called the USGS in Memphis a few days earlier to report that he was taking a lot of calls from farmers about strange animal behavior.
Hessel had lived in the New Madrid Fault Zone his entire life and read whatever he could about earthquakes. It was a hobby with him. He’d read about Chinese studies on the subject and thought Jacobs ought to know about all the calls.
Atkins met Hessel late in the afternoon at the ornate, Victorian-era courthouse in Mayfield.
“Why don’t we run on up and see Ben Harvey,” the sheriff said. “He’s been calling me almost every day for a week, telling me his herd of Black Angus are acting crazy. At first it was happening mainly after dark, and Ben thought someone was trying to rustle them. So he spent a couple nights sitting out in the field in his pickup with a shotgun and a cell phone. Then the cows started bellowing in the daytime, too. The old boy’s on edge.”
“How many calls have you gotten like his?” Atkins asked. After what he’d already seen, he was more than curious.
The sheriff paused as he filled his pipe with a strong-smelling cherry blend. “In my county, maybe twenty- five. You’d think everybody around here was hittin’ the bottle. But this is the Bible Belt. Most of these farmers don’t drink anything stronger than Coca-Cola.”
Atkins followed the sheriff’s car ten miles into the country. The low, gray skies had given way to sleet and rain. The wiper blades trapped the icy slush at the edge of the windshield. The air was heavy with the smell of wet hay and grass. It was hilly country broken by pastures and cleared fields. The farms were small and well kept. The barns rough-sided and black with age. Turning off the blacktop, they drove up a long gravel road that ended at a cluster of barns, blue grain silos, and other outbuildings. The farmhouse, a two-story clapboard home with green trim, was set back in a grove of oak trees. A pretty place.
The sheriff tapped the horn a couple times. Atkins got out to stretch. He walked over to talk to the sheriff, who’d stayed in his car.
“Ben’s got close to ten thousand acres,” Hessel said. “He’s not hurting, not by a mile, but you’d never know it to look at him. He’s using a twenty-year-old combine and drives a beat-up station wagon with a couple hundred thousand miles on the odometer. But don’t let his appearance fool you. Ben’s pretty sharp.”
The sheriff laid on his horn again. The front door opened. A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a blue-and- white University of Kentucky sweatshirt stepped out on the porch.
“He’s out behind the pond, Lou,” she said. “Bull gored one of his good heifers.”
The woman sounded upset.
“When did it happen, Barbara?” the sheriff asked.
“About an hour ago. The vet’s out there with him.”
“Get in with me. We’ll go have a look,” the sheriff told Atkins. “That’s big trouble.” Atkins climbed into the front seat. The sheriff accelerated up a rutted road barely wide enough for the car. “That bull’s probably worth close to a hundred thousand dollars. Prime breeding stock.”
They crested a hill. A station wagon was pulled over to the side of the road. A gate opened to a fenced pasture. Just inside the gate, two men were standing over a prone animal.
“Al Barden’s with him. One of the best vets in the county.” The sheriff put on his gray Stetson and snapped shut his raincoat. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wear this today in the rain. It’s brand-new. Hundred fifty bucks.”
Atkins got out of the car and followed the sheriff into the pasture.
A man with a broad ruddy face and thick neck raised his hand in greeting. The cow that lay at his feet was a big animal with white and black coloring. Blood was oozing from a fist-sized hole in its chest.
“Lord almighty, Ben, what’s goin’ on?” the sheriff said.
Ben Harvey stared down at his dead cow. He wiped the rain from his eyes. “One of my bulls just laid into this heifer,” he said slowly. “I’ve got five or six cows down out in the fields. My whole herd’s gone crazy. I thought maybe it was anthrax, but Al here tells me no.”
For the first time, Atkins noticed the rifle the farmer carried. He held it close to his side against his rain slicker.
The vet, a young-looking man wearing a hooded poncho, shook his head. “It’s not just the cattle herds,” he said. “I spent the morning with Ralph Bierce. Couple of his big hogs killed each other before Ralph could get out to the pen. I can’t find anything physically wrong with any of these animals. I want to get some blood samples, maybe start calling—”
“Gentlemen, we’ve got company,” the sheriff said.
Atkins looked up and saw a massive animal with curved, jutting horns, standing on the hillcrest, a dark silhouette against the sky. The bull pawed at the muddy earth then slammed its head down as if trying to drive one of the horns deep into the ground.
“Ben, I think he’s gonna make a run for us,” the sheriff said. The vet had already started moving slowly for the gate. Atkins was about to follow him when the bull charged. It came at a gallop, half sliding down the hill, head down, bellowing in rage.
Atkins figured he’d never make it to the car. There wasn’t time. The animal was only thirty yards away and coming hard.
The sheriff stepped away from the dead cow and drew his revolver, a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum.
“No, I’ll do it!” Ben Harvey said sharply.
In one fluid motion, he brought the rifle to his shoulder, sighted quickly down the barrel, and fired. The bull pitched backward as if it had slammed into an invisible wall. It fell over on its side and struggled to get up, its thick hind legs pushing into the soggy ground for traction. Another shot rang out, the sound cracking back from the hills. The bull went down hard and didn’t move.
Atkins took a couple slow, deep breaths. His legs were wobbly. The sheriff nodded. He felt the same way himself.
“I sent four kids to college for a lot less than what that bull cost me,” Ben Harvey said quietly. “I’ve been around animals all my life, and I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t get worked up too easily, but I want to tell you I’m a little scared.”
SANTA MONICA
JANUARY 9
8:40 P.M.
IT WAS LATE IN THE EVENING WHEN ELIZABETH Holleran arrived at her condominium in Santa Monica. The private patio and small garden were what had sold her on the place, that and the fact that the masonry walls were reinforced and tied to steel footings. Not completely earthquake proof. No building was, but it was as good as you could do.
The big yellow envelope was propped against the front door. She’d half expected it. She put it on the dining room table and poured herself a glass of white wine. She sat there, staring at the package, afraid to open it. Her name and address were care fully printed in black ink in Prable’s distinctive handwriting.
Elizabeth checked her voice mail. One of her graduate students had called twice, a kid from New York who was sweating through his dissertation. He was working on an analysis of fault slippage during the 1995 Kobe earthquake. The port city in Japan had taken a bad hit, a magnitude 7.2. Along with the Northridge quake, it was a frightening example of what could happen if a moderately big quake struck near a large city. The damage in Kobe was far worse than what had happened in Los Angeles.
Elizabeth took another sip of wine and sat down at the table. She opened the envelope and took out a videocassette, two high-density computer disks, and a single sheet of white paper folded in half.
A key was taped to the paper, on which Prable had written:
