“I was overseas, working on my MFA at Oxford,” she said. “I didn’t hear about it until much later. My mother kept it from me.”
“And when he was killed?”
“I was living here,” she said, bowing her head a moment. “The police questioned me. But our properties are separated by acres. It’s a good twenty-minute walk on trails from that place to here.”
Greta’s body had taken on a kind of careful tension. She’d averted her direct gaze to something off in the distance. Her shoulders had hiked. Rain felt her pulse quicken; the old woman had something to say.
“It’s okay,” Rain said easily. “Everyone’s gone.”
“Not everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“The people who killed Kreskey were never caught.”
“People?”
“My mother thinks I should tell you.”
“Oh,” said Rain, looking around. “Is she here?”
That would make a great layer to the story, the older woman telling her perspective of the day, just a few miles from where it was all happening. But Greta shook her head.
“She died about ten years ago now,” she said. “But I still hear her.”
Rain nodded, pretended to adjust the recorder. “I see. You said she was an empath.”
Oh, perfect. A crazy bird lady who spoke to the dead.
“She loved birds, took so much pleasure in my work. When I was a girl we used to hike through the woods. She knew every bird, every call. She knew where the owls nested, where the hawks perched. Love of nature was her gift to me. We used to go out at night quite often.”
Rain took and released a breath, waited. Then, “Were you out the night that Kreskey was killed?”
“I was,” she said. “I was looking for the nightjar. A rare sighting. But some birder friends claimed to have seen one.”
The name sent a jolt through Rain. Was it a coincidence, or had Agent Brower already been here? She made a note to ask, not wanting to interrupt.
“What did you see, Greta?”
“I’d already seen Eugene,” she said. “A few nights earlier, I saw him on the property. Just standing there, staring at the house. Naturally, I didn’t confront him. I just got away as fast as I could.”
“And on that night?”
“There were two people there. The moonlight was diffused by thick cloud cover, and they both wore masks. They entered the house. A while later, he showed up, went inside.”
Rain felt a dump of excitement mingled with dread.
“What kind of masks?” The words came out wobbly.
“Bird masks of some kind—with beaks and feathers. I think that’s why I stayed to watch at first. I just couldn’t figure out what was happening.”
“Greta,” said Rain carefully. “Did you take pictures?”
She nodded. “They didn’t turn out. I was set for a full moon. But, like I said, it was obscured.”
“Can I see?”
Greta considered a moment, then got up and left the room. Rain looked around at the birds in their glass cages. All their dead eyes were on her. She fought the urge to gather her things and leave.
When Greta returned with the pictures, they were grainy and indistinct. A large figure, a smaller one, both in black, wearing masks and hoods, one carrying a pack. They walked toward the house.
“Since the first murder, that house has been overrun with vandals, kids looking to party, homeless, drunks and people on drugs. So after I snapped those pictures, I waited in the brush awhile, to see who else would show up. I thought I’d get some more pictures and call the police. Not sure why I bothered, they never did a thing about the way that property had gone to seed. But when I saw Eugene, I left as fast as possible.”
“Did the police come when you called that night?”
Mentally, she thought back to the reports she’d read, those that Henry had sent, the documents in Greg’s research. She didn’t remember a logged 911 call.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I called, said there were trespassers on the adjacent property at the abandoned structure.”
“You didn’t say it was Kreskey?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head and gazed at her fingernails. “You know, I always felt sorry for him. I used to see him sometimes when he was a boy. I’d see him in the woods. He seemed like a gentle spirit, a lost soul. Once, he brought a cardinal with an injured wing to my mother. He stammered, could barely get his words out. Then he ran off, as if he was afraid of us. I know he was a monster—he did horrible things. But