by Wes Brummer
The three filed out of the room.
Chapter Forty-Two
Larry Bigger drove on Highway 15 north from Wichita, his Panama hat pulled low over a sweaty brow, his head rang like a cracked bell. If only he could sleep at night, but rest eluded him. Instead, an endless parade of questions kept him awake. Would anyone link Sara’s disappearance to him? How much trouble was she going to cost him? What if she came back and accused him of kidnapping? Would the police arrest him? He imagined the cops knocking at his door in the dead of night. So he stayed awake. Listening. Waiting. He nodded off often during work. One customer complained to his father about him dozing on the job. That got him a thorough chewing out.
Now, Sara’s brothers were nagging him. Threatening him. To get out of this mess, he had to return the broad. Then, he could collect the reward and sleep like the dead. He brushed a shaky hand over his forehead. Sara still had to be at that county asylum.
Dating Sara was pleasant at first. There was that familiar anticipation of another conquest. But then she became friendlier with his father, charming him, and always acting interested in his business. The old fool loved it, of course. The vamp wormed her way in, turning father against son.
“Larry, you need to adopt a better work attitude.”
“You should show more respect.”
“Learn to develop a nose for business like Sara.”
And finally, “What I’d give to have a daughter like that.”
News of the baby was the final straw. Sara wanted to marry. Ha! How convenient was that? When he ran across the asylum, an idea shaped itself into a plan for getting her out of the picture. Last Sunday, that plan became an opportunity.
With Sara’s return, the prospect of marriage would rear its ugly head again. How could he stop that? A punch to the stomach? Could that abort the baby? Would a car accident work? Larry patted the steering wheel. Sacrificing his Roadster for an uncertain plan didn’t seem worth it. He’d have to think of a better idea. And if he could keep the five thousand dollars, so much the better.
****
Jason McGurk found it easy to keep Larry in sight. Few cars were on the flat highway. Little disturbed the expanse of grass and sky except fencing, farmhouses, and a few trees. He and Michael had been driving north for over an hour and Larry Bigger showed no sign of slowing down.
Michael stretched his arms. “Where’s he going—Salina? Concordia? Nebraska? He’d better get to where he’s heading. I’m hungry. What time is it, anyway?”
Jason pulled out his pocket watch and flipped the cover. “Two-thirty.”
Michael took off his newsboy cap and scratched his head. “Whose idea was this to follow him?”
Jason snorted. “I believe it was yours.”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t. But you’re the one driving.”
“We’ve gone too far to turn around. He’s bound to stop soon. When he gets to where Sara is, we’ll step in and take her back ourselves. Are you with me?”
Michael glanced at Jason, one eyebrow raised. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“I think we need to take control when the time is right.”
“Gotcha. Speaking of trouble, what do you suppose that is?” Michael pointed to the northwest.
Jason slowed the car to gaze at the strange sight. A gray-black band rose just above the horizon. Even as he watched, it grew taller, topping far distant trees. It wasn’t a cloud, more like a curtain, dividing day and night. The mesmerizing band climbed higher, becoming an approaching dark wall. And it would soon be upon them.
The tires were kicking up sand. They were on the shoulder of the road. Ahead, a bridge—more like a road of wooden planks—spanned a dry creek bed. Jason drew in a sharp breath and yanked the steering wheel. The car swerved. Tires caught the edge of the uneven boards, rattling the car. Terror jolted him. Hang on! The Model A bounced across the expanse, its front tires popping over a bump and landing on a plank that snapped beneath the weight. With a final jolt they made the other side.
“Holy cats!” Michael stared out his side window, one hand clutching the dashboard, the other grabbing the backseat. “It’s a wonder we didn’t fall in the creek! Watch where you’re going next time.”
“What creek?” Jason mopped his brow. Michael was right; they could have sailed off that bridge. “That’s some kind of storm. Think we should go back?”
Michael shook his head. “Keep going.”
Jason glanced at the ominous sky one last time, then searched the road ahead for the silver Roadster.
The highway was empty.
A cold chill washed over him. He stomped on the gas and shifted into third. Gears ground, but the Model A lurched forward like an old but valiant horse. The pleasant clatter wound to a strident rattle.
“Michael! Do you see his car?”
Michael searched the road. “He’s just ahead. I’m sure of it.”
“I can’t go any faster.” Jason’s fist pounded the wheel. “I know he’s no Houdini. But he’s gone!”
Chapter Forty-Three
With afternoon rounds over, Sara and Bea changed into leggings for their flower hunt. Before they headed for the cemetery, however, they stopped by the barn to bid farewell to Dutch. Don Holland was heading to find work in McPherson. A pang of sadness touched her heart. Perhaps even dread. The lovable, self-deprecating tramp provided a layer of stability to the dining room. Will I even see him again?
He made his announcement that morning, sitting across from Sara at the breakfast table. Patrick dropped his spoon, staring down at his oatmeal in sullen silence. The tramp placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now don’t be sore at ol’ Dutch. I have to make a living. Can’t do that here. McPherson is only one county over, and I can come back to visit anytime. While I was helping the Eisner’s, a fellow in town told me about the jobs there. Oil companies are looking for help. In McPherson, they’re saying, ‘What Depression?’ I have to go. So, what do you say? Still friends?” Dutch stuck out a hand.
Patrick crossed his arms, keeping his head down.
Dutch glanced at Sara and Bea. “How about you, ladies? Would you come out to the barn later? Say goodbye to an old tramp?”
Sara smiled. “Sure, Mr. Holland. We’ll stop by this afternoon. Bea and I are going to the cemetery to gather wildflowers.” Sara turned to Bea. “You still want to go?”
Bea nodded.
“Great!” Dutch stuck up both thumbs. “Say, there’s some old baskets in the barn. They might come in handy.”
“Thank you. We could use some baskets.”
After breakfast, Sara found some work gloves. She longed for a nice wide-brimmed hat, but she saw nothing suitable. Leaving the back door, Sara and Bea made their way to the barn. Dutch stood inside the double doors talking with James Eisner. A cloth bag with a rope handle sat at his feet.
“We came to wish you luck on your journey, Mr. Holland.” Sara curtsied.
“No formalities needed, young lady.” With that, Dutch grabbed Sara in a tight bear hug. “And how about a squeeze from my little Spelling Bea?” He bent over, giving Beatrice a tender embrace.
Beatrice retrieved her slate.
I’LL MISS YOU
“That goes double for me. I doubt if I’ll find any lovelier dinner companions than you and Miss Sara. You two headed out to pick flowers?”
Bea inclined her head.
“Then I’ve got a surprise. I fixed these up myself.” Dutch gave Sara a theatrical wink. From the shadows, he retrieved two wicker baskets and gave one each to Sara and Bea. The handles and frames were wicker, but Dutch had replaced the bottoms with two layers of stout burlap.
Sara fingered the heavy stitching. “This is wonderful, Mr. Holland. You’ve gone to a lot of work. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now bring back some pretties.”
“We’ll do that.” Sara kissed the surprised tramp on the cheek.
Dutch raised his brows. “I may have to visit often. I could get used to these kinds of goodb
yes.”
Sara and Bea left the barn, walked down the side-drive to the country road, and turned east. A slight breeze ruffled Sara’s hair, but the day promised to be pleasant and mild. They passed the gravel lane that stretched south. Larry assaulted her on that road nearly a week ago. She’d do well to avoid him in the future.
The stroll evoked thoughts of pleasant walks in the park or exploring the neighborhood as a child. Such peace and solitude. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Blue Skies smiling on me. Sara found herself singing the words to Mr. Evans’ song. Bea glanced at her with a peculiar scowl on her face. That seemed odd. Must have been an errant thought. No reason to be a sourpuss. They had a few hours to themselves on a glorious spring day. No hard times could touch them out here. It felt so good to leave their cares behind for a little while.
She led the way to the cemetery gate. Along the fence, they found white violets and flowering milkweed. Sara knelt, cutting flowers while Bea placed some mint and parsley in her basket. “We’ll leave the milkweed. Butterflies like it, but it sets me to sneezing.”
Yellow and cream flowers inside the cemetery fence beckoned. These turned out to be fawn lilies. Star-like blooms tapered to five points on thin stems. Sara placed a few stalks in her container. “These would be good flowers for Mr. Evans’ basket.”
The hunt continued. Bea found white poppies hidden by a willow, while Sara discovered spurge and daisies. Often, they leapfrogged from one plant to another, examining likely groups of flowers. In spite of the dry spell, early spring wildflowers were abundant. And cemeteries provided a fertile environment for blooms.
Finally, after examining a cluster of wild onions—mostly out of curiosity—she waved to Bea. “Pull me up. My side is throbbing.” After Bea helped Sara to her feet, she pointed to the stack of railroad ties at the rear of the cemetery. “Let’s rest a bit before heading back home.”
They sat under the bare branches of the willow, facing the sun to the south. The railroad ties were uncomfortable, but sitting eased the stitch in Sara’s side. Bea leaned back, her shorter legs swinging inches off the ground.
“Thank you for coming out with me. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Beatrice produced her slate.
I HAD FUN.
Sara smiled, glancing at her friend. It was tempting to kid her for frowning earlier. Bea was such a mystery. What was her past like? Why couldn’t she talk? And why did she go to Mr. Byers’ room?
“Something tells me you rarely get to enjoy yourself. What was it like growing up?”
Bea averted her face for a moment before answering.
MAMA HANGED HERSELF WHEN I WAS 5.
I FOUND HER.
Sara gasped. “That’s terrible! I’m so sorry.”
Bea wiped the slate clean with her apron.
PAPA SAID HER SADNESS WASN’T NATURAL
Her mother committed suicide. Was it due to depression? “Do you remember your mother?”
YES. MAMA TAUGHT ME TO SING
Sara drew in a breath. “You could talk at one time?”
A far-away look came into her eyes. She crammed her words together into one long string of letters.
I COULD TALK, BUT WITH MAMA I SANG. SHE SAID I COULD BE ON STAGE SOMEDAY
“Your mother must have been special.”
SHE WAS EVERYTHING
Sara drew her arm around Bea, holding her shoulder. “What happened later, with your father?”
I QUIT TALKING. PAPA BLAMED MAMA’S MALONCHOLEY FOR MY STATE. HE SENT ME TO A CHILDREN’S HOME
“And you’ve never lived with a family since?”
Bea pursed her lips.
ONCE, IN JOSHUA, AFTER I LEFT THE ORPHANAGE
“What happened there?”
I LEARNED TO SEW. MR. B. HAD WOLF EYES, BUT I SCARED HIM OFF. THAT’S HOW I GOT HERE
Sara wiped her brow. Bea delivered her messages in broad strokes. The gaps in her story were yawning, and the process of verbal questions and labored written answers was tedious. Sara knew facts, but little about her silent friend.
“If you could do anything, what would you like to do? Would you like to talk?”
Bea scrawled the single word in large letters.
SING
Sara tilted her head. “Aren’t we talking about same thing?”
Beatrice dashed the words down with her stub of chalk.
TALK IS LIKE THE THORNS ON A ROSE—SINGING IS THE ROSE ITSELF
“But to enjoy the rose, one must endure a few thorns.”
Bea cleared her slate and wrote the letters in careful block letters.
I WANT TO SING!
Sara removed her arm from her friend’s shoulder. Bea was serious. Surely, this was nothing but a child’s fantasy. If she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk, how could she sing? “What’s stopping you?”
For a second Beatrice looked blank. Then her mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. Worse than the one earlier. The frosty glare from the slight girl curled the hairs on the back of Sara’s neck. It was a cold, appraising examination from the eyes of a malevolent stranger. Sara shivered.
Just as quickly as it came, the shadow passed. Beatrice bowed her head and wiped the slate with deliberate care. She wrote a single word and turned the slate around.
SALLY
Sara scrunched her eyes, trying to fathom the power of this person. Was Sally from the orphanage? An old companion? An enemy? A stray thought thrummed in the back of her mind. But that was too improbable. “Is Sally a friend?”
YOU ARE MY FRIEND. SALLY IS…
The remnant of chalk flipped from Bea’s fingers, falling in the grass. Bea jumped to the ground and retrieved the stub. When she stood to face Sara, her face went ashen.
Bea had a flair for the dramatic, but enough was enough. “Who is Sally?” Impatience edged Sara’s voice.
Bea pointed beyond Sara’s shoulder. She mouthed the words, Turn around.
Sara glanced to the northern sky.
An impenetrable black wall took up a quarter of the northwestern horizon, dwarfing distant objects. Faint wisps of smoke curled within the rising curtain.
It looked like the end of the world.
“God help us.” Sara heaved herself to her feet, holding her side. She couldn’t run, but a steady pace should get them home before the cyclone rolled over them. “We need to get back to the house. Leave your basket.”
Sara hustled the best she could and kept a wary eye on the approaching storm. It rose higher and seemed to be coming faster. They needed to hurry.
Each step sent a jolting stab of pain across her ribs. The good news was they were halfway home. She sucked in a breath as another sting pierced her side. The second half didn’t promise to be so easy. Endure it—then rest.
From the north, hundreds—maybe thousands—of birds approached. They filled the darkening sky, making no calls as they flew. The flapping of countless wings sent shivers down Sara’s spine. Geese, songbirds, bats, hawks, and a pair of eagles soared past, trying to escape the coming maelstrom.
Sara pointed ahead. “Run home. I’ll be right behind you.”
Bea shook her head, motioning back and forth. We stay together.
Sara nodded. “Come on. In three minutes, we’ll be there.”
They were nearing Carriage Road, but the black curtain covered more than half the sky, rising higher by the second. The race would be close.
An ominous calm settled around them. But not silence. There was a tremor, more felt than heard. Like a train coming. Icy fingers stroked Sara’s back. A horde of creatures approached, pounding down the center of the road.
A stampede!
She gasped. It’s not fair! We’re so close. We could have made it.
Deer, coyotes, fox and other wildlife fled as Sara and Bea crept along the ditch. Like the birds, they made little noise, but the fear in the air was palpable. One coyote carried a pup in its mouth. Several raccoon kits clutched the back of their mother. No creature paid them any attention. Al
l concentrated on fleeing from the rolling black cloud.
This was no cyclone.
Sara pointed a trembling finger before grabbing Bea’s hand. “Run! It’s a dust storm!”
They took off. She gritted her teeth against the flaring pain. But the idea—drowning in dirt—made the sting almost laughable. Get to safety. The earth trembled as the granddaddy of all freight trains was coming at full speed, carrying a sky full of dirt. At the base of the black wall was a tumbling wave, like a long cyclone flipped on its side and rolling on the ground. Cold dread replaced the stitch in her side.
What if they didn’t make it?
A large deer hurtled toward Beatrice, striking her in the shoulder and knocking her into the ditch. Sara ran to the still figure. Please, Dear God. Don’t let her be hurt. She bent and assisted the dazed woman to her feet. Bea grimaced with pain as Sara helped her onto the road. Blood ran from her shoulder and down her left arm. Sara stepped back, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Bea needed help, and shelter was less than two hundred feet away.
“Lean on me. We can make it.” She hoped it was true.
A distant horn blew, its blast rising in pitch. A farm truck bore down on them, the young driver motioning frantically for them to move aside. Sara and Bea leaped for the ditch as the huge truck roared past. Behind the vehicle swirled a fantail of fine powder, a faint imitation of what was to come.
Sara climbed onto the road on hands and knees, pushed to her feet, and helped Bea up. The air thundered. Darkness drew around them like an enveloping cloak.
Bea took a step and collapsed. Sara heaved her up, wrapping her arm around her waist. “Come on! I’ll help you. The driveway is just ahead!” She yelled to be heard.
They set off with Bea leaning on Sara’s shoulder, pacing in sequence like runners joined in a three-legged race. With time all but gone, they left the road, entering the curving driveway. The wind shrieked. The steps were just around the curve. But even as they neared the porch, the storm rushed upon them.
A black wave surged around the tenant house and obliterated it from existence. Before Sara could scream, a blast of cold air gave her goose bumps, and dirt pelted her like buckshot.