Still Life With Crows

Ludwig found himself bristling. “We’ve got good, solid, small-town, old-fashioned American values here. That’s worth something.”

Chauncy shuddered faintly. “I have no doubt of that. Mr. Ludwig, when I make the final decision between Deeper and Medicine Creek, you will no doubt be among the first to know. And now, if you don’t mind, I have important business to tend to.” He rose.

Ludwig rose with him and grasped the extended hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sun-reddened, stubble-headed form of Dale Estrem and two other farmers looking at them through the glass front of the bowling alley. They had seen Chauncy inside and were obviously waiting for him to come out. Ludwig suppressed a smile.

“You can fax or e-mail the piece to the KSU public relations department,” said Chauncy. “The number is on my card. They will vet it and return it to you by the end of the week.” He snapped his card on the table and stood up.

By the end of the week.Ludwig watched the little prick walk stiffly past the bowling lanes, his head up, his back very straight, his small legs moving as briskly as machinery. Chauncy pushed open the door to the street and now Dale Estrem was striding toward him, his big farmer’s arms swinging. The sound of his raised voice was enough to penetrate even the inner sanctum of the Castle Club. It looked like Chauncy was in for a verbal mauling.

Ludwig smiled. Dale Estrem: now there was someone who was always willing to speak his mind. Screw Chauncy, screw Ridder, and screw the sheriff. Ludwig had a paper to publish.

The dog would stay.

Twenty

 

Tad walked back out of the Wagon Wheel into the blast-furnace heat. So far, no luck, no Willie Stott sleeping it off in the back room. Still, Tad was mighty glad he’d taken the time to check. He popped a mint into his mouth—his second—to cover up any possible beer breath from the ice-cold Coors Swede had slipped him under the bar. It sure tasted good on a day as hot as this one. Swede Cahill was one hell of a nice guy.

Tad’s cruiser was sitting outside the sheriff’s office, baking in the sun, and Tad made a beeline for it. He slid inside and started the engine, careful to let the minimum amount of back and buttcheek come in contact with the blistering leatherette. If he could land a desk job in Topeka or Kansas City, he wouldn’t have to spend his days hopping in and out of the suffocating heat, forced to drive a cruiser that carried its own little hell around inside it.

He switched his radio to the frequency of the county dispatcher.

“Unit twenty-one to Dispatch,” he said.

“Hiya, Tad,” came the voice of LaVerne, who worked the day shift. She was sweet on Tad and, had she been maybe twenty years younger, perhaps he might have felt the same way.

“LaVerne, anything new?” he asked.

“Someone at Gro-Bain just reported a vehicle parked by the side of the approach road. Seems abandoned.”

“What’s the model?” Tad didn’t have to ask for the make. Except for Art Ridder’s Caprice and the police ’91 Mustangs, bought secondhand from the Great Bend PD, just about every car in town was AMC. It had been the only dealership within an hour’s drive. Like so much else, though, it had closed down years ago.

“Hornet, license plate Whiskey Echo Foxtrot Two Niner Seven.”

He thanked LaVerne before slipping back into more formal jargon. “Unit twenty-one, moving,” he said, replacing the radio.

That would be Stott’s Hornet. No doubt the guy was sleeping in the back, like he had the last time his shitbox broke down outside of town. He’d curled up and made a nice little evening out of it, just the two of them, him and Old Grand-Dad.

Tad put the cruiser in gear and pulled away from the curb. It was the work of fifteen seconds to leave the town behind. Four minutes later, he turned into the plant road. There was a huge semi-load of live turkeys lumbering ahead of him, laying down a stink of turkey shit on the road so thick you could almost see it. Tad overtook the semi as quickly as he could, glancing over at the stacked cages full of terrified turkeys, their eyes bulging.

Tad’s job had carried him into the Gro-Bain plant a couple of times. His first visit was right before Thanksgiving, and that year he and his widowed mother had enjoyed a nice pork roast. It had been pork roast ever since. Tad was glad he had never seen a pig farm.

There it was: Stott’s Hornet, parked by the side of the road, almost invisible in the shadow of the corn. Tad stopped behind it, switched on his flashers, and got out.

The windows were open, the car was empty. There was no key in the ignition.

The turkey truck blasted by, rocking the corn on either side of the road and leaving behind the stench of diesel and panicked poultry. Tad turned away with a wince. Then he pulled his radio from his belt.

“Yeah?” came Hazen’s response when he called.

“I’m here at Stott’s car. It’s parked on the access road leading to Gro-Bain. It’s empty, no sign of Stott.”

“Figures. He’s probably sleeping it off in the corn.”

Tad looked out into the sea of corn. Somehow, he didn’t think anyone would choose to sleep in there, even drunk. “You really think so?”

“Sure I do. What else?”

The question hung in the air.