Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  If you dont mind, I prefer to work with questions presented to me ahead of time, said Chauncy.

  I wish we were that organized, said Ludwig, mustering a smile.

  Chauncy did not smile. Tell me what kind of story you had in mind.

  It would be a profile, basically. You know, the man behind the project and all that.

  There was a silence. Were dealing with a sensitive subject. It has to be handledjust so.

  It would be a favorable, uncontroversial article, focusing on you, not on the details of the experimental field.

  Chauncy thought a moment. Ill have to see the piece before it runs.

  We dont usually do that.

  Youll just have to make an exception in my case. University policy.

  Ludwig sighed. Very well.

  Proceed, said Chauncy. He sat back in the chair.

  Would you like a coffee, some breakfast?

  I ate hours ago, back in Deeper.

  All right, then. Lets see. Ludwig opened the steno book to a blank page, smoothed it, readied his pen, and tried to think of a few pithy questions.

  Chauncy looked at his watch. Im really a very busy man, so if you could keep this to fifteen minutes, Id appreciate it. Next time, you should bring questions instead of making them up on the spot. Its a simple courtesy when interviewing someone whose time is valuable.

  Ludwig exhaled. So, tell me about yourself, where you went to school, how you got interested in agriculture, that sort of thing.

  I was born and raised in Sacramento, California. I went to high school there, and attended the University of California at Davis, where I majored in biochemistry. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, in 1985. He paused. Would you like me to spell summa cum laude?

  I think I can manage it.

  Then I attended graduate school at Stanford University, graduating in four yearsthat would be 1989with a doctorate in molecular biology. My dissertation was awarded the Hensley Medal. Thats H-E-N-S-L-E-Y. I shortly thereafter joined the biology department of Kansas State University on a tenure-track position. I was awarded the chair of Leon Throckmorton Distinguished Professor of Molecular Biology in 1995 and, in addition, became director of the Agricultural Extension Program in 1998.

  He paused for Ludwig to catch up.

  Ludwig had done enough boring stories to know what one smelled like, and this reeked to high heaven. TheHensley Medal, Jesus Christ. Was this guy a prick or what?

  Right, thanks. Stan, when did, ah, genetic engineering really capture your interest? When did you know what you wanted to become?

  We dont refer to it as genetic engineering. We refer to it as geneticenhancement.

  Genetic enhancement, then.

  A pious look briefly settled on Chauncys features. When I was twelve or thirteen, I saw a picture inLife magazine of a crowd of starving Biafran children all crowding around a UN truck, trying to get a bit of rice. I thought,I want to do something to feed those starving children.

  What a crock. But Ludwig dutifully wrote it all down.

  And your father? Mother? What did they do? Does science run in the family?

  There was a brief silence. I would prefer to keep the focus on myself.

  Father probably drove a truck and beat his wife,thought Ludwig. Fine. Tell me, have you published any papers or books?

  Yes. A great many. I will have a copy of my curriculum vitae faxed to your office if you will give me the number.

  No fax machine. Sorry.

  I see. Frankly, I find it a waste of time to answer questions like this when it would be far simpler for you to get the information yourself from the KSU public relations department. They have a file on me a foot thick. And it would be much better if youread some of my papers before interviewing me. It just saves everyone so much time. He checked his watch again.

  Ludwig shifted to another tack. Why Medicine Creek?

  May I remind you, we havent necessarily chosen Medicine Creek.

  I know, but why is it in the running?

  We were looking for an average place with typical growing conditions. Medicine Creek and Deeper came out of a comprehensive, two-hundred-thousand-dollar computerized study of almost a hundred towns in western Kansas. Thousands of criteria were used. We are now in phase three of the study, determining the final choice for the project. We have already struck agreements with the appropriate agribusinesses for possible access to their land. All we need now is to make a decision between the two towns. And that is why I am here: to make that final decision and announce it on Monday.

  Ludwig wrote it all down, all the while realizing that when you really parsed what the man had said, he in fact had said nothing.

  But what do you think of thetown? he asked.

  There was a brief silence, and Ludwig could see that this was one question Chauncy did not have a ready answer for.

  Well, I . . . Unfortunately theres no hotel here, and the only place where I could stay had already been booked by a man, a difficult man it would seem, who took the entire floor and categorically refused to relinquish a room. His lips pursed, bristling the short hairs around his mouth. So Ive had to stay in Deeper and make an inconvenient drive of twenty-five miles every morning and evening. There isnt anything here, really, except abowling alley and a diner . . . No library, no cultural events, no museum or concert hall. Medicine Creek really hasnt got anything particular to recommend it, frankly. He smiled quickly.

  Ludwig found himself bristling. Weve got good, solid, small-town, old-fashioned American values here. Thats worth something.

  Chauncy shuddered faintly. I have no doubt of that. Mr. Ludwig, when I make the final decision between Deeper and Medicine Creek, you will no doubt be among the first to know. And now, if you dont mind, I have important business to tend to. He rose.

  Ludwig rose with him and grasped the extended hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sun-reddened, stubble-headed form of Dale Estrem and two other farmers looking at them through the glass front of the bowling alley. They had seen Chauncy inside and were obviously waiting for him to come out. Ludwig suppressed a smile.

  You can fax or e-mail the piece to the KSU public relations department, said Chauncy. The number is on my card. They will vet it and return it to you by the end of the week. He snapped his card on the table and stood up.

  By the end of the week.Ludwig watched the little prick walk stiffly past the bowling lanes, his head up, his back very straight, his small legs moving as briskly as machinery. Chauncy pushed open the door to the street and now Dale Estrem was striding toward him, his big farmers arms swinging. The sound of his raised voice was enough to penetrate even the inner sanctum of the Castle Club. It looked like Chauncy was in for a verbal mauling.

  Ludwig smiled. Dale Estrem: now there was someone who was always willing to speak his mind. Screw Chauncy, screw Ridder, and screw the sheriff. Ludwig had a paper to publish.

  The dog would stay.

  Twenty

  Tad walked back out of the Wagon Wheel into the blast-furnace heat. So far, no luck, no Willie Stott sleeping it off in the back room. Still, Tad was mighty glad hed taken the time to check. He popped a mint into his mouthhis secondto cover up any possible beer breath from the ice-cold Coors Swede had slipped him under the bar. It sure tasted good on a day as hot as this one. Swede Cahill was one hell of a nice guy.

  Tads cruiser was sitting outside the sheriffs office, baking in the sun, and Tad made a beeline for it. He slid inside and started the engine, careful to let the minimum amount of back and buttcheek come in contact with the blistering leatherette. If he could land a desk job in Topeka or Kansas City, he wouldnt have to spend his days hopping in and out of the suffocating heat, forced to drive a cruiser that carried its own little hell around inside it.

  He switched his radio to the frequency of the county dispatcher.

  Unit twenty-one to Dispatch, he said.

  Hiya, Tad, came the voice of LaVerne, who worked the day shift. She was sweet on Tad and, had
she been maybe twenty years younger, perhaps he might have felt the same way.

  LaVerne, anything new? he asked.

  Someone at Gro-Bain just reported a vehicle parked by the side of the approach road. Seems abandoned.

  Whats the model? Tad didnt have to ask for the make. Except for Art Ridders Caprice and the police 91 Mustangs, bought secondhand from the Great Bend PD, just about every car in town was AMC. It had been the only dealership within an hours drive. Like so much else, though, it had closed down years ago.

  Hornet, license plate Whiskey Echo Foxtrot Two Niner Seven.

  He thanked LaVerne before slipping back into more formal jargon. Unit twenty-one, moving, he said, replacing the radio.

  That would be Stotts Hornet. No doubt the guy was sleeping in the back, like he had the last time his shitbox broke down outside of town. Hed curled up and made a nice little evening out of it, just the two of them, him and Old Grand-Dad.

  Tad put the cruiser in gear and pulled away from the curb. It was the work of fifteen seconds to leave the town behind. Four minutes later, he turned into the plant road. There was a huge semi-load of live turkeys lumbering ahead of him, laying down a stink of turkey shit on the road so thick you could almost see it. Tad overtook the semi as quickly as he could, glancing over at the stacked cages full of terrified turkeys, their eyes bulging.

  Tads job had carried him into the Gro-Bain plant a couple of times. His first visit was right before Thanksgiving, and that year he and his widowed mother had enjoyed a nice pork roast. It had been pork roast ever since. Tad was glad he had never seen a pig farm.

  There it was: Stotts Hornet, parked by the side of the road, almost invisible in the shadow of the corn. Tad stopped behind it, switched on his flashers, and got out.

  The windows were open, the car was empty. There was no key in the ignition.

  The turkey truck blasted by, rocking the corn on either side of the road and leaving behind the stench of diesel and panicked poultry. Tad turned away with a wince. Then he pulled his radio from his belt.

  Yeah? came Hazens response when he called.

  Im here at Stotts car. Its parked on the access road leading to Gro-Bain. Its empty, no sign of Stott.

  Figures. Hes probably sleeping it off in the corn.

  Tad looked out into the sea of corn. Somehow, he didnt think anyone would choose to sleep in there, even drunk. You really think so?

  Sure I do. What else?

  The question hung in the air.

  Well . . .

  Tad, Tad. You cant let this craziness get to you. Not every missing person turns up murdered and mutilated. Look, Im out here at the dog. And guess what?

  What? Tad felt a constriction in his throat.

  Its just a dog hit by a car. Still got its tail and everything.

  Thats good.

  So listen. You know Willie as well as I do. His car breaks down and he sets off on foot to wet his whistle at the Wagon Wheel. Hes got his usual hip flask in his back pocket, and he nips it until its gone. On the way, he decides to take a little snooze in the corn. And thats where youll find him, hungover as hell but otherwise intact. Cruise back along the road slow, youll probably find him in the shade of the ditch. Okay?

  Okay, Sheriff.

  Thats a boy. You be careful, huh?

  Will do.

  As Tad was about to get back in the cruiser, he noticed something gleaming in the dirt beside Stotts Hornet: an empty pint bottle. He walked over, picked it up, sniffed. The smell of fresh bourbon filled his nose.

  It was just as the sheriff had said. Hazen seemed to know everything in town, almost before it happened. He was a good cop. And hed always acted like a second father to him. Tad should be grateful to be working for a guy like that, he really should.

  Tad put the pint into a plastic evidence bag and flagged the spot. The sheriff appreciated thoroughness, even in the little things. As he was heading back toward his cruiser, another truck passed. But this was a refrigerated truck coming from the plant, full of nice, sanitized, frozen Butterballs. No odor, no nothing. The driver waved cheerfully. Tad waved back, lowered himself into his car, and started back down the road, looking for Stott.

  Two hundred yards later, he stopped. To the left, the cornstalks had been broken. And on the right-hand side the corn was broken as well, a few stalks angled sharply to one side. It looked to Tad like someone had pushed into the corn on the left, while someone else had come out and crossed the road from the right.

  He stopped the cruiser, his sense of unease returning.

  He got out of the car and looked at the ground under the corn on the left side of the road. There was a disturbance in the dry clods. A disturbance that suggested someone had walkedor, more likely, runthrough the dirt between two corn rows. A little deeper in, Tad could see some broken stalks and a couple of dry cobs that had been torn away and were now lying on the ground.

  Tad pushed into the first row, eyes on the ground. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast. It was hard to make out marks in the clumpy, dry earth, but there were depressions that looked like footprints, scuffed areas, places where clods had been overturned, showing their dark undersides. He paused, suppressing an urge to call the sheriff. The trail went on, and here it broke through another row of corn, flattening five or six stalks.

  There seemed to be more than one set of blurred, incomplete tracks. Tad didnt want to articulate, even to himself, what this was starting to resemble. It looked like a chase. Jesus, it was really looking like a chase.

  He continued walking, hoping it would turn out to be something else.

  The trail went through another row, ran along the corn for a while, then broke through yet another. And then Tad came suddenly upon an area where there had been some thrashing in the dirt. A dozen stalks were broken and scattered. The ground was all torn up. It was a mess. It looked like something violent, really violent, had happened here.

  Tad swallowed, scanning the ground intently. There, finallyon the far side of the disturbancewas a clear footprint in the dry earth.

  It was bare.

  Oh, God,thought Tad, a sick feeling rising in his stomach.Oh, God. And his hand trembled as he raised the radio to his lips.

  Twenty-One

  Corrie Swanson brought the shuddering Gremlin into the dirt lot of Krauss Kaverns, parking it amidst a swirl of dust that spiraled up and away. She glanced at the dashboard clock: six-thirty exactly. God, it was hot. She snapped off the blaring music, threw open her door and got out, scooping up her new notebook as she did so. She walked across the lot and mounted the steps to the old, decaying Victorian pile. The oval windows in the door revealed little of the gloom beyond. She raised the big iron knocker and let it drop, once, twice. The soft creak of footsteps, then Pendergast appeared at the door.

  Miss Swanson, he said. Punctual, very punctual. We, on the other hand, are running late. I must admit to a certain difficulty adjusting to the early dinner hour of this town.

  Corrie followed him into the dining room, where the remains of what looked like an elaborate dinner could be seen beneath the glow of candles. Winifred Kraus sat at the head of the table, wiping her mouth primly with a lace napkin.

  Please sit down, said Pendergast. Coffee or tea?

  No, thanks.

  Pendergast disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a funny-looking metal teapot. He filled two cups with a green liquid, handing one to Winifred and keeping the other himself. Now, Miss Swanson, I understand youve completed your interview with Andy Cahill.

  Corrie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, laid her notebook on the table.

  Pendergasts eyebrows shot up. Whats this?

  My notebook, said Corrie with a defensiveness she didnt quite understand. You wanted me to interview Andy, so I did. I had to write it down somewhere.

  Excellent. Lets have the report. The FBI agent settled into his chair, his hands clasped together.

  Feeling awkward, Corrie opened the notebook.

 
What lovely handwriting you have, my dear, said Winifred, leaning just a little too close.

  Thanks. Corrie edged the notebook away. Prying old gossip.

  I went to Andys house yesterday evening. Hed been out of town, a 4-H trip to the state fair. I told him his dog had died, but I didnt say how. I kind of let him assume it was hit by a car. He was pretty upset. He loved that dog, Jiff.

  She paused. Once again, Pendergasts eyes had drooped to mere slits. She hoped he wouldnt go to sleep on her again.

  He said that for the past couple of days, Jiff had been acting kind of strange. He wouldnt go outside and went whining and cringing around the house, had to be dragged out from under the bed when it was time for his dinner.

  She turned the page.

  Finally, two days ago

  Exact dates, please.

  August tenth.

  Proceed.

  On August tenth, Jiff, er, took a dump on the living room rug. She looked up nervously into the silence that followed. Sorry, but thats what he did.

  My dear, said Winifred, you should say that the dogdirtied the rug.

  But he didnt just get the rug dirty, he, you know,crapped on it. Diarrhea, in fact. What was this meddling old lady doing anyway, listening to the report? She wondered how Pendergast could put up with her.

  Please continue, Miss Swanson, Pendergast said.

  So anyway, Mrs. Cahill, whos kind of a bitch, got pissed off and kicked Jiff out of the house and made Andy clean up the mess. Andy had wanted to take Jiff to the vet but his mom didnt want to pay for it. Anyway, that was the last he ever saw his dog.

  She glanced over at Winifred and noticed her face was all pinched up. It took her a moment to realize it was because she had used the word bitch.

  What time was this? Pendergast asked.

  Seven oclock in the evening.

  Pendergast nodded, tenting his fingers. Where do the Cahills live?

  Its the last house on the Deeper Road, about a mile north of town, not far from the cemetery and just before the bridge.

  Pendergast nodded approvingly. And Jiff was wearing his collar when he was ejected from the house?