Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 08 (4 page)

They muttered rebelliously but waited as I approached the edge of the largest circle. The corn had been flattened in a uniform clockwise swirl. Uncomfortably aware of my audience and the terrifying specter that the cameraman might immortalize the moment for the ten o'clock news, I squatted down and searched for so much as a heel print in the crusty soil. Beneath the stalks were some flat marks, but I didn't know what to make of them. The corn itself looked healthy, although it was possible it had been stricken by some invisible disease that would show up under a microscope. I crawled out to the middle of the circle, where I found a small area of disturbed soil. To my regret, I did not find a single footprint.

"Well?" Ruby Bee yelled at me.

"Well, come on," I said as I stood up. "Let's measure the damn things for posterity."

We eventually determined that papa circle had a diameter of eighteen feet; mama of twelve, and baby of six. The paths linking them were twelve and six feet long respectively. After all this had been carefully recorded and presented to me with great solemnity, we hiked back up the hill to Raz's shack.

More folks had shown up as the story raced through town like a snake going through a hollow log. Some of the high school kids had slipped away from classes to point and goggle. Mrs. Jim Bob and Brother Verber were having a whispered conference in the shade of the ramshackle barn. Dahlia and Kevin looked deeply bewildered, but they usually did when confronted with anything more complex than a comic strip. Other recent arrivals included Elsie McMay, Lottie Estes, Eula Lemoy, Millicent McIlhaney, Kevin's parents, and even a few backwoods Buchanons who normally surface only after a hard rain.

"Raz must have made more than fifty dollars by now," I said as I held up a strand of wire to allow my deputies to crawl into the yard.

Ruby Bee gave me a hard look. "So he's taking advantage of the situation. That don't mean he created it. You didn't find any footprints, did you?"

"No, but I didn't find any traces of extraterrestrial involvement either. I'll run a cornstalk over to the county extension lab this afternoon and let them examine it with the proper equipment. In the meantime, don't start spreading any crazy stories, okay? Maggody's been the butt of a lot of jokes in the last few years, and I still hear about certain events every time I go by the state police barracks. Just this one time let's not go totally hog-wild."

"I do not gossip," she said with a prim frown, then hustled over to the nearest group to expound on the impeccable roundness of the circles and the very peculiar absence of footprints any closer than ten feet. Estelle was kind enough to contribute the statistics.

There wasn't anything more for me to do, I decided as I headed for the gate. If I was lucky, I'd get back results from the lab before we had a three-ring circus on the hillside. I had a bleak suspicion that the clowns were already on their way, crammed in their car like naked Pentecostals.

"Arly Hanks," called Mrs. Jim Bob with her customary charm, "Brother Verber and I need to have a word with you."

I reluctantly veered toward them. "Any word in particular or just a word?"

Brother Verber's ruddy face looked a little pale, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. He sucked on his lip for a moment, then said, "What's this I heard about cattle mutilations right here in Stump County? Is there a blossoming satanic cult in our midst?"

"Where'd you hear about it?" I asked him. "And what exactly did you hear, for that matter?"

"I cannot reveal my sources," he said piously. "As a minister I took vows to protect the identity of any wretch who comes to me to confess to sinful and lascivious behavior. You'll just have to respect the confidentiality of the pulpit and answer my questions."

I smiled sweetly. "Good heavens, has hell frozen over? I must run home and get my ice skates."

Mrs. Jim Bob failed to appreciate my wit. "Now listen here, Chief Hanks, I've had enough of your smart mouth to last me a lifetime. Something is going on around here, and whatever it is stinks worse than a buzzard's nest. It's your responsibility to get to the bottom of it."

I decided not to tickle her nose with the stalk of corn, although it might have been a pleasant diversion. "Okay, Brother Verber, you go right ahead and protect the confidentiality of the pulpit till the cows come home -- the ones that aren't mutilated anyway. I've got some business at the county extension office."

I left them fuming and walked down the road to the highway. I looked wistfully in the direction of the Missouri line but went on back to the PD and made a call to be sure I'd be welcome at the county extension office. After a small detour by the Dairee DeeLishus, I and my cornstalk left for Farberville.

Being a dedicated law enforcement agent and all, I ate the chill dog in the car.

CHAPTER THREE

Ruby Bee hurried back to the kitchen to see how the blackeyed peas were holding up, barely avoiding a collision with Dahlia in the doorway. "Take menus to the folks in the last two booths," she said, "and ask the men in the first booth if they want dessert. If they don't, hustle 'em out the door and seat that couple standing in the back."

Dahlia nodded and trudged away to do as much of that as she could keep straight. It was awful hard what with the jukebox blaring catchy tunes and folks jostling for stools at the bar. Her feet were already getting achy, and she hadn't been there but mebbe two hours. There was such a crowd waiting in the back that the noon rush might not let up till happy hour. It seemed like ever'body in Stump County that watched the news the night before had come to Maggody to take a look at the crop circles in Raz's cornfield.

She dint know what to make of them herself, but at least she had her old job back and was smack-dab in the middle of the excitement. "How're y'all?" she asked the five women crammed in the last booth, giving them menus and a right friendly smile. "You just take your time. I'll be back afore too long." The folks in the next booth were expecting something, but Dahlia couldn't recollect what it was, so she went on to the first booth and started stacking up the dishes and utensils. The men acted like they wanted to say something, but she warned 'em off with a frown, slapped down their bill, and headed for the kitchen with her greasy load.

"I'm out of cherry pie, so there's no point in whining about it, Gilly Jacana," Ruby Bee was telling a customer as Dahlia went past the end of the bar. "I won't argue with you that I should've made twice as many pies. For that matter, I should've printed up maps to Raz's place and sold them for a quarter. Now you either have a piece of carrot cake or put three dollars and seventy-seven cents on the bar and be about your business."

Gilly Jacana opted to be about his business (which was conveying a truckload of doomed chickens to the poultry-processing plant in Starley City). Ruby Bee was wiping up the corn bread crumbs when a pretty girl of not more than twenty-five slid onto the stool. Her hair was short and dark; her features were perky, her eyes big and watery like a doe's, her puffy lips outlined in pink. Considering the rowdy crowd along the bar, it was remarkable that such a skinny little thing had grabbed an empty stool, Ruby Bee thought as she set aside the dishrag and handed the girl a menu. "We're out of chicken and dressing, but the pot roast is real good."

"I -- uh, I was wondering about the Flamingo Motel out in back. Where can I find out if there are any rooms available for the next three or four nights?"

"You just did." Ruby Bee went to the drawer beneath the cash register, selected a key with a plastic tag, and took it back. "You can take number three. It's down at the end, where it's nice and quiet. Get yourself settled in, then come back later and sign the register. Things are mighty hectic at the moment. If they don't ease off before too long, I'll be staggerin' like a buckeyed calf."

The girl picked up the key and melted into the crowd. A fat, hairy fellow in overalls sat down and began to read the menu. Ruby Bee wasted a minute wondering who the girl was and why she wanted a room, then forgot about it and said, "How 'bout a thick slab of pot roast and some scalloped potatoes, Floyd?"

Jim Bob swung open the glass door and smiled broadly at the two women. "Welcome to Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy-4-Less," he said. "Today in the deli we have a special box lunch for only three dollars and forty-nine cents, plus tax. In it you'll find a ham sandwich, a pickle, potato chips, and two freshly baked oatmeal cookies. Your drinks are extra."

The older woman had stiff gray hair and a face that reminded Jim Bob of a disgruntled bulldog. "We had lunch earlier," she said. "We stopped here to get directions to the farm with the crop circles. A member of our organization from Farberville called me this morning with the report."

"We're from Little Rock," the second woman contributed. She fluttered her hand in that general direction, as if Jim Bob could see the skyscrapers above the treetops. He didn't care if they were from another country. He gestured for them to stand aside, gave the details of the box lunch special to a group of teenagers, and considered telling the woman to kiss his ass on account of he wasn't a fool travel agent. However, something she'd said finally clicked, so he went over to them and said to the bulldog, "What organization?"

"UFORIA. It's an acronym for Unidentified Flying Objects Reported in Arkansas. There are more than a hundred members across the state. I'm Cynthia Dodder, the president, and this is Rosemary Tant, our secretary."

"And you came to see the crop circles?" asked Jim Bob, wondering if he could figure out a way to get the whole fuckin' organization to buy box lunches. Hell, he'd knock off 10 percent or put in an extra pickle.

Cynthia nodded. "Many cereologists in England feel strongly that there is a link between the corn circle configurations and extraterrestrial activities. The numerous UFO sightings in Warminster in the mid-1960s evolved into crop circles by the end of the decade. And you must bear in mind that this area of England is home to Stonehenge, Avebury, and Silbury Hill."

"No kidding." Jim Bob whistled under his breath and tried to look impressed by whatever the hell she'd been saying. "So you think UFOs might be responsible for what happened in Raz's field?"

Cynthia gripped Rosemary's elbow and steered her toward the door. "We intend to prove it, my dear man. Arthur Sageman is flying in from California and should arrive sometime this afternoon. He is the foremost authority in ufology in the entire country. Come along, Rosemary. We need to arrange for motel rooms before Arthur and Brian get here."

The women climbed into a dusty white car and drove away. Jim Bob went out into the parking lot and counted the cars across the road at Ruby Bee's. There were three times as many of them as he'd ever seen on a Thursday afternoon. Come the weekend, all the folks who couldn't get away from work would come streaming to town like ants to a Sunday school picnic.

He decided he should rent one of those portable signs and park it down by the edge of the road. Surely he could get a dollar more for the box lunches, or two if he threw in a free soft drink.

I was working on the accident report when a man rapped on the screen door of the PD. "Come on in," I said with a sigh, wondering if real writers were besieged with visitors just as the plot was getting steamy or, in this case, gory. "It's not hooked."

I felt a tad more cordial as I got a better look at him. He had curly black hair, a dark tan, and white teeth. He was short, but everything was firm under a veneer of Italian silk and 100 percent cotton. I put his age at thirty, give or take a few years. Most important, he lacked the glint in his eyes that was symptomatic of a flying saucer fanatic. I'd seen a lot of glints in the last twenty-four hours.

"I'm Jules Channel," he said as he sat down across from me and leaned a briefcase against the wall. "I work for a magazine based in Florida, and we're planning to do a story about the crop circles."

"You came all the way from Florida?"

"I was on assignment in Louisiana when my editor called this morning. He was alerted to a story on your local news and thought it had potential."

I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on the corner of the desk. "I hope you're not expecting a comment from me, Mr. Channel, because I'm fresh out of them. Do you need directions?"

"I was hoping for an interview with the chief of police." He glanced at the back room, which by no stretch of whimsy could pass for an office. "May I assume you're it?"

"Assume whatever you like, but I am not going to be interviewed about this nonsense. After I've heard from the county extension office, I may be in a position to make a brief statement. What's the name of your magazine?"

"The Weekly Examiner," he said evenly.

I rocked back so violently that I banged my head against the wall. "You're from a tabloid?"

"I used to work for the Washington Post, tracking down politicians and assiduously recording their perfidious bullshit. I finally realized I could make a lot more money tracking down weirdos and assiduously recording their sincere bullshit. It's much more entertaining to write about toilets possessed by demons than the trade deficit. It's more lucrative, too."

"I thought you all sat around your offices and made up the stories."

He gave me a wry smile. "And breach our professional ethics? Believe it or not, there is a tiny thread of truth in most of the stories we report. Well, some of them anyway. We merely take what might be called a fresh approach to the subject and expand on the elements our readers find most intriguing. Eyewitnesses may be encouraged to use their imaginations to fill in some gaps. But there are some pretty amazing stories out there in the real world."