by Joan Hess
“I’m covering for Ruby Bee while she’s out on an errand,” I said. “Can I get you something?”
“I stopped for directions. I’m looking for County 102, but I must have missed it in the dark.”
I relinquished my hunter conjecture. “Could your destination be Kayleen Smeltner’s property?”
“That’s right. I guess you heard about us coming, huh? You don’t have to concern yourself. We’ve been doing this for years and never had any problems with the authorities. My name’s Barry Kirklin. What’s yours?”
“Arly Hanks. The turnoff for County 102 is next to a funny-looking metal structure with a trailer parked in the yard. Kayleen, a woman named Judy some-thing-or-other, and your fearless leader are staying in the motel behind the bar. I don’t know which units they’re in, but they’re the only ones out there.”
“Pitts is hardly a contemporary version of Daniel Boone,” Barry said with a wry smile. “I’m kind of surprised that Jake would let Judy out of his sight all night, although it’s not as if she gives him any reason to distrust her. She’s a mousy little housewife, not especially attractive or vivacious. God knows no one would ever accuse her of being sexy.”
“The way Kayleen is?” I suggested.
“Kayleen’s a potential land mine, but she doesn’t seem to realize the impact she has on every man in the room. An interesting mixture of naïveté and sexiness, wouldn’t you say?”
Frankly, I didn’t think it was the least bit interesting. “Do you want a beer?” I asked him.
“Pitts doesn’t permit alcohol on retreats, so I’d better not. I might be in the mood Monday evening—if you’ll let me buy you one.”
“If you survive the weekend, I’ll think about it. As I said, they’re out back in the only units liable to have lights on. Surely someone clever enough to unmask an international conspiracy can find them.”
“Surely,” he said, then turned and left.
Mrs. Jim Bob drove by the rectory, slowing down to peer at the dark windows. Having grilled employees at the SuperSaver, she knew darn well where Jim Bob was, but she had no idea where Brother Verber had been ever since the Wednesday night prayer meeting. She’d been too annoyed to speak to him after the service, due to his failure to appear at her house to discuss the Thanksgiving pageant—which most likely had something to do with a particular person who’d had the nerve to show her painted face again. Maybe he was too kind-hearted to point his finger at the moneylender and order her to slink away in disgrace. Maybe he believed his duty was to welcome sinners into the congregation.
She’d been inside the rectory several times, making sure he hadn’t drowned in the bathtub or suffered a stroke in his bed. As a gesture of Christian compassion, she’d even cleaned up his kitchen, run a dust rag over the furniture in the living room, and straightened up the piles of what he assured her was study material (even though it took a lot of willpower to touch the nasty things with names like Naughty Nipples and Whiplash). Why, she’d gone so far as kneel in the Assembly Hall to pray for the strength to forgive him for his transparently feeble excuse for postponing the pageant meeting.
Surely he’ll be grateful, she thought, as she turned around in Lottie’s driveway and drove back toward her house on Finger Lane. It wouldn’t hurt to keep the rectory more attractive, either. She could have Perkins’s eldest clean for him half a day a week, and she herself would bring fresh flowers from her garden in the spring. Although Jim Bob would object, she’d invite Brother Verber to supper several times a week and make a better effort to make him feel appreciated.
Once at home, she sat down at the kitchen table and started on a list of ways the legitimate members of the congregation could keep him occupied in his free time. Lottie might be persuaded to invite him over for coffee, and the Missionary Society could have him attend their weekly meetings to say grace before refreshments. She’d ask him to accompany her to Farberville to select new fabric for the sofa, and afterwards to have lunch at a tea shoppe.
She said a brief prayer of gratitude to the Lord for blessing her with a creative mind, then got back to work.
“I don’t see them,” Estelle whispered to Ruby Bee, who was standing on her tiptoes next to her while they peeked through the living room window. “They might be in the crate—or they might be running loose in the house. We need to be real careful. They have sharp beaks and beady orange eyes, and they’re ornery enough to peck the freckles right off your arm.”
“Did you leave the door open when you left?” whispered Ruby Bee, although she wasn’t sure why they were worried that the birds might be listening to them.
“You can see for yourself that it’s closed. I guess the only thing to do is go inside and find them. If they’re in the crate, you put the lid on and I’ll get the hammer and nails. First thing Monday morning they’ll be on their merry way back to that lawyer in Oklahoma.”
“You said Uncle Tooly took to doing experiments. Do you think the birds are freaks that he created in his laboratory? You might be able to sell them to a carnival show, you know. The one at the county fair last September advertised they had a boy that was raised by wolves, a five-legged calf, and a prehistoric fish.”
Estelle bit her lip as she tried to recollect exactly what the hissy birds looked like. They were almost as tall as she was, with gangly necks, scruffy brown feathers, and those demonic eyes. “I wouldn’t have any idea how to get in touch with a carnival, but I know for a fact I won’t get a wink of sleep until they’re out of my house. Are you ready?”
“I guess so,” said Ruby Bee. “You go first. I’ll be close behind you in case I need to jerk you back to safety.”
“It’d be better if you went first so you can get the lid on the crate. The hammer’s in a drawer in the kitchen, and I’ll have to hunt around for nails. I’d feel a sight safer if you were holding down the lid.”
Ruby Bee looked at her. “They’re your birds, not mine, Estelle. If you’re too scared to go in there, you can stay at the Flamingo until you can find someone to get ’em in the crate. You could persuade Diesel to come down from the ridge and bite their heads off. General Pitts might agree to attack the house.”
“I wonder why Uncle Tooly said in his will that I was to get them. He was a mite odd, but he always seemed fond of me. I had a parakeet when I was in pigtails. He may have assumed that I was a bird fancier on account of that.”
“Piss or get off the pot,” snapped Ruby Bee. “It’s cold and dark out here. Arly can’t handle the Friday night crowd by herself. She went to the police school, but I’ll bet they never taught her how to throw a fractious drunk out of a bar. That takes years of practice.”
Estelle took a last peek in the window. “I don’t see anything. I think I’ll go around to the back and look through the kitchen window. You wait here.” She disappeared around the corner of the house.
Ruby Bee put her hands in her pockets and tried not to shiver as the wind did its darndest to sneak down her collar. It was crazy to stand here half the night, she thought as she went up on the porch and tried to catch a glimpse of the birds through the glass panes in the door. Surely Estelle was exaggerating. Alfred Hitchcock had made a movie about killer birds, but nobody in real life had ever been attacked like that. Then again, she reminded herself, Uncle Tooly had owned some mighty queer sheep.
A gust of wind liked to push her off the porch. “This is ridiculous,” she said, not bothering to whisper. “If you birds are in there, you’d better mind your manners ’cause I’m coming in and I’m not putting up with being hissed at or pecked.”
She didn’t exactly charge into the house, however, but instead turned the knob and eased open the door a scant inch. Nothing. She tried another inch, then squinted into the room. She was about to throw open the door when something hit her hand. The unexpected burst of pain was so startling that she jumped back, lost her balance, and went tumbling off the porch into a massive forsythia bush.
“Estelle!” she howled, fighting to ge
t free of the brittle branches. One foot was snagged above her head, the other twisted under her in a most undignified position. “Estelle, darn it, get back here!”
“What in tarnation …?” said Estelle as she rounded the corner, not spotting the arms flailing from the middle of the forsythia. “Where are you, Ruby Bee?”
“Here, and I’m stuck, in case you didn’t notice. Would you stop gawking and do something?”
“What’re you doing?”
“I am trying to get free of this bush. It’s got me tangled up like it’s got barbed wire for branches.” She grunted as she wiggled around to get her hands on the ground.
Estelle pulled back branches as best she could, and after getting swatted in the face and scratched up to her wrists, managed to help Ruby Bee escape. “I still don’t understand why you were in the forsythia,” she said. “Did you jump in there for a reason?”
“I fell in there,” Ruby Bee said, trying to hide her mortification. She went on to relate how she’d opened the front door, then added, “I suppose one of those birds pecked me on the hand. It hurt worse than a pebble from a slingshot. If I hadn’t had on gloves, it would have drawn blood.”
“I told you they’re not the most mannersome critters. You should have—” She broke off with a gurgle of dismay, then grabbed Ruby Bee’s arm and hustled her toward the door. “They’re over by the station wagon. We’d better get inside before they come after us.”
Ruby Bee wasn’t inclined to dawdle.
“The public forum is at ten o’clock sharp,” Sterling told Barry and Kayleen, who were seated on his bed. The table was burdened with a computer, monitor, and laser printer; a cord slinked from the modem to the telephone across the room. His duffel bag was unpacked and in the closet. A holster hung on the headboard of the bed. On the wall next to a topographical map of the region was a framed picture of wide-eyed kittens in a beribboned basket. Variations of the latter (but not the former) were in all the units.
“I’ll put signs along the road first thing in the morning,” said Barry. “From what Dylan said when he was out here earlier in the week, we won’t get more than a dozen potential recruits. He hit the pool hall, the supermarket, a body shop, and even the launderette, trying to spark some interest in the cause, but he says there’s a lot of apathy in this town.”
Sterling shook his head. “Apathy is our biggest challenge, and the only way to overcome it is with education and persistence. Kayleen, do you have the printed material to be distributed tomorrow?”
“The boxes are in my trunk,” she said. “I gave Dylan all the remaining brochures, so you’d better order some more.”
“We don’t need to order them now that I have a photocopier at my office. I’ll write one up on the computer and run off copies in the evenings when that snoopy secretary of mine isn’t there. It seems we’re set for the moment, so you”—he gestured at Barry—“can leave. Judy has been ordered to be ready to depart for the encampment at 0600 hours. Kayleen, you can transfer the boxes and ride with us to minimalize visibility.”
“In the Hummer?” she said, winking at Barry. “I don’t think anybody in this podunk place has ever seen a vehicle like yours. They may ask you to be in the homecoming parade.”
Sterling bristled at the implication he had erred in selecting the Hummer. “When the crisis strikes, transportation will play an important role in survival. A tactical withdrawal may be the only solution. Having a proper vehicle may be the difference between being able to escape from a dangerous situation and being stranded and at the mercy of the enemy.”
“How much did it cost?” asked Barry.
“None of your damn business. Now get out to the encampment and do whatever it takes to keep Red Rooster from having a hangover in the morning.”
Barry gave him a casual salute, smiled at Kayleen, and left the motel room. Instead of continuing to his car out in front of the bar, he pressed his ear against the door.
“—that I haven’t received this month’s payment,” Sterling was saying in a stony voice.
“Moving here left me temporarily short of cash, what with down payments for the two properties and the initial outlay for the remodeling. Give me some time and I’ll get caught up.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Are you done with me? I spent the last two days rearranging the storage cubicle, and I’d like to take a hot shower and get to bed early.”
“Sit down.”
Barry headed for his truck.
The telephone rang at the end of the bar. I swallowed a mouthful of cherry cobbler, took a drink of milk, and sauntered down to answer it.
“Is that you, Arly?” said Ruby Bee.
“Arly’s locked in the pantry,” I said gruffly. “This here’s the convict what’s holding all the rednecks hostage on account of the SWAT team outside. Let me tell ya, them cops are mean as their hides will hold.”
“This ain’t the time for childishness, young lady. Estelle and I are experiencing a small problem at her house. Shoo away all the customers and get your smart-aleck self over here this minute.”
Resuming my regular voice, I said, “For starters, there’s nobody here except yours truly. A foursome from the trailer park came by for coffee and pie, but they’re gone. Some college kids came in, looked at my badge, and scurried out the door. Being a highly trained professional, I concluded they were underage. Who else …? Oh, a guy asking for directions. That about sums it up. Not a very impressive crowd, I’m sorry to say.”
“Then lock up and get out here.”
“It’s only eight-fifteen, and more people might show up. What if Mrs. Jim Bob comes cruising for truckers and finds the door locked? You wouldn’t want to lose her business, would you?” I was being perverse, true, but it had been pretty darn boring for the last hour. I’d not yet sunk to the level of dancing to some nasal ballad on the juke box. I had, however, checked the titles.
“I’ve about had it with you, Ariel Hanks. You’re not so big that I can’t still turn you over my knee and give you a paddling with my hair brush.”
“Yes, I am. You may outweigh me, but I’m a good four inches taller than you, and furthermore, I can outrun you. Want to race sometime?” I listened to her sputter incoherently for a moment, then added, “Okay, what’s the problem?”
“Well, you know how Estelle’s uncle was killed by sheep, and—”
“Sheep?” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It was mentioned in my column last week, so I assumed you knew about it.”
“You write a column?”
“I told you I’d been asked to do a little column every week for The Starley City Star Shopper. I never dreamed you of all people wouldn’t make an effort to read what your own mother writes. I’m as sure as I live and breathe that Dear Abby’s daughter reads her column, and real faithfully, too.”
“You’re writing an advice column?” I said, filling a glass with beer. “You’re telling people how to manage their marriages and children? Do you honestly think you’re qualified to—”
“It’s not an advice column. It’s more of a friendly letter to let folks know what’s going on in Maggody. Now, are you done asking questions? I don’t aim to spend the night here at Estelle’s. She has so much junk in the guest room that I’d have to sleep on the couch. My back’s been acting up lately—if I slept on that lumpy old thing, I wouldn’t be able to hobble across the room in the morning.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just get out here—and bring your gun. You most likely won’t need more than two bullets, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a spare in case you miss.”
For an insane moment, I wondered if I was supposed to shoot her and Estelle. “Does this have something to do with the birds?” I asked. “Are they still in the crate?”
“Not exactly,” she said, then hung up, leaving me to gape at the neon Coors sign on the wall behind the bar.
Reed tossed a piece of wood on the fire, then took a beer fr
om the cooler and sat down on a log. He stared at the flames, imagining what it’d be like if Bobbi Jo was in the tent, all snuggled up in the sleeping bag and waiting for him, her lips moist and her eyes hungry. It was her own damn fault the marriage had gone down the drain, he told himself sourly. He’d offered to drag her along when he went fishing—not every time, but once in a while—but she always stuck up her nose like she thought she was too good to clean a mess of fish. It wasn’t like he’d had to invite her.
“Hey, good buddy,” said Barry as he came into the clearing and dropped his gear. “Where’s everybody else?”
“Dylan took my truck to go back to Farberville to get us a couple of pizzas. Jake muttered something about checking on his wife and stalked off. The others are staying in some dumpy motel.”
“Yeah, I know. I stopped there before coming up here. You’d better make sure Sterling doesn’t smell pepperoni on your breath in the morning. The old fart’ll bore you to tears talking about surviving off the land.” Barry got himself a beer and squatted across the fire from Reed. “Do you trust Dylan?” he asked.
“No reason not to. Sterling said he talked to one of the brethren in Colorado that confirmed Dylan’s story. What’s your beef with him?”
“I thought I saw your truck parked behind some abandoned building that sure as hell wasn’t a pizza joint. What time did he leave?”
“Maybe six. So what if it’s after nine? It’s Friday night and the pizza joints are liable to be crowded.”
“Not that crowded. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s who he says he is. What if he’s trying to infiltrate our group so he can tip off the feds?”
“Tip ’em off about what?”
Barry shrugged. “Okay, so we haven’t done anything illegal as of yet. He doesn’t know that. He may believe we’re stockpiling assault weapons and building bombs in Sterling’s garage. He could even have us confused with that group that used to be over past Harrison. They had a factory in the compound for making hand grenades and another for manufacturing silencers and shit like that to sell at gun shows. Their survival school cost five hundred dollars, and they could pick and choose—” He clamped down on his lower lip, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the survival school. Reed had damn near exploded when he’d been rejected. “Anyway, if Dylan’s who he says he is, why’s your truck in town?”