Look What the Wind Blew In Read Free

water, pondering. So far he’d only spoken to Dr. García on the phone. Their conversations had been short, polite, professional. But he’d read plenty about the professor and his work on this particular site and learned even more about his accomplishments, including his many accolades and grants awarded over the years.
    A movement near his boots drew Quint’s gaze. A gecko zipped in front of him, zigzagging across the parking lot toward the Poultry Express wagon. He capped his water.
    From out of nowhere, a wind whipped up, swaying tree limbs as it grew in strength, churning closer. Dust eddied across the dirt lot, coating the chickens and Maya woman in a layer of powder.
    He grimaced on her behalf.
    Instead of ebbing, the wind intensified, sucking up more dirt into a whirling dance. In the midst of the sudden squall, the Radio Flyer tipped over. The cage of chickens crashed to the ground and the door popped open.
    For a moment, there was only the whistle of the wind in Quint’s ears, then an uproar of squawking filled the air.
    Dirt swirled faster, the vortex doubling in size. It reminded him of the dust devils he’d seen a few months ago in the Nevada desert while writing a piece on the old ghost town of Goldwash.
    The whirlwind surrounded the Maya woman and her freed flock. Feathers filled the air.
    The distinct rumble of a diesel engine made Quint’s chest tighten. A tour bus turned into the parking lot. The driver was looking down at something, not paying attention, the bus moving too fast toward the cloud of dirt.
    Quint pushed away from the stucco wall. “Hey!” he yelled, stepping out into the late morning sunshine waving his arms. The bus driver didn’t look up, didn’t veer, didn’t even slow.
    “Hey! Stop!” Quint tried again, and then raced into the churning dust cloud. He had seconds to drag the Maya woman out of the way before the dust devil and loose chickens became the least of her problems. Dirt peppered his face and arms. He stepped on one chicken and stumbled over another. Inside the whistling, swirling mix of dust and feathers, he found the old lady. She was clutching two chickens to her chest while she searched the ground for more.
    He grabbed her arm, trying to pull her toward safety, but she slapped at his hand, pushing him away.
    The screech of brakes and grating sound of tires sliding over the hardpan made him cringe; the blare of a horn nearly blasted his heart out of his chest cavity. He reached for the woman, dodging out of the way right before a huge chrome grill shoved into the thick cloud. The Maya woman screamed next to his ear; her chickens squawked and fluttered out of the way.
    Crap! That had been a close one. Too close.
    Over the bedlam, Quint heard the shouts of the bus driver. He was leaning out the window, shaking his fist.
    “ Lo siento, ” he apologized to the driver, trying to smooth things over now that a fatality had been avoided. He coughed from the dust and the pungent odor of burning brake pads.
    Another gust of wind blew Quint’s hat off, sending it tumbling, rolling out of the dusty chaos. With one last check on the chicken lady, who was busy stuffing hens back into the cage, he jogged after his hat.
    Escaping from the swirling dust devil’s clutches, he found his hat resting against the back tire of a tandem bicycle. Standing next to the handle bars was a man probably in his mid-sixties, wearing a straw hat, a green sweat-soaked T-shirt, blue jeans, and leather sandals. His heavy eyelids and large earlobes gave away his Maya heritage.
    The cyclist held a piece of cardboard with a name scrawled on it—Quint’s name.
    “Howdy,” he shouted to the bike rider over the rattle of the bus engine. Quint bent and grabbed his hat, brushing off the dust. He slammed it on his head and nodded at the sign. “That’s me.”
    The man’s forehead wrinkled. “ Señor Parker?”
    Nodding, he held out his hand. “Call me Quint.”
    The biker gave him a thorough onceover.