Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

So?

  It doesnt fit the pattern. But of course, that simply means were dealing with anew patternin fact, a new type altogether.

  A new type of what?

  Of serial killer.

  Hazen rolled his eyes theatrically. As far as Im concerned, were still dealing with a single murder. A dog doesnt count. He turned to Tad. Call the M.E. and lets scoop this dog up to Garden City for an autopsy. Get the SOC boys out here to work over the site and especially take a look at any prints they find. And get the Staties to post a guard. I want this site sealed. No unauthorized personnel. Got it?

  Yes, Sheriff.

  Good. And now, Pendergast, Im hoping you will escort allunauthorized personnel from the site immediately. Corrie jumped as he abruptly shined his light on her.

  Sheriff, youre not referring to my assistant, are you?

  There was a thunderous silence. Corrie glanced at him, wondering what his game was now. Assistant? Her old suspicions began to return; next thing she knew, hed be trying to assist himself into her pants.

  After a moment the sheriff spoke. Assistant? Are you referring to that delinquent standing next to you whos facing a charge of larceny in the second degree, which, by the way, happens to be a felony in the state of Kansas?

  I am.

  The sheriff nodded. And when he spoke again, his voice was unnaturally mild. Im a patient man, Mr. Pendergast. I will say this to you, and this only: thereis a limit.

  In the ensuing silence, Pendergast said, Miss Swanson, would you kindly hold the flashlight while I examine the posterior of this dog?

  Holding her nose against the rising stench, Corrie took the flashlight and aimed it at the desired spot, aware of Sheriff Hazen standing behind her, staring so hard at the back of her neck that she could feel the hairs curling.

  Pendergast turned, rose, and laid a hand on the sheriffs shoulder. The man looked down at the hand, seemed about to brush it off. Sheriff Hazen, said Pendergast, his voice suddenly deferential, it may seem that I have come here expressly to annoy you. But I assure you there are good reasons behind everything I do. I do hope you will continue to exercise the patience youve so admirably demonstrated already, and bear with me and my unorthodox methodsand my unorthodox assistanta little longer.

  The sheriff seemed to digest this for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice sounded ever so slightly mollified. I cant say I honestly like the way youre handling the case. You FBI boys always seem to forget that once we catch the perp weve got toconvict him. You know how it is these days: screw up the evidencein any way and the perp walks. He glanced at Corrie. She better have scene-of-crime authorization.

  She will.

  And keep in mind what kind of impression shes going to make in front of a jury with that purple hair and the spiked dog collar. Not to mention a felony on her record.

  We will cross that bridge when we come to it.

  The sheriff stared hard at him. All right then. Ill leave you to Fido here. Remember what I said. Come on, Tad, lets go make those calls.

  Then he turned away, lit a cigarette, and disappeared into the wall of corn, followed by Tad. As the sound of crashing diminished, a silence descended on the site.

  Corrie took several steps back from the stench of decay. Agent Pendergast?

  Miss Swanson?

  Whats this assistant crap?

  I assumed you were willing to take the job by the fact that you disobeyed my orders and came here, thereby displaying an interest in the forensic aspects of crime.

  Was he kidding again? I just dont like being left behind. Look, I dont know jack about detective work. I cant type, I cant handle the phones, and Im sure as hell not going to take dictation or do whatever it is that assistants do.

  That is not what I require. This may surprise you, but Ive actually given this matter some thought and Ive concluded that youll make an excellent assistant. I need someone who knows the town, knows the people, knows their secrets, but who is also an outsider, beholden to no one. Someone who will tell me the unvarnished truth as she sees it. Are you not exactly that person?

  Corrie considered it. Outsider, beholden to no one . . . Depressingly, she seemed to fit the bill.

  The promotion comes with a raise to a hundred and fifty dollars a day. I have all the paperwork in the car, including a limited scene-of-crime authorization. It means obeying my orders to the letter. No more jumping out of the car on a whim. We will discuss your new responsibilities in more detail later.

  Whos paying me? The FBI?

  I shall be paying you out of my own pocket.

  Come on, you know Im not worth it. Youre throwing your money away.

  Pendergast turned and looked at her, and once again she was struck by the intensity that lay behind those gray eyes. I already know one thing: we are dealing with an extremely dangerous killer and I do not have time to waste. I must have your help. If one life is saved, what is that worth?

  Yeah, but how can I possibly help? I mean, the sheriffs right. Im just a dumb delinquent.

  Miss Swanson, dont be fatuous. Have we got a deal?

  All right. Butassistant is where it begins and ends. Like I said before, dont get any ideas.

  He looked at her. I beg your pardon?

  Youre a man. You know what Im talking about.

  Pendergast waved his hand. Miss Swanson, the inference you are making is quite unthinkable. We come from two different worlds. There is a vast difference between us in terms of age, temperament, upbringing, background, and relative positions of powernot to mention your pierced tongue. In my opinion such a relationship, while it might afford both of us considerable diversion, would be most unwise.

  Corrie felt vaguely irritated by his explanation. Whats wrong with my pierced tongue?

  Perhaps nothing. Females of the Wimbu tribe of the Andaman Islands pierce their labia and dangle strings of cowry shells from them. The shells jingle under their skirts when they walk. The men find it most attractive.

  Thats totally foul!

  Pendergast smiled. So you are not the cultural relativist I had assumed.

  Youre a seriously weird person, you know that?

  The alternative, Miss Swanson, does not appeal to me at all. He took the light from her and shone it back on the dog. And now, as my assistant, you can begin by telling me whose dog this is.

  Her eyes flickered unwillingly back to the bloated corpse. Its Jiff. He belonged to Andy, Swede Cahills son.

  Did Jiff wear a collar?

  Yes.

  Did he normally run free?

  Most of the dogs in town run free, despite the leash laws.

  Pendergast nodded. I knew my confidence in you was not misplaced.

  Corrie looked at him, feeling amused. Youre a real piece of work, you know that?

  Thank you. We seem to have something in common. He took the light from her and shined it back on the dog.

  A silence descended on the rude clearing while Corrie wondered if shed been insulted or complimented. But as she followed the beam with her eyes, she felt a sudden stab of pity: pity that transcended the awful stench, the drone of flies. Andy Cahill was going to be heartbroken. Somebody had to tell him, and it looked like that somebody would have to be her. She certainly couldnt leave it to the sheriff or his assistant, who could be counted on to say the wrong thing. Nor did she think Pendergast, for all his courtesy, was the right person to break the news to the kid. She looked up and, to her surprise, found Pendergast looking at her.

  Yes, he said, I think it would be an act of kindness for you to break the news to Andy Cahill.

  How did?

  At the same time, Miss Swanson, you might find out, in an offhand way, when Andy last saw Jiff, and where the dog might have been heading.

  You want me to play detective, in other words.

  Pendergast nodded. You are, after all, my new assistant.

  Fifteen

  Margery Tealander sat behind the old wooden desk of her spartan office, industriously clipping coupons while keeping
one eye onThe Price Is Right. The picture on the old black-and-white was so poor that shed cranked the volume up so as not to miss any of the action. Not that there was all that much action today; rarely had she seen such a sorry group of contestants. Bidding high, bidding low, bidding every which way except within a mile of the real price of anything. She paused in her clipping to peer at the screen and listen. Everybody else had bid on the latest item except for the final contestant, a skinny Asian girl who couldnt be more than twenty.

  Ill bid one thousand four hundred and one dollars, Bob, the girl said with a shy smile and a duck of her head.

  Man alive. Marge clucked disapprovingly and returned to her clipping. Fourteen hundred dollars for an over-under Maytag? What planet could these people be living on? Couldnt be more than nine hundred fifty, tops. And the audience wasnt any help either, yelling encouragingly at every wrong guess. Now, ifshe was on the show, the audience would see someserious cleaning up. She always seemed to guess the right price, always seemed to pick the right door. And she wouldnt settle for any of those cheesy prizes, either, the redwood utility sheds or the knickknack cabinets or the years supply of floor wax. Shed hold out for the fifteen-foot Chris-Craft; she had a cousin up near Lake Scott with a dock and mooring. The pity of it was that shed finally talked Rocky into taking her out to Studio City, and then a week later he was diagnosed with emphysema. And now, she couldnt very well go alone, God rest his soul, it would be much too much for . . . Nowthis was interesting: twenty percent off Woolite with a grocery purchase of $30 or more. That hardlyever went on sale, and with triple coupons on weekends that meant she could buy it for almost half price. Shed have to stock up. You just couldnt beat the Shoppers Palace in Ulysses for prices. The Red Owl in Garden City was closer, of course, but if you were serious about saving a little money you just couldnt beat the Palace. And on Super Saturdays shed get ten cents off a gallon on regular gasthat more than made up for the extra mileage right there. Of course, she felt a little bad about not patronizing Ernie, but these were lean times and a body just had to be practical . . . Now, if that didnt beat all. Nine hundred twenty-five for the Maytag. Sure would have looked nice right next to her slop sink. Maybe shed talk to Alice Franks about looking into a bus excursion that could

  All of a sudden she realized that a strange man was standing before her desk.

  Good gracious! Marge quickly turned down the sound on the television. Young man, you startled me. It was that man in the black suit shed seen out and about recently.

  My apologies, the man replied in a voice redolent of mint juleps, pralines, and cypress trees. He gave a formal little bow, then stood before her, hands at his sides. He had slender, tapered fingers with nails thatshe noticed with some surprisewere subtly but very professionally manicured.

  Dont apologize, she said. Just dont be sneaking up on a body like that. Now, what can I do you for?

  The man nodded toward the coupons. I hope I havent caught you at a bad time.

  Marge barked out a laugh. Hah! A bad time! Thats a good one. She pushed the coupons to one side. Mr. Stranger, you have myun divided attention.

  I must apologize again, the man said. Ive neglected to introduce myself. The names Pendergast.

  Marge suddenly remembered the article in the paper. Of course. Youre that fellow from down south whos looking into the murder. I could tell you werent from around here, of course. Not talking like that, you arent.

  She looked at him with fresh curiosity. He was rather tall, with hair so blond it was almost white, and he returned her look with pale eyes full of mild inquisitiveness. Although he was slender, he gave no sense of being frail; quite the opposite, really, although his suit was so unrelievedly black it was hard to tell. He was really very attractive, in a Southern Comfort kind of way.

  Nice to meet you, Mr. Pendergast, she said. Id offer you a seat, but this swivel chair of mines the only one. The people who come here arent usually inclined to stay very long. She barked another laugh.

  And why is that, Mrs. Tealander? The question was phrased so politely that Marge didnt notice he already knew her name.

  Why do you think? Unless you happen to be partial to paying taxes and filling out forms, of course.

  Yes, of course. I do see. The man named Pendergast took a step forward. Mrs. Tealander, its my understanding that

  Five hundred dollars, Marge interrupted.

  The man paused. Pardon me?

  Nothing. Marge pulled her eyes from the now-silent TV.

  Its my understanding that you are the keeper of public records for Medicine Creek.

  Marge nodded. Thats right.

  And that you function as town administrator.

  A part-time job. Very part-time, these days.

  That you run the public works department.

  Oh, that just means keeping tabs on Henry Fleming, who drives the snow plow and changes the bulbs in the streetlamps.

  And that you levy real estate taxes.

  Yes, andthats the reason I dont get invited to Klick Rasmussens canasta parties.

  Pendergast paused again for a moment. So one could say that, in essence, you run Medicine Creek.

  Marge grinned widely. Young man, I couldnt have put it better myself. Of course, Sheriff Hazen and Art Ridder might not share your view.

  Well leave them to their own opinion, then.

  Man alive, Iknew it! Marges eyes had strayed back to the television, and with an effort she returned them to her guest.

  Pendergast slipped a leather wallet from his jacket pocket. Mrs. Tealander, he said, opening it to display the gold shield inside, youre aware that Im an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?

  Thats what they said over at the Hair Apparent.

  I would like to get a better, shall we say,bureaucratic perspective on the people of Medicine Creek. What they do, where they live, what their economic status might be. That manner of thing.

  Then youve come to the right place. I know everything legal there is to know about every blessed soul in town.

  Pendergast waved one hand. Technically, of course, such an inquiry requires a warrant.

  Where do you think you are, young man? Great Bend? Wichita, maybe? Im not going to stand on ceremony with an officer of the law. Besides, weve got no secrets here. At least, none that would interest you.

  Then you see no difficulty in, ah, making me better acquainted with the inhabitants.

  Mr. Pendergast, Ive got nothing on my calendar until August twenty-second, when I have to type up the property tax bills for the fourth quarter.

  Pendergast glided a little closer to the desk. Lets hope it doesnt take quite that long.

  Another bark of laughter. Take that long! Hoo-eee!Man alive, thats a good one.

  Marge turned her swivel chair to the back wall of the office, where an old-fashioned safe stood. It was massive and decorated around the edges with faded gold leaf. Aside from the desk and a small bookshelf, it was the only article of furniture in the room. She twirled its large central dial back and forth, entering the combination, then grasped the handle and pulled the iron door open. Inside was a smaller box, closed with a padlock. She unlocked the padlock with a key that she drew from around her neck. Reaching inside, she removed an even smaller, wooden box. Then she turned around in her swivel chair again and placed it on the desk between herself and Pendergast.

  There you go, she said, patting the little box with satisfaction. Where do you want to start?

  Pendergast looked at the box. I beg your pardon?

  I said, where do you want to start?

  Do you mean to tell me that For a very brief moment, the mans face seemed to go completely blank before once again assuming its look of casual curiosity.

  What, did you think it took a computer to run a town the size of Medicine Creek? Ive got everything I need right in this little box. And what isnt there is up here. She tapped her temple. Look, Ill show you. She opened the box, drew out an index card by random. It contained perhaps a do
zen lines of neat handwriting, followed by a row of numbers, a couple of squiggles and symbols, and a few stickers of various colors: red, yellow, green. You see? she said, waving it under Pendergasts nose. This is the card of Dale Estrem, the cranky young farmer. His father was a cranky old farmer. And his grandfatherwell, we wont mentionhim. Dale and the rest of those troublemakers in the Farmers Co-operative, always standing in the way of progress. See, it shows here that hes two quarters behind in his taxes, that his oldest kid had to repeat ninth grade, that his septic tanks not in compliance with the code, and that hes applied for farm relief seven years out of the last seven. She clucked disapprovingly.

  Pendergast looked from her, to the card, and back to her again. I see, he said.

  Ive got ninety-three cards here, one for each family in Medicine Creek and in the unincorporated areas around it. I could talk for an hour on each, maybe two hours if necessary. Marge felt herself growing excited. It wasnt every day that somebody official took an interest in her records. And with Rocky passed on, God knows, she had precious few people to chat with. I promise, youll know all there is to know about Medicine Creek when Im done with you.

  This was greeted by a profound silence.

  Of course, Pendergast said after a few moments, as if re-collecting himself.

  So I ask again, Mr. Pendergast. Where do you want to start?

  Pendergast thought a moment. I suppose we should start with the As.

  There are no last names starting with A in Medicine Creek, Mr. Pendergast. Well start with David Barness, out on the Cry Road. So sorry I cant get you a chair. Maybe when we start in again tomorrow Ill bring one along for you from my kitchen. And she returned the card she was holding to its spot, licked her finger eagerly, plucked the first card from the box, and began to talk. At her elbow the television flickered on, the game show now completely forgotten.

  Sixteen

  Deputy Sheriff Tad Franklin guided his cruiser into the gravel parking lot between the big old Victorian house and the gift shop. He crunched to a halt, pushed open the car door, and unfolded himself into the hot August sun. He paused to stretch, scratch at his black crew cut, and to peer, a little warily, at the house. The white picket fence that surrounded it was falling apart, paint peeling, slats hanging every which way. Beyond lay the overgrown yard. The giant old gabled house looked like it hadnt been painted in fifty years. Kansas dust storms had sandblasted it right down to weatherbeaten wood and were now stripping the wood down to tarpaper. The Krauss Kaverns sign, off-kilter, with its great strips of peeling red and white paint, looked like something out of a grade-B horror flick. The whole place depressed him. He had to get out of Medicine Creek. But to do that, he needed to put in his time, get some more experience under his belt. And he dreaded the idea of telling Sheriff Hazen. The sheriff, Tad knew, was grooming him, in his rough paternal way, to take his place. Tad didnt like to think about what the sheriff would say when he told him he was taking a job in Wichita or Topeka. Anywhere but Medicine Creek.