Birds of Prey

Kork went for the gun, checked the clip, and held it alongside his body, keeping his arm straight down.
The sedan was slowing.
Kork shot a nervous glance back at the crows, saw a glimpse of pink.
That damn whore was holding up her arm, trying to wave.
Fuck! Die already, you stupid bitch!
The car continued to slow.
It wasn’t a cop. No cop drives a Lexus.
Still, Kork couldn’t kill them. It would lead back to him. But what choice did he have if they saw the whore?
Even though it was a chilly autumn afternoon, Kork wiped some sweat off his brow.
Come on, keep going, keep going you nosy fucker. Nothing to see here.
But it rolled to a stop, fifty yards away.
For what seemed an eternity, no one got out.
Kork squinted to catch a glimpse inside, but the windows had a slight tint, making it impossible to see the driver.
He glanced back at the crows, squawking and fighting over their afternoon meal.
Looked back toward the car.
Still no movement there.
Had they seen the crows? They must have. The air was thick with them now, as if they could communicate by telepathy and were calling in their siblings, cousins, and buddies from out of state to join in the hooker feast.
Kork gave a short wave and a nod to tell them he was fine, everything fine, I don’t need any help, and then started for his driver-side door. He would need a ride, eventually, but maybe the time for that ride would be when two hundred crows weren’t devouring a half-dead whore ten yards away.
He opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.
All’s well here, feel free to move right the fuck along.
Kork checked the rearview mirror.
Goddamn it.
Now the front passenger-and driver-side doors of the Lexus were swinging open, two men stepping out.
One was tall and thin, wearing bib overalls. His lanky hair hung over his gaunt, pale features like a black spiderweb. The other was shorter, muscular, tanned the color of old leather. Or maybe he just looked tan in comparison to his partner, who was paler than a newborn baby’s ass.
What do I do? Wait for them to approach? Meet them halfway?
He jerked his eyes back at the crows. The whore was waving both arms now, and above the cacophony of caws and squawks, Kork thought he heard a thin, keening wail.
Fuck, fuck fuck….people always died too soon. He was always losing control, accidentally killing them prematurely. Who the fuck was this whore? Superwoman?
Kork didn’t have to jack a round into the chamber of his .45—there was always one in the chamber. He thumbed off the safety and exited his car, keeping the gun behind him.
An outrageous thought entered his head: killing these two, dragging them to the crows, then another car coming by, and another, until there were fifty cars parked along the shoulder and a giant pile of corpses in the field.
“Got a tow truck coming,” he said, not bothering to be friendly. “Don’t need any help.”
“Did we offer any?” the shorter man said. He was grinning.
They stopped on the shoulder, fifteen feet apart. Kork glanced back—no cars coming at the moment.
“Got yourself a right fine murder there,” said the tan man.
Kork raised an eyebrow, his heart skipping a beat. “Excuse me?”
“Crows. Group of crows is called a murder. There are lots of strange names for bird groups. An unkindness of ravens. A pitying of turtle doves. A watch of—”
Kork raised his weapon, pointing it at the talkative one. “So what do they call a group of two dead assholes?”
This inexplicably widened the tan man’s smile.
“You think this is a fucking game?” Kork asked.
The younger, paler of the duo stared at the crows with obvious interest.
“What are they eating?” he asked.
“Hey! Dipshit! I’m pointing a fucking gun at you, too. That’s more important than a flock of goddamn crows.”
“Murder,” the tan one said. “Not a flock. And I’m curious too.”
The tan man’s eyebrows suddenly arched.
“Uh oh. You see that?” the tan guy elbowed his friend and pointed down the road. “Can’t hear it over the crows, but I think that glint is the sun reflecting off an approaching car. He should definitely shoot us right now.”
Kork fought the urge to turn around and look. There was too much happening at once, too much to process. He needed time to think…
Then an idea came to him.
Kork wasn’t exactly a sharpshooter, but he could damn sure put a few rounds center mass into both of these clowns. Let the crows have them. Then maybe he could start his own car on fire to eliminate the evidence, and take theirs. It was nicer anyway.
Yeah, that was a plan. A good plan. Once the other car passed, he’d make it happen.
But what if it didn’t pass? What if it stopped like these two assholes?
“He might have time to drag us back behind our car before the next car passes,” the tan guy went on. “I figure he’s got about twenty seconds. No big deal if he doesn’t make it. I’m sure whoever drives by has seen plenty of dead bodies being dragged off the side of the shoulder. Probably speed right on by. Hell, I would. Unless…”
Why was the tan guy smiling now?
“Yep….unless it’s a police car. Like the one coming up behind him.”
“Bullshit,” Kork said.
“Might be smart to lower that .45.”
The tall, pale one slipped a hand into his jacket. The tan one had his thumb hooked into the back pocket of his blue jeans.
Kork wanted to look back over his shoulder, wanted to badly, but these guys were too calm, too odd, and he refused to take his eyes off them. They could easily both be packing.
“I’m really not kidding,” the mouthy one said. “Put the fucking gun down or it’s going to be bad for all of us.”
Kork didn’t like being told what to do, and his finger tightened on the trigger. But something in the tan man’s voice, something in his eyes, reminded Charles of Father. Not Father when he was crying, simpering, begging for forgiveness while Kork or his sister Alex beat him with belts and whips. But Father when the darkness overcame him, when he’d checked his conscience at the door and lived to cause pain, when he was the most frightening creature to ever walk the earth.
Kork lowered the gun, tucking it into the back of his pants.
He turned and looked down the road.
Holy shit. It was a cop car approaching.
When Charles looked back at the two men, they were already walking toward him.
“Get the fuck back! What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking it might be smart to pretend we’re changing your tire.”
The noise of the cop car’s engine was loud as hell now—he could actually hear it over the birds—and the two men were standing right in front of him. The tan one knelt down by the left rear tire and glared at Charles. “Let me do the talking. You seem to have some temper issues that could escalate the situation.”
“Fuck you! No, I don’t!”
“He might pass right on by,” the pale one said.
They all looked at the approaching car now.
It was definitely slowing down, but nothing strange about that. Everyone slowed down to look at a broken-down car on the side of the road. Even cops.
Then its light bar lit up, flashing blue and red.
The cop crossed over the yellow line and pulled onto the shoulder in front of Kork’s Honda, its tires crunching over the gravel.
Kork saw him get on his mike, no doubt calling in his plates.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Keep calm,” said the tan one. “You aren’t the only one with things to hide. We don’t want this cop to stop any more than you do. So let me do the fucking talking, or we’re all going to be screwed.”
The cruiser was a Crown Vic, and as the trooper swung open his door, Kork could see the blue and white Indiana State Police logo emblazoned on the black paint of the door.
The trooper must have been six-five. He was corn-stalk thin. A miracle he could even fit in the cruiser. He wore blue pants, a long-sleeved black button-up, and a straight-brimmed hat that hid the color of his close-cropped hair.