Chapter 53
FIFTY-THREE
Piney Corner
Cord found the feather touch artist Gray Gentry in his art studio, which was attached to the rustic cabin where he lived. Brant, the ornithologist, had described him as a recluse.
He parked in the graveled drive, noting how isolated the land was. The five-mile drive to the site had plunged him deeper and deeper into the wooded land.
Cold air chilled the back of his neck as he climbed from his truck. A buzzard soared above, and a murder of crows sat perched on the fence surrounding the man’s backyard.
The image of those crow feathers on Ellie’s drive and the dead crow in her bed haunted him. Balling his hands into fists, he struggled to control his temper before knocking.
If Gray Gentry was responsible for tormenting Ellie, murdering Minnie and the other girls and abducting Iris, his gut instinct was to tear him apart just like the unsub who’d put that crow on Ellie’s bed had done to the bird.
But he’d learned a lot from Ellie and even from Fox about self-control. About needing to confirm suspicions with evidence before taking action.
Relying on those skills, he knocked on the wooden door and waited. Seconds ticked into minutes. He knocked again.
The vultures still circled above. The crows sat steadfast, watching. Dusk was setting in. Being diurnal, they were most active during daylight hours, foraging for food from dusk until dawn, until time for their nightly roosting.
With the fall time change and winter setting in fast, the days were shorter and dark came early. The storm clouds above painted the area in an eerie abyss of gray.
Odd that so many crows surrounded Gentry’s home though.
Finally, Cord heard footsteps inside, then the lock turning, and the door opened.
Cord had searched for the man’s image online but hadn’t found it.
Still, he’d expected an eccentric man in coveralls with a long gray ponytail.
Instead, Gentry was clean cut with short black hair, wore nice jeans and a black T-shirt.
He was also wearing gloves, a stained work apron and protective eyewear.
“Mr. Gentry, I’m Ranger Cord McClain,” Cord said then extended his hand.
The guy wiped his hands on his apron, which looked grimy from work. Or was it blood? “If you’re here about the laws against feather collecting, I can show you my permit.” His dark gray eyes stared at Cord with a wariness that seeped with anger.
“As a ranger, I’m aware of the laws,” Cord said. “So relax. I just want to talk.”
Gentry hesitated, tension radiating from his body. Cord half expected him to pull a gun, but he stepped aside, offering entry. “You said Dr. Brant gave you my name. You don’t look like an art collector to me?”
Cord shrugged. “I’m not.” He scanned the interior of the house, which was dark, poorly lit and filled with scenes of animal massacres on the walls.
For a moment, Cord thought this might be their man. No guns in sight but that didn’t mean Gentry didn’t have one.
Judging from the gruesome images on the wall, he possessed a sinister and troubled soul. Did that darkness simply feed his creativity or was there more to it?
“So why are you here?” Gentry asked as Cord followed him into his studio, where dozens of feathers were soaking in cleansing solutions. The scent of alcohol, hydrogen peroxide and vinegar was so strong that Cord had to breathe out.
No wonder Gentry wore the mask. Inhaling a combination of chemicals was dangerous, could even be deadly.
“You’re cleaning and sanitizing the feathers, aren’t you?” Cord asked as his gaze scrutinized the table holding the man’s supplies.
“Yes. But again, I have a permit to collect them as they’re so prevalent in the area and I’m not hurting the animals.
Just taking what has naturally been left behind.
I also gather feathers from zoos, private aviaries and the public.
Feathers that are ethically sourced from molten parts of various species.
Some more common ones are from turkey and geese. ”
Cord moved closer to examine the ones soaking in the cleaning solutions on the table. “These look like crow feathers.”
An odd smile curved Gentry’s lips. “As I said, I have a license. I collect naturally shed ones on the AT. I consider it a cleanup project for the trail and they make my work more authentic. You probably saw a number of crows on my fence.”
The sight was embedded in Cord’s memory. He’d grown up in these mountains. He knew the folklore surrounding the crows.
“Yeah, I saw them,” Cord said. “But since they’re considered omens of danger or death or evil to come, why would people be drawn to them in art?”
Gentry’s gray eyes flickered to a piece on his studio wall, a piece where he’d crafted the crow’s feathers into what resembled a pit.
“Some of the Believers around Midnight Ridge think having a piece of my art, especially ones like this one that represents the devil’s pit, will actually ward off that evil.”
Interesting. Were the crow’s feathers left at Minnie’s death meant to keep evil at bay?