Mad River

five minutes, and then when they were all occupied, slipped out the door.
    •   •   •
    TEN MINUTES LATER, he had his gear out of the hotel and back in his truck: they needed all the rooms they could get, and he wasn’t that far from home; or, he could go into Marshall, which was pretty convenient. If he went to Marshall, he could be back in Bigham early the next day.
    He drove out to the highway, to the stop sign, looked both ways.
    He could be back the next day, to interview the O’Learys. The emergency would be over by then.
    Or he could say, “Fuck it,” and go home.
    Let it go.
    If the whole crew of O’Learys had resurrected one person, one kid, from the calamity of Victoria Plains, that would make up for any number of Murphys, wouldn’t it?
    Well, no, Virgil thought, it wouldn’t. The O’Learys, he was convinced, had violated one of God’s own natural laws: Thou shalt not kill.
    On the other hand . . .
    Virgil sat at the stop sign for five minutes, staring blank-eyed into the night. Remembering all those O’Learys, dark-eyed, bright, hardworking kids, hovering over the mass of injured and dying, doing what they’d been so well programmed to do. Would the knowledge of their crime be enough punishment? Would it haunt them down through the years?
    What to do?
    Five minutes.
    Then Virgil sighed, said aloud, “Fuck it,” and turned toward home.
    •   •   •
    THE NEXT DAY, the weather guys flew over what would be known as the Victoria Plains F4, the biggest tornado of the year in Minnesota. It had been on the ground for almost forty miles, knocking over a few farmhouses and outbuildings here and there. The storm killed twelve people in VP, and injured forty-odd more.
    The track itself looked a little like a boa constrictor that had swallowed a pig. The southwestern tip showed a few downed trees, some messed-up fields; then the path got wider, and the damage more extensive. Then the trail got really fat, and in its fattest part, whacked Victoria Plains. After VP, it went off to the northeast, slimming down, and then, twenty miles farther along, lifting off the ground altogether.
    The weather guys would have needed God’s Own Camera to see it, but just where the trail had started to get fat, right at the head of the pig, the tornado had crossed a cornfield owned by a man named Alex Brown, and then barreled into an old woodlot, long neglected and overgrown with trees, brush, and not a little wild hemp; ditch-weed; marijuana.
    If they’d had God’s Own Camera, and had been able to see through the tangled mess of downed timber and layers of shredded brush, they might have seen the outline of a carefully dug grave, unexpectedly disturbed by the tree roots wrenched from the wet earth. And now, sticking up from between the roots of a dying marijuana plant, a few fingers.
    One with a heavy gold wedding ring.
    Dick Murphy.
    Pushing up weed.
    •  •  •
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