Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  Forty-Three

  At two-thirty that afternoon, Corrie lounged restlessly on her bed, listening to Tool on her CD player. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in her room, but after the events of the other night she didnt have the guts to open her window. It still seemed impossible to believe that guy from Kansas State had been killed just down the street. But then, the entire last week was beyond belief.

  Her eyes strayed to the window. Outside, huge thunderheads were spreading their anvil-shaped tops across the sky and a premature darkness was falling. But the approaching storm only seemed to make everything muggier.

  She heard her mothers voice through the bedroom wall and cranked up the volume in response. There were a few muffled thumps as her mother tried to get her attention by knocking on the wall. Jesus. Of all days for her mother to call in sick, when Pendergast no longer needed her and she was stuck at home with nothing to do and too freaked out for her usual retreat on the powerline road. She almost longed for Labor Day and the start of school.

  The door to her room opened and there was her mother, standing in her nightgown, too-skinny arms draped over a too-fat stomach. Smoking a cigarette.

  Corrie slipped off her earphones.

  Corrie, Ive been yelling myself hoarse. One of these days Im going to take away those earphones.

  Youtold me to wear them.

  Not when Im trying to talk to you.

  Corrie stared at her mother, at her smudged mascara and the remains of last nights lipstick still staining the cracks of her lip. Shed been drinking, but not, it seemed, enough to keep her in bed. How could this alien be her mother?

  Why arent you outworking? Did that man get tired of you?

  Corrie didnt answer. It really didnt matter. Her mother was going to have her say regardless.

  As I figure it, you got paid for two weeks. Thats fifteen hundred dollars. Is that right?

  Corrie stared.

  As long as youre living here, youre going to contribute. Ive told you this before. Ive had expenses up the wazoo lately. Taxes, food, car payments, you name it. And now Im losing a days tips because of this nasty cold.

  Nasty hangover, you mean.Corrie waited.

  A fifty-fifty split is theleast I can expect.

  Its my money.

  And whose money do you thinks been supporting you these past ten years? Certainly not that shitbag father of yours. Me. Ive been the one working my fingers to the bone supporting you, and by God, young lady, youre going to give something back.

  Corrie had taped the money to the bottom of her dresser drawer and she wasnt about to let her mother see where it was. Why, oh why, had she ever told her mother how much she was making? She was going to need that money to pay for a fucking lawyer when her trial came up. Otherwise she was going to end up with some crappy public defender and find herself going to jail. That would make a terrific impression, mailing her college applications from jail.

  I told you Ill leave some money on the kitchen table.

  Youll leave seven hundred and fifty dollars on the kitchen table.

  Thats way too much.

  For supporting you all these years, its hardly enough.

  If you didnt want to support me you shouldnt have gotten pregnant.

  Accidents happen, unfortunately.

  Corrie could smell the acrid scent of burning filter as the cigarette was inhaled right down to the butt. Her mother looked around, stubbed it out in Corries incense burner. If you dont want to contribute, you can go find yourself another place to live.

  Corrie turned roughly away and replaced her earphones, cranking up the music so loud her ears hurt. She faced the smudged wall, stone-faced. She could just barely hear her mother shouting at her.If she so much as touches me, Corrie thought,Ill scream. But she knew her mother wouldnt. Shed hit her once and Corrie had screamed so loud the sheriff came. Of course, the little bulldog did nothinghe actually threatenedher with disturbing the peacebut it had the effect of keeping her mothers hands off her for good.

  There was nothing her mother could do. She just had to wait her out.

  Long after her mother had gone back to her room in a fury, Corrie continued lying there, thinking. She forced her mind away from her mother, from the trailer, from the depressing empty meaningless hell that was her life. She found her thoughts drifting toward Pendergast. She thought about his cool black suit, his pale eyes, his tall narrow frame. She wondered if Pendergast was married or had children. It wasnt fair, the way hed just dumped her like that and driven off in his fancy car. But maybe, like everybody else, he was disappointed in her. Maybe in the end she just hadnt done a good enough job for him. She burned with resentment at the way the sheriff had come in and just laid those papers on Pendergast. But he wasnt the kind to roll over and play dead. And hadnt he hinted he was going to continue working on the case? Hehad to take her off the case, she told herself. It wasnt anything shed done. Hed said it himself:I cannot have you defying the sheriff on my account.

  Her mind drifted toward the case itself. It was still so weird to think of someone in Medicine Creek doing those killings. If it really was someone local, it meant it was someone she knew. But she knew everyone in Shit Creek, and she couldnt imagine any of them being a serial killer. She shuddered, thinking back over the crime scenes shed witnessed firsthand: the dog, its tail hacked off . . . Chauncy, sewn up like some overdone turkey . . .

  The weirdest of all was Stott, boiled like that. Why had the killer done that? And how did you boil someone whole, anyway? Hed have to have lit a fire, put on a big pot . . . It seemed impossible. Where could you get a pot like that? Maisies? No, of course not: the biggest pot she had was the one she used for Wednesday night chili, and you couldnt even fit an arm in that. The Castle Club also had a kitchencould it have happened there?

  Corrie snorted to herself. The idea was nuts. Even the Castle Club couldnt have a pot big enough to boil an entire person; for that youd need an industrial kitchen. Or maybe hed used a bathtub? Could someone have winched a bathtub onto a stove, cooked the body that way? Or set up a bathtub in some cornfield? But the spotter planes would have seen it. And the smoke from the fire would have been visible from all over. Someone wouldve smelled it cooking; smelled thesmoke, at least.

  No, there was nowhere in Medicine Creek the body couldve been cooked . . .

  Abruptly, she sat up.

  Krauss Kaverns.

  It was crazy. But then again, maybe it wasnt. Everyone knew that, during Prohibition, old man Kraus had run a moonshine operation in the back of that cave of his.

  She felt a crawling sensation along her back: a mixture of excitement, curiosity, fear. Maybe the old still was still in there. Stills had big pots, didnt they? And would that pot be big enough to boil a person? Maybe, just maybe.

  She lay back in bed, her heart beating fast. As she did so, the ridiculousness of it came over her again. Prohibition had ended seventy years ago and the old still would be long gone. You just didnt leave something that valuable rotting in a cave. And how would the killer sneak in and out of the cave? That prying old woman, Winifred Kraus, kept it locked up tight and watched over it like a hawk.

  She tossed restlessly. Locks could be picked. She herself had downloadedThe MIT Guide to Lock Picking while surfing the Web on the school computers, and shed even made a small pick of her own and experimented on the padlocks of school lockers.

  If the killer was local hed know about old man Krauss moonshine operation and the still. The killer might have brought the body in some night, boiled it, and been gone by morning. Old Winifred would never have been the wiser. Fact is, she hardly ever gave tours anymore.

  Corrie wondered if she should call Pendergast. Did he know about the still? She doubted itthe bootlegging was just some ancient bit of Medicine Creek lore nobody would have thought to tell him about. That was why hed hired her, to tell him just this kind of stuff. She should call him now and let him know. She felt in her pocket for the cell phone hed given her, pulled it out,
started dialing.

  Then she stopped. The whole idea was absurd. Stupid. It was just a wild guess. Pendergast would laugh at her. He might even be angry. She wasnt supposed to be on the case at all.

  She dropped the phone and turned toward the wall again. Maybe she should check it out firstjust in case. Just to see if the still was there. If it was, then shed tell Pendergast. If it wasnt, she wouldnt make a fool of herself.

  She sat up, put her feet on the floor. Everybody knew the cave only had one or two small caverns beyond the tourist area. The still would be in one of those. It wouldnt be hard to find. She would duck in there, check it out, leave. And it would get her out of the house.Anything to get out of this hellhole.

  She turned down the music and listened. Her mother had fallen silent.

  She slipped off the earphones, paused to listen again. Then, ever so carefully, she got out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and slowly opened the door. All remained quiet. Shoes in hand, she began sneaking down the corridor. Just as she reached its end, she heard her mothers door bang open and her voice ring out.

  Corrie! Where in hell do you think youre going?

  She hopped through the kitchen and ran out the door, letting it bang behind her. She jumped into her car, threw her shoes onto the seat next to her, and turned the key, praying the thing would start. It thumped, choked, died.

  Corrie! Her mother was coming out the door now, moving awfully fast for someone with a nasty cold.

  Corrie cranked the key again, pumping the pedal desperately.

  Corrie!!

  This time the engine caught and she screeched down the gravel lane of Wyndham Parke Estates, laying a spume of smoke, dust, and dancing pebbles in her wake.

  Forty-Four

  Marjorie Lane, executive receptionist for the ABX Corporation, was becoming increasingly agitated by the man in the black suit sitting in her waiting room.

  He had been there ninety minutes. That in itself wasnt unusual, but during that time he had not picked up any of the magazines conveniently laid about; he had not used his cell phone; he had not opened a laptop or done any of the things people usually did while waiting to see Kenneth Boot, the company CEO. In fact, it seemed as if he hadnt moved at all. His eyes, so strange and silvery, always seemed to be looking out the glass wall of the waiting room across downtown Topeka, toward the green geometry of farms beyond the citys edge.

  Marjorie had been with the company through a host of recent changes. First, it had jettisoned its old name, the Anadarko Basin Exploratory Company, in favor of the sleek new acronym and logo. Then it had begun buying new businesses that went far beyond oil exploration: energy trading, fiber optics, broadband (whatever that was), and a million other things she didnt understand and, when she asked around, nobody else seemed to, either. Mr. Boot was a very busy man, but even when he was not busy he liked to keep people waiting. Sometimes he kept people waiting all day, as he had done recently with some mutual fund managers who had come to ask questions about something or other.

  She longed for the old days: when she understood what the company did, when people werent kept waiting. It was unpleasant for her when people had to wait. They complained, they talked loudly on their cell phones, they banged away on their laptops, and they paced about furiously. Sometimes they used profane language and she had to call security.

  But thisthis was worse. This man gave her the creeps. She had no idea if Mr. Boot would see him soon, or in fact see him at all. She knew he was an FBI agenthe had shown her his shieldbut Mr. Boot had kept important people waiting before.

  Marjorie Lane busied herself with work, answering phones, typing, responding to e-mails, but always out of the corner of her eye she could see the black figure, as immobile as a Civil War statue. He didnt even seem to blink.

  Finally, when she couldnt stand it any longer, Marjorie did something she knew she wasnt supposed to do: she buzzed Mr. Boots personal secretary.

  Kathy, she said in an undertone, this FBI agents been here almost two hours and I really think Mr. Boot should see him.

  Mr. Boot is very busy.

  Iknow, Kathy, but I really think he shouldsee this man. Im getting a bad feeling here. Do me a favor, please.

  Just a moment.

  Marjorie was put on hold. A moment later the secretary came back. Mr. Boot has five minutes.

  Marjorie hung up. Agent Pendergast?

  His pale eyes slowly connected with her own.

  Mr. Boot will see you now.

  Pendergast rose, bowed slightly, and without a word passed through the inner door.

  Marjorie heaved a sigh of relief.

  Kenneth Boot stood over the drafting table that served as his deskhe worked standing upand only gradually became aware that the FBI agent had entered his office and seated himself. He finished typing a memo on his laptop, transmitted it to his secretary, and turned to face the man.

  He was startled. This FBI agent didnt look at all like Efrem Zimbalist Jr., one of his boyhood heroes. In fact, he couldnt have been more different. Beautifully cut black suit, handmade English shoes, custom shirtnot to mention the white skin and slender hands. Five, six thousand dollars worth of clothes on the man, not counting his underwear. Kenneth Boot knew good clothes when he saw them, just as he made it a point to know fine wine, cigars, and womenas every male CEO in America had to do if he wanted to get ahead in business. Boot didnt like the way the agent had made himself so very comfortable. The mans eyes were roaming around in a way that offended Bootit was almost as if he were undressing the office.

  Mr. Pendergast?

  The man did not look at him or answer. His eyes continued to roam, examine, scrutinize. Who was he to act so casual around the chief executive officer of ABX, seventeenth largest corporation listed on the New York Stock Exchange?

  Youve got five minutes and one has passed, said Boot quietly, going back to his drawing table and rapping out another memo on his computer. He waited for the man to speak, but no words were forthcoming. Boot finished the document, checked his watch. Three minutes left.

  Really, this was quite annoying: this man sitting in his office, more comfortable than ever, looking at the paneling on the far wall. Staring, in fact, at the far wall. What was he looking at?

  Mr. Pendergast, youve got two minutes left, he murmured.

  The man waved his hand and spoke at last. Dont mind me. When youve finished your work and can offer me yourundivided attention, well chat.

  Boot glanced over his shoulder. Youd better say what you have to say, Agent Pendergast, he said as unconcernedly as possible. Because youve got exactly one minute left.

  Suddenly the man looked at him, and the look was so intense Boot almost jumped.

  The vault lies behind that wall, correct? Pendergast said.

  With a huge effort of will, Boot remained motionless. The man knew where the corporate vault wassomething only three officers and the chairman of the board knew. Was there some sign of it on the paneling? But in ten years no one had ever suspected. Was he under FBI surveillance? This was outrageous. All these thoughts occurred deep within Boots mind and did not surface on his face.

  I have no idea what youre talking about.

  Pendergast smiled, but it was a faintly supercilious smile, that of an adult humoring a child. Youre in a business, Mr. Boot, in which certain documents must be kept highly confidential. These documents would be the crown jewels of your company. I am referring, of course, to your seismic survey maps of the Anadarko formation. These maps show the location of oil and gas deposits, compiled by you at great cost. Therefore, your having a vault is a given. Since you are a person who trusts nobody, it makes sense the vault would be in your office, where you could keep an eye on it. Now, on three walls of your office you have expensive Old Master paintings. On that portion of the fourth wall, there, you have inexpensive prints. Prints that can be moved, taken down, without fear of a ding or scratch. It is therefore behind the paneling of that wall that your vault lies.

&nbs
p; Boot began to laugh. You fancy yourself a real Sherlock Holmes, dont you?

  Pendergast joined in the laughter. I would respectfully ask you, Mr. Bootand, of course, this is strictly a voluntary requestto open that vault and give me your seismic exploration survey of Cry County, Kansas. The last one, completed in 1999.

  Boot found he had to make an effort to control himself. As usual, he was successful. Boot had learned a long time ago that a quiet voice was menacing, and the tone he now spoke in was barely audible. Mr. Pendergast, as you yourself said, those surveyswherever their location may beare the crown jewels of ABX. That geological information alone represents thirty years of seismic exploration and wildcatting, at a cost of perhaps half a billion dollars. And you want me to justgive it to you? He smiled coldly.

  As I said, the request was strictly voluntary. I could never obtain a warrant for information like that.

  The man had nothing to go on, no cards to play, as he himself openly admitted. It was a jokeor a trick. There was something about the entire business that made Kenneth Boot distinctly uncomfortable. He managed a pleasant smile. Im sorry I cant satisfy you, Mr. Pendergast. If there is nothing else, I wish you good day.

  He went back to working on his memo. But the black figure in the corner of his eye did not move.

  Boot spoke without looking up from his work. Mr. Pendergast, in ten seconds you will become a trespasser in this office, at which point I will call security.

  He paused, waited the ten seconds, then pressed the intercom to his secretary. Kathy, get a security detail up here to show Mr. Pendergast out ASAP. Boot resumed his work, typing a memo to his VP for finance. But he couldnt help but notice that the son of a bitch was still sitting, one finger tapping the arm of the chair, looking around in that same breezy way as if he were in a doctors waiting room. Insolent bastard.

  The intercom buzzed. Security is here, Mr. Boot.

  Before Boot could respond, the man rose with an elegant swiftness and glided toward the drafting table. Boot stared at him, retort dying in his throat as he noticed the expression on the agents pale face.