by Still Life
“Yes, sir,” said Tad. Although he’d never actually met an FBI agent before, this guy looked exactly the opposite of what he thought an FBI agent should look like.
“All right, Mr., ah—”
“Special Agent Pendergast.”
“Pendergast. Pendergast. I’m bad with names.” Hazen lit another cigarette, sucked on it hard. “You here on the crows murder?” The words came out with a cloud of smoke.
“Yes.”
“And is this official?”
“No.”
“So it’s just you.”
“So far.”
“What office are you out of?”
“Technically, I’m with the New Orleans office. But I operate under, shall we say, a special arrangement.” He smiled pleasantly.
Hazen grunted. “How long will you be staying?”
“For the duration.”
Tad wondered,For the duration of what?
Pendergast turned his pale eyes on Tad and smiled. “Of my vacation.”
Tad was speechless. Did the guy read his mind?
“Yourvacation? ” Hazen shifted again. “Pendergast, this is irregular. I’m going to need some kind of official authorization from the local field office. We’re not running a Club Med for Quantico here.”
There was a silence. Then the man named Pendergast said, “Surely you don’t want me hereofficially, Sheriff Hazen?”
When this was greeted with silence, Pendergast continued pleasantly. “I will not interfere with your investigation. I will operate independently. I will consult with you regularly and share information with you when appropriate. Any, ah, ‘collars’ will be yours. I neither seek nor will I accept credit. All I ask are the usual law enforcement courtesies.”
Sheriff Hazen frowned, scratched, frowned again. “As for the collar, frankly I don’t give a damn who gets the credit. I just want to catch the son of a bitch.”
Pendergast nodded approvingly.
Hazen took a drag, exhaled, took another. He was thinking. “All right, then, Pendergast, take your busman’s holiday here. Just keep a low profile and don’t talk to the press.”
“Naturally not.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I was hoping to receive the benefit of your advice.”
The sheriff barked a laugh. “There’s only one place in town, and that’s the Kraus place. Kraus’s Kaverns. You passed it on the way in, big old house set out in the corn about a mile west of town. Old Winifred Kraus rents out rooms on the top floor. Not that she has many takers these days. And she’ll talk you into a tour of her cave. You’ll probably be the first visitor she’s had in a year.”
“Thank you,” said Pendergast, rising and picking up his bag.
Hazen’s eyes followed the movement. “Got a car?”
“No.”
The sheriff’s lip curled slightly. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“I enjoy walking.”
“You sure? It’s almost a hundred degrees out there. And I wouldn’t exactly call that suit of yours appropriate dress for these parts.” Hazen was grinning now.
“Is it indeed that hot?” The FBI agent turned and reached for the door, but Hazen had one more question.
“How did you learn about the murder so quick?”
Pendergast paused. “By arrangement, I have someone at the Bureau watching the cable and e-mail traffic of local law enforcement agencies. Whenever a crime within a certain category occurs, I’m notified of it immediately. But as I said, I’m here for personal reasons, having recently concluded a rather strenuous investigation back east. It’s simply that I’m intrigued by the rather, ah, interesting nature of this particular case.”
Something in the way the man said “interesting” raised the hairs on the back of Tad’s neck.
“And just what ‘certain category’ are we talking about here?” The sarcasm was creeping back into the sheriff’s voice.
“Serial homicide.”
“Funny, I’ve only seen one murder so far.”
The figure gradually turned back. His cool gray eyes settled on Sheriff Hazen. In a very low voice he said, “So far.”
Five
Winifred Kraus paused in her cross-stitch to gaze at the very strange sight out her parlor window. She felt vaguely frightened. A tall man in black was walking down the middle of the road, carrying a leather valise. He was several hundred yards away, but Winifred Kraus had sharp eyes and she could see that he was ghostly-looking, thin and insubstantial in the bright summer light. She was frightened because she remembered, as a child many years ago, her father telling her that this was the way death would arrive; that it would happen when she least expected it: just a man strolling down the road, coming up the steps and knocking on the door. A man dressed in black. And when you looked down at his feet, instead of shoes you’d see cloven hooves, and then you’d smell the brimstone and fire and that would be it and you’d be dragged screaming into hell.
The man was approaching with long, cool strides, his shadow eating up the road before him. Winifred Kraus told herself she was being silly, that it was just a story, and that death didn’t carry a valise anyway. But why would anyone be dressed in black at this time of year? Not even Pastor Wilbur wore black in this heat. And this man wasn’t just wearing black, but a black suit, jacket and all. Was he selling something? But then where was his car? Nobody walked on the Cry County Road—no one. At least not since she was a little girl, before the war, when the drifters used to come through in the early spring, heading for the fields of California.
The man had paused at the spot where her rutted and dusty drive met the macadam of the road. He looked up at the house, right at the parlor it seemed, and Winifred automatically laid aside her cross-stitch. Now he was stepping into her lane. He was coming to the house. He was actually coming to the house. And his hair was so white, his skin so pale, his suit so black . . .
There was the low rap of the doorknocker. Winifred’s hand flew to her mouth. Should she answer it? Should she wait for him to go away?Would he go away?
She waited.
The knock came again, more insistent.
Winifred frowned. She was being an old silly. Taking a deep breath, she rose from the chair, walked across the parlor into the foyer, unlocked the door, and opened it a crack.
“Miss Kraus?”
“Yes?”
The man actually bowed. “You aren’t by chance the Miss Winifred Kraus who offers lodging to travelers? And, I’m given to understand, some of the most excellent home cooking in Cry County, Kansas?”
“Why, yes.” Winifred Kraus opened the door a little wider, delighted to find a polite gentleman instead of Death.
“My name is Pendergast.” He offered his hand, and after a moment Winifred took it. It was surprisingly cool and dry.
“You gave me quite a start, walking up the road like that. Nobody walks anymore.”
“I came by bus.”
Abruptly remembering her manners, Winifred opened the door wider and stepped aside. “I’m sorry, do come in. Would you like some iced tea? You must be dreadfully hot in that suit. Oh, forgive me, there hasn’t been a death in your family—?”
“Iced tea would be lovely, thank you.”
Winifred, feeling a strangely pleasant confusion, bustled back into the pantry, poured a glass over ice, added a fresh sprig of mint from the planter in her windowsill, placed the glass on a silver tray, and returned.
“There you are, Mr. Pendergast.”
“You are too kind.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
They sat in the parlor. The polite man crossed his legs and sipped his tea. Close up, Winifred could see he was younger than she’d first thought: what she had taken to be white hair was instead remarkably blond. He was quite handsome and elegant, too, if one didn’t mind such pale eyes and skin.
“I rent three rooms upstairs,” she explained. “You have to share the bath, I’m afraid, but there’s nobody presently—”
“I’ll take the entire floor. Would five hundred dollars a week be acceptable?”
“Oh, my.”
“I will pay extra, naturally, for my board. I’ll only be requiring a light breakfast and the occasional afternoon tea and dinner.”
“That’s rather more money than I usually ask. I wouldn’t feel right—”
The man smiled. “I fear you may find me a difficult boarder.”
“Well, then—”
He sipped his tea, placed it on the coaster, and leaned forward. “I don’t want to shock you, Miss Kraus, but I do need to tell you who I am and why I’m here. You asked me if there has been a death. In fact, as you probably know, there has. I am a special agent for the FBI investigating the murder in Medicine Creek.” He flashed his badge, as a courtesy.
“A murder!”
“You haven’t heard? On the far side of town, discovered last night. You will no doubt read all about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
“Oh, dear me.” Winifred Kraus felt dazed. “A murder? In Medicine Creek?”
“I’m sorry. Does that change your mind about taking me in as a lodger? I’ll understand if it does.”
“Oh no, Mr. Pendergast. Not at all. I’d feel much safer, really, having you here. A murder, how very dreadful . . .” She shuddered. “Who on earth—?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you as a source of information on the case. And now, may I examine my rooms? There’s no need to show me upstairs.”
“Of course.” Winifred Kraus smiled a little breathlessly as she watched the man climb the stairs. Such a polite young gentleman, and so . . . Then she remembered the murder. She rose and went to the telephone. Perhaps Jenny Parker would know more. She picked up and dialed the number, shaking her head.
After a swift inspection, Pendergast chose the smallest room—the one in the rear—and laid his valise on its princess bed. On the bureau stood a swivel mirror, in front of which was set a china washbasin and pitcher. He pulled open the top drawer, releasing the faint scent of rosewater and oak. The drawer was lined with shellacked newspapers from the early 1900s, advertising farming equipment. In a corner stood a chamber pot, the lid placed upside down in the old-fashioned way. The walls were papered in a Victorian flowered print, much faded; the moldings were painted green and the ceiling was beadboard. The curtains were hand-embroidered lace.
He returned to the bed, laid one hand lightly upon the bedspread. It had been needlepointed in a pattern of roses and peonies. He examined the stitching closely. Hand done. It had taken someone—no doubt Miss Kraus herself—at least a year.
Pendergast remained motionless, staring at the needlepoint, breathing the antique air of the bedroom. Then, straightening, he walked across the creaking floorboards to the old rippled window and looked out.
To his right and down, set back from the house, Pendergast could see the shabby low metal roof of the gift shop. Behind, a cracked cement walkway ran down to a depression leading to a rupture in the earth, where it disappeared into darkness. Beside the gift shop, a peeling sign read:
KRAUS’S KAVERNS
THEBIGGESTCAVE INCRYCOUNTY, KANSAS
* * *
MAKE AWISH IN THEINFINITYPOOL
PLAY THEKRYSTALCHIMES
SEE THEBOTTOMLESSPIT
TOURS AT10:00AND 2:00 DAILY
TOURGROUPS, BUSESWELCOME
He tried the window, found it opened with surprising ease. A muggy flow of air came into the room, carrying with it the smell of dust and crops. The lace curtains bellied. Outside, the great sea of yellow corn stretched to the horizon, broken only by distant lines of trees along the bottomlands of Medicine Creek. A flock of crows rose out of the endless corn and fell back in, feasting on the ripe ears. Thunderheads piled up to the west. The silence was as unending as the landscape.
In the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, Winifred Kraus replaced the telephone in its cradle. Jenny Parker wasn’t in. Perhaps she was in town, getting news. She’d try calling again after lunch.
She wondered if she should bring the nice man, Mr. Pendergast, a second glass of tea. Southerners were so well-bred; she believed they drank a lot of iced tea on big shady verandas and such. It was such a hot day and he’d walked from town. She went into the kitchen, poured a fresh glass, began mounting the stairs. But no—she should let him unpack, have his privacy. What was she thinking? News of the murder had her all in a tizzy.
She turned to descend the staircase. But then she stopped again. A voice had sounded from upstairs: Pendergast had said something. Was he speaking to her?
Winifred cocked her head, listening. For a moment, the house was still. Then Pendergast spoke again, and this time, she made out what he was saying.
“Excellent,” came the dulcet voice. “Most excellent.”
Six
The road was as straight as the nineteenth-century surveyor’s original line of sight, and it was flanked by two unmoving walls of corn. Special Agent Pendergast walked down the shimmering road, his polished black oxfords—handmade by John Lobb of St. James’s Street, London—leaving a row of faint impressions in the sticky asphalt.
Ahead, he could see where heavy vehicles had come in and out of the cornfield, leaving brown tracks and clots of dirt on the road. Approaching, he turned to make his way along the crude access road that had been bulldozed into the cornfield to the murder site. His feet sank into the powdery earth.
Where the access widened into a makeshift parking lot a state trooper cruiser sat, motor running, water dripping into the dirt from the AC. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked off the site, wound around tall stakes hammered into the earth. Inside the cruiser a trooper sat, reading a paperback.
Pendergast approached and rapped on the window. The man gave a start, then quickly recovered. Hastily putting the paperback aside, he got out and faced Pendergast, squinting in the hot sun, hooking his arms into his belt loops. A river of cool air flowed out.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. The trooper’s arms were covered with fine red hair and the leather of his boots creaked as he moved.
Pendergast displayed his shield.
“Oh. FBI. Sorry.” The trooper looked around. “Where’s your car?”
“I’d like to take a look at the scene,” Pendergast replied.
“Be my guest. There’s nothing left, though. It’s all been carted away.”
“No matter. Please don’t allow me to disturb you further.”
“Quite all right, sir.” The trooper, with no little relief, climbed back into his cruiser and closed the door.
Pendergast moved past the car and gingerly ducked beneath the yellow tape. He advanced the last twenty yards to the original clearing. Here he paused, surveying the site. As the trooper had said, it was empty: nothing but dirt, crushed corn stubble, and thousands of footprints. There was a stain in the very center of the clearing, not particularly large.
For several minutes, Pendergast remained motionless beneath the merciless sun. Only his eyes moved as they took in the clearing. Then he reached into his suit jacket and removed a photograph of the body in situ, from close up. Another photograph showed the overall site, the spitted birds and the forest of sticks. Pendergast rapidly reconstructed the original scene in his mind and held it there, examining it.
He remained motionless for a quarter of an hour. Then at last he returned the photographs to his jacket and took a step forward, examining the stub of a cornstalk that lay at his feet. It had been broken, not cut. Moving forward, he picked up a second stub, then a third and a fourth. All broken. Pendergast returned to the edge of the clearing, selected a cornstalk that still stood. He knelt down and grasped it at the bottom, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not break it.
He ventured farther into the clearing itself. It hardly mattered where he put his feet—it could not be more disturbed. He moved slowly, crouching now and then to examine something in the riot of corn and dust. Once in a while he would pick up something with a pair of twe
ezers he’d removed from a suit pocket, look at it, and release it. For almost an hour he moved across the clearing in this fashion, bent over in the baking sun.
He kept nothing.
At last, he reached the far end of the clearing and moved into the dense corn rows themselves. There had been a few pieces of torn fabric found clinging to some of the cornstalks, and it wasn’t difficult to find the tags marking their locations.
Pendergast moved down the row, but there were so many footprints and dog prints that it was hopeless to try to follow anything. The report said that two different sets of bloodhounds had been put on the track but had refused to follow it.
He paused in the forest of corn to slip a tube of glossy paper from his pocket and unroll it. It was a photograph, taken at some unidentified point before the crime, showing the field from the air. The corn rows did not go in straight lines, as it seemed at ground level, but rather curved to follow the topography of the landscape, creating elliptical, mazelike paths. He located the row in which he stood and carefully traced its curve. Then, with difficulty, he forced his way into the next corn row, then the next. Once again he examined the aerial photograph, tracing the path of the current row. Much better: it went for a long distance across flat ground and then dropped down toward the bottomland near Medicine Creek, at a point where the creek looped back toward the town.
It was, in fact, the only row that actually opened onto the creek.
Pendergast walked down the row, heading away from the murder site. The heat had settled into the corn and, in the absence of wind, was baking everything into place. As the land gradually declined toward the creek, a monotonous landscape of corn revealed itself, stretching to an ever more remote horizon, oppressive in its landlocked vastness. The distant creek, with its clumps of scraggly, half-dead cottonwoods, only added to the sense of desolation. As Pendergast walked he would stop occasionally to examine a cornstalk or a piece of ground. Once in a while his tweezers would pluck something up, only to drop it again.
At long last, the corn row opened onto the bottomland along the creek. Where the cornstalks and field dirt gave way to sandy embankments, Pendergast stopped and glanced downward.
