Still Life With Crows

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 was 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.”

As the place cleared out, Tad went into the back, looking for Maisie.

“Thanks,” he said.

Maisie waved her hand dismissively. She looked more haggard than he remembered ever seeing her. “Tad, I don’t know if I should mention this, but Smit’s missing.”

“I kinda wondered about that.”

“There was a reporter who waited for him until closing last night. Smit wasn’t here for breakfast or lunch. It’s not like him to stay away like that, not without saying something. I called his home and the paper, but there’s no answer.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tad said.

Maisie nodded. “Probably nothing.”

“Yeah. Probably nothing.” Tad went back out into the restaurant, shuttered the windows, then made for the door. Hand on the knob, he turned back. “You get in that basement now, Maisie, okay?”

“On my way,” Maisie’s voice came drifting back from down the stairs.

Just as Tad returned to the sheriff’s office, the call came from the county dispatcher. Mrs. Fernald Higgs had called. Her boy had seen a monster in his room. When he screamed and turned on the light, the monster ran away. The boy was hysterical and so was Mrs. Higgs.

Tad listened incredulously until the dispatcher had finished.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

“She wants the sheriff out there,” the dispatcher ended lamely.

Tad could hardly believe it. “We’ve got a serial killer loose and a frontful of tornadoes on their way, and you want me to check out amonster? ”

There was a silence. “Hey,” said the dispatcher, “I’m just doing my job. You know I have to report everything.