Still Life With Crows p-4 Page 31

  She struggled with the panic that rose at this thought. If nobody was going to save her, then she’d have to save herself.

  She shut her eyes tight against the darkness, listening.He was busying himself in the blackness somewhere nearby, gargling and singsonging unintelligibly to himself.

  Was he even human . . . ?

  Hehad to be human. He had a human foot—though as callused as a piece of rawhide. And he spoke, or at least vocalized, in a high, babylike voice.

  And yet, if he was human, he was like none other that had ever walked the earth.

  Suddenly she felt him near. There was a grunt. She froze in fear, waiting. A hand seized her roughly, dragged her to her feet, shook her.

  “Muh?”

  She sobbed. “Leave me alone.”

  Another shake, more violent this time. “Hoooo!” went the voice, high and babyish. She tried to wrench free, and with a grunt he flung her down.

  “Stop . . . stop . . .”

  A hand seized her ankle and gave a sharp jerk. Corrie screamed, feeling pain lance through her hip. And then she felt his arms around her, grabbing her by the shoulders, lifting her bodily. “Please, please stop—”

  “Plisss,” squeaked the voice. “Plisss. Hruhn.”

  She feebly tried to push him away, but he was holding her close to him, his foul breath washing over her.

  “No—let me go—”

  “Heeee!”

  She was flung down again, and then she heard him shuffle off with a low, murmuring sound. She struggled wildly, tried to sit up. The ropes burned her wrists and she felt her hands tingling from lack of blood. He was going to kill her, she knew that. She had to get away.

  With a great effort, she managed to flop herself upward into a sitting position. If only she knew who he was, or what he was doing, or why he was there in the cave . . . If only she understood, she might have a chance. She swallowed, shivered, tried to speak.

  “Who . . . who are you?” she said. It came out as a bare whisper.

  There was a momentary silence. This was followed by a shuffling sound. He was coming over.

  “Please don’t touch me.”

  Corrie could hear him breathing. She realized that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to attract his attention again. And yet her only hope was to engage him somehow. She swallowed again, repeated the question.

  “Who are you?”

  She felt him leaning over her. A wet hand touched her face, broken nails scratching her skin, the huge fingers callused and warm. She turned away with a stifled cry.

  Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She tried to lie still, to ignore it. It squeezed her shoulder, then moved down her arm, stopping to feel here and there as it went, then sliding further: horny and rough, the broken nails like splintered ends of wood.

  The hand withdrew, then came back, sliding and slipping up the ridge of her backbone. She tried to twist away but the hand suddenly gripped her shoulder blade with a horrible strength. Involuntarily, she cried out. The hand resumed its crawl. It grasped the nape of her neck, squeezed. She felt paralyzed with terror. The squeezing grew harder.

  “What do you want?” she choked out.

  The hand slowly relaxed. She could hear breathing, and then some humming, and an undertone of rapid, singsong words. He was speaking to himself again. The hand caressed the back of her neck and reached up and rubbed her head.

  She wanted to twist away but she forced herself not to. The hand kept rubbing, sliding down now over her forehead. It rubbed her face, stroked her cheek, pulled at her lips, tried to open her mouth, stinking horny fingers like a golem’s claw. She turned, but the hand followed the movements of her head, poking, always poking, as if inspecting a cut of meat.

  “Please stop it!” she sobbed.

  The hand stopped, and there was a grunt. Then the fingers slipped around her neck, from the front this time, and squeezed, first lightly, then a little harder. And then harder still.

  Corrie tried to scream, but the squeezing had already closed off her windpipe. She thrashed, struggled, saw stars begin to flash in front of her eyes.

  And still he squeezed. And as consciousness flickered and her limbs began to relax involuntarily, Corrie desperately tried to reach out, to claw the darkness, to push him away . . .

  His hand gradually relaxed and released her. She fell, gasping, drawing in air, her head pounding. His hand went back to her hair, petting it.

  Then he suddenly stopped. His hand withdrew, and he stepped back.

  Corrie lay there, terrified, silent. She heard a sniffing noise, then another, and another. He seemed to be snuffling the air. She noticed then that the faintest of breezes was moving through this section of the cave. She could smell the outside world: the ozone and moisture from the storm, the earth, the cool nocturnal smells, pushed aside—if only a little—the stench of this nightmarish place. The smell seemed to beckon him, call him away.

  And he was gone.

  Forty-Nine

  It was 8:11P.M. : normally the hour of sunset. Except that to western Kansas sunset had already come, four hours early.

  Since early afternoon, a front of cool air one thousand miles long, pushing down from Canada, had been forcing itself across a region of the Great Plains that for several weeks had remained parched and dry. As the front moved, rising air before it began to pick up fine particles of dust. Soon this manifested itself in the form of dust devils: spiraling vortexes of dirt that rose sharply into the dark air. As the front moved on, it grew in intensity, raising the dry topsoil, feeding off itself until it had formed a massive wall of whistling, roiling dust. Quickly, it mounted to a height of ten thousand feet. On the surface, visibility was decreased to less than a quarter of a mile.

  As the front moved from west to east across Kansas, dust storm warnings preceded it. The dark brown wall bore down on town after town, engulfing one after the other. As it went, the cold front, laden with dust, drove itself like a wedge into the hot, dry, dead air that had been suffocating the Great Plains. As they collided, the air masses of differing density and temperature struggled for supremacy. This disturbance caused a massive low-pressure system to form, wheeling counterclockwise over almost a hundred thousand square miles of the High Plains. Ultimately, the warm air rising from the ground penetrated the cooler mass above, boiling into towering cumulonimbus clouds that rose taller and taller, until they appeared as dark angry mountains against the sky, larger than the Himalayas. The great mountain chain of clouds flattened against the tropopause, spreading out into a series of massive, anvil-shaped thunderheads.

  As the storm matured, it broke into several cells that moved together as a disorganized yet single unit: mature cells forming at the storm’s center, with newer ones developing on the periphery. In the cells that approached Cry County, the anvil-shaped top of a cell began to bulge upward. This “overshoot” indicated that the rising torrent of air at the storm’s center was so powerful it had broken through the tropopause into the stratosphere. On the underside of the storm, ugly, bulging mammatus pouches appeared: bellwethers for heavy rainfall, hail, windbursts, and tornadoes.

  The National Weather Service had been tracking the system with radar, satellites, and the reports of pilots and civilian “spotters.” The dust storm and thunderstorm bulletins were upgraded to include tornado watches. Regional offices of the National Weather Service began advising local authorities of the need for emergency action. And always it remained vigilant for that rarest, yet worst type of storm: the supercell thunderstorm. In this far more organized event, the main updraft—known as a mesocyclone—reaches speeds of close to two hundred miles per hour. Such storms could create three-inch hail, eighty-mile-per-hour downbursts of wind, and tornadoes.

  And already, virgas of rain were hovering over the landscape, evaporating as quickly as they fell, blasting the ground with localized microbursts that uprooted trees, flattened fields, and peeled the roofs off trailers. Hailstones spilled from the sky, stripping corn e
ars from their stems and ripping up fields, tearing the dry stalks to tattered sticks.

  Many thousands of feet below this cell, almost lost in the approaching storm front, a lone Rolls-Royce hurtled along at one hundred miles an hour, two and a half tons of precision-engineered steel cutting the darkness of a long and lonely ribbon of tar.

  Inside, the driver kept one hand on the wheel while glancing at the laptop open on the seat beside him. The laptop showed the real-time progress of the storm, a composite downloaded by a mosaic of weather satellites orbiting high above.

  Coming from Topeka, he had exited Interstate 70 just past Salina, and was now passing the outskirts of Great Bend. From here on, the road to Medicine Creek would become far more local. That—and the approaching storm itself—would force him to slow dramatically.

  And yet time was of the essence. The killer would soon kill again. In all likelihood he would be attracted to the storm, the violence and darkness of it, and he was almost certain to kill again that night.

  He picked up his cell phone and dialed. Once again a recorded voice told him that the party he was trying to reach was out of range.

  Out of range. He pondered that phrase: out of range.

  And he pushed the Rolls ahead even faster.

  Fifty

  Ever since he’d seen The Wizard of Oz as a child, Tad Franklin had been fascinated by tornadoes. It was a source of secret embarrassment that, living all his life in western Kansas, the very center of “tornado alley,” he had never managed to see one. He’d seen the aftereffects more often than he’d liked—twisted trailer parks, trees blasted into toothpicks, cars lifted and thrown across the road—but somehow he’d never seen an actual funnel cloud with his own eyes.

  Tonight he felt sure that was going to change. All day long there had been weather advisories. Every hour, it seemed, the weather service alerts had grown in intensity: thunderstorm watch; severe thunderstorm warning; tornado watch. A brutal dust storm had come screaming through an hour before that had torn away placards and shingles, sandblasted cars and houses, knocked down trees, and reduced visibility to a few hundred yards. And then at 8:11 that evening, with Tad alone in the sheriff’s office, the news came: the whole of Cry County had just been placed under a tornado warning until midnight. F-scale tornadoes of magnitude 2 or even 3, with two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and devastating force, were possible.

  Ten seconds later, Sheriff Hazen was on the radio.

  “Tad,” he was saying, “I’m in Deeper, about to head back.”

  “Sheriff—”

  “I don’t have a lot of time. Listen to me. We’ve made a lot of progress on the case. We believe the killer is hiding in Kraus’s Kaverns.”

  “The killer—?”

  “For chrissakes, let me finish. It’s most likely McFelty, Norris Lavender’s henchman. He’s been holed up in that moonshine room back of Kraus’s Kaverns. But we’ve got to move fast in case he decides to pull out under cover of the storm. We’re putting together a team to go in at ten o’clock. But we also just got word from the NWS about a tornado warning for all of Cry County—”

  “I just got the call.”

  “—and I’ve got to put you on the tornado side of things. You know the drill?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Good. You get the word out, make sure everything’s battened down in Medicine Creek and the outlying areas. We’ll be arriving around nine, and then all hell’s going to break loose—and I don’t mean the weather. Just be sure to have a couple strong pots of fresh coffee. You’re not going in with us, so don’t worry. Somebody’s got to hold down the fort.”

  It was only when Tad felt himself relax that he realized hehad begun to get a little nervous. He didn’t mind handling a tornado alert—he’d done that often enough before—but the idea of going after a killer in a dark cave was something else.

  “Right, Sheriff,” he said.

  “Okay, Tad. I’m relying on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tad hung up the radio. He knew the drill, all right. First thing, warn the citizenry. If there were any outside, get them indoors or into shelters.

  He pushed out the back, careful to face away from the wind. The gusts, full of sand and grit, felt as if they had teeth. He opened the door to his squad car, slipped in, shook the dust from his hair and face, started the engine, and ran the wipers a few times. Then he started the siren and turned on his flashers. He slid out onto Main Street and cruised along, slowly, speaking into the horn. Of course, most of them would already have heard it over the radio, but it was important to go through the motions.

  “This is the sheriff’s office. A tornado warning has been declared for all of Cry County. Repeat, a tornado warning has been declared for all of Cry County. All citizens should take shelter immediately, below ground or in concrete-reinforced buildings. Stay away from windows and doors. I repeat, a tornado warning has been declared for Cry County . . .”

  He hit the edge of town, drove past the last houses, stopped, and looked down the dust-covered road. The few farms he could make out were already shuttered up tight, no activity anywhere. The farmers would have had their ears glued to the radio for hours already, and they knew what to do better than anyone: move livestock, especially the young, to sheltered areas; haul extra feed; make sure they were well stocked with provisions in case of a power loss.

  The farmers knew what to do. It was the damn-fool townies one had to worry about.

  Tad ran his eye down the road until it reached the level of the horizon. Above, the sky was black, intensely black; the sun must have set already, and what little light was left was completely blocked by the storm. The wind was gusting fitfully, pushing shreds of corn shucks and dust-covered stalks past his windows. To the southwest he could see a deep reddish flickering that looked more like the front of a war than lightning. In Cry County, tornadoes almost always moved from southwest to northeast. It was so dark that if a tornado were coming they couldn’t even see it. They wouldn’t know it was on them until theyheard it.

  He turned around quickly and headed back into town.

  The windows of Maisie’s were twin rectangles of cheerful yellow standing against the murk. Tad pulled up in front and got out, holding his collar against the wind. The air smelled of dry earth and tree roots. Fragments of corn sheaves peppered his jacket.

  He pushed through the door and looked around. The place fell silent as they realized he wasn’t there for a cup of coffee.

  Tad cleared his throat. “Excuse me, folks, but we’ve got a tornado warning in effect for all of Cry County. Force 2, even force 3, tornadoes possible. Time to head home.”

  The reporters and camera crews had already fled the coming storm, and he found himself looking upon a roomful of the usual. Melton Rasmussen; Swede Cahill and his wife, Gladys; Art Ridder. Smit Ludwig was absent, which was a little odd. He was the one person you’d most expect to find. Maybe he was out on some storm-related story. If so, he’d better get his rear end to shelter.

  Rasmussen was the first to react. “Any news on the killings?” he asked.

  The question hung in the air and Tad faced a roomful of expectant faces. He was taken aback: here, even with the threat of tornadoes, the killings were still the first thing on everyone’s mind. This was why Maisie’s was full: Tad had seen cows do it, bunching up when they got scared.

  “Well, we’ve—” Tad stopped himself. The sheriff would definitely have his ass on a platter if he mentioned the upcoming operation.

  “We’re following up some excellent leads,” he finished up with the usual line, knowing how lame it must sound.

  “That’s just what you’ve been saying for a goddamned week,” said Mel, standing up, his face red.

  “Easy, Mel,” said Swede Cahill.

  “Well, we’ve got a better lead now,” Tad said defensively.

  “Abetter lead. Did you hear that, Art?”

  Art Ridder was sitting at the bar nursing a cup of coffee. His look wa
s definitely not friendly. He eased his butt around on the chrome seat and faced Tad. “The sheriff said he had a plan, some way of catching the murderer and getting the experimental field back to Medicine Creek. Tad, I want to know what the hell this plan of his is, or whether he was just blowing smoke.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss his plans,” said Tad. “And anyway, the important thing is that there’s a tornado warning in effect for—”

  “The hell with the warning,” said Ridder. “I want to see some action on these killings.”

  “Sheriff Hazen’s making progress.”

  “Progress? Where’s he been? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him all day.”

  “He’s been in Deeper, pursuing a lead—”

  Suddenly the swinging doors to the kitchen burst open and Maisie appeared behind the counter. “Art Ridder, you shut your trap,” she barked. “Lay off Tad here. He’s just doing his job.”

  “Now look here, Maisie—”

  “Don’t ‘look here, Maisie’ me, Art Ridder. I’m wise to your bullying ways and you won’t do it in here. And you, Mel, you know better. Lay off.”

  The room fell into a guilty silence.

  “There’s a tornado warning out,” continued Maisie. “You all know what that means. You got five minutes to clear out. You can settle up later. I’m shuttering my windows and heading down to the basement. The rest of you’d better do the same if you don’t want to find yourselves over the rainbow before the night is out.”

  She turned and went back into the kitchen, smacking the swinging doors together and causing everyone to jump.

  “Get to a safe place of shelter,” Tad said, looking around at the assembly, remembering the list in his manual. “Get in the basement, under a worktable or concrete washtub or staircase. Avoid windows. Bring a flashlight, potable water, and a portable radio with batteries. The warning’s in effect until midnight, but they may extend it, you never know. This is one heck of a storm.”