Page 42 of The Killing Plains

“Oh my God.”

Brenda laughed. “You’d love the Rodeo, Col—it’s like a carnival crossed with a county fair.”

Talford nodded. “Less commercialized than that monstrosity in Sweetwater. Ours still has a small-town atmosphere.”

“Except when those PETA morons show up,” Lowell grumbled.

Iris stirred her coffee placidly. “We should all face our fears, Columba. You’re just in time—the Rodeo opens Friday. They’ve started setting up the pavilions in the north pasture.”

How easy it was to be glib about other people’s phobias, Colly thought, fighting to suppress a vivid flashback of the rabbit’s footpads slowly purpling in the python’s coils.

Her mouth felt dry. She gulped coffee too quickly, scalding her throat. “I’ll think about it.”

She looked appealingly at Russ, who said, “Let’s discuss it later, Momma.”

Iris didn’t seem to hear him. “I’ve wondered whether it’s right to host the Rodeo this year, given all the recent tragedy.” She looked up. The housekeeper had finished handing out refreshments and was hovering near her elbow. “We’re fine, Nadine. Go put your feet up. That bursitis must be killing you.”

“We should definitely have the Rodeo,” Talford said as Nadine hobbled back to the house. “Traditions are healing for a community.”

“Yes, but should we have ithere, after two deaths on the property?”

“Gotta clear the snakes one way or another,” Lowell mumbled around a mouthful of bread pudding. “Might as well have fun doing it.”

“Plus, it raises a lot for charity,” Brenda added, unexpectedly supporting her ex-husband.

A spirited debate ensued, the thread of which Colly soon lost in focusing on the interplay of personalities and the shifting eddies of tension and alliance that coursed through the conversation.Who are these people?she wondered. They had formed an integral part of her personal universe for over two decades, but any bond she felt was largely illusory, the product of custom rather than true emotional connection. She’d seen almost nothing of them in recent years. From an investigative standpoint, they were practically strangers.

The sound of raised voices pulled Colly abruptly back into the conversation, the subject of which, she realized, had shifted.

“Bullshit, Momma,” Lowell was saying, red-faced. “I told you before—that was a freak accident.” He gulped a long drink of bourbon.

“How about some coffee, buddy?” Russ stared hard at his brother, who took another pointed swallow from his tumbler.

Iris set down her cup and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I didn’t mean to upset you, dear. But freak accident or no, I think we need an internal audit of our policies and procedures—after the Rodeo, I mean. Better for us to catch any problems than for the Public Utility Commission to find them.”

“The PUC’s already cleared us. They’re not gonna reopen anything unless we do something to provoke ’em, for fuck’s sake—”

“Lowell.” Russ leaned forward, gripping his coffee cup.

“Every industry has its accidents,” Talford said mildly. “At least with wind turbines, they’re usually small-scale, not like oil spills or nuclear whatnots.”

Iris smiled at him. “True, thank God. Though that’s little comfort to the woman’s family, I’m sure.”

“I think I missed something,” Colly said. “What accident?”

An awkward silence followed. Finally, Brenda said, “There was a bird strike on one of the turbines a year and a half ago. A woman was killed. I’m surprised you didn’t hear—it was in the papers.”

“Not the Houston papers. How on earth does someone get killed by a bird strike on a wind turbine?”

“It was one of those crazy, wrong-place, wrong-time—”

“Not a great dessert subject,” Russ cut in.

Brenda waved off the objection. “Colly’s used to gory stuff.” She followed this with a brief explanation of the incident. A turkey vulture had flown into a blade on a windy day, causing a large piece of it to break off and sail onto a road, where a driver had swerved to miss it and crashed over an embankment.

“I didn’t know those turbines were so fragile,” Colly said.

“They usually aren’t.”

---