Woman Chased by Crows by Marc Strange Page A

asked him. “Do not get too comfortable. That is the golden rule, is it not? Do not get too comfortable. The situation will be changing pretty soon, I think.” She shook the tea kettle. Good. She wouldn’t have to go down the hall to fill it. She plugged it in. In the photograph above the tea canister, she was wearing black feathers. She shuddered involuntarily. “Have you ever killed a crow?” The cat didn’t move an ear. “They are like elephants, you know, they never forget.”

    And it wasn’t even her fault. She was a child.
    The crows near her home in Sosnovy Bor stole constantly. They took silverware off the picnic table, they took her father’s medal off his coat while it hung in the yard, and they took her tiara when she was five years old. It wasn’t a real tiara, it was a thing her grandfather made for her to wear with the tutu her mother had sewn. The jewels were paste and beads and pieces of coloured glass. It was pretty and she loved it. And a crow swiped it right off her head while she was dancing in the grass, swooped down and snatched it neat as you please, the way an eagle takes a fish from the ocean, took it and flew away to a tree and laughed at her, proud of what he’d done.
    As soon as her grandfather picked up his shotgun, the crow took wing and the shot missed. But the tiara was left dangling on the branch. And against all reason save greed, or willfulness, the bird turned back to reclaim his pickings. The shotgun had two barrels.
    What a racket. All the crows in the neighbourhood that day had something to say about the incident. Screaming and cawing and circling overhead. It didn’t sound like grieving to Anya, crows lack the ability to
sound
bereaved, it isn’t in their register. Whatever they might be feeling, it sounded accusatory, they were marking her as the villain.
    The tiara had drops of blood on it. Her grandfather wiped it clean, but she never wore it again.

    She made a single cup of tea. Irish Breakfast, with three sugar cubes, no milk, carried it to the front window and looked down at Vankleek Street, smoking, sipping, watching the normal people hurrying by in the rain. Lucky people.

    Dr. Lorna Ruth was a pretty woman, or would have been if not for the numb expression, and the distracted way she was going about her work — shifting piles of papers, opening and closing drawers without looking inside. Cardboard boxes, empty and filled, were cluttering the outer office. She stared at the crammed bookcases and her shoulders slumped. “Have they brought my husband back yet?” Her voice was frayed, her attitude distant.
    Stacy said, “He’s supposed to be on his way.”
    â€œWill he get bail?”
    â€œProbably. He doesn’t have prior convictions, does he?”
    â€œFor killing people?”
    â€œFor anything violent.”
    â€œNo. He’s a gentle person.” She turned slowly to survey the disarray. “I have to move.” She sounded annoyed at the inconvenience. She kicked an empty box out of her way and went into her private office.
    Stacy watched her from the open doorway. “Leave this building, or leave town?”
    â€œI gave my receptionist two weeks’ severance pay. That’s the best I could do. She’s been with me four years. I hated to let her go.” She sat heavily at her desk, almost hidden behind the stacks. “My husband is probably going to jail for a very long long time. How can I stay here? My . . . lapse of moral judgement cost a man his life.”
    â€œThey’ll want you here for the trial.”
    â€œOh yes. I’ll be stuck here for a while. Removing myself from this town, from this life, won’t happen overnight. I have patients. Some of them have cancelled, but some rely on me.”
    â€œWhat about Anya Daniel? Does she rely on you?”
    â€œI don’t know. Yes. Certainly.”
    â€œShe is why Detective Delisle