I couldn’t see if anyone was following my orders. The entire windshield was filled with swan. I had no idea if a swan could break the glass with its beak or wings, and I wasn’t eager to find out. Luckily the swan wasn’t, either. It just continued to stand on the hood, flapping its wings and uttering menacing cries.
“If you’d just stay on the lake where you belong, we wouldn’t have to upset you like this,” I told the swan.
I was getting close to the fence. I turned as I reached it, and cruised along the fence line until I could see where the others were. Then I slowed down to an almost imperceptible crawl. The swan was getting calmer, and I was almost getting used to driving backwards, using the rearview mirror instead of the windshield.
I saw Sammy vaulting over the fence. Off on a useful errand, I hoped.
“Just drive it on into the field,” Mr. Darby was calling after him. He and Horace were hovering over Dr. Smoot. Sammy was fetching transportation. Good.
“They did it,” Dr. Smoot said. “The swans!”
“Yes, we know,” Horace said, in his most soothing tones. “But don’t worry, we’ll get you to the hospital in no time.”
“You don’t understand,” Dr. Smoot said. He sat up, looking very pale but determined. “One of them must be the murderer!”
“Attempted murderer,” Horace said, automatically. He and Mr. Darby looked at each other and then back at Dr. Smoot.
“Just how do you figure that?” Horace asked.
“Perhaps they’re not really swans,” Dr. Smoot said. “Perhaps they’re possessed.”
“They’re possessed all right,” Mr. Darby put in. “But they haven’t killed anyone yet, that I know of.”
“That you know of,” Dr. Smoot said. “Just wait. You’ll see.”
“How could they possibly have stabbed someone in the back with a pair of shears?” Horace asked. “It’s not as if they have prehensile wings.”
“Maybe they attacked someone who was holding the shears and they fell down on the point,” Dr. Smoot suggested.
“Doesn’t seem likely from what I saw of the wound,” Horace said.
“You’re not a doctor!” Dr. Smoot snapped. “Wait till my autopsy! I’ll show you!”
“We don’t know for sure there will be an autopsy,” I pointed out.
“Right,” Horace said. From the look on his face, I could tell Horace was having the same thought I was. How wise was it to entrust any autopsy to a medical examiner with a preconceived notion of how the murder had been committed, and by whom? Not to mention a grudge against his prime suspect?
“We’ll keep that possibility in mind,” Horace said. I could tell from his tone that he was humoring Dr. Smoot. Dr. Smoot could probably tell, too.
“I’m sure they’re responsible!” he exclaimed. “Just look at how bloodthirsty they are!”
“They’re just being very territorial because it’s mating season,” Mr. Darby said.
“Mating season?” Horace echoed. “You mean there are apt to be more of them soon? What a horrible thought.”
Just then Sammy appeared, driving Dr. Smoot’s vintage Pierce-Arrow hearse. Sammy and Horace helped the patient into the back compartment. It would have creeped me out, but Dr. Smoot was smiling happily in spite of his pain. The hearse was a new toy, and he was very proud of it. As Sammy drove slowly off, Horace and Mr. Darby turned their attention to me. I was still cruising gently backwards around the perimeter of the goat pasture. The swan had settled down and was now merely sitting on the hood with its head lifted up as if it enjoyed the breeze.
“Um . . . Meg?” Horace called. “Do you have any idea how you’re going to get that swan off my truck?”
I was more interested in getting myself out of the truck without injury, but I hadn’t yet come up with any bright ideas for achieving either goal.
The truck shuddered as I hit some obstacle too low to be seen in the rearview mirror, and I could hear a clanging noise that I assumed was part of the truck getting knocked off.
“You know, you don’t have to drive backwards,” Horace said. “You could turn it around and drive forwards. You’d be a little less likely to run into things.”
“No, I’d be more likely to run into things,” I said. “I can’t see a thing out the windshield except vast expanses of swan.”
“You could open the window and lean out,” Mr. Darby suggested.
I pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window an inch or so. The swan instantly scrabbled at the opening, but fortunately his beak was a little too large to get in. After several minutes of trying, he gave up, but continued to stare at the window as if daring me to open it wider.