Chapter Eleven, Pt.1: The Pace picks up… literally.

Will dropped his dirty dish in the sink, ran a shot of water onto the plate and set his fork on top of it, sitting in the shallow puddle of egg yolk and water. He rinsed out the skillet with warm water and scrubbed it with a steel scouring pad. No soap! He remembered Nan’s admonition. “It leaches into the cast iron,” she explained. “Do you want to taste eggs or soap?”

She’d also have scolded him for not seasoning the pan before he’d cooked on it. She’d never accept that a merchant’s claim of “pre-seasoned” had any merit.

It was the first meal Will had cooked for himself in over two months. It had been made possible by an evening dash up to Maastricht and as a means of avoiding finishing off the six pack, which was been the only thing he’d had in the fridge. He had no plates, silverware or any utensils, either. He could have gotten all he’d bought in Venlo, but he’d been in no mood to go there. The Sheriff’s visit had left him sullen, and the beer and cannabis had done nothing to relieve it. It wasn’t his offer that bothered him—any man is his position would have made the same– it was that it proved he was “out there.”

Will sighed and pulled on an old tank top. Blom’s advice to “ignore it” now made sense. If Will need a head clearing, there was nothing like a run.

Will walked out to the driveway swinging his arms and sucking huge breaths in through his nostrils. After a few half-hearted stretches he headed up the driveway at a brisk walk. West, today. It was still quite cool, the sun had just cracked the horizon so the dew was still heavy on the roadside vegetation. Arn Mikkelson’s illicit crop was now a few inches high. The seedling rows seemed to glow silver against the dark soil. As much as the emerging plants rankled him he had to admit it was beautiful. As he approached his neighbors drive he forced a couple of coughs, turned his head and launched a gob into the gravel as he crossed it. My DNA is trespassing.

Will always hated the first two miles. He felt sluggish, clogged. His legs didn’t want to move and the air felt like it was coming through a cocktail straw. He’d had this problem since he’d first taken up running, and years later he still felt the same, that he was ready to quit this waste of time and was going to, as soon as this run was over. But, as always, at the two mile mark everything loosened up. His legs suddenly needed no urging, his lungs didn’t battle for air. It felt as if his joints were equipped with ball bearing and the air filled his lungs even through his ears. He’d just fallen into his stride when he saw them; vultures.

Dawn had just given way to full daylight and the sun was throwing heat on his back when a random glance at the horizon brought them to his attention. At first notice it didn’t trigger anything in his head. Seeing a buzzard in flight was no cause for interest in this part of the world. There was always one in view wherever you were, floating in lazy circles in search of a roadkill snack. It was that impression that inspired another look. What he’d seen was not a solitary scavenger hoping to spy a mashed cat, but a trio. He paid them more attention. They weren’t just drifting in random circles, either, but spiraling in unison, clearly fixed on something beneath them. Will kept his eyes on the birds, ignoring the risk of a stumble in a divot or out of place rock on the shoulder. After a moment or two he realized they were dropping, that each circle they made was in a cautious yet calculated descent. He’d never seen that before, and he running straight at them. His mind began to work. Will was no ornithologist, but he knew enough about vulturess to understand that three of them together wouldn’t behave that way if all that was beneath them was an unlucky rabbit. Whatever they were approaching was substantial, enough to feed all three of them at least. They grew larger in the air and lower to the ground with every yard he moved closer. After another two minutes and a quarter mile he could watch them with his head level. By now he could tell that whatever they were closing on was off the road. Will figured that ruled out a deer or a big dog. When two more birds worked into the pattern his brain kicked into a higher gear.