Blood on the Scarecrow

The morning air was brisk as he sat in the old rocker on his porch, rifle on his knees and a tin cup filled with warmed coffee. It wasn’t unlike the countless mornings Seamus Dolan had seen in the many years he lived in the cabin on the edge of the redwood forest overlooking the Klamath River.

This morning, the scenery had changed somewhat – a scarecrow now stood in the vacant field, half-a-mile or so away. He thought it strange only because all that ever grew on that piece of land were blackberries, skunk weed and rocks.

He also took notice of it because it was a good place to find a rabbit or two for the dinner pot. And if he were fortunate enough, he’d get a couple more to trade for salmon steaks with his Yurok neighbors.

In the distance was the ever-increasing rumble of cars, truck and motorcycles as they raced along U.S. 101 from one end of the county to the other. Seamus didn’t own a vehicle, relying on his feet and legs to get him from place-to-place.

Two months earlier, Sheriff Deputy Andrew McAllister discovered an expensive car crashed in one of the deeper ditches along the highway. The driver, a doctor from Stanford University was the owner, but had turned out missing.

Why he was in Del Norte County, no one seemed to know and even less could be learned about why he would have samples of water labeled ‘Klamath,’ in a case in the trunk of his car. And now, another person had gone missing, vanishing from her home sometime in the dark hours.

Questioned extensively by law enforcement to the point that he began to believe he was a suspect, Seamus decided he would get ahead of the investigation by offering his services as a tracker. With that thought in mind, he drained his tin and slung his rifle over his shoulder for the trek into the local township.

Two hours later, he entered the small office that held the local constabulary. Behind the desk was Dianne, she looked up and smiled, “Hey, Seamus, what brings you here today?”

Unaccustomed to conversation and slightly taken aback by Dianne’s friendly greeting, Seamus stuttered a bit as he said, “I..I…I’m here to offer my help findin’ that missin’ woman.”

The smile slipped from her face, “Sorry, but she already been found.”

“Oh. She okay?”

“’Fraid not. Overheard she’d been shot in the head and tossed in the river. Scared off the killer before they could catch’em.”

“Damned shame – wonder if we got us a…” He paused, searching for the word.

“Serial killer?”

“Yeah.”

“Could be. Crap happenin’ in Humboldt could be movin’ our direction.”

“True,” he paused, “Well, okay then, they know where I am if they wanna talk to me again.” He made quotation marks in the air.

Dianne chuckled, “Okay, I’ll let someone know you dropped by. Be careful, Seamus Connor Dolan.”

He smile broadly. It had been sometime since he’d heard his proper name used, especially by a woman,

By ten that morning, Seamus walked up the steps of his cabin and found he had company. It was Deputy Andrew McAlister, whom he’d gone to school with.

“What’s up, Drew?

“Come to check on you? Why don’t you walk along the highway, be’d quicker than skirtin’ around like you do.”

“And get my dumb ass run over? No thanks. Coffee?”

“Naw, but thanks anyway,” he answered. “I hear you offered to help us look for our murdered woman?”

“Yeah,” Seamus responded.

“Can I ask why?”

“’Cause I figgered helping like that is better than gettin’ grilled over and over like the last time you guys hauled me into Crescent City.”

“Okay. Jus’ seemed kinda weird is all.”

“You suddenly tryin’ to claim you and everyone else don’t think I’m weird, living alone, off-the-grid and all that?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” the deputy smiled. “Okay then, you hear anything let us know.”

“Will do – but remember, if I feel threatened, even if you’re the serial killer, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

“I know, I know,” the deputy said as he climbed in his cruiser and drove away.

That night Seamus couldn’t sleep. So he sat out on his porch in the darkness, watching the headlights on 101 passing, enjoying a roll-yer-own and a jar of home-made sour mash whiskey, a skill picked up from his grandpa years ago.

As he readied to turn in for the night and try to salvage some sort of sleep from the early morning, a noise captured his attention. It was a heavier noise, clumsy, unlike a bear or a mountain lion, and he quickly retrieved his rifle as it rested nearby.

He slipped from his rocker and kneeled on the wood of the porch, listening. There it was again, this time he was certain it was human.

Knowing that whoever was out beyond his field of vision, could see him as he remained on the porch, he swiftly ran towards the woods to the right of his cabin. He disappeared into the darkness and continued on until he had fully circled his place.

Seamus wanted to discover the person before they realized he was behind them. He squatted down and scanned the area towards the cabin, searching for the faintest of movement.

Living off the grid, with limited lighting or candles and a fire in the pot-belly stove gave him the advantage over most folks who lived on-the-grid. His keen eye-sight had found him a deer or two on a number of moonless evenings.

Again, the same noise came to his ear. And it was behind him.

Startled at the realization, Seamus began to drop and roll, certain that he was in the cross-hairs of somebody’s rifle sight. He was too late as a single shot rang out and Seamus fell to the ground, dead.

He never heard the shot of course, as Deputy Andrew McAlister stood up, the smoking rifle still trained on the now-cooling body, he flipped his night vision goggles up, “If only you hadn’t implied I might be the killer, Seamus. You were weird, but you were also too damned smart for your own good.”

The following morning, though no one was there to see it at sunrise, a second scarecrow appeared in the vacant field across from where the now cold and empty cabin stands. And like the Stanford doctor, Seamus Dolan remains missing.