Many thousands of feet below this cell, almost lost in the approaching storm front, a lone Rolls-Royce hurtled along at one hundred miles an hour, two and a half tons of precision-engineered steel cutting the darkness of a long and lonely ribbon of tar.
Inside, the driver kept one hand on the wheel while glancing at the laptop open on the seat beside him. The laptop showed the real-time progress of the storm, a composite downloaded by a mosaic of weather satellites orbiting high above.
Coming from Topeka, he had exited Interstate 70 just past Salina, and was now passing the outskirts of Great Bend. From here on, the road to Medicine Creek would become far more local. That—and the approaching storm itself—would force him to slow dramatically.
And yet time was of the essence. The killer would soon kill again. In all likelihood he would be attracted to the storm, the violence and darkness of it, and he was almost certain to kill again that night.
He picked up his cell phone and dialed. Once again a recorded voice told him that the party he was trying to reach was out of range.
Out of range. He pondered that phrase: out of range.
And he pushed the Rolls ahead even faster.
Fifty
Ever since he’d seen The Wizard of Ozas a child, Tad Franklin had been fascinated by tornadoes. It was a source of secret embarrassment that, living all his life in western Kansas, the very center of “tornado alley,” he had never managed to see one. He’d seen the aftereffects more often than he’d liked—twisted trailer parks, trees blasted into toothpicks, cars lifted and thrown across the road—but somehow he’d never seen an actual funnel cloud with his own eyes.
Tonight he felt sure that was going to change. All day long there had been weather advisories. Every hour, it seemed, the weather service alerts had grown in intensity: thunderstorm watch; severe thunderstorm warning; tornado watch. A brutal dust storm had come screaming through an hour before that had torn away placards and shingles, sandblasted cars and houses, knocked down trees, and reduced visibility to a few hundred yards. And then at 8:11 that evening, with Tad alone in the sheriff’s office, the news came: the whole of Cry County had just been placed under a tornado warning until midnight. F-scale tornadoes of magnitude 2 or even 3, with two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and devastating force, were possible.
Ten seconds later, Sheriff Hazen was on the radio.
“Tad,” he was saying, “I’m in Deeper, about to head back.”
“Sheriff—”
“I don’t have a lot of time. Listen to me. We’ve made a lot of progress on the case. We believe the killer is hiding in Kraus’s Kaverns.”
“The killer—?”
“For chrissakes, let me finish. It’s most likely McFelty, Norris Lavender’s henchman. He’s been holed up in that moonshine room back of Kraus’s Kaverns. But we’ve got to move fast in case he decides to pull out under cover of the storm. We’re putting together a team to go in at ten o’clock. But we also just got word from the NWS about a tornado warning for all of Cry County—”
“I just got the call.”
“—and I’ve got to put you on the tornado side of things. You know the drill?”
“Sure do.”
“Good. You get the word out, make sure everything’s battened down in Medicine Creek and the outlying areas. We’ll be arriving around nine, and then all hell’s going to break loose—and I don’t mean the weather. Just be sure to have a couple strong pots of fresh coffee. You’re not going in with us, so don’t worry. Somebody’s got to hold down the fort.”
It was only when Tad felt himself relax that he realized he hadbegun to get a little nervous. He didn’t mind handling a tornado alert—he’d done that often enough before—but the idea of going after a killer in a dark cave was something else.
“Right, Sheriff,” he said.
“Okay, Tad. I’m relying on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tad hung up the radio. He knew the drill, all right. First thing, warn the citizenry. If there were any outside, get them indoors or into shelters.
He pushed out the back, careful to face away from the wind. The gusts, full of sand and grit, felt as if they had teeth. He opened the door to his squad car, slipped in, shook the dust from his hair and face, started the engine, and ran the wipers a few times. Then he started the siren and turned on his flashers. He slid out onto Main Street and cruised along, slowly, speaking into the horn. Of course, most of them would already have heard it over the radio, but it was important to go through the motions.
“This is the sheriff’s office. A tornado warning has been declared for all of Cry County. Repeat, a tornado warning has been declared for all of Cry County. All citizens should take shelter immediately, below ground or in concrete-reinforced buildings. Stay away from windows and doors. I repeat, a tornado warning has been declared for Cry County . . .”
He hit the edge of town, drove past the last houses, stopped, and looked down the dust-covered road. The few farms he could make out were already shuttered up tight, no activity anywhere. The farmers would have had their ears glued to the radio for hours already, and they knew what to do better than anyone: move livestock, especially the young, to sheltered areas; haul extra feed; make sure they were well stocked with provisions in case of a power loss.
The farmers knew what to do. It was the damn-fool townies one had to worry about.
Tad ran his eye down the road until it reached the level of the horizon. Above, the sky was black, intensely black; the sun must have set already, and what little light was left was completely blocked by the storm. The wind was gusting fitfully, pushing shreds of corn shucks and dust-covered stalks past his windows. To the southwest he could see a deep reddish flickering that looked more like the front of a war than lightning. In Cry County, tornadoes almost always moved from southwest to northeast. It was so dark that if a tornado were coming they couldn’t even see it. They wouldn’t know it was on them until they heardit.
He turned around quickly and headed back into town.
The windows of Maisie’s were twin rectangles of cheerful yellow standing against the murk. Tad pulled up in front and got out, holding his collar against the wind. The air smelled of dry earth and tree roots. Fragments of corn sheaves peppered his jacket.
He pushed through the door and looked around. The place fell silent as they realized he wasn’t there for a cup of coffee.
Tad cleared his throat. “Excuse me, folks, but we’ve got a tornado warning in effect for all of Cry County. Force 2, even force 3, tornadoes possible. Time to head home.”
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 fulclass="underline" 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.
“A betterlead. Did you hear that, Art?”