Free The Whirlwind in the Thorn Tree by S. A. Hunt Page B

and the occasional snippet of a mumbled conversation. The P.A. system softly howled George Jones’s “White Lightning”.
    My dad’s agent picked up a newspaper from the box outside, took the top section and I took the funnies. The drizzle that had been going on all morning had progressed to a downpour, and sheeted against the safety glass in staccato handfuls, blown by the wind.
    Bayard must have caught me watching it with a worried expression on my face, because he picked up another section of the paper and showed me the day’s weather. “It’s not supposed to stay this bad all day. It should taper off around the time we go down for the burial, at least to a mild shower,” said Bayard.
    George Jones punctuated it with a “Pbbsshh— white-uh lightnin!”
    The waitress came back with our coffee and to take our order. I grabbed the funnies and tried to read the rest of them, but I couldn’t concentrate on them long enough. I looked at the newspaper Bayard held, and saw a headline I’d seen far too much of that year: 13 KILLED IN GUNMAN’S SCHOOL RAMPAGE.
    I dug in my pocket and pulled the top of the agent’s newspaper down, showing him the enigmatic key I’d gone around testing last night. “Would you happen to have any idea what this goes to?”
    He seemed to think about it, and said, “Afraid I haven’t a clue.”
    “I found it in one of the boxes that had my dad’s stuff in it.”
    “Maybe it’s an extra house key.”
    “See, I thought it might be, but I went to my dad’s house last night and tried it on every lock I could find. It doesn’t go to any of them.”
    “Strange. Well, you know how people collect junk over the years. I myself have quite the impressive junk drawer. Drawers. Okay, a garage. ”
    I twirled the key this way and that, studying its dull, tarnished surface. That’s when I noticed a scratch on one face. Two scratches. Someone had used an engraving pen or something to carve a + on the key.
    “What do you make of this?” I asked, showing it to Bayard.
    He examined it up close, looking down his big nose at it through his bifocals.
    “French toast and sausage,” said the waitress, putting a plate on the table. Bayard put aside his newspaper and gestured to himself. She put my omelet down in front of me and deposited a ramekin of pancake syrup and one of salsa. I took a sip of coffee and stared at the key, willing the secret to out itself. I began to feel like Don Quixote, chasing windmills.
    Bayard grinned over my shoulder and boomed, “Hey, look what the cat dragged in. Come sit with us!”
    I turned in my seat to see Sawyer Winton and the rock-chick Joanne Woodward I’d made uncomfortable eye contact with at the viewing. She was ruffling the rain out of her short pixie hair. Sawyer was folding an umbrella.
    They came over and we made room for them; the waitress came back and took their orders. Sawyer was carrying the camera again, but it wasn’t running and the lens cap was in place.
    The girl beamed at me. “It’s nice to finally meet you in a place that’s not quite so somber, Mr. Brigham,” she said, proferring a hand. I shook it. “My name is Noreen, Noreen Mears. I’ve been a fan of your dad’s books for as long as I can remember. I wish I’d gotten to meet him while he was alive. It’s a lot of lore to catch up on, isn’t it?
    “I don’t envy you—but maybe I do, because you’re getting to experience the series from the very beginning. Oh, it must be so exciting! You’ve got a wonderful journey ahead of you, Mr. Brigham. I’m so jealous that you get to read all of your father’s notes, I bet he has an amazing collection of material built up over the years—”
    “Three shoeboxes’ worth,” I interjected. “And I haven’t even looked at his laptop yet, which as I understand, might take some time—”
    “Is it locked? I bet it’s got a really hard password. Would you like me to take a look at it?”
    “No, that’s okay,” I said, as the