Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

there’s some debate over whether a swan actually can break a human arm.”
    “This won’t help,” Horace said. “It did knock him down, but the broken arm is probably from the fall. But even a much smaller bird could put an eye out with its beak. I’m not going near it.”
    “Good point,” I said. “Stand by. You know that gate going into the pasture?” I said, turning to Mr. Darby. “Is it big enough to drive a vehicle through?”
    He nodded.
    “Come with me.”
    I dashed outside and found that, as usual, Horace had left his keys in his truck. I started it and waited impatiently until Mr. Darby ambled over and got up into the passenger seat.
    “When we get there, you open the gate.”
    He nodded and I put the truck into gear, lurching down a muddy dirt road. When we got to the gate, Mr. Darby stepped out to open it. When he’d closed it after me, he stayed on the outside and leaned against the fence instead of getting back in the cab. I tried not to take that as a vote of no confidence in my rescue plan.
    The truck lurched violently as I steered toward the end of the field where I could see Horace and Sammy, waving pitchforks at a black swan. The swan was sitting on a black lump— presumably Dr. Smoot in his cape— and paid no attention to them, apart from occasionally rising slightly to flap its enormous wings.
    As I drew near, Horace got careless with the pitchfork and the bird swatted it aside as if it were a toothpick.
    When I was about ten feet from the swan, I rolled the window down a few inches.
    “Stand by to rescue Dr. Smoot,” I said. “I’m going to try to push the swan away.”
    “But you’ll run over Dr. Smoot!” Horace exclaimed.
    “Tell Smoot to lie as flat as possible,” I said. “Your truck’s probably got enough ground clearance to miss him.”
    “Probably?” came a voice from under the swan.
    I began easing the truck forward. The swan didn’t like it. When I was five feet away, it stood up and began flapping its wings furiously. I kept inching forward as slowly as I could. Another foot, and the swan fluttered up into the air and landed on the truck’s windshield.
    “Grab Smoot!” I shouted, as I shifted into reverse and beganbacking up as fast as I could without dislodging the swan. After all, I didn’t want to hurt it— just get it away from Dr. Smoot.
    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.