Part 15 (1/2)
Andrew Wheaton's wife and son had disappeared, and he blamed the F'thk. That the Galactics hadn't appeared for another two months seemed unimportant.
”The farm breaks even,” said Wheaton finally. A weather-beaten red barn was just visible in the distance behind him, past a stand of pin oaks. ”Most years. With my night job at the airport we made . . . I make . . . ends meet.”
”Twin Cities?” asked Kyle.
”St. Cloud Regional. I'm a baggage handler.” He tapped with a scuffed boot tip at a tuft of gra.s.s.
”Bunches of pilots radioed in about an unidentified light that night. The tower people talked all about it, but radar didn't see nothing.”
An evening star? Venus appeared in the evening sky that time of year. Ball lightning? A small plane
whose radar transponder was out of order? Several things could explain a mystery light in the night sky.
”The house was empty when I got there.” A gust of wind stirred the farmer's pale hair. ”Tina's car was in
the drive. House lights was on. Junior's sheets was rumpled, so he'd been to bed. Dinner dishes was only half done. So they was home at around eight, same time the pilots seen the thing in the sky.”
Kyle jammed his hands into his coat pockets. He felt sorry for the man, but how did that help? His body
language must have conveyed those doubts.
”I drove home through snow. The only tire tracks at the house was from my truck. I found footprints,
though. From boots, I mean. Their coats and boots were gone.” Wheaton stared at a low area in the meadow. ”They walked here, I think to check out the lights. They didn't come back.”
”What did the police say?”
”Snow covered everything before the cops got here. They didn't believe me about the footprints. Said
maybe a friend drove them away. Said maybe they left before the storm started, so that there'd be no tire
traces under newer snow.
”They asked, did I beat them? b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Changed their tune some when they couldn't find Tina and Junior nowhere. Now, they think I did it.” He jerked his coat zipper up an inch. ”b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,” he repeated.
”It?”
”Think I killed 'em. Cops dug up a bunch of the farm. Didn't find nothing.” A tear rolled down the farmer's cheek.
Jeez. Kyle didn't know how to respond. He studied the depression which Wheaton had indicated. Today
was a day for deja vu. First Andrew, and now the dip seemed familiar. Nothing grew here in November, but the dry gra.s.s in spots of the hollow was stunted and spa.r.s.e. Kneeling for a closer examination, the ground's cold wicking through his jeans, the thinness of the gra.s.s was explained: the earth from which the few blades grew was compacted, like a dense clay. The word ”clay” also teased his memory.
How these observation helped, if at all, eluded Kyle. All that he felt certain of, somehow, was that the despondent farmer had done no harm to his wife and child. ”If you don't mind, I'll have the area checked out.”
Wheaton nodded. He kept his face carefully composed, as though afraid to hope.Walking back to his car and Andrew's pickup, Kyle recalled what Andrew had bought at the 7-Eleven: a turkey TV dinner and a six-pack. He could do nothing about the lost family, but he could address that sad and solitary holiday meal. ”I hope you'll join me at my folks' house for Thanksgiving dinner.”
CHAPTER 22.
The blackened blotch that marked Swelk's landing site dominated the view eastward from Krieger Ridge. Kyle had paced out the scar, and it was fifty yards wide at its narrowest. The only visible irregularities at the opposite end of the valley were three reddish patches that more suggested than presented themselves. Gra.s.s didn't grow well in those spots, and the clay-tinted earth peeked through.
In the Midwest, where Kyle had grown up, soil was black. Years after settling in Virginia, its red soil sometimes still caught his eye. These particular red areas, which together defined an acute isosceles triangle, had lodged themselves in his subconscious: they marked the landing site of the second F'thk lifeboat, that had followed Swelk. The three landing skids had borne the entire weight of the lifeboat, tamping down the ground underneath.
Kyle tore his eyes away from the photographic blow-up of the valley near his home. The time for
speculation was past. It was time instead to see if he were imagining things.
Hammond Matthews jotted numbers onto a whiteboard. His annual winter beard, begun at Thanksgiving, was almost neat. By Easter, when he'd next shave, he would look like a mountain man . . .
except for the white socks and sandals. Past and present lab directors were alone in the eavesdropper- proof confines of the s.h.i.+elded radiometrics lab.
Matt finished with a John-Hanc.o.c.kesque flourish. ”The top number is a measurement: the weight of the charred remains of Swelk's lifeboat. Middle pair of numbers: upper and lower bounds of weight estimates for the F'thk lifeboat that followed her. The estimates derive from soil compression under the marks of the landing skids, just like you suggested. Measured wreckage weight falls nicely inside the bounds of that calculation, so the approximation method seems valid.” Matt pantomimed a drum roll. ”Last two numbers: the same range computation for the similarly configured compression marks in the pasture in Minnesota.” He didn't bother stating the obvious: these numbers were also consistent with a landing by a F'thk lifeboat.