Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 08 (17 page)

"I thought you said you heard every word," Lucy countered. Any air of timidity was long gone; her voice was brusque, and her face stony.

"Then you don't deny it?"

"If you try to make something of it, I'll deny I ever set foot in whatever barn you're talking about. If you'll excuse me, I need to take some photographs of the new crop circles and get the film in the mail to my editor. Then maybe I'll drive around and check out the local talent in the pasture. Maybe I'll luck into a bovine quartet practicing 'Moooon River.'"

"Well, I never," Estelle said as Lucy went out the door. "Here we were thinking she was a mannersome little thing, and all the time she's nothing but an uppity, smartmouthed" -- she searched for an adequately derogatory term -- "whatever."

Ruby Bee waited for a minute in case enlightenment was coming, then put the coffee cup in the sink and wiped the bar. "She sure did act funny, didn't she? Now that I think about it, she didn't deny she'd been in the barn with Brian. She just said she would deny it. Why do you think she would offer him a thousand dollars?"

"For an exclusive interview with Dr. Sageman?"

"I don't see how that could be. He and Dr. McMasterson seem as eager as hookers to give interviews to anybody they can snag. It'd make more sense if Brian was paying her to do an interview."

Estelle got that expression on her face that meant she had an astonishing brilliant idea, at least in her opinion. "I think we should find out a little more about this Lucy Fernclift, don't you? How do we know she really is a reporter for the Probe?"

"I saw her name under the story about the woman who takes her poodle to a tanning salon twice a week."

"You saw her name," Estelle said, waggling her finger, "but you didn't see her picture. How do we know this girl's not an imposture? Maybe the real Lucy Fernclift is trussed up like a turkey and lying in the trunk of a car somewhere -- or even worse."

"That little thing's a murderer? I swear, Estelle, that's the silliest thing I've ever heard you say. You need to stop reading tabloids and find a new hobby. Why don't you go to that bookstore in Farberville and see if you can find a book of counted cross-stitch patterns or dried flower arrangements?"

Estelle finished the last of her sherry, patted her hair, and daintily climbed off the stool, never allowing one hint of irritation to flash across her carefully neutral face. "Thank you so much for the advice, Miss Abigail Van Hanks. I do hope that Lucy doesn't come after you with an ax later tonight, but if she does, I'll send a right nice dried flower arrangement to your funeral."

"Hold your horses," Ruby Bee muttered, thinking real hard about all the units out back. "It just happens that Rosemary is at the hospital with Cynthia. Dr. Sageman paid for a car to come pick him up and take him to the airport for an interview. Dr. McMasterson told me he was going to be at Raz's all day, dowsing the circles for electricity. Jules Channel said he was going to try to talk to the sheriff, and now Lucy Fernclift says she's going to Raz's and then into Farberville to mail the film."

"I must say it's a load off my mind to know where everybody is this morning. I was worried they all were planning to come to my house for Sunday dinner." Estelle brushed the sweet roll crumbs off her pastel blue sweater, flashed her teeth, and made like she was gonna leave.

"So there's not one soul in any of the motel rooms. There most likely won't be anytime soon either."

"So?"

Ruby Bee went around the end of the bar and went to the back booth. "You boys are gonna have to run along," she said loudly so Estelle could hear her. "I need to lock up for a while and see to my customers at the Flamingo. Come on back at noon for dinner, Roy. I'm fixing honeyglazed ham, sweet potatoes, and corn on the cob."

After the town council had left, she opened the drawer beneath the cash register and took out a key. "Well?" she said to Estelle. "Are you gonna stand there like a garden gnome, or are you gonna help me make beds and set out clean towels?"

"What if they come back?"

"Then they'll be tickled pink to have neat beds and clean towels. I have every right to clean their rooms, Estelle. Not even Arly can argue with that. Besides, it was your idea in the first place."

"What was my idea?" Estelle said suspiciously.

"To look for an ax in Lucy Fernclift's room. We might as well check under all the beds while we're at it."

So at eleven o'clock on this pleasant Sunday morning everybody was busy, blissfully or otherwise.

Despite the two new circles in the cornfield, business had trickled off at Raz Buchanon's, but he figured things would liven up after church let out. Taking money from sight-seers was damn easier than running the still and driving all over the county at night to deliver the goods, he thought as he sat on an overturned bucket by the gate. If nothing else, it gave him the chance to spend more quality time with Marjorie.

Down in the field itself, Hayden McMasterson was having a splendid time with his dowsing rods. The two teenagers he'd hired to assist him were having a splendid time, too, since they were getting paid five dollars an hour to write down whatever dumbshit things he said and draw dotted lines on his charts.

"Oh, yes!" Hayden said delightedly as the copper rods crossed each other, then whipped out. "This is definitely a three-line ley." He consulted a compass hanging on a leather thong around his neck. "Please note this ley is on a perfect north-south axis and indicate that it extends through that dead oak tree beyond the fence. Correlations have been shown between positive energy lines and damage to trees and shrubs."

"Like wow," said one of the boys.

"Yeah, like wow," said the other.

Hayden tracked the three-ley line to the fence, beamed at the bare branches above his head, and went back inside the largest circle. "The floor pattern follows the swirls, as expected, and the rods are beginning to whirl ever so slightly as I approach the center of the vortex." He glanced up at his assistants. "This concentration of nodal energy has healing power. As I stand here, I feel my inner spirit pulsate with renewed vitality. You're welcome to come and share this with me."

"That's okay," said the second boy.

After a while Hayden lucked upon yet another three-ley line. He waited patiently until it had been recorded, watching the quivering of the rods and trying to recall details of the county survey map. "Are there tumuli in the area?" he called.

The boys looked back blankly.

Hayden resumed searching for three-ley lines.

Over in Farberville at the sheriff's department Jules Channel sorted through photographs of mutilated carcasses. He did so under the supervision of a young deputy who'd been obliged to show up for the early shift after a long, hard, and financially disastrous night at the cockfights across the state line in Oklahoma. The Weekly Examiner had a discretionary fund for just such contingencies, or ought to, anyway.

"You'd better get going afore too long," the deputy said, mindful of the time. "Sheriff Dorfer'll kick me out on my butt if he finds out I let you read the files."

Jules opened the third folder and scanned the laborious handwriting. "Less than a week ago," he murmured, jotting down the pertinent data in his notebook. "Has the sheriff discussed these with you?"

"Naw, I mostly work in the jail, except for Sunday mornings. I can't let you stay much longer, Mr. Channel. I've already had one reprimand this month for showing up with a hangover."

"No one reported any lights in the sky? That's odd. What about unfamiliar vehicles in the area?"

The deputy was getting desperate. "You said you'd pay fifty dollars for a picture. Why doncha pick one and leave before anyone else gets here?"

"Look at the exquisite detail in this one," Jules said admiringly. "Your sheriff really ought to consider a new career."

Arthur Sageman sat in a molded plastic chair at the Farberville airport. In the next chair were stacked folders, files, charts, diagrams, and several packets of neatly labeled photographs of the crop configurations. In a box under the chair was the plaster mold of the alien footprint, wrapped carefully in newspaper. In his hand was a handwritten list of the essential points he needed to make during the interview. The general thrust was that he was the most qualified expert to narrate the segment on X-Files, despite the unpalatable fact that Hayden McMasterson had written several books about such phenomena and he himself had focused on abductions. The issue was as sticky as the floor beneath his feet.

He finally put down the list and went to the American Eagle counter, where a young woman was pecking on a computer keyboard. "Any update on the flight from Dallas?" he asked, turning on the full force of his melodious accent and crinkling his eyes at her. "Surely by now ... ?"

"All I know is that it's still on the ground at DFW, and they're working on it."

"Please let me know when you find out something," he said, then resumed his seat and mentally reviewed what amounted to a short yet scintillating presentation. He'd had numerous meetings with television producers, and the one thing he'd discovered was the brevity of their attention spans. Three, maybe four words, and their eyes began to glaze over like a mirror in a steamy bathroom.

"Crop circles that kill," he said under his breath, searching for alliterative allure. "A town in terror. Abduction in Arkansas." He decided the ultimate one had the most potential.

Lottie Estes put her heart and soul into the finale of the offertory hymn, then lifted her hands from the piano keys and looked out at the congregation. Several folks nodded appreciatively, but Mrs. Jim Bob didn't so much as acknowledge Lottie's expertise. Neither did her husband, who was hanging his head. Lottie wondered if he was uncomfortable on account of all the sin hovering over him like a black cloud. Why, she herself wouldn't have the nerve to stick her nose in a house of the Lord if she had spent half the night committing a heinous crime. It was like sinning on top of sinning -- a double-decker, in a manner of speaking.

Brother Verber cleared his throat as he approached the pulpit. Announcements had been made earlier, and the first offering taken. Now it was time to start saving souls, to drag the strays back in the flock, to send Satan away with his pointed tall between his legs. He wasn't sure why he felt so uneasy as he spread out his notes, made sure his handkerchief was handy, and set his Bible where it was handy. The seminary had stressed the impact of arranging your props so you didn't have to fumble for 'em later.

"Sometimes we are lost at sea," he began in a deceptively mild tone, like he was offering the blessing at a Kiwanis luncheon. "We can see the sandy beach, we can see the greenery beyond it, we can see the purple mountains' majesty above the fruited plain. Yet we are floundering in a stormy sea, flailing our arms, gulping down salty water, struggling for breath, wondering if our very lives are gonna flash before our eyes as the devil grabs our legs to drag us down into an eternity of damnation."

"Amen," murmured a few tentative voices.

Brother Verber upped the intensity a notch. "Oh, yes, we're floundering something awful in Maggody these days. We're drowning in wickedness and lust. Our only hope is to look right here in the Bible and see if the Good Lord can throw us a lifesaver." He held up his Bible and tapped it with his finger, set it down, and flipped it open. Feigning surprise, he goggled, then said, "Why, listen to this right out of Matthew fourteen, verse twenty-four, and see if it don't ring a bell. 'But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary.'"

He gave 'em a minute to appreciate the astonishing coincidence, then switched to a dramatic whisper so they'd have to strain to hear him. "Then it says: 'And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.' Walking on the sea, brothers and sisters! Walking right on top of the sea! Can you believe it? Then it goes on to say: 'And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried for fear.'"

"They ain't the only ones," said someone way in the back. Heads swiveled, but nobody could identify the guilty party. Let the records show, however, that if looks could kill, Ira Pickerell would be planted in the cemetery before the forsythia bloomed.

Brother Verber mopped his forehead and waited until he felt his soul begin to swell with righteous indignation. "Then Jesus waved at Peter and told him to get hisself out of the boat and come for a walk! Peter jumped right into the water, yessir, and took off skipping across the waves, just laughing and looking back at everybody when all of a sudden -- yes, all of a sudden -- he got to thinking about where he was."

"Hallelujah," said the hopelessly confused.

"Right here in verse thirty, it says: 'But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid.' That's right, he was afraid just like every other sinner in this very room who's ever considered what might happen if he lost his faith at a real bad moment, and Satan dragged him down!"

Mrs. Jim Bob shot her husband a quick look to see if he was breaking out in a sweat, but he didn't appear to be doing anything except contemplating the tips of his shoes. She elbowed him so he'd start paying attention to the sermon, as befitting the husband of the president of the Missionary Society.