presume she meant for me to see the file.”

“I doubt that.”

“But it was open to interpretation, and the guard overheard her ask me, so an innocent mistake could be made.”

He’d put his shades back on, but I could feel the weight of his stare.

I continued, “I’ll pay you for your time to discuss the file with me. Or for a consultation, during which you could be called out on business and inadvertently leave it on the table.”

“As amused as I am by option two, the first is preferable. Now let’s discuss my fee.”

G
abriel’s price was reasonable. He knew I could get most of the information from the court documents, and I would, if necessary, but I was willing to pay for expediency and the opportunity to discuss it with him … which gave him another chance to woo me as a reluctant prospective client. He would return at ten the next morning, despite the fact it was a Saturday.

I needed to work at the diner that night. The regular shifts were seven to three and three to eleven, starting thirty minutes before the seven-thirty opening, then cleaning up for an hour after the diner closed at ten. The other weekday server, Susie, had a second job so Margie and Susie had arranged their schedules to accommodate it, meaning I could expect to be on an ever-changing mix of days and evenings and even split shifts, opening and closing. Today, because Susie had been called in early, I was due back at seven.

When I stepped out of the apartment building, I found Grace in her spot, glowering at the black cat, now perched on the gate pillar. The feline wasn’t lowering itself to glaring back but simply sat there, yellow eyes fixed on her. I walked over to pet it.

“Don’t encourage him,” Grace snapped.

“But he’s good luck.”

I expected her to say no, a black cat was bad luck, but she only snorted. “Only good luck is his, if he cons you into letting him stay.”

As I walked away, the cat followed, running along the top of the wrought-iron fence. It didn’t meow or try to get my attention, just kept pace with me.

I took the shortcut through the park. When I was close enough to see the fountain, a long shadow slid over the cobblestones. I glanced up. It looked like a crow, but the shadow it cast was huge. A trick of the mind, I supposed. We don’t have ravens in Illinois. But seeing it made me think of the dream with the flayed corpses and huge black birds.

I picked up my pace and the crow’s shadow crossed me twice more. I squinted up, hand shielding my eyes against the sun. The bird was circling erratically. It seemed to be dodging something. Another bird, I presumed, until I realized it was darting away every time it flew too close to the bank’s gargoyles.

I smiled. Nothing terribly sinister about a bird so stupid it couldn’t tell real predators from stone ones.

“Kitty!”

I glanced over at the park. An elderly woman was putting fresh paint on the fence as a mother tried to convince her toddler that it was time to leave. The little girl had found a new excuse to linger—the cat. She was straining in her mother’s grip, both arms reaching for the cat, which had zoomed onto a low branch and crouched there, watching the girl as if considering the potential mauling-to-affection ratio.

I was reaching to give the cat a reassuring pat when the girl screamed. The old woman gasped, and I turned as the raven swooped straight at me. My hands shot up. I saw two black blurs—the bird dropping and the cat leaping for it. The cat managed to claw the raven, but as it fell back to the ground, the bird swooped down and grabbed the cat in its talons. The cat’s scream joined the child’s. I ran and kicked the bird as hard as I could.

It dropped the cat, which started to run, but the bird flew after it. I went after the bird. It was huge, twice the size of the cat. When it dropped low enough, I kicked it again. The old woman shouted, and a rain of stones hit the bird.

It croaked and turned on me. I stood my ground. When it spread its black wings, I got ready to kick it yet again, but the old woman was at my side now. She pitched another handful of pebbles at the bird, shouting, “Go away!”

The bird stopped and eyed us both. Then with a croak, it spread its wings. As it launched into flight, it listed to one side.

“I think I hurt it,” I said.

“Good.” The old woman scowled after the bird. “Nasty things.”

“That was a raven, wasn’t it? It sure looked like it.”

“They aren’t supposed to be here,” she said.

I hesitated. For a moment, I didn’t see a tiny white-haired lady. I saw the girl from my raven dream. Heard her saying to the birds, “Shoo! You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“They used to come around when I was little. Nasty things.” She shook her fist at the raven, still climbing. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

A soft sob interrupted her words, and I noticed the little girl, crying and shaking in her mother’s arms. I glanced around for the cat and spotted its tail peeking from under the bench. I opened the gate, went inside, and bent down. It stared out at me from the darkness. When I reached in, it rubbed against my hand but would come no farther.

“Can’t say I blame you,” I murmured.

I turned to the little girl. “He’s okay. Just scared. Come see.”

She did, and the cat craned its neck out far enough to be petted.

“I need to run,” I said. “I’m late for work, but he seems fine.”

They agreed, and I took off.

T
he old woman scowled up at the sky. The raven was long gone. Were there more? There’d better not be. She would tell the others, though. They should know there had been a raven in Cainsville.

She walked over to where the cat was hiding. It was still there, staring balefully.

“Leaping at ravens,
matagot
?” she murmured. “Trying to protect the girl? Or merely getting her attention?”

The cat only lifted a black paw and began cleaning itself.

The old woman straightened. The Larsen girl had scared the bird off nicely. The others should know about that, too. They were worried about the girl. It was difficult for some, having a Bowen in town again. It had been so many years, and things had gone so badly the last time. Yet most of the elders, like Veronica herself, were excited, too. The girl gave them another chance.

Born outside Cainsville, her mother had been lost from the start. Usually the children did not stray far enough to warrant attention. With Pamela Bowen however … They had all underestimated the danger. The chance she’d get to know Todd Larsen. That would not happen again.

Veronica went to the child and helped her mother comfort and reassure her until she stopped crying. A terrible thing for a child to see. That shouldn’t happen in Cainsville.

When mother and child left, the old woman returned to her painting. Before taking the first stroke, she glanced up at the sky. After a look around, she took a plump cloth bag from her pocket, untied it, and shook a little extra powder into the paint. Then she swirled it in and resumed her work.

I
n a town where half the population seemed old enough to collect Social Security, the diner wasn’t exactly booming after dinner hour. By eight, even Patrick had gone home. After that, we had one middle-aged couple that worked in the city and got home late, and one family—the Pattersons—with two preadolescent children who’d apparently rebelled against Meatloaf Night. Otherwise, it was a slow stream of seniors coming by for a cup of tea and slice of pie.

Another problem with an elderly population? Call me ageist, but after seventy, they all start to look alike. If I wanted decent tips, I needed to be able to put names to faces … and remember “the usual” for each. I made notes like “Bob Masters: bad dentures, black coffee, blueberry pie” and “Sue Masters: hairy moles, Earl Grey with milk, tea biscuit with honey.” I kept the notes in my deepest pocket and prayed I never dropped them.

I wasn’t a good server. I wasn’t even an adequate one. But I tried my damnedest, and I did get tips, though I suspect they were more like doggy biscuits for the obedience class dropout—gentle encouragement that would lead to better performance in the future.

——

On my way back to the apartment for the night I turned onto the walkway to the park and heard a
whoosh-whoosh
ahead. I stopped. The sound came again. The beating of large wings. I hurried around a bush and saw a huge bird ripping apart something on the ground.

I ran and realized it was
two
huge birds. They dropped their prey and soared away, as silent as wraiths. When I saw the black bundle on the ground, my gut twisted. The cat.

I hurried forward, then slowed. The bloody mess of red and black looked … wrong. The fur was … Not fur. Feathers.

It was the raven. Dead. Ripped apart so badly it was only a bloody mess of feathers and entrails.

I glanced up just as a massive brown form alighted on a gatepost. The owl stared at me, unblinking. Then it settled in, talons gripping the stone, leaving bloody claw marks.

The second owl landed on the opposite gatepost.

Two huge owls perched like live gargoyles. Waiting for me to go away. To leave their prey.

I took a step back. One started unfolding its wings and then stopped. I moved back again as they watched. The other one spread its wings and hopped from the post, sailing down gracefully, grabbing the raven in both claws. With a flap of its wings, it took off.

The second owl stayed for another moment, round eyes fixed on mine. Then it followed the other in silent flight.

“Mrrow?”

I spun. The black cat leapt onto the gatepost vacated by the owl. It arched up, purring. I petted it and checked its back. I saw dried blood, but the punctures had already sealed and weren’t tender enough for it to complain when I prodded.

I stepped back to get a better look at the cat. It leapt to the ground, strolled over to the bloody spot on the cobblestones, and began licking it.

“Getting rid of the evidence,” I murmured. “Good idea.”

I returned to the diner, hoping Larry was still there so I could grab a bucket of water and clean the bloody stones before any kids came to play the next day. When I got back with the bucket, the cat was gone. I cleaned up the blood as best I could.

I opened my apartment door to see yet another business card waiting for me.

The address was for the house across the road.

I flipped over the card. In precise handwriting, she’d written:
We must speak. You need my help
.

“For a hundred bucks a session, I’m sure.” I tossed it into the trash, the same place I’d thrown her nephew’s card two days ago. This one would stay put. I needed his services; I certainly didn’t need hers.

The next morning, I made my daily call to Howard before heading out for a much-needed walk. His voice mail picked up right way, and I wondered if he was just hitting ignore when he saw my new number. No matter. I’d keep making these calls and he’d keep passing on the messages to James and my mother. My family paid him too much not to.

On my way past the library, I popped in to check the bulletin board. If I planned to stay in Cainsville for a while, I should get more involved. I could join the knitting circle. Or the book club. Or, if I waited a few weeks, lawn bowling season would start.

I skimmed to karate lessons.
Join anytime. Weekly at the community center. Five dollars per session.

That I could afford and self-defense lessons wouldn’t be a bad idea. I jotted down the particulars.

It wasn’t yet ten when I got back to my apartment, but Gabriel’s Jag was already out front, and the man himself was on the stoop, talking to Grace.

“Let me grab my notebook,” I said, by way of greeting.

“I brought the file.” He lifted it.

“Which is good, considering that’s what I’m paying you for.”

I started to walk past him.

“I meant that we don’t need to go anywhere,” he said. “If you’re uncomfortable having me in your apartment, we can leave the door open.”

“Um, no, I know how to scream. And I’m sure Grace would call the cops for me. Otherwise she’d lose the rental.”

Grace nodded, not the least offended.

“I’m suggesting we don’t do this inside because my apartment stinks,” I said. “Despite hours of cleaning.”

“Buy an air freshener,” Grace said.

“I did. A lovely peach-scented one. Now my apartment smells like rotten peaches. I’m going to paint the place next week.”

“Wash the walls first,” Gabriel said.

I looked up at him.

“You need to use a bleach solution on the walls, or you’ll only temporarily cover the stench.”

Obviously someone who had experience with cheap apartments. I struggled to picture it—the guy looked like he wouldn’t be caught dead outside the penthouse.

“And buy good paint,” Grace said.

“Will that help?”

“No, but if you buy cheap-ass crap and it peels, I’ll—”