Of course, maybe the chicken tent wasn’t the best place to test, because the volunteers here should logically be on high alert. The pig farmers might be complacent, but the chicken owners had just had a graphic demonstration that their birds were highly vulnerable. Maybe I should test someplace else.
But I was here already. So I stopped at the middle of the tent side, or as close to it as I could calculate. As far as possible from the volunteer guards on either end. I tested the canvas.
It wasn’t fastened down, and it was loose. Loose enough to crawl under?
I got down and tried. It was a tight fit, but I made it.
I stood up inside the tent, fully expecting to be pounced on by volunteers from one or both entrances.
Nothing happened.
I could hear an occasional cluck or squawk, and one soft human snore, over to my right.
So much for relying on the guards at the tent entrances. The tents were vulnerable, unless some of the owners had decided to set up an ambush for potential thieves. I had to stifle a giggle at the thought of the Bonnevilles, still wearing their elaborate mourning, crouching in the dark behind the bantam cages in hopes of pouncing on the returning chicken thief.
I stepped a little farther into the tent, still expecting—or at least hoping—that someone would tackle me or shine a flashlight beam into my eyes.
Nothing. The tent was—well, not empty, but there was, as the saying goes, nobody here but us chickens. And, judging from the snores, maybe one tired chicken farmer who’d been trying to keep watch inside and fallen asleep.
Or was there someone else here? I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I stepped carefully into the nearest area of deep shadow and stood, breathing as quietly as I could, listening.
Was I only imagining soft footfalls at the other end of the tent, barely more than a rustling on the straw that covered the ground?
Then I saw a brief flash of light—probably the beam of a flashlight, turned on so the holder could get his bearings and then off again as fast as possible. It was on my left, near the back entrance of the tent.
I held my breath and began slipping down the right-hand aisle, which I thought would let me reach the place where the flash had been with the least chance of being seen. As I passed their cages, a few of the chickens roused slightly and clucked or squawked. Rose Noire would probably have advised me to calm them by beaming comforting thoughts about plentiful feed and warm nests. I just tried to walk as softly as I could.
I had reached the end of the tent where the bantam fowl were kept. I could see well enough now to make out a shadowy form in one corner. A tall form. And oddly shaped. Was the midnight chicken thief a hunchback?
I heard a slight metallic noise. Someone opening the latch on a cage? And then a faint squawk, soon muffled.
I stopped, aimed my flashlight at where the noise was coming from, and turned it on.
Genette. She had frozen when the beam hit her, with a startled look on her face. She was wearing all black—formfitting black leggings, black suede ankle boots, a hooded black jacket, and gauntlet-style black gloves. She even had a snazzy little black suede purse slung over one shoulder. About the only sour note in her outfit was the black plastic trash bag slung over the other shoulder—a bag that was writhing and squawking slightly. In one hand she held a small, copper-colored chicken—probably a Nankin, according to the part of my brain that had been studying chicken breeds so assiduously. She was holding the chicken’s beak closed with her fingers to keep her from making noise, and the poor creature seemed too sleep-befuddled to put up much resistance when Genette moved again and stuffed her into the mouth of the bag.
“Unhand that chicken,” I said. “And drop the bag.”
I wasn’t really expecting cooperation, so I wasn’t taken by surprise when Genette turned and fled down the far aisle. I gave chase. I had the flashlight, and kept the beam down low, so it helped me more than it did her. I could hear her bumping into cages as she ran. About halfway down the aisle, she whirled and threw the garbage bag at me. It missed, but I had to swerve to avoid trampling the chickens in it.
Near the tent entrance, I finally caught up with Genette and brought her down with a clumsy but effective tackle.
I tried to pin her to the ground, but she wriggled onto her back and slashed at my face with her nails.
I punched her in the jaw. Oddly, she screamed before the blow landed.
“Owwwwww!”
She curled up into a fetal position. I scrambled to my feet and took a step back, so I was close enough to do something if she made another break for it, but not close enough for her to reach me easily.
I could feel blood running down my face. I reached up to see how bad the scratches were, and encountered a foreign object stuck into my cheek. I held it up to the light from my flashlight. A fake nail. At least part of it was fake. Maybe there was some real nail stuck to the long clawlike bit of acrylic. I dropped it in distaste.