Road Less Traveled (7 page)

Then again, he usually saw Taggart at Café Diem, or out on the streets, or out in the woods surrounding Eureka. This was GD, so Taggart might be in “lab rat” mode, doing his best to behave like a proper GD researcher rather than his usual freewheeling self. Or he might just be preoccupied with something.

Carter shrugged and made his way up the remaining steps to the main floor. Then he headed out to the parking lot and his Jeep. Taggart acting strange was just Taggart. Right now, Carter was more concerned with the New York-style pastrami on seedless rye he knew Vincent could whip up for him, and the old-fashioned chocolate malted that would accompany it.

Those were far more important than feeling slighted because one of Eureka's odder residents hadn't taken the time to bend his ear for a change.

Carter leaned over his steering wheel to peer up through the windshield. It was just a little past noon—no wonder his stomach was demanding food so strenuously—and the sun was high, only a few wisps of pale white cloud marring the otherwise perfect blue sky.

Except for the small dark patch off to the left.

It didn't look big from here, no larger than a hardcover book, though Carter was sure part of that was because of the distance. But it was low—low enough to almost brush the roofs in that part of town—and such a dark gray it was almost black, and too filmy and flickering to be anything but a storm cloud.

A really small one.

On a clear, sunny day.

Yep, definitely weird.

But possibly exactly the break he'd been looking for.

He straightened up and returned his attention to the road, pulling his phone from his pocket with one hand while the other maintained its grip on the wheel. He dialed the number from memory. “Jo?”

“Carter.”

“There's a storm brewing.”

That made her pause for a second. “The sky looks clear here—hold on.” Another brief pause. “Got it. Heigel and . . . Plato, I'd say.”

“I'll be there in ten.”

“I'll be there in five.” She hung up.

Carter couldn't decide whether to growl or grin. Did she have to turn everything into a competition? And then win—every time? But of course she did. If she didn't, she wouldn't be Jo.

Well, fine. Because he'd been lying about it taking him ten minutes.

He sped up.

 

Braking at a stop sign along the way—no reason to
actually break the very traffic laws he was supposed to uphold, just like he couldn't really justify running the siren—Carter spotted a familiar figure. Tall, skinny, a little stooped, and wearing a straw hat to protect his bald head, the man wore a loud green flowered shirt over equally loud orange cargo shorts.

No one had ever accused the Bakers of being subtle dressers.

“Hey, Dr. Baker!” Carter called through his window. He had no idea which brother it was, of course. Even Jo and Henry didn't seem able to tell them apart. Hell, sometimes he was sure the Bakers themselves couldn't tell one from the other, and that was just plain creepy. But par for the course around here.

Dr. Baker—whichever one it was—glanced up and saw him. He nodded but didn't wave or say hello back. Instead he simply crossed in front of Carter's Jeep and continued on his way.

Strange. The Bakers were quiet as a rule, but they'd always been polite. And after a recent incident where they—and half the town—had been transplanted outside Eureka, and Carter had helped solve the problem, they had been far friendlier. Usually whenever he saw one of them they smiled and said hello.

But not this time.

First Taggart, and now one of the Bakers.

He'd definitely showered this morning. And he was too far away for Dr. Baker to have smelled his breath. Was it something he'd done recently? Or something in the water? Or just Eureka's residents acting in their usual bizarre and unpredictable fashion?

Well, whatever. He could live without the Bakers greeting him enthusiastically every time he crossed their path. Right now he had a thunderstorm to chase, and a mystery to solve.

And a deputy to race.

He hit the gas, and his Jeep's tires squealed as he sped away from the stop sign.

 

Carter took the corner of Heigel and Plato, hard—and
then cursed under his breath. Jo's car was already pulled up in front of one of the houses there. The house that had the miniature thundercloud hovering directly over its tiled roof.

How did she always arrive ahead of him?

He pulled up behind her and hopped out, trying to ignore the smirk she directed his way. But that same smirk turned to a grimace when her companion spoke.

“Hey, Sheriff. Took you long enough.”

“I didn't realize it was a race, Fargo,” Carter replied, ignoring Jo's glare—the glare that clearly said “you saddled me with him, this is all your fault!” Which, in a way, it was.

But they might need a science geek for this. Henry would have been perfect, but as the town's mechanic, mayor, fire chief, and a dozen other roles, he was probably a little too busy to just roam around with them all day. And Jo was a lot of things, and ridiculously good at almost all of them, but science geek? Not so much.

Hence, Fargo.

“Looks like the place,” Carter commented, glancing up at the thundercloud. Little flickers of lightning rolled through it here and there, and he could hear the thunder that accompanied them, though it was oddly muted. This was probably due to its size; the entire storm couldn't be more than twenty feet across.

But that was more than big enough to house a Thunderbird, he was guessing.

“Think the second one hatched?” he asked as the three of them approached the house. It was a modest two-story dwelling with a mixed stone and brick front and a small awning over the front door. An awning that wasn't going to shield them from the sheets of water pouring down onto the front steps. The rain was heavy enough for them to hear it from the front lawn, and Carter guessed that walking through it would be like stepping into a heavy curtain—of hard-hitting rain.

His third shower of the day. Swell.

“Possibly,” Fargo answered, tailing him and Jo. “Though if it did, it reached a much greater maturity than the last one, and in record time.” He smiled. “Dr. Korinko and Dr. Boggs should be pleased.”

Yeah, of course,
Carter thought. Because having your prize research stolen, then set off prematurely and turned into a house-sized hurricane, was exactly what they'd been hoping for. But still, he knew what Fargo meant.

“I don't see any evidence of the Thunderbird itself,” Jo pointed out, squinting up at the cloud. “Though that storm is more than dense enough to hide it, especially since the Thunderbird looks like a storm itself.”

“Does it create storms, or is it a storm?” Carter asked. “I wasn't really clear on that part.”

“Me either,” Fargo admitted. “Dr. Korinko only said that it generated thunder and lightning, wind and rain. She didn't say if it contained those within it or could somehow separate them to produce storms that would remain independent of the Thunderbird's own location.” Which just proved why they needed Fargo along on this one—Carter hadn't followed through on his initial thought to realize that a Thunderbird might be able to create storms and then move on, leaving them behind like stray feathers.

“Well, either way, this is the best lead we've had all day.” Carter stopped just shy of the water curtain and took a deep breath. “So here we go.” And he plunged into the storm.

His clothes were soaked to his skin in an instant. It only took him three long steps to reach the shelter of the awning, but by then his hair was plastered to his head, his socks were squelching in his shoes, and he could barely see for the droplets clinging to his eyelashes. The water was cold, too—cold enough to make him start shivering again, despite the mild temperature beyond this little weather pocket.

Jo was right behind him, and just as soaked, but she didn't seem to notice any discomfort. Fargo, on the other hand, looked like a drowned rat with glasses, and huddled in on himself as if that would somehow help him dry more quickly.

Carter tried to shake off as much water as he could before turning and ringing the doorbell.

“Dr. and Dr. DelSantos,” Jo said softly as they waited. “And their two children, Marta and Tomas.”

The door swung open just as she finished speaking, and a teenage boy stood there. His eyes widened as he took in the badges, belts, and guns. “Um, hi?”

“Hi—Tomas, right?” Once again Carter silently blessed his deputy's encyclopedic knowledge of Eureka's residents. “I'm Sheriff Carter. This is my deputy, Jo Lupo, and that's Douglas Fargo from Global Dynamics. Have you got a minute?”

Tomas nodded. He was a good-looking kid, average height and dark skin, buzz-cut hair and dark eyes. The hint of a tattoo peeked up from the collar of his T-shirt, and another showed on his forearm, just above the bracelet there—one of those rubber bands kids wore to show support for various causes. He looked like a surfer, or maybe a skater.

“This is about the storm, isn't it?” Tomas sagged a bit. “Sorry about that. It just got a little out of hand. It should end soon, though, honest.”

“Out of hand? Care to tell me about it?” Carter was careful to keep his tone friendly. He also didn't bother to ask if they could come in. No sense dripping all over the hall carpet.

“It's my science project,” Tomas explained. “I'm working on a way to shape storms. Alter their size and direction, funnel them to areas that are more in need of rain while bypassing heavily populated regions to minimize any related damage.” He shrugged, and gave them an apologetic grin, one that made Carter glad his daughter was already away at college. He had a feeling most high school girls would have swooned if Tomas had grinned at them like that, and he didn't want to see Zoe smitten. Bad enough she had Lucas, but at least he wasn't this confident—or this unafraid of Carter.

“That's an excellent concept,” Fargo offered, uncurling from his soaking little huddle. “Most storm-protection ideas involve deflecting the storms, or somehow negating them, but that could deprive areas of much-needed rain. If you could simply sculpt the storm to skirt the edges of any cities, it could be allowed to run its course without threatening urban centers.”

“Exactly!” The boy's eyes lit up. “I've been having decent success so far, at least with the lower-impact storms. But the stronger the winds, the more the storm's own force tends to skew it out of shape, making it harder for me to reshape.”

Carter interrupted before Tomas and Fargo could get into a lengthy discussion about meteorology. “Okay, that's all very cool, and good luck with your project. But that doesn't explain the little drizzle you've got going on over our heads.” He glanced back at the rain just behind them and shuddered. He wasn't looking forward to heading back out through that.

“I needed a storm in order to practice my shaping techniques,” Tomas replied. “And it had to be big enough that local wind conditions could affect it, so I could be sure my methods would resist them.” He glanced past them. “So I built a storm. I was careful to keep it over our house only, and I asked my parents first.” His smile faltered. “Am I in trouble?”

Carter sighed. “No, you're not in trouble, Tomas. But next time, let us know you're doing something like this, okay? That way we'll know when someone calls in about the world's smallest thunderstorm.”

“Sure, no problem.” Tomas paused for a second. “Hey, hang on.” He disappeared, and then returned carrying a small computer tablet. “Let me see . . .” He frowned, thinking, then typed quickly. And waited.

Carter heard a shift in the sound behind him. The rain was still pelting the ground, and the roof, but it sounded somehow—distant. He looked back, and gaped.

The storm was still going full-force, sheets of rain dropping from the sky to crash into the ground—except the steps and the walkway that led down through the front lawn to the curb were clear.

The water had literally parted on either side of that the walkway, leaving them a narrow path through the shower.

“Thanks,” Jo told Tomas, and he beamed at her. “And good luck on your project.”

“Definitely,” Fargo agreed. “I think it's got great commercial application.”

“Thanks!” The boy looked thrilled to receive such encouragement. Not that he seemed to need it.

“Thanks, Tomas.” Carter offered his hand and the teenager shook it. “And I'm sure you'll do great.”

“Thanks, Sheriff. Sorry to drag you out here,” Tomas called as Carter followed Fargo and Jo down the pathway.

“Not a problem,” he answered over his shoulder. “I needed to cool off a little, anyway.”

Back at Jo's car and Carter's Jeep, the three of them turned to look back at the house and its private storm. “Impressive,” Carter admitted, shaking his head. A high school student shaping thunderclouds. What would they think of next?

“But it has nothing to do with our missing Thunderbird,” Fargo pointed out. “Which makes it just another dead end.”

“A dead end we wouldn't be worrying about if you hadn't destroyed any possible evidence back at the lab,” Jo snapped.

“What's this?” Carter glanced between them.

“It's not my fault!” Fargo protested—which was pretty much his signature phrase, as near as Carter could tell. He certainly uttered it often enough. “When I activated the sprinklers to take care of the containment gases, they washed away any trace evidence the thief might have left behind. But it was either that or flood the entire building with those chemical compounds!”