The Buzzard Table - By Margaret Maron Page 0,2

meadow, but nothing popped to the surface. I’d have to ask Daddy. He would certainly know. In fact, he’d probably put in an offer if the land had changed hands anytime recently. Daddy’s like one of those old Iron Curtain countries: land-poor, yet always trying to extend the buffer between our homeplace and the outside world.

Reese pulled up to the porch and blew his horn.

No response. Not even a telltale twitch of the sun-faded shades that were tightly drawn over the windows.

“Must not be home,” I said. “I don’t see a car. Let’s go.”

He tapped the horn again.

Rain dripped from the porch overhang onto the single homemade wooden step. When I made a pointed show of looking at my watch, Reese eased off the brakes and the truck moved forward to circle past a corner of the house that had, till now, blocked our view of a rusty old black Ford pickup down near the creek. A muddy track was all the invitation Reese needed, and even though I yelled at him, we went bouncing across the rough meadow.

The black truck was parked beside a broad slab of cracked concrete. The slab was half enclosed by the stubby remains of a wall that was now only three or four bricks high and had probably served as the foundation for a barn or storage shelter years ago. This time of year, night comes early and the gathering dusk blurred the landscape. As we neared the ruins, what had looked like a clump of dark wet rocks suddenly morphed into three big black birds that pushed off from the slab and flew away.

Buzzards.

Reese drew even with the driver’s side of the other truck and powered down his window. After a moment or two, the man inside lowered his and I looked into an unfamiliar face.

Late fifties or early sixties if the graying hair at his temples and a grizzled unkempt beard meant anything, the stranger wore a ratty black derby that had seen better days, a heavy black work jacket zipped up over what looked like black twill coveralls, and an unfriendly scowl. He could have been any dirt farmer in the county, annoyed by unexpected guests.

Except for his eyes. There was no curiosity in those cool gray eyes, yet I felt that we were being scanned and catalogued and that everything about us was being filed for future reference.

“Yes?” he said.

“Reese Knott,” my nephew said. “I was over a couple of days ago. Remember?”

“You remember hearing I don’t like company?”

“Just buzzards. I know,” Reese said cheerfully, ignoring the man’s frosty tone. “I brought them some squirrels.”

He hopped out of the cab and headed around to the back of his truck.

The man continued to stare at me through the open window.

“I’m Reese’s aunt,” I said, annoyed by the awkward situation. If he’d warned Reese off before, then clearly we were trespassing and his rudeness was somewhat justified.

Before he could respond, Reese called from over near the slab. “Do I just throw them on top or off to the side?”

I glanced in his direction and saw the remains of a deer carcass on the concrete slab where the buzzards had been before. The rib cage poked up from a mound of fur.

“No!” the man shouted back, exasperation written all over him. He stepped out into the misting rain and pulled a plastic garbage bag from under the toolbox bolted beneath the truck’s rear window. The box looked new and its unchipped white enamel was a marked contrast to the rusty dents in the truck. “I told you before that I don’t want anyone bringing them food out here but me. Put them in this and I’ll feed them after you’ve gone.”

Reese was clearly disappointed, but finally got the message. He dropped the squirrels into the plastic bag and headed back to the truck. The stranger remained where he was, looking up into the gray sky.

“Man,” Reese said, sounding like a little kid again as he turned the ignition key. “I was hoping he’d let us watch them land.”

As we drove back through the pasture, I leaned close to the window so that I could follow the man’s gaze. High above us, those three buzzards circled without flapping their wings. They seemed to bank and wheel almost absentmindedly whenever the thermals started to carry them away. A slight dip or rise in those big white-tipped wings brought them drifting back until they were overhead again, floating gracefully on the wind.

Waiting.

CHAPTER

2

Vultures prefer to eat fairly