Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
ELIZA
“There are two men in the dining room asking for you,” Lesley whispers as she passes me in the kitchen the next morning.
I eye my watch, sighing slowly. Barely six A.M. after a restless night of dreams so vivid they still put a chill through my flesh. The kind of night that had me convinced I’d find more symbols in the fields today. And something else… something I can’t name, still lingering beneath my skin.
Luckily, the only thing crawling across the shadowy blue-tinted grass was the gold-tipped fingers of dawn.
I straighten my apron, grab a pot of steaming coffee, and slap on my cheeriest smile. “Hope they’re good tippers,” I say, then walk past.
They sit in a booth seat in one corner. My corner. Dammit.
Black glasses are poised on the table between them as I step up. The same men from yesterday. Impeccable suits. Intimidating silence.
“Agent Clooney, Murphy, nice to see you again. Coffee?”
They nod in unison.
Steam rises from their mugs as their eyes narrow in my direction. “Anymore trouble at the ranch?”
I shake my head slowly. “No more pranks. Not yet, anyway.” I lick my lips, eyeing each man in turn. “Any leads on who might have done it?”
The corners of Clooney’s mouth tease upward. Patronizing. “Some local yokel, I imagine.”
“Of course,” I say too fast, setting the coffeepot down and grabbing the little notepad and pencil I keep stashed in my apron. His eyes dart to my shaking hands. “Are you ready to order?” I ask too softly.
“Need more time with the menu,” Murphy, the quiet one, grunts, not making eye contact.
Agent Clooney raises his eyebrow, face impassive. “Do you have any idea who or what might’ve done this?”
Frank’s words shuttle through my head. I shrug, trying to play it cool, though my cheeks heat. “Could be anything,” I echo from yesterday. “Fighting bulls. Wolves. Only an autopsy would say for sure.”
They don’t blink. Don’t soften their expressions with so much as a nod.
“An autopsy? Ever done one on a similar find?” Clooney’s eyes bore into me. So do Murphy’s.
“Never found anything like that in my life.” I swallow too loudly. Guilt tugs at me. I know the local stories too well.
“Wouldn’t work anyway,” Clooney says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because after a day or two, when we find most of these…” he pauses, exchanging a glance with his partner. “If we find more like your bull, it’s already too late.”
Murphy nods. “Dust has moved in. Not much left.”
“Scavengers, too,” I agree, throat working harder than it should because I’m too close to the inexplicable. “Buzzards, coyotes, ravens, bugs should be a problem.”
“Should,” Clooney repeats. “You’d be surprised. When we find cases like these… if we find cases like these, it’s the eeriest thing. Shiny coats, pristine… untouched by predators and scavengers. Like they’ve been brushed clean for the county fair.”
“Like my bull,” I croak, face falling despite myself.
“Bingo. Sure there isn’t more you want to tell us?”
The field and the symbol flash through my mind. No, I can’t get more eyes on my land. Or more government interest.
Not after the government seizure of items from the museum and the Reyes Ranch. Some folks in town are still whispering about whether their petroglyphs will be taken along with acres of valuable land.
“Rest assured, we’ll find your man, Ms. Wakefield.”
“So, you’ve never seen anything like this before?” Murphy prods, shifting in the booth and making the leather squeak.
“Cattle deaths? I’ve seen enough of them.” My voice trembles despite me. “Nothing to write home about… usually.” The last word escapes my lips. I freeze. Regret hits fast.
“Usually. Tell us about unusually, then.”
I take a deep breath. “High school pranksters. Or maybe older. Who knows?”
“Could be devil worshippers,” the quiet one mutters. “Occult activity.”
Agent Clooney laughs. “Or how about aliens?” He says it with a chuckle, gaze locked on me.
“A prank,” I say, though it sounds thinner out loud.
Clooney presses his lips together. “A prank.”
The air goes tense, silent. I’m about to walk away.
Until he adds, “So, nothing worth discussing in this café? Or the broader town?”
I nod, feeling my throat tighten. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other customers. But I’ll be back around when you’re ready.” I end with a forced smile and a wink.
“Counting on it,” Clooney says, staring back across the table at his partner. Blank. Unreadable. “Counting on you using the cards we gave you yesterday, too, should anything peculiar come up.”
“Peculiar?” My eyes narrow.
Murphy nods once. Clooney smiles thinly.
The coffee pot shakes in my hand, liquid sloshing as I make my rounds.
“Careful,” Ms. McIntyre scolds as brown liquid splashes onto the table top.
I gasp. “Sorry.”
The old lady eyes me for one long moment. Then, her face softens. “You look scared out of your mind, Eliza. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say weakly, grabbing the napkin opposite her and wiping up the spill.
Mr. Monroe calls from one table over. “Still waiting on clean silverware, Liza.”
“Oh, shoot, yes. One moment, Mr. Monroe.”
The whole time I work, I feel watched. Like I’ve already said too much. And each time I sneak a look, two sets of calculating eyes follow me.
Frank was right. I never should’ve reported it.
Back in the kitchen, the owner, Heather, and her line cook, Gustavo, speak in hushed tones. “That storm last week was something. Didn’t feel right.”
I’m a gossip by nature. Always have been. Now I chafe to add in what I’ve seen. The strange sign in the field. The mutilated bull. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet. Frank’s words are in my head again.
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost the ranch. Don’t know what I’ll do without Frank.
“Know of any cowboys looking for work?” I ask, interrupting their hushed gossip.
Heather raises an eyebrow. “Frank isn’t enough?”
I shake my head. “Not that. He’s retiring.”
“Retiring? But why?” Her eyes round like I’ve said something sacrilege.
It takes every cell in my body not to say more. “Tired. Over it. Who knows?”
Gustavo frowns. “More like scared witless by the bull.”
“Wait, how do you know about that?” I ask, heart thudding against my ribcage.
“Sheriff Cullen was already in for breakfast and coffee. Told us everything,” he explains.
“But there’s nothing to tell,” I protest, head spinning.
Both cooks stop, staring holes into my flesh.
“It was just a prank. End of story,” I say.
“More like the end of Frank’s job,” Heather says under her breath.
My face flushes, ashamed to be caught in a lie.
“Not that simple,” I say, though I know better.
“But how are you going to do it all alone?” Gustavo chimes in. “Especially under the circumstances,” he adds in hushed tones.
“There are no circumstances,” I say too firmly.
Heather blinks twice slowly. “Please be careful out there. Especially if it’s starting again.”
Our eyes lock. “Nothing’s starting again. Now, I better get back to the government men.”
Heather and Gustavo exchange glances.
“Government men?” Heather repeats. “Now I’m sure something’s up.”
I toss my hands in the air, exasperated. “Believe what you like. But I, for one, choose to live in the real world… you know, where everything has an explanation.”
“You mean like Occam’s Razor?” Gustavo says with a wry smile. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
I huff a laugh. “Like the chupacabra or Bigfoot. Why didn’t I think of that myself?”
“No,” Gustavo replies. “Like little gray men.”
“Or men in black.” Heather’s voice drops as she looks through the window at the top of the kitchen door, straight at the two men in the booth.
The talkative one smiles, and something in my chest drops hard.