Claws and Feathers Page 2

  “Abby!”

  Abby jolted in place, turning to the sound of Daphne’s shrill voice. Her friend was waving her arms at her, beckoning her back to the group. She sighed, sipping on the tiny, plastic straw as she made her way to the far corner of the room.

  Welcome to The Crow, indeed.

  Cooper ambled through the station the next day, yawning as he nodded a greeting to his office clerk, Faye. It was a little after four P.M. and Cooper had slept most of the afternoon. He didn’t work the bar often, but when he did, he was always off his game the following day. The noise, the drunken patrons, the cigarette smoke he could still smell on his skin despite a long, hot shower – it got to him.

  “McAllister.”

  Cooper discovered his partner, James Walker, leaning against the front of his desk. “Hey.” Cooper made a quick stop at the Keurig before getting to work. “Anything on the Fisher case?” he wondered, perusing the coffee flavors with his back turned.

  “No. There’s something else, though.”

  Cooper selected a breakfast blend. “Hit me.”

  James joined him over by the coffee station, holding a flyer in his hand. He ran his fingers over the dark five o’clock shadow along his jawline, pursing his lips together. “This just came through. A missing girl."

  “Shit. We haven’t had one of those since those seniors got lost near the bay.” Cooper fiddled with the Keurig machine. “Elderly?”

  “No, actually. Twenty-eight. Daphne Vaughn just called it in.”

  This grabbed Cooper’s attention and his head shot up, a whisper of dread creeping into his skin. “What?”

  James slapped the flyer down onto the table and folded his arms across his barreling chest. “She was last seen leaving your father’s bar last night.”

  Cooper’s blood ran cold when he looked down at the missing person’s flyer. He picked it up, scanning the familiar face. Violet eyes peered back at him. Haunted eyes.

  Abigail Stone.

  Abby.

  Chapter Two

  “Abigail, you’re not going anywhere in that outfit.”

  Abby halted in her tracks, one of her comically high-heeled stilettos snagging on the living room rug. She turned toward the kitchen where Gina Stone was surveying her daughter with a disapproving glare. The Mom Glare. The scent of Nana Cecily’s beloved lasagna recipe wafted out from the kitchen as Gina tossed a dinner salad with two wooden spoons.

  Abby sighed in dismay. “I’m just going to the movies with Jordan,” she said, her tone full of teenage exasperation.

  Her brother, Ryan, let out a laugh from the couch, his eyes fixed on his Call of Duty video game. “And then what? Trying out for that call girl ad I saw in the paper?”

  Abby stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Give me one good reason I should let you out of the house looking like that,” Gina said. She set down the spoons and waited, her fingers tapping against the marble countertop.

  Abby glanced down at her low-hanging halter, miniscule leather skirt, and designer shoes she’d klepto-ed from Liv’s closet. “My heel can double as a weapon if anyone gets frisky with me?”

  Gina squinted her eyes at her daughter. “Upstairs, young lady. Points for creativity, though.”

  Abby groaned in response, a dramatic eye roll following close behind. She marched up the stairs, as only a defiant teenager could. Stomp, stomp, stomp.

  And then: Crash.

  Abby raced back down the steps and into the kitchen. Her mother had dropped the pot of simmering marinara sauce.

  Gina glanced up at her daughter, her normally warm eyes turning to stone. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  “I – I didn’t do it,” Abby argued.

  The marinara oozed into the tile cracks – seeping, sullying, staining the plaster and grout. And then it flashed and flickered, transforming into something else.

  Blood.

  There was so much blood.

  Gina shook her head. “You need to clean this up, Abigail.”

  Abby’s eyes shot open, her chest heaving, her mind disoriented. It was just a dream. A nightmare – it wasn’t real.

  And yet… it was still so dark. Abby blinked, forcing herself to wake up. Forcing her surroundings to come alive, to take shape, to assure her that she wasn’t stuck in that recurring nightmare. But the darkness did not abate. It still consumed her.

  Why was it so dark?

  Her head was throbbing, her stomach in ropes.

  Wait. Ropes.

  Abby tugged at her wrists. A strangled sob escaped her when she realized her hands were bound together behind her back, her shoulder blades pressed up against a cool, metal wall.

  Oh, no. No, no, no.

  Abby almost choked on the wave of nausea that crept up her chest and burned the back of her throat like acid. She wriggled her legs, only to find that they, too, were constrained. Shackled. Like an animal.

  Oh, God.

  Where was she? What had happened? Abby tried to recall the events leading up to her dire predicament. She had left the bar alone after a break in the storm, insisting she could walk home. Daphne was on a mission to bed one of the Gleason brothers, and Abby was… well, not. Daphne had tried to protest, but she was far too drunk to put up much of an argument. Abby remembered shooting a final goodbye look towards Cooper McAllister before trotting off into the late evening hours. The temperature had been mild, albeit slightly chilly. Abby had crossed her arms across her chest to contain her warmth, her purse dangling from her fingers.

  She had felt something… yes. There had been a presence. A sound. A light kick of gravel. It was just enough to make her arms break out into prickly goosebumps. Was someone following her? Abby had shaken her head at the absurdity of that notion. She was being paranoid. Still, her footsteps picked up their pace and her heart rate seemed to escalate ever so slightly. When she’d turned onto Sullivan Hill, there had been a loud crack, followed by a ringing in her ears. Then everything had gone black.

  Had she been struck? The pain pulsating through the back of her head seemed to confirm that theory.

  Unsure of what else to do, Abby screamed. “Somebody help me!” Her voice cracked with anguish as she kicked her legs and struggled against the rope cutting into her wrists.

  The flicker of a lighter startled her, forcing a gasp from her parched lips. The flame cast an eerie illumination through her darkened quarters – her cage – and lit up an unfamiliar silhouette.

  “Hello, Little Bird.”

  Little Bird?

  There was a man sitting across from her, maybe three or four feet away. Abby could hardly make out his features, but his voice was gruff, and a baseball cap adorned his head. His face was shrouded with a full beard. Her gaze shifted to her ankles, which were chained to the floor of her prison with rusted manacles.

  “P – Please. Let me go.” Abby’s panic was evident. Desperation laced every syllable, stampeding through her body like wild horses. Her voice echoed throughout her chambers, causing her heart to beat erratically against her ribcage.

  The man only laughed. Cigarette smoke encircled Abby, mingling with her fear. “I can’t do that,” the man said.

  Abby screamed again. She bucked her hips against the hard floor, flailing her body with every ounce of fight within her. The man responded by reaching over and slapping her across the face with the back of his hand. She began to sob. “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t want to die.”

  The man laughed again, this time with an air of hysteria. “You will die, Little Bird.”

  And then he left.

  Abby watched as he opened two double doors, the faintest bit of light floating in, and climbed out. Was she in a truck? A van? It was still so dark. Black and desolate.

  Hopeless.

  No. It wasn’t hopeless. The man hadn’t killed her yet – there was a reason for that. She held some sort of value to him. But what? What could this stranger – this psychopath – possibly want with her?

  It had to be mo
ney. Nana Cecily had left Abby with an enormous amount. Had a bitter family member discovered the will and tracked her down, hoping to torture dollar bills out of her? God, it was possible. Anything was possible.

  Abby twisted her wrists against the ropes, trying to slither free, but the pain became too much. She cried out. She screamed and wailed until her throat went raw. Tears rolled down her cheeks, reminding her she was still alive. Their warmth gave her solace.

  If she was alive, there was hope.

  “I need every single goddamn resource we have on this case. Walker, we’re going to need Ashland County on this. Can you make a call to Chief Reynolds?” Cooper ran his hands over his face as he briefed his small department on the missing girl.

  On Abby.

  “On it,” James nodded, moving swiftly towards his desk.

  Cooper turned to Faye. “Faye, I need you to hit social media. Get some fliers out there. Spread this as far as it’ll reach.”

  “Yes, sir.” The middle-aged office clerk bobbed her head, inching over to her laptop on a rolling chair. “Cooper, do you think it’s possible she left town? Ran away?”

  Cooper chewed on his tongue, his mind scattered. Of course, it was possible. He’d only met Abigail Stone less than twenty-four hours ago. They had hardly spoken. In fact, he’d only discovered her last name when her face ended up on a missing person’s flyer on his desk that day.

  Cooper didn’t know this girl at all.

  Still, something sinister was poking at him – gnawing at him. It was the feeling he got when he knew something wasn’t right. It was the feeling that made him a damn good cop.

  He shook his head at Faye. “My gut’s telling me no. That means we’ve got a small window, maybe forty-eight hours, to do this right. Every minute counts. Every detail.” Cooper turned his head to Lyle Kravitz and Johnny Holmes, the two other officers at his station. “You two hit the streets – find out anything you can. Someone had to have seen something last night. I’m going to talk to Daphne. She…” He hesitated, searching for his words. “She’s the only one in this town who might have some insight into Abby and her life.”

  Cooper had almost said Daphne was the last person to see her before she disappeared. But no, no, she wasn’t.

  He had been.

  Cooper flashed back to the prior evening, his recollection still sharp and fresh in his mind. Abby and Daphne had lingered at the bar for a few more hours, drinking cocktails and playing darts and pool with the Gleasons, along with a few other locals. Cooper and Abby had shared a few stolen glances, which he would admit had given him that familiar zing in the pit of his gut. He hadn’t felt anything like it since Maya, but he recognized the feeling. Instead of trying to make sense of any of it, he had busied himself behind the bar and counted down the hours until last call. It would take more than an attractive new girl in town with mysterious eyes and a charmingly crooked smile to shake him.

  But then there was that look she had given him before she’d stepped out of the bar. She had faltered mid-step, hesitating briefly but purposefully. Their eyes had locked together as her hand swept over her hair, twirling it over her shoulder. He’d noticed the faintest smile paint her lips, and he’d returned whatever it was she had offered him. Cooper didn’t know what it was, but it was something. And it was all he got before she turned on her heel and disappeared into the night.

  Disappeared entirely.

  God. A feeling of dread ached inside him, twisting him all up. Crow’s Peak had an average crime rate, but nothing staggering. There were thefts, assaults, vandalism. There had been one murder during his time on the force and it had shaken him to the core. It was a domestic homicide involving a battered wife and a strung-out husband. Cooper thought about that crime scene often – the blood spatter, the blunt force trauma to the woman’s head. The vacant look in her eyes as she’d stared up at the ceiling. He was a rookie cop at the time, and it had almost been enough to prompt him to turn in his badge. But Cooper was resilient. He’d pressed on, determined to keep fighting the good fight. It was in his bones.

  Abby’s case had him frazzled. Women didn’t just go missing in The Crow – no, not since 1978, anyway. Not since the notorious Conaghan murders when Michael Conaghan had kidnapped teenaged girls from their bedrooms and butchered them in his basement. Cooper’s Uncle Arty had been witness to those horrific events. In fact, it had been his uncle’s very first case. Arty had plenty of gruesome stories that would keep even the most seasoned lawman up at night.

  James Walker approached him then, breaking into his bleak thoughts. “McAllister. I just talked to Reynolds. We have their full support.”

  Cooper eyed his partner and friend. James was exceptionally tall and broad, his dark skin a contrast against his light khaki uniform. His eyes were soulful and expressive and had seen far more than Cooper had. James had transferred to Crow’s Peak sixteen months ago after serving the first five years of his career in Green Bay.

  Cooper nodded. “I’m going to Daphne Vaughn’s house,” he said. “She’s our only lead at this point.”

  “I’ll go with you,” James said, already reaching for his jacket.

  “No.” Cooper shook his head, pressing a finger to his chin. “We need to cover as much ground as possible. I want you to start digging. Pull up everything you can find on this girl.”

  James looked reluctant. He was more of a contact man. He liked hitting the streets and getting down and dirty. He liked people – not computers and office work. “You know that’s not my forte, McAllister. I can’t stand that techy bullshit.” His tone was light, despite the brittle in his words.

  Cooper offered him a half smile in understanding. “I know. But I was with Daphne last night. I saw Abby before she left the bar. I need to be at the forefront of this investigation.”

  “As long as you don’t get too close.”

  The reference in his partner’s warning did not go unnoticed. The muscles in Cooper’s jaw twitched in response. “I’ll check in soon.”

  It was a short drive towards Daphne’s small ranch home off Sullivan Hill. Everything was a short drive in this town. Cooper decided to park in front of The Crow Bar and walk the remainder of the distance to her brick house. It was about three-quarters of a mile up the road, and Cooper wanted to keep his eyes out for any signs of a struggle – for anything at all.

  He hesitated when an odd chill washed over him. He stood in front of his father’s bar, the sounds of a mighty spring breeze coasting off the nearby lake. It would have been so peaceful if the hairs on his arms hadn’t decided to stand straight up. Cooper glanced down at the pavement, his boots crunching against the gravelly potholes that were still damp from the rain. He was standing in the one parking space that always remained vacant, as the potholes were deep and craterous. Patrons often complained, but Cooper’s father had been dragging his feet getting them fixed.

  But this wasn’t about the potholes. This was about the ominous white van that had been sitting in this spot the night before. This was about The Withered Man who had bailed on his bar bill and had gotten into that white van. Cooper hadn’t seen the man before, but there was something about him – something that made him take pause. If the man hadn’t left in such a hurry, Cooper would have likely kept his eye on him all goddamn night.

  He let out a heavy sigh and kept walking. It wasn’t enough just yet, but it was something. It was a starting point.

  Cooper rounded the corner until Daphne’s property came into view. She lived just at the top of the hill, and not far from his own two-bedroom bungalow down Crooked Tree Lane. He approached her front porch and knocked against the rickety screen door. He heard her footsteps almost immediately.

  Daphne opened the main door and peered out at him through the screen with bloodshot eyes. “Hey, Cooper. I figured you’d be stopping by.”

  “Can I come in?” Cooper noted that Daphne was still wearing her previous night’s dress, and she had mascara smudges stained along her cheekbones.

&n
bsp; She nodded, pushing open the screen door as it squeaked in resistance. “It’s all my fault, Coop. I shouldn’t have let her walk home alone. I’m such a jerk.”

  Cooper could see the guilt etched across her doe-like features. He shook his head while simultaneously glancing around the small house. It was cluttered and lived in. Colorful clothes and an impressive assortment of shoes were littered throughout every room. “It’s not your fault, Daphne. But I intend to find out who’s fault it is. What can you tell me about Abby?” Cooper continued to peruse, poking his head into various rooms. He wavered in front of a tiny guest room furnished with only a twin-size bed, a modest dresser, and a plethora of half-opened boxes.

  Daphne followed closely behind. “We met in college. We both went to Columbia. I was kind of a bitch to her at first.”

  “Shocking,” Cooper said, squatting down to rummage through one of the boxes.

  She gave him her signature eye roll. “Abby was a bit moody and sarcastic. She was super into photography. I don’t know how it happened, but we both went to some house party and ended up bonding over Rum Runners.”

  “Was?”

  Daphne paused, blinking at him with her fake eyelashes. “What?”

  “You said ‘Abby was’. Past tense.”

  She continued to stare at him for a moment before the color drained from her face. She raised a hand to her parted lips. “Oh, my God. I didn’t even realize. Jesus.”

  Cooper returned his attention to the box. He sifted through Abby’s personal items, pulling out picture frames, knick-knacks, and a worn teddy bear. “Go on,” he encouraged.

  “R – Right.” Daphne inhaled slowly, seemingly regaining her train of thought. “Abby lived with her grandmother. I don’t know much, but her parents died when she was a teenager, and her brother moved out as soon as he turned eighteen. Her grandma was filthy rich – the Stone family owned a ton of car dealerships along the north shore suburbs. They were well-known, and they had a lot of pull in town. Her grandma died a few weeks ago and left Abby with everything.”