"Oddly enough, while it's frozen particles that spawn the static electricity, it seems that it's the rubbing with other moisture in the cloud that really does the trick," Dane continued. "When it's really cold, as in cold enough to snow, a lot of the moisture is converted into the ice particles, which doesn't leave enough loose moisture available to generate the friction needed to create lightning. But in those instances where the weather isn't too cold and there's plenty of moisture, you'll find lightning and its first cousin, thunder. That's why you see lightning more often with early season snow storms, because the atmosphere and the land below usually aren't as cold as they are in January and February."
"So if Dr. Frankenstein wanted to jump start his monster in the middle of a snow storm, he would have better luck in October or November," Micah joked.
"Not as far fetched as you might think," Dr. Dane answered. "Defibrillators use static electricity instead of alternating current. Since wet snowstorms theoretically create less static electricity than a rainstorm, it would make sense that the lightning strikes in a snowstorm would be less powerful, and hence more survivable. I would hypothesize it's one of the reasons that, not only are lightning strikes during snow storms less common, the incidence of anyone being killed by one are exceedingly rare."
Micah stopped to ponder this, the image of Old Joe's Aisoyimstan returning to him.
"So static electricity can sometimes be part of a snow storm, along with the occasional lightning and thunder. Then of course you have the snow. Sometimes sleet, hail, or rain. Anything else in a winter storm we need to know about?" Micah asked.
"Actually, there are so many things found in a snow storm, we would need hours just to list them all," Dr. Dane said. "For example, barometric pressure. It's another one of those invisible entities, like gravity, that we can't see but we can sense and measure. It has a tremendous effect on winter storms. Obviously temperature is another, measurable but invisible to the human eye. Then there's wind, another energy we can't see but we can feel and measure. The best part is, with all of our advanced technology, even our ability to calculate these factors, scientists still haven't figured out how to manipulate or intentionally change them."
"I met some people while doing a story on Native American mythology who claim some of their people have managed to change the weather," Micah said.
"Cloud seeding with silver or calcium chloride is as close as modern science has come to catching up with rain dances," Dr. Dane said with a smile.
Micah finished the last of his notes, closed the reporter pad, and pocketed his pen before standing up.
"Dr. Dane, I want to thank you again for taking time with me," Micah said. "I know some of the questions were pretty elementary, but readers find it more impressive when a PHD recites the same ABC's as a kindergarten teacher."
"I enjoyed it," Dr. Dane said. "I'll walk you out."
As the two men walked down the hall toward the building entrance, they continued talking about their respective careers and challenges. During the conversation, Micah casually mentioned his recent meeting with the medicine man, and his claim of a creature in the snow. Dr. Dane slowed as Micah told more of the encounter.
"That's not the first time I've heard a story like that," Dr. Dane said. "In fact, we keep records on a number of cases where people claim damage was done or someone was killed by some sort of snow monster. I call it our meteorological version of the 'X-Files.' Of course there's never any physical evidence, and most of the time it's chalked up to a form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or some other emotional issue."
"Really?" Micah said, his hand itching to reopen his pocketed reporter pad. "How many?"
"Oh, we get more than a dozen a year," Dr. Dane replied. "Statistically insignificant. Way fewer than reports of Elvis sightings, and a fraction of the number of alien abductions reported in a year. We often see an uptick in the number of these reports soon after a fresh batch of Sasquatch or Yeti documentaries hit the tube. Saw a big spike after that Yeti snow demon movie on the Sci Fi channel a few years ago. Which means the reports get about as much attention here as those of the Loch Ness Monster visiting the Potomac. Only reason I know about it is that I was assigned to collate and develop a database for the reports in my first year here, back in '96."
Micah briefly considered how to tactfully request access to that database, then opted to just ask outright.
"Could I get a copy of that report?" Micah asked.
"Well, technically it's public information, although the guys with the bigger paychecks usually insist on an official Freedom of Information Act request," Dr. Dane countered.
"Yes, but by the time that paperwork makes its way through the gauntlet, it will be 'olds' instead of news," Micah said. "It would really help my research."
"Tell you what," Dr. Dane said. "Forget where it came from, and I'll e-mail a copy to the address on your card. Good enough?"
"Thanks, Dr. Dane," Micah replied.
The two men had reached the reception area.
"I enjoyed this," Micah said, offering his hand.
"Same here," Dr. Dane replied, giving Micah's hand a good shake. "Any other questions, or if you need to follow up, just give me a call."
With that, Micah headed into the parking lot to find his rental Jeep.
Chapter Fourteen
South Bend, Indiana
Wednesday
November 21, 2012
Michael Sanderson knew that, if asked on the street or in a TV quiz show, most people would be able to identify little of the state of Indiana beyond Indianapolis. But his world of St. Joseph County, located in the northern end of the Hoosier State, could compete with the better-known natural freezer known as Buffalo when it came to plummeting temperatures and brutal winter storms.
And this day would include both.
But Michael wasn’t particularly concerned about the leaden skies and increasing winds that threatened to freshen the coating of white on his spacious front and back lawn.
Instead, he had visions of palm trees and southern breezes filling his head as he put the last suitcase in the trunk of his aging Sebring convertible. The ragtop wasn’t very practical in that part of the state five months out of the year. However, it was the perfect vehicle for this trip.
He had worked hard all year, banking every dollar he could spare in anticipation of spending Thanksgiving in the Florida Keys. It would be a race to reach the Mason-Dixon line ahead of the storm, one that looked like it had a mean streak judging by the darkness of the fast-moving clouds, but the reward would be a 10-day soak in the sun with his beloved Beau.
Speaking of which, he needed to grab an extra blanket for his companion. Beau was a great traveling mate, mostly because he tended to sleep the miles away. A patient and caring man, Michael didn’t mind the fact that he had to do all the packing and preparation work for the trip while his partner slept through the morning. In fact, it was almost a blessing not to have the interference of his friend getting in the way while Michael gathered and arranged the luggage and travel paraphernalia.
“Beau, where is your blanket?” Michael asked as he headed back through the front door.
Next to the dormant fireplace, a 10-year old Golden Retriever opened one eye in answer.
“You wouldn’t tell me if you knew, would you?” Michael said, heading to the antique cedar chest parked under a nearby windowsill. Once there, he pulled out a worn maroon afghan, then carried it from room to room as he inspected and said goodbye to his home, turning off the lights as he went.
When he was ready to hit the door for the last time, Michael didn’t need to bother calling for his Beauregard. The sound of the rattling car keys being picked off a wooden peg on the wall had the Pavlovian effect of truly rousing the dog. With a quick stretch and a shake, Beau easily found his place by Michael’s side as the door opened.
As the duo headed into the cold wind once more, the first few flakes of snow began to fall. While his master situated the afghan acro
ss the back seat, Beau whizzed his own farewell against a barren sycamore tree before happily bounding across the yard and climbing into the car.
With his best friend comfortably ensconced in the back seat, Michael took his rightful place behind the wheel and fired up the carefully tuned engine, which had been attended to by the mechanic in town the day before. Paying attention to such pre-journey details was part of Michael’s genetic makeup, and one of the things that made him such an extraordinary front desk manager at the Elange Hotel.
Spending nearly every day greeting people as they arrived for the start of their own vacations in the 112-year-old upscale hotel served as an 11-month appetizer for Michael’s own winter getaway. He never tired of asking the incoming guests about their itinerary, where they had come from, and what their plans were for the coming days. In a way, his job was like being involved in a year-round vacation, although his mornings could become hectic with the duties of ensuring someone else’s unencumbered leisure.
He enjoyed meeting the fascinating guests who expected perfection, and often found it in Michael’s service. It was his unyielding attention to detail that had helped elevate the Elange from just another aging high-priced bunkhouse to one of the most desired destinations in northern Indiana. While he liked the work and was fulfilled by encountering so many intriguing personalities at the front desk, none of those wealthy vacationers could compare to the company of his devoted sidekick, Beau.
While most people would consider such a monastic existence lonely, Michael couldn’t imagine anyone, male or female, who could bring as much affection into his world as the long-tailed canine who had been sharing his life for the last decade. Before Beau, he had sampled both sides of the gender aisle in search of someone who could “complete” him in a Jerry Maguire way, but those individuals had always come up short. He knew it was an unfair comparison, as there were few humans who could match the unconditional and bottomless affection harbored by a Goldie.
Now, Michael was heading to Florida with his best friend and couldn’t be happier with his choice of company. There was a secret little place in his heart that hoped Lady Luck would shine down on him like the sub-tropical sun and provide him with an attractive guy during his stay; but for true love and companionship, they would never live up to Beau's watermark.
As the miles reeled off the odometer, the flurry put on its work boots and endeavored to become a full-fledged snowstorm, lightly dusting the road ahead. On each side of the highway, a foot-high berm of snow left over from a previous plowing offered a visible testament to the delineation between the road’s shoulder and the strip of dead grass poking through the pock-marked and dirtied blanket of three-day-old snow. The blanket eventually bleached itself back to white where the tree line started, about 15 feet away from the edge of the asphalt.
An hour into the trip, the combination of fast-falling snow and brutal sideways wind turned Michael’s time behind the wheel from an enjoyable pre-vacation pastime into a serious full-time occupation. Fortunately, in this part of Indiana at this time of year, the two-lane road was almost completely devoid of traffic, meaning the occasional disconnect between deep-treaded tire and snow-caked pavement left little danger of the rare swerve turning into an ugly head-on collision.
Michael was aware of the snow warnings heralded on weatherunderground.com, where he had been web-surfing nightly to make sure that the trip would not fall prey to exactly this kind of storm, although he had to admit that he had spent more time perusing the 10-day forecasts for the 33040 zip code than the precipitation predictions for northern or central Indiana. Unlike the orderly world he had crafted at the hotel’s front desk, the weather was far less subject to agendas and schedules. The storm was getting agitated much sooner than he had anticipated.
In the back seat, the usually sedate traveling retriever was sitting up, his nose reaching between the bucket seats as if serving in the capacity of navigator and co-pilot. His lolling tongue camouflaged the tension in his furry body, borne partly of his master’s own elevated stress level, and partly due to the more highly attuned sensibilities to the elements that animals often possess. Beau could sense an ominous existence on the other side of the fast-slapping windshield wipers that no human could perceive.
The dog suddenly flattened in the back seat, his ears leveling back with the crown of his head. Before Michael could register that his traveling companion had taken the canine equivalent of the “duck and cover” maneuver, the Sebring was sent spinning by a violent gust of what he thought was wind that felt more like the slam of a velvet-covered caveman’s club knocking the back end of the car into a four-wheeled lazy Susan. Trees, then open road, then more trees danced from left to right across the movie screen of the windshield as the car spun in a silent yet deadly pirouette. Unlike a spin in the movies, which is always accompanied by the dramatic screech of tires, there was no sound as the out-of-control Chrysler surrendered its immediate destination to the will of physics.
On the third spin, the vehicle began to yaw toward the right side of the road, where no guardrail separated the macadam from the forest.
By the time Michael’s stunned brain landed on an appropriate vulgarity to voice, his stomach had twisted and revolted, silencing whatever epithet his lungs were preparing to offer as the car started its fourth spin on the way to an imposing grove of trees encroaching near the highway’s edge.
Devoid of syllables, Michael let out an unintelligible shout as the car careened toward the trees, while Beau tumbled out of the back seat and into the front passenger side footwell. Just before heading into a metal-shearing crash, the driver’s side wheels whumped into the hard-packed snow berm at the edge of the road, jarring the car to a stop.
The vehicle was on the right side of the road, facing the right way. If a passing motorist had happened along, they might have deduced that the Sebring’s driver had simply pulled over to the shoulder of the highway if not for the swooping circles in the snow-covered road which preceded the car’s final resting place.
Michael didn’t care. At least the spinning had stopped.
The temporary silence of the now-still vehicle was quickly erased by a discouraging hiss emanating from outside the passenger door, as the force of the impact broke the bead between rubber and rim. Both right side tires had gone flat.
“You okay, boy?” Michael said to Beau, ignoring the sting of a knot growing on the left side of his own head where he had banged into the window during one of the spins.
Beau was unsuccessfully trying to scramble out of the footwell and back into his seat.
His hands still shaking, Michael unbuckled his shoulder strap and reached over to help his friend. Bent over the center console, he didn’t see the hazy white figure sidling up to the driver side of the vehicle.
Beau did.
Squatting on all fours, the normally placid dog bared his teeth at the intruder now standing just outside his master’s door. Before Michael could turn and see the source of his friend’s reaction, the driver’s side window exploded inward, covering him in tiny diamonds of frozen tempered glass. A pair of powerful extensions that passed for arms reached in through the shattered window, grabbing the surprised driver’s head and spinning it violently to the left. The crack of the splintering neck bones were nearly as loud as the exploding window.
Beau, his claws now finding purchase on the front seat, snapped at the white appendages grasping his master’s head, chewing away great chunks of snow that instantly melted when they hit the car’s carpeted interior.
The frozen crystal blue pools that served as the intruder’s ocular orbs never changed expression as the creature dropped the unnaturally angled head with the now unblinking open eyes, leaving Michael’s lifeless body as the only thing between the furiously snapping animal and the frozen yet animated white being outside the car.
The creature silently reached beneath the car, grabbing the rocker panel in front of and behind the driver’s side door. Without a sound, it effortlessly
flipped the car over, inciting the barrel roll that the small snow berm had interrupted just moments before.
Inside the Sebring, Michael’s body tumbled onto Beau, knocking the dog back into the footwell with a yelp as the vehicle rolled over and then over again, flattening and ripping the convertible’s nylon roof. The sound of the vehicle crashing through the snow hid the sound of Beau’s right front paw snapping as it got stuck between the console and the passenger seat just as the late Mr. Sanderson rolled sideways into it. The roll was interrupted when the driver’s side smashed into the predestined grove of trees with a cacophony of twisting metal and breaking glass.
Injured and shaken but still bent on avenging his beloved master’s death, Beau crawled through the rip in the roof, then began scanning the shoulder of the road where the attacker last stood.
Just then, with an ear-splitting scream of wind, a weakened limb from a nearby tree separated from the trunk, hurtling through the air with the precision of a well-thrown javelin that no mere gust of air could ever execute, skewering the dog through the left flank and protruding out the right.
The crazy location of the branch through both flanks made it impossible for Beau to topple over, leaving him to die in an upright position. It is how he was found an hour later, when a good Samaritan noticed the swirling tire tracks in the snow and the wreckage in the trees before dialing 911 on his cell phone to report another snow-related traffic accident.
Chapter Fifteen
Ridley, Pennsylvania
Thursday
November 22, 2012
By the time he had finished his shower on Thanksgiving morning, Brad had convinced himself that he wasn’t going. While brushing his teeth and combing his hair, he had developed the polite yet firm explanation he was going to present to Mrs. Enderrin. While armoring himself in his cable-knit sweater and Dockers, he worked on his delivery.
At 10:15 a.m., he pulled the card from his wallet, found his portable phone under the recliner, and dialed Mrs. Enderrin.
Howl of a Thousand Winds Page 9
