Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  Another snuffle, like someone with a bad cold.

  She peered hard into the darkness, into the deep pools of shadow that lay alongside the trailer. The street beyond was like a dark river. She strained to see, every sense alert. There, by the hedge that lined the street: was there something moving? A shape? Was it just her imagination?

  She placed her hand on the window and tried to draw it shut, but as usual it was stuck fast. She jiggled it, trying to free the mechanism with a feeling of rising panic.

  She heard more snuffling, like the heavy panting of a large animal. It seemed very close now. But the act of listening caused her to pause for just an instant; then in a sudden panic she redoubled her struggle to get the window shut, rattling it in desperation, trying to free the cheap aluminum latch. Somethingwas moving out there. She could feel it, she could sense itand now, yes now, she was sure she couldsee it: a lumpen, malformed shadow, a mass, black against black, moving ever so stealthily toward her.

  Instinct took over and she fell away from the window, abandoning her attempt to close it in favor of reaching for the light and banishing the darkness. She fumbled, knocked the CD player to the floor, found the light.

  The instant it went on, the room lit up and the window became an opaque rectangle of black. She heard a sudden grunt; a dull thud; a frantic rustling sound. And then, silence.

  She waited, taking a few slow steps back from the black window. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, and her throat was very dry. She could see nothing outside now, nothing at all. Wasit there, in the window, looking at her? A minute ticked off, then another and another. Then she heard, in the middle distance, what sounded like a cough and groan: very low, but so replete with terror and pain that it chilled her to the marrow. It cut off abruptly, replaced with a strange wet ripping noise, and then a sound like someone dumping a bucket of water on the pavement down the street. Then, silence: utter, total silence.

  Somehow, the silence was even worse than the noise. She felt a scream rising, unbidden, in her throat.

  Then, all of a sudden, there was a snap, a gurgle, and a hissing sound, which slowly subsided to a steady swishing murmur.

  She slumped, her body abruptly relaxing. It was just Mr. Dades sprinkler system coming on, as it did every morning at exactly 2A .M.

  She glanced at her clock: sure enough, it read 2:00.

  How many times had she heard that sprinkler system cough and splutter and gurgle and make all sorts of weird noises as it started up?Get a grip, she thought. Her imagination was really working overtime. Not surprising, given all that was going on in the town . . . and given what shed seen, with Pendergast, out there in the cornfields.

  She returned to the window and grabbed the latch, feeling a little sheepish. This time, a single, brutal thrust was enough to close it. She locked the window and climbed back into bed and turned out the light.

  The sound of the sprinklers filtering through the glass, the caressing patter of raindrops, was like a lullaby. And yet it wasnt until four that she was finally able to fall back to sleep.

  Thirty-One

  Tad rolled over so hard that he fell out of bed. Staggering to his knees, he passed a hand across his face, then reached blindly for the ringing telephone. He found it, fumbled with it, lifted it to his face.

  Hello? he mumbled. Hello? Through the sleep-heavy bars of his lashes, he could see that outside the bedroom window it was still dark, the stars hard in the sky, only the faintest streak of yellow on the eastern horizon.

  Tad. It was Hazen, and he sounded very awake indeed. Im over on Fairview, near the side entrance to Wyndham Parke. I need you here. Ten minutes.

  Sheriff? But the phone was already dead.

  Tad made it in five.

  Although the sun had yet to rise, a crowd from the nearby trailer park had gathered, clad mostly in bathrobes and flip-flops. They were strangely silent. Hazen was there, in the middle of the street, setting up crime-scene tape himself while talking into a cell phone propped beneath his jaw. And there, too, was the FBI man, Pendergast, standing off to one side, slender and almost invisible in his black suit. Tad looked around, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. But there was no body, no new victim; just a lumpy, irregular splotch in the middle of the street. Sitting next to it was a canvas bag, full of something. The uneasy feeling gave way to relief. Another animal, it seemed. He wondered what all the hurry was.

  As he walked closer, Hazen snapped his phone shut. Get back, all of you! he shouted, waving the phone at the crowd. Tad! Take over with this tape andget these people back!

  Tad moved forward quickly, grabbing the end of the tape. As he did so, he got a much closer glance at the pile on the street. It glistened redly, pearlescent, steaming in the predawn light. He looked away quickly, swallowing hard.

  All right, folks, Tad began, but his voice didnt sound quite right and he stopped, swallowing once more. All right, folks, back up. More. More. Please.

  The crowd huddled back, silent, their faces pale in the gloom. He strung the plastic tape across the road and tied it to a tree, wrapping it several times, completing the square that Hazen had begun. He saw that Hazen was now talking to the Goth, Corrie Swanson. Pendergast stood beside her, silent. Behind was her mother, looking like hell as usual, her thin brown hair plastered to her skull, a stained and frayed pink bathrobe wrapped tightly around her. She was chain-smoking Virginia Slims.

  Youheard something? Hazen was repeating. His voice was skeptical, but he was taking notes nevertheless.

  Corrie was pale, and she was trembling, but her mouth was set in a hard line and her eyes were bright. I woke up. It was just before two

  And how did you know what time it was?

  I looked at my clock.

  Go on.

  Something woke me up, I wasnt sure what. I went to the window, and thats when I heard the sound.

  What sound?

  Like snuffling.

  Dog?

  No. More like . . . like someone with a bad cold.

  Hazen jotted notes. Go on.

  I had this sense there was something moving out there, right beneath my window, but I couldnt really see it. It was too dark. I turned on the light. And then I heard a different sound, like a groan.

  Human?

  Corrie blinked. Hard to tell.

  Then?

  I shut my window and went back to sleep.

  Hazen lowered his notebook and stared at her. You didnt think to call me or your, ah, boss? He nodded at Pendergast.

  II figured it was just the sprinkler system, which goes on every night around two. It makes weird noises.

  Hazen put away his notebook. He turned to Pendergast. Some assistant you got there. Then he turned to Tad. All right, this is what weve got. Somebody dumped a pile of guts on the road. Looks like cow to me, theres too much there for a dog or sheep. And that sack sitting next to it is full of ears of corn, freshly picked. I want you to check around all the local stock farms, see if anyones missing a cow, pig, any large livestock. His eyes flitted back toward Corrie before returning to Tad. He lowered his voice. This whole thing is starting to look more and more like a cult of some kind.

  Over Hazens shoulder, Tad watched Pendergast step forward and kneel before the pile of offal. He reached forward, actually prodded at something with his finger. Tad averted his eyes. Then he reached over and with one finger lifted the mouth of the canvas bag.

  Sheriff Hazen? Pendergast asked without rising.

  Hazen was already back on the cell phone. What?

  I would suggest looking for a missing person instead.

  There was a shocked silence as the implication sunk in.

  Hazen lowered the cell phone. How do you know these are . . . He couldnt quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

  Cows dont normally eat what appears to be Maisies meatloaf, washed down with a glass of beer.

  Hazen took a step forward and shined his light into the glistening pile. He swallowed hard. But why
would the killer . . . He paused again. His face was dead white. I mean, why take a body and leave the guts behind?

  Pendergast rose, wiping his finger with a handkerchief of white silk. Perhaps, he said grimly, to lighten his load.

  Thirty-Two

  It was eleven oclock before Tad finally returned to the sheriffs office. The sweat was pouring off his brow, and his uniform was soaked to the cuffs. He was the last to return: the state troopers and Hazen, who had also been conducting searches, were there before him. The inner office had been turned into a command center, and a large group of Staties were standing around, talking on cell phones and radios. The press, naturally, had gotten wind of it, and once again the street was lined with TV vans, reporters, and photographers. But they were the only people in sight: all the residents had shut and locked themselves in their houses. The Wagon Wheel was closed and shuttered. Even the shift at Gro-Bain had been sent home for the day. Except for the hungry gaggle of media, Medicine Creek had become a ghost town.

  Any luck? Hazen said immediately as Tad came through the door.

  No.

  Damn!The sheriff pounded his fist on the desk. Yours was the last quadrant. He shook his head. Three hundred and twenty-five people, and every damn one of them accounted for. Theyre canvassing Deeper and the surrounding farms, but nobodys come up missing.

  Are you sure the, um, guts were human?

  Hazen looked sideways at Tad, his eyes red, rimmed by dark circles. Tad had never seen the sheriff under so much pressure. The mans muscular hands were balled into fists, the knuckles white.

  I wondered that, too. But the remains are now up at Garden City, and McHyde assures me theyre human. Thats all they know so far.

  Tad felt sick to his stomach. The image of the meatloaf, poking out of that ragged tear in the ruined guts, the beer foam mixing with the bloodthat was going to stay with him the rest of his life. He never should have looked. Never.

  Maybe it was someone passing through, he said weakly. What local person would be out alone at that time of night, anyway?

  I thought of that, too. But wheres the car?

  Hidden, like Sheila Sweggs?

  Weve checked everywhere. Weve had a spotter plane up since eight.

  No circle cut in a cornfield?

  Nothing. No hidden car, no circle, no dumped body, nothing. No footprints this time, either. Hazen wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and sat down with a heavy thump.

  It was hard to concentrate, the state police were making so much noise with their radios and cell phones in the inner office. And worse, the press was camped right outside, a battery of cameras aimed point-blank at them through the glass door.

  Could it have been a traveling salesman? Tad asked.

  Hazen jerked his head toward the inner office. The Staties are checking all the area motels.

  What about the sack of corn?

  Were working on it. Christ, we dont know if it was left by the killer or if the victim was carrying it. But why the hell would someone be carrying a sackful of corn in the middle of the night? And each ear was tagged and numbered in some kind of weird code, to boot. He glanced at the sea of cameras beyond the front door. He started to rise, sat down, rose again. Get me that can of whitewash and the brush from the storeroom, okay?

  Tad knew exactly what Hazen was going to do. When he returned, Hazen took the can from his hands, tore off the lid, dipped in the brush, and began to paint the glass.

  Bastards, he muttered as his arm swept back and forth, the paint running down and puddling on the doorsill. Bastards.Photograph this and see how you like it.

  Let me help, Tad said.

  But Hazen ignored him, slopping the paint up and down in big strokes until the door was covered. Then he shoved the brush in the can, jammed the lid back on, and sat down heavily again, closing his eyes. His uniform was flecked with white paint.

  Tad sat down beside him, worried. Hazens square face had a gray sheen to it, like a dead piece of fish. His sandy hair lay limp across his forehead. A vein pulsed in his right temple.

  Suddenly, the sheriffs eyes popped wide open. It happened so fast that Tad jumped.

  Hazens lips parted, and he muttered just one word:

  Chauncy!

  Thirty-Three

  Around noon, Sheriff Hazen decided hed watched the dog-handler, Lefty Weeks, struggle with the dogs for just about as long as he could stand. Weeks was one of those types that really got on Hazens nerves: a little man with white eyelashes, big ears, long thin neck, red eyelids, a wheedler and whiner who never stopped talking, even if his audience was a pair of useless dogs. The air under the cottonwood trees was hot and dead and Hazen could feel the sweat springing out on his forehead, the nape of his neck, his underarms, his back, leaking and running down through every fold and crease, even the crack of his ass. It must be over 105 frigging degrees. He couldnt smoke because of the damn dogs, but it was so hot he didnt even feel a craving. Nowthat was saying something.

  Once again the two dogs were whining and cringing about in circles, their tails clamped down hard over their assholes. Hazen glanced at Tad, then looked back at the dogs. Weeks was yelling at them in a high-pitched voice, swearing and jerking ineffectually at the leashes.

  Hazen went over, gave one of the dogs a swift kick in the haunch. Find that motherfucker! he shouted. Go on. Get going.

  The dog whined and crouched lower.

  If you dontmind, Sheriff Weeks began, his red ears backlit and flaming in the heat.

  Hazen spun on him. Weeks, this is the third time youve brought dogs down here and every time its been the same thing.

  Well, kicking them isnt going to help.

  Hazen struggled to control his temper, already sorry he had kicked the dog. The state troopers were now looking at him, their faces blank, but no doubt thinking that he was just another redneck hayseed sheriff. He swallowed hard and moderated his voice. Lefty, look. This is no joke. Get those dogs to track or Im putting in a formal complaint up to Dodge.

  Weeks pouted. I know theyve got a scent, Iknow it. But they just wont track.

  Hazen felt himself boiling up all over again. Weeks, you promised medogs this time, and look at them, groveling like toy poodles in front of a mastiff. Hazen took a step forward at the dogs. This time one of them snarled.

  Dont, Weeks warned.

  Shes not afraid of me, the bitch, although she should be. Give her another go, damn it.

  Weeks took out the plastic bag holding the scentan object retrieved from the second killingand opened it with gloved hands. The dog backed away, whining.

  Come on, girl. Come on, Weeks wheedled.

  The dog slithered back and forth almost on its belly.

  Weeks crouched, the thin travesty of a goatee bobbing on his chin while he held the bag open invitingly. Come on, girl. Scent it! Go! He shoved the bag up to her nose.

  The quivering, crouching dog let loose a stream of piss onto the dry sand.

  Oh, Christ, said Hazen, turning away. He crossed his arms and looked up the creek.

  They had been up and down it now for three hours, dragging the unwilling dogs the whole way. Beyond, in the cornfields, Hazen could see the state police teams moving. Farther down, the SOC teams were on their hands and knees, combing the sandbeds along the creek for something,any thing. Above droned two spotter planes, crisscrossing back and forth, back and forth. Why couldnt they find the body? Had the killer taken off with it? There were state police roadblocks up, but the killer could have escaped during the night. You can drive a long way in a Kansas night.

  He glanced up and saw Smit Ludwig approaching, notebook in hand.

  Sheriff, mind if I

  Smitty, this is a restricted area. Hazen had just about had it.

  I didnt see any tape, and

  You get out of here, Ludwig. On the double.

  Ludwig stood his ground. I have a right to be here.

  Hazen turned to Tad. Escort Mr. Ludwig to the road.

  You can
t do this!

  The sheriff turned his back on the entreaty. Come on, Mr. Ludwig, he heard Tad say. The pair of them disappeared in the trees, Ludwigs protests increasingly muffled by the muggy air.

  The sheriffs radio crackled. He hoisted it.

  Hazen here.

  Chauncys been missing from his hotel since yesterday. It was Hal Brenning, state police liaison officer, down in Deeper. Didnt return last night. Bed wasnt slept in.

  Hallelujah, what else is new?

  He didnt tell anyone what he was doing, where he was going. Nobody up here knows anything about his itinerary.

  We checked into that, Hazen replied. Seems he had car problems, left his Saturn over at Ernies Exxon. Insisted it be fixed that day, even though Ernie told him it was a two-day job. Chauncy was last seen eating a late dinner at Maisies. Never picked up the car, though. Looks like he went into the cornfields and was doing a little last-minute research on the sly, collecting and labeling ears of corn.

  Collecting corn?

  I know, I know. Insane, with a killer running loose. But this Chauncy liked to play his cards close to his vest. Probably didnt want anybody prying, asking awkward questions. Hazen shook his head, remembering how upset Chauncy had become at Pendergasts talk of cross-pollination.

  Well. Anyway, were looking through Dr. Chauncys papers now with some of Sheriff Larssens boys. It looks like he was going to make some kind of announcement today at noon.

  Yeah. The experimental field project which Medicine Creek wasnt going to get. Anything else?

  Some dean from KSUs coming down with their head of campus security. Should be here in half an hour.

  Hazen groaned.

  On top of that, weve got a dust storm brewing. Theres a weather advisory out for Cry County and the eastern Colorado plains.

  When?

  The leading edge could come as early as tonight. They say it might be upgraded to a tornado watch.

  Great. The sheriff punched the radio off, holstered it, and glanced up. Sure enough: thunderheads, darker than usual, were piling up to the west, as if a nuclear war was being fought somewhere over the horizon. Any Kansan with half a brain knew what clouds like that meant. There was more than a dust storm coming. At the least, the creek would be up, scouring the whole creek bed. The fields would get drenched, maybe flooded. Thered probably be hail. And there would go all their clues. Theyd get nothing more to go on until . . . until the next killing. And if there were indeed tornadoes, it would shut down the whole investigation while everyone dove for cover. What a frigging mess.