At that moment there was a gut- wrenching scream - a man's scream - and then an earth-shaking thud - and then silence.
"Hey! Hey, down there!" Qwilleran shouted, running forward and ducking as something large and black flew over his head.
His flashlight showed the tractor lying on its side, half in the ditch. The operator was not in sight. Thrown clear, Qwilleran thought as he combed the area with a beam of light. Then he heard a tortured groan from the ditch. The operator was pinned underneath.
Futilely he threw his shoulder against the machine. Desperately he looked up and down the lonely highway. A single pair of headlights was approaching from the north, and he waved his flashlight in frantic arcs until it stopped.
"Gotta CB? Gotta phone?" he yelled at the driver. "Call 911! Tractor rollover! Man trapped underneath! Trevelyan Road, quarter mile north of Base Line!" Before he could finish, the motorist was talking on his car phone. He was Scott Gippel, the car dealer, who lived nearby.
Almost immediately, police sirens pierced the silence of the night. Seconds later, red and blue revolving lights converged from north and south, accompanied by the wailing and honking of emergency vehicles.
While Gippel turned his car to beam its headlights on the scene, Qwilleran climbed down into the ditch, searching with his flashlight. First he saw an arm, grotesquely twisted...next a mop of black hair... and then a bearded face raked with bleeding clawmarks.
A police car was first to arrive, followed by the ambulance from the hospital and the volunteer rescue squad from the firehall. Seven men and a woman responded. They had rescue equipment and knew what to do. They jacked the tractor and extricated the unconscious body from the mud.
Qwilleran identified him for the police officer: Edward Trevelyan of Indian Village; next of kin, Letitia Trevelyan in West Middle Hummock. The door closed on the stretcher, and the ambulance sped away.
The others stood around, somewhat stunned, despite their composure during the rescue.
"I heard the tractor," Qwilleran said, "and was on my way here to watch the action, when I heard a scream and the machine toppling over and a huge bird flying away. I think it was a great horned owl. There's one living in the woods."
"When they're after prey at night, they can mistake anything for an animal," the officer said. "You're smart to wear that yellow cap."
Gippel said, "That guy'll never make it. His bones are crushed. Do you realize how much that tractor weighs?"
"The soil is wet, though," Qwilleran pointed out. "He was partially cushioned by the mud."
"Don't bet on it!" Gippel was notorious for his pessimism, being the only businessman in town who refused to join the Pickax Boosters Club. As Qwilleran walked back to the barn, he dreaded the task of notifying Polly. The thought of a serious accident on her property would blight her attitude toward the house and add to her worries.
By the time he arrived, his phone was ringing. It was Celia. "Bad news!" she said breathlessly. "Tish just called. Her brother's been in a terrible accident. He's in Pickax Hospital, and she asked me to go there, because she can't leave Florrie."
"Call me if there's anything I can do, no matter how late," he said. "Call and tell me his condition."
He turned on all the lights in the barn in an effort to dispel the gloom that hung over him. The Siamese felt it, too. They forgot to ask for their bedtime treat and were in no mood for sleep. They followed him when he circled the main floor. After several laps, he considered the twistletwig rocker, wondering if its efficacy included the therapeutic. When he gave it a try, both cats piled into his lap, Koko digging industriously in the crook of his elbow. Qwilleran endured the discomfort, remembering that it was Koko's catfit that had sent him down to the building site - before the accident happened!
Eventually Celia called back. "He's unconscious, and only a relative is allowed to see him. I said I was his grandmother. He looks more dead than alive. The nurse wouldn't tell me anything, except that he's critical... What's that?" she cried, hearing a crash.
"Koko knocked something down," he said calmly.
"The hospital will call me if there's a turn for the worse. Tomorrow morning, after Florrie's nurse reports, Tish will drive to town, and we'll go to the hospital together."
"That's good. She'll need moral support. Keep me informed, but right now you'd better get some rest. Tomorrow could be a hectic day for you." Qwilleran spoke softly and considerately; he returned the receiver to its cradle gently. Then he turned around and yelled, "Bad cat! Look what you've done!"
Koko gave him a defiant stare, while Yum Yum scampered away guiltily. The epithet could refer to either male or female, but it was Koko who had been nosing the pencil box for several days. Now it lay on the clay tile floor in two pieces. The tiny hinges had pulled out of the old wood, and the box had burst open. The drawer with the secret latch held firm, and the paper clips were secure, but pens, pencils, a letter-opener, and whatnot were scattered allover the floor. As Qwilleran gathered them up, he saw Koko walking away, impudently carrying a black-barreled felt-tip in his mouth.
"Bad cat!" he bellowed again. "Bad cat!" It may have vented his anger, but it did nothing to dent the cat's equanimity.
Qwilleran set his alarm clock for six forty-five, an unprecedented hour for a late-riser of his distinction. He wanted to break the news to Polly before she heard it on the radio.
At seven a.m. the WPKX announcer said, "A bulldozer rolled over late last night on the outskirts of Pickax, injuring Edward P. Trevelyan, twenty-four, of Indian Village. He was grading a building site in a secluded area when he was attacked by a large bird, thought to be an owl. He lost control of the tractor, which rolled into a ditch, pinning him underneath. The accident victim was taken to Pickax Hospital by the emergency medical service, after being freed by the volunteer rescue squad. His condition is critical."
Qwilleran called Polly shortly after her wake-up hour of seven-thirty and heard her say sleepily, "So early, Qwill! Is something wrong?"
"I have an early appointment and want to inquire about Bootsie before leaving."
"I phoned the hospital last night," Polly said, "and Bootsie was resting comfortably after the initial treatment. It was nice of you to call."
"One other thing... I'm sorry to report that Eddie Trevelyan is in the hospital."
"How do you know?" she asked anxiously.
"It was on the air this morning. He was in an accident last night."
"Oh, dear! I hope it wasn't drunk driving."
"They called it a tractor rollover. It looks as if he won't be able to supervise his crew for a while."
In the pause that followed, Qwilleran could imagine the questions racing through Polly's mind: How bad is it? How long will he be incapacitated? Can his helpers proceed without him? Will it delay my construction?
"Oh, no!" she cried. "Was he working on my property?"
"I'm afraid so. He was doing a little midnight grading while he had the use of a rented skim-loader."
"I feel terribly guilty about this, Qwill. I've been nagging him about the grading," Polly said in anguish. "It's so discouraging. Everything seems to be happening at once. First Bootsie, and now this!"
"One thing I can assure you, Polly. You have no reason to worry about the house. If any problem arises, it'll be solved. Just leave everything to me."
Qwilleran hung up with a sense of defeat, knowing his advice would be ignored; she would worry more than ever. It was nearly eight o'clock, and he walked briskly down the trail in the hope of finding workmen on the job. The site was deserted. The tractor lay on its side in the ditch; across the highway its flatbed trailer was parked on the shoulder; the pavement was a maze of muddy tracks. Soon a pickup pulled onto the property, and one of Eddie's workmen jumped out.