The Red Scream by Mary Willis Walker Page A

was standing here she would have heard it. She could run back to her truck and use the phone to call for help. That would be sensible. But someone was down there, only yards away, and they might need help right now.
    She turned and looked down the hill again; there must be a path somewhere down to the gazebo, but she sure couldn’t see one. A trickle of sweat ran down her rib cage to her waist. Wishing she’d worn her usual jeans and tennis shoes instead of this damn dress and high heels, she started down the hill. Thorns and thistles snagged her stockings and grabbed at the hem of her skirt. Her thin heels sank into the soft ground. Shit In a perfect world she’d never wear panty hose.
    With difficulty she made her way to a limestone ledge, then hesitated before stepping on it. This was just the kind of place rattlers liked to sun themselves on a hot day—the kind of place she firmly believed in staying away from. She wiped away the sweat that was running along her eyebrows.
    When she saw another buzzard thump to earth in the clearing, she stepped down onto the rock. Lord, the ugly brutes were aggressive, and with her so close. Another one bumped to earth as she half slid down toward the clearing.
    Now she could see better—she could make out a human form, stretched out on the ground, facedown, surrounded by tugging, hissingbuzzards. Now sweat was running freely down her back and between her breasts. She wanted to turn back, but it was too late.
    “You go out looking for trouble, darlin’,” her daddy used to say, “and you usually find it in spades.” How right he was.
    “Hey!” she shrieked down at the birds as she made her way through the brush. “Get away, goddammit. Scram!” They only increased their jerky motions, darting in, pecking and tearing.
    In her forty-two years, Molly Cates had seen her share of death, both natural and unnatural; on the ranch in West Texas and as a police reporter, she’d seen calm, dignified deaths and messy, clawing, screaming deaths. And she had certainly seen buzzards doing what they were born to do, eating what nature decreed they should eat.
    But this was more than she could stand.
    She bent over, picked up a rock, drew it back over her head, and took aim at the bird closest to her. Using her wrist to give it some snap, just the way her daddy had taught her, she flung the rock at the closest bird. It landed at the buzzard’s scaly, red feet, kicking up a puff of dirt.
    The buzzard hopped backward, stretched out its wings, flapped a few times, and took off. The flapping sound made the others stop and look around; then they went right back to their grisly work. Molly felt like a child who’d stumbled through the forest onto a coven of witches, their long black wings drooping at their sides like cloaks, their wrinkled, blood-smeared hags’ heads jerking up and down.
    She shook off the vision and hurried toward them. Skidding, she made her way to the small clearing, waving her arms like a madwoman and screaming, “Shoo now! Get away, dammit. Get away from here, you hags!” One by one, the other seven buzzards hopped away from her. With a few strong wing beats, they rose almost straight up until they caught an air current to ride.
    That left only Molly, alone in total silence with what had once been a human being. A rivulet of sweat trickled down her hairline, from her temple toward her ear. She made no move to brush it away.
    The smooth naked body—a woman’s body with a narrow back, tapering at the waist and flaring at the hips—lay facedown in the clearing, a few feet from the gazebo. One hand, stretched out abovethe head, was still caught inside the sleeve of a white terry-cloth robe that lay in a heap on the ground. A sudden stab of fear made Molly glance around the clearing and down the deserted hill, then back up to the house. But there was no one around. Whoever had done this was long gone. She knew it from the smell—that sweet, sickly smell that was all too