A small sob escaped from the old lady. The room fell silent. Outside, the wind was slowly dying. A distant rumble of thunder sounded, like an afterthought. Finally, she spoke: “When the first lady was killed, I had no idea it was my Job. But then . . . Then hetold me. He was so excited, so happy. Hetold me about the world he’d found—as if he didn’t know I already knew of it. Oh, Mr. Pendergast, he didn’t mean to kill anyone, he really didn’t. He was just trying to play. I tried to explain to him, but he just didn’tunderstand —” She choked on a sob.
Pendergast waited a moment and then continued. “As he grew, you didn’t need to visit him as often. You brought him his food and supplies in bulk once or twice a week, I imagine, which would explain where he got the butter and sugar. By that time he was almost self-sufficient. The cave system was his home. He had taught himself a great deal over the years, skills that he needed to survive in the cave. But where he was most damaged was in the area of human morals. He didn’t know right from wrong.”
“I tried, oh, how Itried to explain those things to him!” Winifred Kraus burst out, rocking back and forth.
“There are some things that cannot be explained, Miss Kraus,” Pendergast said. “They must be observed. They must belived. ”
The storm shook and rattled the house.
“How did his back become deformed?” Pendergast finally asked. “Was it just his cave existence? Or did he have a bad fall as a child, perhaps? Broken bones that healed badly?”
Winifred Kraus swallowed, recovered. “He fell when he was ten. I thought he would die. I wanted to get him to a doctor, but . . .”
Hazen suddenly spoke, his voice harsh with disgust, anger, disbelief, pain. “But why the scenes in the cornfields? What was that all about?”
Winifred only shook her head wonderingly. “I don’t know.”
Pendergast spoke again. “We may never know what was in his mind when he fashioned those tableaux. It was a form of self-expression, a strange and perhaps unfathomable notion of creative play. You saw the scratched wall-etchings in the cave; the arrangements of sticks and string, bones and crystals. This was why he never fit the pattern of a serial killer. Because hewasn’t a serial killer. He had no concept of killing. He was completely amoral, the purest sociopath imaginable.”
The old lady, her head bowed, said nothing. Corrie felt sorry for her. She remembered the stories she had heard of how strict the woman’s father was; how he used to beat her for the merest infraction of his byzantine and self-contradictory rules; how the girl had been locked in the top floor of her house for days on end, crying. They were old stories, and people always ended them with a wondering shake of the head and the comment, “And yet she’s such anice old lady. Maybe it never really happened that way.”
Pendergast was still pacing the room, looking from time to time at Winifred Kraus. “The few examples we have of children raised in this way—the Wolf Child of Aveyron, for example, or the case of Jane D., locked in a basement for the first fourteen years of her life by her schizophrenic mother—show that massive and irreversible neurological and psychological damage takes place, simply by being deprived of the normal process of socialization and language development. With Job it was taken one step further: he was deprived of theworld itself. ”
Winifred abruptly put her face in her hands and rocked. “Oh, my poor little boy,” she cried. “My poor little Jobie . . .”
The room fell silent except for Winifred’s murmuring, over and over again: “My poor little boy, my little Jobie.”
Corrie heard a siren sound in the distance. And then, through the broken front windows, the lights of a fire truck striped their way across the walls and floor. There was a squealing of brakes as an ambulance and a squad car pulled up alongside. Then came the slamming of vehicle doors, heavy footsteps on the porch. The door opened and a burly fireman walked in.
“You folks all right here?” he asked in a hearty voice. “We finally got the roads cleared, and—” He fell silent as he saw Hazen covered with blood, the weeping old woman handcuffed to the chair, the others in shell-shocked stupor.
“No,” said Pendergast, speaking quietly. “No, we are not all right.”
Epilogue
The setting sun lay over Medicine Creek, Kansas, like a benediction. The storm had broken the heat wave; the sky was fresh, with the faintest hint of autumn in the air. The cornfields that had survived the storm had been cut, and the town felt freed of its claustrophobic burden. Migrating crows by the hundreds were passing over town, landing in the fields, gleaning the last kernels from among the stubble. On the edge of town, the spire of the Lutheran church rose, a slender arrow of white against the backdrop of green and blue. Its doors were thrown wide and the sound of evening vespers drifted out.
Not far away, Corrie lay on her rumpled bed, trying to finishBeyond the Ice Limit. It was peaceful in the double-wide trailer, and her windows were open, letting in a pleasant flow of air. Puffy cumulus clouds passed overhead, dragging their shadows across the shaved fields. She turned a page, then another. From the direction of the church came the sound of an organ playing the opening notes of “Beautiful Savior,” followed by the faint sound of singing, Klick Rasmussen’s warble, as usual, trumping all.
As Corrie listened, a faint smile came to her lips. This would be the first service by that young new minister, Pastor Tredwell, whom the town was so proud of already. Her smile widened as she recalled the story, as it had been described to her when she was still in the hospital: how Smit Ludwig, shoeless, bruised, and battered, had come shambling out of the corn—where he had lain, unconscious and concussed, for almost two days—and right into the church where his own memorial service was being held. Ludwig’s daughter, who had flown in for the service, had fainted. But nobody had been more surprised than Pastor Wilbur himself, who stopped dead in the midst of reciting Swinburne and collapsed in an apoplectic fit, certain he was seeing a ghost. Now Wilbur was convalescing somewhere far away and Ludwig was healing up nicely, typing from his hospital bed the first chapters of a book about his encounter with the Medicine Creek murderer, who had taken nothing but his shoes and left him for dead in the corn.
She set her novel aside and lay on her back, staring out the window, watching the clouds go by. The town was doing its best to return to normal. The football tryouts were beginning and school would be starting in two weeks. There was a rumor that KSU had decided to site the experimental field somewhere in Iowa, but that was no loss. Good riddance, in fact: Pendergast seemed to feel Dale Estrem and the Farmer’s Co-op had a point about the perils of genetic modification. Anyway, people could hardly care less, now that the town was alive with National Park people, cave experts, a team ofNational Geographic photographers, and hard-core groups of spelunkers, all of whom were anxious to get a glimpse of what was being called the greatest cave system to be discovered in America since Carlsbad Caverns. It seemed the town was standing at the edge of a new dawn that would bring wealth, or at least prosperity, to all. Time would tell.
Corrie sighed. None of it would make the slightest difference to her. One more year and then, for better or worse, Medicine Creek would become ancient history for her.
She lay in bed, thinking, while the sun set and night fell. Then she got up and went to her bureau. She slid open the drawer, felt along the bottom, and carefully peeled off the bills. One thousand five hundred dollars. Her mother still hadn’t found the money, and after what had happened she’d stopped harping about it. She had even been nice to Corrie for the first day after she’d come back from the hospital. But Corrie knew that would not last long. Her mother was now back at work and Corrie had little doubt she’d return with her purse rattling with its usual quota of vodka minis. Give it a day or two and she’d bring up the money and everything would start all over again.
She turned the bills over thoughtfully in her hands. Pendergast had stayed in town the last week, working with Hazen and the state police to wrap up the evidentiary phase of the case
. He had called to say he was leaving tomorrow, early, and said he wanted to say goodbye before he left—and collect his cell phone. That was what he really wanted, she knew, the cell phone.
He’d already been by the hospital several times to see her. He had been very solicitous and kind; and yet, somehow, she’d hoped for more. She shook her head. What did she expect—that he’d take her with him, make her his permanent assistant? Ridiculous. Besides, he seemed increasingly eager to leave, citing some pressing matter waiting for him back in New York. He’d taken several calls on his cell phone from a man named Wren, but then he’d always left the room and she’d never caught what was said. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. He was going away, and in two more weeks high school would begin again. Senior year, her last in Medicine Creek. One last year of hell.
At least there wouldn’t be any more trouble from Sheriff Hazen. Funny, he’d saved her life and now he seemed to have taken some kind of almost paternal interest in her. She had to admit he had been pretty cool when she’d visited him that day she left the hospital. He’d even apologized—not in so many words, of course, but still it just about floored her. She had thanked him for saving her life. He’d shed a few tears at that, said he hadn’t done nearly enough, that he’d done nothing. The poor man. He was still really broken up about Tad.
She looked down at the money. Tomorrow, on her way out, she’d tell Pendergast what she planned to do with it.
The idea had formed slowly, over those days she’d spent in the hospital. In a way, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She had two weeks before school, she had money, and she was free: the sheriff had dropped all charges. Nothing was keeping her here: she had no friends to speak of, no job, and if she stuck around, her mother would wheedle the money out of her sooner or later.
Not that she had any illusions, not even when the idea first came to her. She knew that when she found him he’d probably turn out to be one of those guys who couldn’t seem to get it together: a loser. After all, he’d married her mother and then split, leaving both of them in the lurch. He’d never paid child support, never visited, never written—at least, that she could be sure of. He wouldn’t exactly be a Fred MacMurray.
It didn’t matter. He was her father. In her gut, this seemed like the right thing to do. And now she had the money and the time to do it.
It wouldn’t be hard to find him. Her mother’s endless complaints had the unintentional side effect of keeping her informed of his progress. After bouncing around the Midwest he had settled in Allentown, Pennsylvania, where he worked doing brake jobs for Pep Boys. How many Jesse Swansons could there be in Allentown? She could drive there in a couple of days. The money Pendergast had paid her would cover gas, tolls, motels, with a nice cushion in the very likely event that some unexpected car repairs came up.
Even if he turned out to be a loser, her memories of him were good memories. He wasn’t a jerk, at least. When he was there he’d been a good father, taking her out to the movies and miniature golf, always laughing, always having fun. What did it mean, anyway, to be a loser? The kids at school thought she was a loser, too. Hehad loved her, she felt sure . . . even if he did leave her alone with a horrible drunken witch.
Don’t get your hopes up, Corrie,she reminded herself.
She folded the bills, stuffed them into her pants pocket. From beneath her bed she pulled out her plastic suitcase, plopped it on the bed, opened it up, and began throwing clothes in. She’d leave first thing in the morning, before her mother woke up, say goodbye to Pendergast, and be on her way.
The suitcase was soon packed. Corrie shoved it back under her bed, lay down, and in an instant was asleep.
She awoke in the stillness of night. All was dark. She sat up, looking around groggily. Something had awakened her. It couldn’t be her mother, she was working the night shift at the club, and—
From directly outside her window came a gurgle, a chattering noise, a soft thump. Instantly, the grogginess went away, replaced by terror.
And then there was a splutter and a hiss, and a patter of drops began falling lightly against the side of the trailer.
She glanced at the clock: 2A.M. She sank back on the bed, almost laughing out loud with relief. This time, it reallywas Mr. Dade’s sprinkler system.
She rose to shut the window. She paused for a moment, drinking in the cool flow of air, the fresh smell of wet grass. Then she went to slide the window shut.
A hand suddenly reached in from the darkness and caught the window’s edge, stopping it from closing. It was bloody, with broken nails.
Corrie dropped her hands from the window and backed away wordlessly.
A white, moonlike face now appeared in the window: bruised, cut, streaked with filth and blood, with a wispy beard and a strange, childlike puffiness. Slowly the terrible hand pulled the window open until it would go no more. A terrible stench—all the more terrible for the memories that it stirred—flowed in and filled her nostrils.
Corrie backed toward the door, numb fingers feeling in her pocket for the cell phone. She found it, hit the send button twice, directing the phone to call the most recently dialed number. Pendergast’s number.
With a jerk the huge hand ripped out the cheap aluminum window frame, shattering the glass.
Corrie turned and ran from her room, tearing down the hall in her bare feet, racing across the living room toward—
With a crash, the front door was flung open. And there stood Job: Job, still alive, one eye ruptured and weeping yellow liquid, his oversized child’s clothing torn and filthy, crusted with blood, hair matted, skin sallow. One arm hung, useless and broken, but the other was reaching toward her.
Muuuh!
The arm was reaching out, clawing at her, andhe took a step forward, his face distorted with rage, filling the room with his stink.
“No!” she screamed. “No, no, get away—!”
He advanced, slashing and roaring incoherently.
She turned and raced back down the hall to her room. He was after her, blundering down the hall. She slammed the door and shot the bolt home, but he came through with a shuddering crash that flattened the flimsy plywood against the wall. Without pausing to think, she dove out the window headfirst, rolled over the broken glass and wet grass, stood up, and began sprinting toward town. Behind came a crash; a roar of frustration; another crash. Lights were going on in the trailers around her. She glanced back to see Job roaring, literally clawing his way out the window, smashing and tearing.
If she could get to the main road, she might have a chance. She raced through the trailer park. The gate was just a few hundred yards ahead.
She heard a roar and glanced sideways to see the bent and wounded figure running crablike across the grass with horrible speed, cutting off her route into town.
She strained, gulping air, but now he was angling back toward her, leaving her no choice but to veer toward the back of the trailer park, toward the darkness of the naked fields. She jammed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the phone, pressing it to her ear as she ran. There was the voice of Pendergast, speaking calmly.
“I’m coming, Corrie, I’m coming right now.”
“He’s going to kill me, please—”
“I’ll be there as soon as possible with the police. Run, Corrie.Run. ”
She ran for all she was worth, jumping the back fence and flying into the field, the sharp corn stubble lacerating her bare feet.
Muh! Muh! Muuuuuh!
Job was behind her, closing in with a strange, brutal, apelike gait, loping ahead on the knuckles with his good arm. She kept going, hoping he might tire, might give up, might find the pain too much—but he kept on, roaring in agony as he went.
She redoubled her effort, her lungs burning in her chest. It was no good. He was gaining, steadily gaining. He was going to catch her. No matter how fast she ran, he was going to catch her.
No. . .
What could she do? There was no way she’d reach the creek
. And even if she did, what then? She was running directly away from the town, into the heart of nowhere. Pendergast would never arrive in time.
Muuuh! Muuuh!
She heard a distant siren. It just confirmed that Pendergast was way too far away. She was on her own.He was going to catch her, grab her from behind and kill her.
Now she could hear feet pounding like a frenzied accompaniment to his agonized cries. He couldn’t be more than ten yards behind. She called up every ounce of energy but could already feel herself faltering, her legs weakening, her lungs almost bursting from the effort. And still he kept coming, closing the gap. In a second he would be on her. She had to do something. There had to be some way to reach him, to make him understand, to make him stop.
She turned back.“Job!” she yelled.
He came on, roaring, oblivious.
“Job, wait!”
In another instant she felt the blow, the terrible blow that threw her backwards into the soft dirt. And then he was on top of her, roaring, spittle spraying into her face, his great fist raised to smash in her skull.
“Friend!” she cried.
She closed her eyes, turning away from the anticipated blow, and said again: “Friend! I want to be your friend.” She choked, sobbed, repeating it over and over. “Your friend, your friend, your friend . . .”
Still Life With Crows p-4 Page 44
