The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  He began to count the tank cars but lost track when the killdeers began to trill their call, sounding like a machine-gun staccato of chirps. David glanced down. Now there were four birds staring at him, crying louder and louder. David thought they mistook him for Dr. Safferson, maybe believing he was their meal ticket. But he had nothing to feed them. He looked back to the train and the placards through his camera lens and continued to snap photos. The cars were essentially the same, except a few that had what looked like metal boxes affixed to their bellies. He brought his camera down. He had seen enough cars now to know that it was a unit train, what they nicknamed a “bomb train,” probably a mile long.

  The more he pondered the number 1267, the more familiar it seemed. He thought about Harold. There was the baseball scorebook David had seen on his desk that had the numbers 1 and 2 written in pencil, followed by a long line that dropped off the bottom of page. Maybe he was in the middle of writing 1267 before he could finish, before he was distracted by something. Maybe before his killer pulled him away.

  David recalled that Harold had died with his hand covering his belt buckle, his baseball sign that a play was on. Need to think baseball. Then it hit him.

  David had gone to the baseball field to clean up that night before he’d discovered Harold’s body. He recalled that there had been four balls on the ground: one by the pitcher’s mound, another around home plate, a third by the shortstop, and the fourth out in left field. On a baseball scorecard, the pitcher was always designated by the number 1, the catcher by the number 2, the shortstop by a 6, and the left fielder by a 7. It all added up now: 1267, the same number on every placard. Was this Harold’s coded message to me? What does it all mean?

  The sound of the train faded into the distance as it passed. It was replaced by the loud flight call of a killdeer from above. Kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-deeeee, it sounded. The birds on the ground seemed excited to hear the call, and they screeched louder and louder as they looked up at the sky. David followed their gaze and saw a huge bird land on a nearby tree branch. It was a killdeer—twice the size of the others. This made no sense. David knew from reading the material in Harold’s apartment that killdeers rarely perched in trees because they lacked a fourth toe, a hind toe, that would allow them to grasp a branch, much like a human thumb. Killdeers had only three toes, all facing forward. The best they could usually do was to perch on a rock. But here was this big killdeer in a tree, screaming to the delight of the killdeers on the ground: kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-deeeee.

  When the birds on the ground started moving toward him, David suddenly imagined that the killdeer in the tree was ordering the others to kill him, to kill the man nicknamed D. Kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-deeeee. In his mind, these birds didn’t want food from him. They wanted a piece of him, to peck his eyes out and eat his flesh.

  He backed away from the killdeers moving across the ground, but they kept lunging toward him a few steps at a time. They would come to a standstill for a few seconds, only to lunge again, screaming the entire time. He walked backward, keeping an eye on the birds while trying to retreat to the safety of his Spark. But he tripped on a small tree stump, barely higher than ground level, and he fell on his side. He scrambled to get up out of the dirt, but it didn’t work. The fall twisted his ankle, so it would not support his weight. The birds on the ground rushed toward him. David moved to a fetal position, covering his exposed face with his arms and hands, wondering if this was the end for him, wondering if the killdeers had killed Safferson. He had a flashback to the night he’d discovered Harold’s body, when he’d seen the shadow of something fly out of the apartment and wondered if it was a killdeer. Did the killdeers set them up?

  His prone figure braced for the onslaught of the sharp little beaks. He curved his arms to cover his face and neck, figuring the killdeers would go for any exposed flesh. The sweat froze to David’s skin as he waited, sending a shiver down his spine. Seconds passed. But he felt nothing, though he still heard the killdeers screaming. He peered up through his bent arms, but there were no killdeers in front of him. They were gone. Yet, he heard them screaming from behind. Rolling over on his stomach, he looked toward the dirt road where the Spark sat. There were the killdeers. They had run right by him and were screaming at something else.

  At that moment, David saw it again: parked near the Spark, facing him, was the black Chevy Suburban, with both front doors flung open wide. It looked like a huge, metal bird of prey. But the killdeers were not facing the Suburban. Instead, they were looking off to the side, toward a grove of pine trees between David and the vehicles. David, still on the ground, followed their line of sight and spotted the profile of a man’s face extending from behind a tree trunk. He was gesturing with his hands toward someone David couldn’t see. David looked away and panicked.

  One thing was for sure: it wasn’t Julius Moore standing behind that tree. The man was in his late twenties or early thirties. He had black hair and dark, olive-toned skin, sported a goatee, and had what appeared to be a large, diamond stud flashing in his left earlobe. Their eyes hadn’t met; the man couldn’t have known that David had gotten a glimpse of his face. So David’s plan was to make his way slowly back to his Spark, like nothing was going down. He managed to get on his feet. The ankle felt more stable now. But it was too late.

  “Freeze, Thompson. FBI. Put your hands in the air,” a male voice said.

  David stopped in his tracks and slowly raised his arms, then his hands, while looking straight ahead toward his Spark. He stood frozen, shivering, fists clenched.

  “Now, turn yourself to your right ninety degrees.”

  David shuffled his feet to his right.

  “That’s good. Keep going,” the man said.

  David’s back now faced the direction of the man’s voice. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “Drop to your knees. Do it now. Keep your hands above your head.”

  David thought about Annie. He knew she’d be pissed at him for getting in trouble, especially if she had to trek to North Dakota to post his bail—assuming she could come up with it. And then there was Christy. Nothing like trying to survive high school with people whispering behind your back about your father, the jailbird. The whole situation ticked David off, and he raised his voice. “Why? Am I under arrest?”

  But there was no answer. Just the sound of footfalls on the frozen grass as someone came closer and then halted. David could hear the man breathing over him.

  David felt something hit him from behind, a sudden impact to the back of his head. His eyes dropped shut, and he saw a bright light before his limp body hit the ground, almost unconscious. In a daze, he wondered what had happened. Why is the world suddenly sideways?

  He felt like he was in a deep sleep, dreaming only of Annie and Christy. He could see them, but they couldn’t see him. He could smell Annie’s perfume, the Charlie brand she wore on their first date. He tried to talk to them, to say how much he loved them, to tell them what to do now that he was gone, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Then he was back in the park. Lying on the ground, looking at the sky, he rolled his head side to side. Am I near home or somewhere else? Things went dark again, and he found himself in the same dream, a dream that revolved in an endless, frustrating loop. He sure hoped he wasn’t dead. If he was alive, he didn’t know how much time he had to contact Annie and Christy. They kept going about their business in his head, talking about David as if he were in the next room but totally unaware of him, even when he was holding Christy’s hand, even when he was embracing Annie. He rolled over and could smell the rich, dark North Dakota sandy-loam soil, even though it was near frozen. For a second, he thought he was in heaven.

  Suddenly, another bright light flashed in David’s head. Then there was nothing. It was over.

  TWENTY-THREE

  David opened his eyes. People he didn’t recognize leaned over him, in his face, all dressed in white. Someone waved a penlight over his eyes. Then they moved another lam
p attached to a metal arm overhead. Bright lights on the ceiling added to the celestial glow. The brilliance hurt his eyes, so he looked away, toward the large window on the wall that faced outside. David could see that the lampposts in the parking lot were lit, but otherwise, it was dark outside.

  “Where am I? What happened?” It was the fifth time David had asked the same questions, though to him, it felt like the first.

  “You’re in Barnes County Hospital, in Valley City,” said one of the strangers. He wore a lab coat accessorized with a stethoscope draped over his neck.

  “You mean I’m alive? This isn’t a dream?”

  The doctor smiled and nodded to a nurse, who then left the room. “You’re very much alive, sir. Very lucky to be alive, for that matter. You suffered a fairly serious head injury.”

  A few seconds later, Police Chief Frank Barber stood over him as well. “Can I talk to him now, Doc?”

  “Yes, but don’t be too long, if you can help it.”

  “Okay.”

  The medical personnel squeaked out of the room on their rubber-soled shoes, leaving just David and Barber.

  “Do you remember me?” Barber asked.

  “Sure. You’re Police Chief Barber. Say, can you take it down a notch? I hear you just fine.” But Barber wasn’t speaking loudly. “While you’re at it, can you tone down the lights, too?”

  Barber moved to the light switches and fiddled with them until the overhead lights above David went dark. He then returned to David’s bedside.

  “How long have I been in here?” David asked.

  “Since this morning.”

  “Is that when I saw you?”

  “Why, yes. Don’t you remember?”

  “I recall talking with you, but I don’t know if it was today, yesterday, or a week ago. I don’t know how long I’ve been out of it.”

  “Since this morning, when we found you.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Around six p.m.”

  “Does my wife know I’m here?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. We checked for emergency contacts on your cell phone,” he said, pointing under the bed to a pair of plastic bags filled with David’s personal effects. “But you had nobody listed.”

  Annie had asked him to update his contacts on a regular basis, but he’d never thought it was a big deal.

  “I don’t know much about you, Mr. Thompson, and to tell you the truth, locating your family wasn’t our top priority. We’ve been extremely busy today; it’s been the busiest day here that anyone can ever recall.”

  “It’s just as well that she doesn’t know. I don’t want her to worry.” But that was only the half of it. He knew darn well she’d hop on the next plane to North Dakota if she found out, no matter how much David pleaded with her to stay at home.

  “Now, tell me again why you were in Chautauqua Park.”

  “I think I told you this morning. I wanted to check out the killdeers there and look around the scene of Safferson’s killing.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Yes. I think I even took some pictures of some killdeers, if you want to see them. There were quite a few of them over there.”

  “The killdeers are the least of my concerns. What happened to you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I figured you might know . . .”

  “I wasn’t there. You were. What’s the last thing you remember before finding yourself here?”

  David thought for a second. “I remember the killdeers were coming after me, and I fell down on the ground. Maybe I hit my head.”

  Barber’s mouth opened as David spoke. He was hanging on every word, waiting for more. But David just lay there, staring out the window.

  “So, are you saying the birds attacked you and knocked you out? I’m the first to admit that the birds have changed over the past few years, but killdeers aren’t killers, Mr. Thompson. A group attack on a human would be a first—”

  “I don’t know what happened to me. My head is real foggy. It’s like a piece of my life is missing. It’s a weird feeling—frustrating. You wanted to know the last thing I remember. Well, that’s it. How did you find me?”

  Barber sighed. “We got a call. A male voice said we needed to come over to the park. The caller said there was a suspicious man there that might have something to do with the train—”

  “The train . . . I do recall the train . . . across the river . . . before the killdeers. What about the train?”

  “So, you’re saying you don’t know about it?”

  “Know what about it? I saw a train across the river, a unit train carrying Bakken crude. What else is there to know about it?”

  “It blew up down the tracks, beyond the golf club, some miles from the park.”

  “Oh, my God. I don’t believe it . . . How did it happen?”

  “Federal Railroad Administration investigators say it looks like it derailed, though the guy who reported you on the phone said he thought you were involved with the explosion. He thought you were a terrorist or something. Can you believe that?”

  David went to shake his head, but it hurt, so he stopped. Finally, he said, “It’s all unbelievable.” Reluctantly, he couldn’t help but think of Julius Moore. If Moore knew about this, he’d be all over the terrorism angle and ready to question David again.

  “They got National Safety Transportation Board investigators on the way,” Barber said. “Half the tank cars have blown up so far. Many of them are on fire as we speak. They’ve evacuated the area. Six people have been killed. There are five firefighters and first responders in the hospital now on another floor being treated for burns and smoke inhalation.”

  David was frozen and wild-eyed. All he wanted to do was shake his aching head from side to side in denial. “I don’t believe it,” he said again.

  “You mean to say you don’t know anything about it?”

  “No, I don’t. Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

  “Quite sure.”

  David rubbed his face, then tried to massage his temples. It didn’t do any good. His head throbbed violently; he was beginning to feel nauseated. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the news or if the incident at the park was sending aftershocks through his system.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Thompson?”

  David wasn’t about to tell Barber how he really felt. One thing was crystal clear in David’s head from the darkness outside the window: he wanted out of the hospital. He wasn’t exactly sure where he would go from there, but he’d figure it out on the road.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just trying to process all that’s happened today.”

  “You and me both.”

  Barber walked toward the window, staring at his reflection in the glass, not saying a word. Then he turned toward David.

  “In a way, you’re a lucky guy, Mr. Thompson.”

  David couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d felt like a man whose luck had run out when he’d discovered Harold Salar’s body. He wanted to set Barber straight. But David could see that the one thing that stood between him and the outside was Barber. So he played along. “How do you figure that?”

  “If I didn’t know you were coming days in advance, and you hadn’t told me you were going to the park this morning, I would have thought it was all very suspicious with your binoculars and camera close to the scene. On top of it all, if that 911 call had not come in, chances are we would have found you dead from exposure.”

  “I see. Do you know the name of the man who reported me at the park?”

  “No, he hung up. We couldn’t trace it.”

  Barber moved away from the window toward David’s bed. He bent down and picked up two clear plastic bags full of David’s personal items. He wheeled the overbed table in front of David and dropped them on the Formica surface. “Can you sit up, Mr. Thompson, and tell me if everything is in there?”

  David pushed the button to raise the hospital bed. He poked at the bags to locate his wallet, cell
phone, binoculars, car keys, and camera in one plastic bag and his clothing in another. “Everything appears in order.”

  “Good. Well, I don’t have any more questions for you at this time. What are your plans after they discharge you? They’ll probably keep you a day or two for observation.”

  “I think I want to head home.”

  “I understand.”

  “By the way, where’s my car?”

  “Still at the park. We made sure it was locked and left it there.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “Here’s my card, Mr. Thompson. With all that’s going on here, I don’t know if I will be able to come back before you leave. Please call me if you remember anything more about what happened. Can you give me your contact information in case I need to speak with you?”

  “Sure, give me a second business card, and I’ll write it on that for you.”

  David wrote down his cell-phone number, his e-mail address, and his home address and gave the card back to Barber before the chief left.

  A few minutes later, David was arguing with the attending physician about being discharged. The doctor wanted to keep him overnight for observation, just as Barber had thought. But David wanted out. The doctor explained that while David didn’t have a fractured skull, he had a concussion, and that made rest imperative. David knew the drill, or so he thought. He had had his bell rung a few times while playing high-school football. Within an hour, his signature was on the against-medical-advice discharge papers, and he was in a cab on his way to Chautauqua Park to retrieve the Spark.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The park was pitch-black when David arrived. The only lighting was over the horseshoe courts; that sport wasn’t in season for November. Dim cab headlights found the Spark right where he’d left it near the dumpster. David climbed out and paid his fare, then watched as the cab drove off. The smell of burning oil from the train fire permeated the air. David could see the orange glow a few miles down the tracks. The fire was still raging.