Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  He flung it out the window into the corn and checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the Wagon Wheel closed. It was about a mile. He could still make it on foot if he walked fast.

  Then, hand on the door handle, he paused, thinking about the recent murder, about the unpleasant details the newspaper had hinted at.

  Yeah, right. Five billion acres of corn and some nutcase is lying in wait, right between here and the Wagon Wheel.

  Muggy night air flowed in as he opened the door. Christ, twenty minutes to eleven and it was still hot as bejesus. He could smell the corn, the moisture. Crickets chirped in the darkness. Heat lightning flickered on the distant horizon.

  He turned back toward the car, wondering if he should put on the emergency blinkers. Then he decided against it. That would just add a dead battery to his problems. Besides, nobody would come along the road until the pre-shift, at seven.

  If he was going to get to the Wagon Wheel in time, hed better get moving.

  He walked fast, lanky legs eating up the road. His job at the plant paid seven-fifty an hour. How the hell was he supposed to fix his car on seven-fifty an hour? Ernie would give him a break, but parts cost a fortune. A new starter might be three fifty, four hundred. Two weeks of work. He could hitch a ride to work with Rip. Like last time, hed have to borrow Jimmys car to get home, and then come back at seven to pick him up. Problem was, Jimmy expected him to pay for all the gas during the arrangement, and gas cost a fucking fortune these days.

  It wasnt fair. He was a good worker. He should be paid more. Nine bucks an hour, eight-fifty, at least.

  He walked even faster. The warm glow of yellow light in the Wagon Wheel, the long wooden bar, the plaintive jukebox, the bottles and glasses glistening on their shelves before the mirrorthe images filled his heart and propelled his legs.

  Suddenly he stopped. He thought hed heard a rustling in the corn to his right.

  He waited a moment, listening, but all was silent. The air was dead still. The heat lightning flickered, then flickered again.

  He resumed walking, this time moving to the center of the road. All was silent. Some animal, coon probably. Or maybe his imagination.

  Again his thoughts turned to the Wagon Wheel. He could see the big friendly form of Swede with his red cheeks and handlebar mustache moving behind the counter: good old Swede, who always had a friendly word for everyone. He imagined Swede setting the little shot glass down in front of him, the generously poured whiskey slopping over the side; he imagined raising it to his lips; he imagined the golden fire making its way down his gullet. Instead of a pint, hed pay a little more and drink at the bar. Swede would give him a ride home, he was good to his customers. Or maybe he could just rack out in the back room, go on over to Ernies first thing in the morning. Wouldnt be the first time hed slept one off in the Wagon Wheel. Beat going home to the ball and chain, anyway. He could call her from the bar, make some excuse

  There was that sound in the corn again.

  He hesitated only for a moment, then continued walking, his work shoes soft on the warm asphalt. And then he heard the sound again, closer now, close enough to be recognized.

  It was the rustle of someone brushing through the dry corn.

  He peered to his right, trying to see. But he could only see the tops of the corn against the faint sky. The rest was a wall of darkness.

  Then, as he stared, he saw a single cornstalk tremble against the sky.

  What was it? Deer? Coyote?

  Hah! he cried, shooing his hands in the direction of the sound.

  His blood froze at the reply. It was a grunt, human yet not human.

  Muh,came the sound.

  Who the hell is that?

  No sound now.

  Fuck you, said Stott, quickening his pace and veering to the far side of the road. I dont know who the hell you are, butfuck you.

  There was a rustling sound, of someone moving through the corn, faster now, keeping pace with him.

  Muh.

  Stott began to jog along the far side of the road.

  The rustling in the corn kept pace. The voice, the strange gasping voice, rose in volume and insistence.Muh! Muh!

  Now Stott broke into a run. There was a corresponding crashing in the corn to his right. He could see, against the faintest sky, the tops of the corn alongside the road thrashing and snapping. More crashing, and then he saw what he thought was a dark shape coming out of the corn, very fast, first moving parallel to him, then angling closer.

  In a second, some atavistic instinct drove Willie Stott to jump the ditch on the left side of the road and crash headlong into the corn. As the tall ears swallowed him up, he glanced back for only a second. As he did so he saw a large, dark shape scuttling across the road behind him at a terrible speed.

  Stott crashed through the next row, and the next, forcing himself as deeply as possible into the dark, suffocating corn, gasping out loud. But always he heard the crash of dry ears being trampled behind him.

  He took a ninety-degree angle and ran down a row. Behind, the crashing stopped.

  Stott ran. He had long legs and in high school hed been on the track team. That had been years ago, but he still knew how to run. And so he ran, thinking of nothing else except planting one foot before the other, outrunning whatever it was behind him.

  Despite the encircling corn, he was not yet fully disoriented. Medicine Creek lay ahead of him, just over a mile away. He could still make it. . .

  Behind him now, he could hear the loud slapping of feet against earth. And with each step, a rhythmic grunt.

  Muh. Muh. Muh.

  The long row of corn made a slow curve along the topography of the land, and he flew along it, running with a speed born of sheer terror.

  Muh. Muh. Muh.

  Christ, it was getting closer. He swerved, desperately crashing through another row, still running.

  He heard an echoing crash behind him as the pursuer broke through the row, following him, closing in.

  Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

  Leave me the fuck alone! he screamed.

  Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

  It was getting closer, so close he almost imagined he could feel puffs of hot breath on his neck, keeping time with the thudding feet. A sudden wet warmth flooded his thighs as his bladder let go. He swerved, crashed through yet another row, swerved, veered back. The thing kept right behind him, closer, ever closer.

  Muh! Muh! Muh! Muh!

  Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

  It was still gaining, and gaining fast.

  Stott felt something grab his hair, something horribly strong. He tried to jerk his head away, the sudden pain awful, but the grip held fast. His lungs were on fire. He could feel his legs slackening with terror.

  Somebody, help me! he screamed, diving to one side, jerking and thrashing his head so violently he could feel his scalp begin to separate from his skull. The thing was now almost on top of him. And then he felt a sudden, viselike grip on the back of his neck, a brutal twist and snap, and suddenly it seemed as if he had left the ground and was flying, flying, up into the dark sky, while a triumphant voice screamed:

  Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

  Nineteen

  Smit Ludwig locked the door to theCry County Courier and dropped the keys into his pocket. As he angled across the street he glanced up at the early morning sky. Big sterile thunderheads were piling up on the northern horizon, just as they had done every day for the past two weeks. They would spread across the sky by nightfall and be gone by morning. One of these days the heat would break and there would be one hell of a storm. But it looked as if the heat would grip the town for a while more, at least.

  Ludwig had a pretty good idea what Art Ridder and the sheriff wanted to talk to him about. Well, tough: hed already written the story about the dog, and it was going to run that very afternoon. He strode down the sidewalk, feeling the heat soaking through the soles of his shoes, feeling the pressure of the sun on his head. Maggs Candlepin Castle was only a fiv
e minute walk, but two minutes into it Ludwig realized his mistake in not driving. He would arrive sweaty and disheveled: a tactical error. At least, he told himself, Maggs was air-conditioned to tundra-like temperatures.

  He pushed through the double doors into a blast of icy air, and was greeted by silence: at this time of the morning the alleys were dark, the pins like tall white teeth in the gloom, the racking machines mute. At the far end of the alley he could see the lights of the Castle Club, where every morning Art Ridder held court with his paper and his breakfast. Ludwig adjusted his collar, straightened his shoulders, and started forward.

  The Castle Club was not so much a club as a glassed-in eating area with red fake-leather banquettes, Formica tables made to look like wood, and beveled mirrors shot through with faux gold marbling. Ludwig pushed through the door and approached the corner table, where Ridder and Sheriff Hazen were seated, talking in low tones. Ridder caught sight of Ludwig, rose with a big smile, held out his hand, and guided the reporter into a chair.

  Smitty! Real good of you to come.

  Sure, Art.

  The sheriff had not risen, and now he simply nodded through a wash of cigarette smoke. Smit.

  Sheriff.

  There was a short silence. Ridder looked around, his polyester collar stretching this way and that. Em! Coffee! And bring Mr. Ludwig some bacon and eggs.

  I dont eat much of a breakfast.

  Nonsense. Todays an important day.

  Whys that?

  Because Dr. Stanton Chauncy, the professor from KSU, will be joining us in fifteen minutes. Im going to show him the town.

  There was a short pause. Art Ridder was wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt and light gray doubleknit trousers, his white blazer thrown over the back of the chair. He was rounded, but not especially soft. All those years wrestling turkeys had put muscles on his arms that, it seemed, would never wither. He glowed with ruddy good health.

  We dont have much time, Smitty, so Ill be direct. You know me: Mr. Direct. Ridder gave a little chuckle.

  Sure, Art. Ludwig leaned back to allow the waitress to slide a greasy plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He wondered what a real reporter would do at this point. Walk out? Politely decline?

  Okay, Smitty, heres the deal. You know this guy, Chauncy, is looking for a place to put in an experimental cornfield for Kansas State. Its either us or Deeper. Deepers got a motel, Deepers got two gas stations, Deepers twenty miles closer to the interstate. Okay? So you might ask, wheres the contest? Why us? You following me?

  Ludwig nodded.You following me? was Art Ridders signature phrase.

  Ridder raised the coffee mug, flexed his hairy arm, took a sip.

  Weve got something Deeper doesnt. Now listen to me good, because this isnt the official KSU line. Weve gotisolation. He paused dramatically. Why is isolation important? Cause this cornfields going to be used for testinggeneticallyalteredcorn. He hummed theTwilight Zone theme, then grinned. You following me?

  Not really.

  We all know that genetically modified corn is harmless. But there are a bunch of ignorant city folks, liberals, envirosyou know who Im talking aboutwho think theres somethingdangerous about genetically altered corn. He hummedTwilight Zone again. Thereal reason Medicine Creek is in the running is because were isolated. No hotel. Long drive. No big mall. Closest radio and television station one hundred miles away. In short,this is the worlds lousiest place to organize a protest. Of course, Dale Estrem and the Farmers Co-op arent too pleased about it, either, but theyre just a few and I can handle them. You following me?

  Ludwig nodded.

  But now weve got a small problem. Weve got a sonofabitch wacko running around. Hes killed a person, killed adog, and God knows what the hell else hes up to, maybe hes fucking sheep, too. Right when Stanton Chauncy, project director for the Agricultural Extension Program of Kansas State University, is in town to see if Medicine Creek is the right place to site these fields. And we want to show him itis a good place. A calm, law-and-order town. No drugs, no hippies, no protests. Sure, hes heard about the murder, but he figures its just some random, one-time thing. Hes not concerned, and I want him to stay that way. So I need your help with two things.

  Ludwig waited.

  First, take a break from these goddamn articles about the killing. Okay, it happened. Now take a breather. And whatever you do, forchrissakes dont do a story on the dead dog.

  Ludwig swallowed. There was a silence. Ridder was staring at him with a pair of red eyes, dark circles under them. He was really taking this seriously.

  That story qualifies as news, Ludwig said, but his voice cracked when he said it.

  Ridder smiled, laid a big hand on Ludwigs shoulder. He lowered his voice. Imasking you, Smitty, as afavor, to just take a few days off from the story. Just while the KSU guy is here. Im not telling you to kill it, or anything like that. He gave Ludwigs shoulder a little squeeze. Look, you and I both know the Gro-Bain plant isnt exactly a sure thing. When they cut the night shift back in 96, twenty families left town. Those were good jobs, Smitty. People got hurt, had to uproot themselves and leave homes their granddaddies built. I dont want to live in a dying town.You dont want to live in a dying town. This could make a real difference for our future. One or two fields is just a start, but genetic crop engineering is the coming wave, its where the big moneys going to be, and Medicine Creek could be part of it. Theres a lot riding on this, Smitty. A lot more than you might think. All Im asking,all Im asking, is a two-, three-day break. The guys announcing his decision on Monday. Just save it up and publish it when the guy leaves. Tuesday morning. You following me?

  I see your point.

  I care about this town. So do you, Smitty, I know you do. This isnt for me. Im just trying to do my civic duty.

  Ludwig swallowed. He noticed that his eggs were congealing on the plate and his bacon had already stiffened.

  Sheriff Hazen spoke at last. Smitty, I know weve had our differences. But theres another reason not to publish anything on the dog. The forensic psychology guys in Dodge think the killer might be feeding off the publicity. His goal is to terrorize the town. People are already dredging up the old rumors about the massacre and the curse of the Forty-Fives, and those damn arrows just seemed calculated to revive the whole thing. It seems the killer might be acting out some weird fantasy about the curse. They say articles in the paper just encourage him. We dont want to do anything that might trigger another killing. This guys no joke, Smitty.

  There was a long silence.

  Ludwig finally sighed. Maybe I can put the dog story off a couple of days, he said in a low voice.

  Ridder smiled. Thats great. Great. He squeezed Smittys shoulder again.

  You mentioned two things, Ludwig said a little weakly.

  Thats right, I did. Okay. I was thinkingagain, this is just a suggestion, Smittythat you could fill the gap with a story on Dr. Stanton Chauncy. Everybody loves a little attention, and this guys no exception. The projectmaybe its better not to go into that too much. But a story onhim, who he is, where he comes from, all his big degrees, all the great things hes done up at KSUyou following me, Smitty?

  Its not a bad idea, Ludwig murmured. And, in fact, it really wasnt a bad idea. If the guy proved to be interesting it would make a good story, and it was just the kind of thing people wanted to read. The future of the town was always the number one topic of conversation in Medicine Creek.

  Great. Hes going to be here in five minutes. Ill introduce you, then leave you two alone.

  Fine. Ludwig swallowed again.

  Ridder finally released his grip on Ludwigs shoulder. He felt a cold patch where the warm, moist hand had been. Youre a good guy, Smitty.

  Right.

  Just then the sheriffs radio crackled to life. Hazen pulled it off his belt and pressed the receive button. Ludwig could hear Tads tinny voice giving the sheriff the mornings incident report. Some joker let the air out of the tires of the football coachs car, came Tads voice.


  Next, said Hazen.

  Another dead dog. This one reported by the side of the road.

  Christ. Next.

  Willie Stotts wife says he didnt come home last night.

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. Check with Swede at the Wagon Wheel. Hes probably sleeping it off in the back room again.

  Yes, sir.

  Ill check out the dog myself.

  Its two and a half miles out the Deeper Road, on the west side.

  Check.

  Hazen shoved the radio back into his belt, ground out his cigarette in an ashtray, swept his hat off the empty seat next to him, fitted it to his head, and stood. See you, Art. Smitty, thanks. Gotta run.

  The sheriff left, and then, as if on cue, Dr. Stanton Chauncy materialized at the far end of the bowling alley, glancing around.

  Ridder called, waved at him through the glass. Chauncy nodded and walked past the alleys and into the Castle Club. He had the same stiff walk Ludwig had noticed at the Sociable. The man peered at the plastic decor and Ludwig thought he could see a flicker of something in his eyes: amusement? contempt?

  Ridder rose and so did Ludwig.

  Dont get up on my account, Chauncy said. He shook their hands and they all sat down.

  Dr. Chauncy, Ridder began, I want to introduce to you Smit Ludwig from theCry County Courier, our local paper. Hes the publisher, editor, and reporter. Its a one-man band. He laughed.

  Ludwig found a pair of rather cool blue eyes turned on him. That must be very interesting for you, Mr. Ludwig.

  Call him Smitty. We dont go on ceremony in Medicine Creek. Were a friendly town.

  Thank you, Art. Chauncy turned to Ludwig. Smitty, I hope youll call me Stan.

  Ridder spoke before Ludwig could answer. Stan, listen. Smitty wants to do a story on you and I have to run, so Ill leave you here. Order what you like; bills on me.

  In a moment Ridder was gone, and Chauncy had turned his two dry eyes back on Ludwig. For a moment, Ludwig wondered what he was waiting for. Then he remembered he was supposed to do an interview. He pulled out his steno book, fished out a pen.