A Simple Plan by Scott Smith

dark—sticking out between his lips.
    I slapped my hand against the plane’s fuselage.
    “Hey!” I yelled. “Get out of here!”
    My voice echoed back at me. I listened to it, waiting. Mary Beth approached the open doorway, sniffing loudly. He made a little whining sound but didn’t stick his head inside. There was no sign of movement from the front.
    “Hey!” I yelled again. I stomped my boot against the floor.
    I waited, but nothing happened. Finally, satisfied that I was the only living thing in the plane, I stood up, scanning the floor to see if I’d dripped any blood the day before. Finding none, I started to inch my way toward the front. I unzipped my jacket as I went.
    I came up quietly behind the pilot, walking in a slight stoop, trying to decide where I should plant the money. I’d planned to just lay it on the copilot’s seat, but now I saw that this wouldn’t work—it would’ve fallen off in the crash. I’d have to put it at the dead man’s feet, stuff it up tight against the nose of the plane.
    I unzipped my jacket and removed the money from the knapsack. I wiped the garbage bag with my gloves, to erase any fingerprints, then crouched down and slid it forward along the floor. I pushed it past the two seats, past the pilot’s boots, all the way up to the front of the plane. My back started to sweat while I worked, a cold, clammy feeling. I was holding my breath, and it made me dizzy.
    When I’d jammed the money in as far as it would go, I stood up, grasped the pilot by his shoulders, and eased him forward. He bent at his waist with surprising ease, his feet sliding backward along the floor. At the last second his head rolled forward on his neck, landing on the plane’s control panel with a smacking sound, like a bat hitting a ball. The bloody icicle broke, fell to the floor, and shattered.
    I took a deep breath, and stepped back. I straightened my body until the top of my hat touched the plane’s metal roof; then I held myself there, thinking, checking things off in my head. I’d looked for blood, I’d planted the money, I’d repositioned the pilot. There was nothing left to do.
    I zipped up my jacket, turned, took a single step, and froze. There were two birds sitting just inside the open doorway, watching me. It was the strangest thing—I seemed to think of them before I actually saw them, their images floating across my mind as I turned my body, two shadows emerging from the plane’s darkness to confront me. It was eerie; it was as if I’d willed them into being.
    I stared at them. They didn’t move.
    I waved my arms. “Scat!” I yelled.
    One of the birds edged toward the doorway. The other remained where it was.
    Very slowly, I took a step forward. The first bird shuffled quickly to the door. It stopped on the threshold to watch me, its plumage shiny in the light streaming in from the orchard. The second bird lifted its wings, as if to threaten me. It moved its head from side to side on its shoulders. Then it stretched its neck and cawed. The sound ricocheted off the walls. When it died down, the bird settled its wings back into its body and took a tentative step toward me.
    “Out!” I yelled.
    The first bird gave a little cry and disappeared with a quick hop through the doorway. I could hear the push of its wings as it flew away. The other bird simply sat there, turning first one eye toward me, then the other.
    I stepped forward, stomping my boot against the floor.
    The bird shuffled backward, away from the door. It lifted its wings again.
    I watched it, waiting. “I’m leaving,” I said, like an idiot. I took two shuffling steps forward, closing in on the door.
    The bird retreated, sinking into the darkness at the rear of the plane, its wings still raised. I had to move at a stoop, my shoulders hunched over, my boots making a rough, scraping sound against the floor.
    When I reached the door, I went out backward, so I wouldn’t have to take my eyes off the crow. It raised its