Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  Another scream, another wild shotgun blast.

  Weeks! Pendergast rapped out. Youre firing wild!Aim your weapon.

  No, no,no! The shotgun went off yet again. And then Corrie heard the clatter as Weeks threw his empty gun down in a panic and began climbing furiously.

  Officer Weeks! Pendergast shouted.

  Once again, Corrie reached out with her hands, fingertips splayed, looking for a purchase. She could find none. With a sob of terror, she looked down toward Pendergast, appealing for help. And then she froze.

  A shape had flashed out of the darkness below, leaping upon the rock wall like a spider. Pendergasts gun cracked but the shape kept coming, scrambling up after them. For a moment, Pendergasts light fell directly on it, but it gave a grunt of rage and ducked away from the beam. And yet it was enough for Corrie to see, once again, that great moonlike face, inhumanly white; the wispy trailing beard; the little blue eyes flecked with blood, staring out from below long, effeminate lashes; that same strange, intent, fixed smile: a face that seemed as ingenuous as a babys, and yet so very alien, rent by thoughts and emotions so bizarre as to scarcely seem human.

  Even as she watched, the figure ascended the rock with terrible speed.

  Pendergasts gun cracked again but Corrie saw that Weeks, climbing desperately, had come directly between him and the monster and the FBI agent no longer had a shot. She lay against the rock face, her heart like a hammer in her chest, unable to move, unable to look away, unable to do anything.

  The killer reached the frantically climbing Weeks, brought his pistonlike arm back, and smashed the man in the back, cracking him like a bug. With a scream of pain Weeks peeled off the rock and began to slide. The massive arm cocked back again and this time struck a sideways blow that rammed Weekss head against the rock. Corrie watched in frozen horror as Weeks simply dropped, down the wall and into the great fissure below, his body making no sound as it plunged out of sight through the veil of mist into the unguessable depths beneath.

  Then immediately there came another shot from Pendergasts gun, but the man, with a great apelike leap, dodged sideways and once again began scuttling up the rock face with almost unbelievable agility. Before she could even draw breath he was on top of Pendergast. There was a blow and the agents gun fell away, clattering onto the cavern floor below. Then the things hammerlike fist drew back to deliver another, fatal blow and Corrie, finding her breath, screamed, No!

  But when the fist came down, Pendergast was no longer there, having jumped sideways himself. Now the agent raised his hand, fingertips curled tightly in against themselves, and thrust the meat of his palm violently up into the mans nose. There was a cracking sound and a jet of crimson blood. The man grunted in pain and lashed out again, knocking Pendergast roughly from the wall. The agent teetered, slid, then managed to halt his fall, reestablishing a grip on the stone several feet below.

  But it was too late. The thing, bloodied and frothing, had gotten past Pendergast and was now scrambling up the rock face toward Corrie. She was helpless; she could not even release a hand to defend herself; it was all she could do to cling to the cliff.

  He was on top of her in a heartbeat and the great callused hands closed once again around her throat, with no hesitation now, no humanity in his dead eyes, nothing but a sense of anger and the desire to kill. And the sound of her gagging was drowned out by his own brutal roar.

  Muuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh!

  Seventy-Six

  The wind was blowing even harder now, and Shurte and Williams had retreated into the shelter of the cut leading down into the cave. It wasnt exactly where the sheriff had ordered them to be, Shurte knew, but the hell with it: it was past one in the morning, and theyd been standing in the cold and rain for over three hours already.

  He heard Williams groan, then swear. He glanced over. Williams was huddled farther down the cut, holding the propane lantern. Shurte had dressed his partners bite, using the first-aid kit from the cruiser. It was an ugly wound, but not nearly as bad as Williams was making it out to be. The real problem was their situation. The police-band radios were silent, the power was out everywhere; even the few commercial radio stations that reached this far into the boondocks were off the air. As a result, they had no information, no orders, no news, nothing. Three hours Hazen and the others had been in the cave, and the only one to come out had been one of the dogs with half his jaw ripped off.

  Shurte had a very bad feeling.

  The cave exhaled a smell of dampness and stone. Shurte shivered. He couldnt stop thinking about the way the dog had come tearing out of the darkness, trailing blood. What could have ripped a dog apart like that? He glanced at his watch again.

  Jesus, what the hell are theydoing down there? Williams asked for the tenth time.

  Shurte shook his head.

  I should be in the hospital, Williams said. I might be getting rabies.

  Police dogs dont have rabies.

  How do you know? Im getting an infection, for sure.

  I put plenty of antibiotic ointment on it.

  Then why does it burn so much? If this gets infected Ill remember who dressed it,Doctor Shurte.

  Shurte tried to ignore him. Even the banshee-like moaning of the wind across the mouth of the cave was preferable to his whining.

  I tell you, Ive got to get medical help. That dog took a chunk out of me.

  Shurte snorted. Williams, its a dog bite. Now you can put in for a Purple Heart Ribbon for being wounded in the line of duty.

  Not until next week I cant. And it hurtsnow, damn it.

  Shurte looked away. What a jerk. Maybe he should request a rotation. When the going got rough Williams had crapped out. A dog bite. What a joke.

  A bolt of lightning tore the sky in half, briefly painting the mansion a ghostly white. The huge drops of rain were propelled like bullets in the howling wind. A river of water was running down the ramp into the cave.

  Fuck this. Williams got to his feet. Im going up to the house to relieve Rheinbeck. Ill take a turn watching the old lady and send him on down here.

  That wasnt our assignment.

  Screw the assignment. They were supposed to be in and out of the cave in half an hour. Im injured, Im tired, and Im soaked to the skin. You can stay out here if you want, but Im going up to the house.

  Shurte watched his retreating back, then spat on the ground. What an asshole.

  Seventy-Seven

  The roar of the monster was suddenly drowned out by a second roar, sharp and deafening in the confines of the cavern. Corrie felt the horrible weight of the brute suddenly slam against her, pressing her cruelly into the rock face. He was roaring violently in her ear as if in pain, the bellowing filling her nostrils with the smell of rotten eggs. The great paw around her neck loosened, then released, allowing her to turn her head and gasp for air. She had a brief glimpse of a face inches from hers: broad, unnaturally smooth, pasty white, little eyes, bulbous forehead.

  There was another blast, and this time she heard the slap of buckshot against the rock face nearby. Corrie gulped in air, clinging hard at the slippery purchase. Someone was firing a shotgun at him from below.

  The monster slid away from the rock, then regained his hold, scrabbling frantically and roaring like a bear in the direction of the blast.

  Vaguely, she heard Pendergasts voice from below. Corrie! Now!

  Corrie struggled to clear her head. She released one hand, gave a desperate reach upward, and found the handhold that had been eluding her. Crying and gasping, she pulled herself up by her arms, moved her footand felt a viselike grip close around her ankle.

  She screamed, trying to shake her leg free, but the brute tugged fiercely at her, trying to peel her away bodily from the rock face. She struggled to maintain her hold but the pull was too strong. Her fingers, already swollen and bleeding from her struggles in the pit, grew too painful to endure. Corrie cried out in fear and frustration, feeling her grip give way, her nails scraping across the stone.

&
nbsp; There was another shotgun blast and the terrible grip abruptly relaxed. Corrie felt a sharp sting in her calf and realized that one or more of the shotgun pellets had hit her.

  Hold your fire! Pendergast shouted down.

  But the monster had fallen abruptly silent. The roar of the shotgun, the shrieks of pain and rage, echoed and fell away. Corrie waited, frozen in terror against the rock face. Almost against her will, she found herself looking downward.

  He was there, the broad moon face now a mask of blood. He stared up at her a moment, his face horribly twisted, grimacing, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then his hands spasmodically released their holds. His eyes remained on hers as he swayed back, as if in slow motion, from the rock face. Then he gradually fell backward, his countenance serene as his huge body dropped away into space. Corrie watched in sickened horror as he hit the rock wall a dozen feet below, bouncing with a great smack and a spray of blood, then turning once and landing heavily at the mouth of the fissure. He lay still for a moment, and then another shotgun blast roared out, catching him in one shoulder and turning him over violently, swinging his body partway over the abyss. A man holding a shotgun stepped forward: Sheriff Hazen. He aimed it point-blank at the mans head.

  For a moment, one of the monsters great hands clung to the edge. And then it relaxed and the thing slid down out of sight, dropping like a stone into the void. Corrie waited, listening, but there was nothing more: no splash, no cry of ultimate pain to mark the things final passing. He had disappeared, claimed by the dark bowels of the earth. The sheriff stood there, not having fired the final shot.

  The first to speak was Pendergast.

  Easy does it, he said to Corrie, his voice low and firm. Let one hand follow the other. I can see the rest of the path from here. The handholds are good, and the top is only a few feet away.

  Corrie gasped, sobbed, her entire body shaking.

  You may cry when you reach the top, Miss Swanson. Now, you must climb.

  The businesslike tone broke the spell of terror that froze her against the rock. She swallowed, moved a hand, found another handhold, secured it, moved a foot. And when she reached up again, her hand found the lip of the precipice: she had made it to the top. In another moment, she had pulled herself up and over. She stretched out on the cold floor of the passageway, face down, and gave herself over to sobbing.She was alive.

  For a minute, maybe two, she remained alone. And then Pendergast was kneeling over her, his arm around her, his voice low and reassuring. Corrie, youre fine. Hes gone now, and youre safe.

  She couldnt speak; all she could do was cry with relief.

  Hes gone now, and youre safe, Pendergast repeated, the cool white hand stroking her foreheadand for a moment the image of her father returned, so strong it was almost a physical presence. He had comforted her this way once, when she had been hurt on the playground . . . The memory was so vivid that she swallowed the next convulsive sob, hiccuped, and struggled to sit up.

  Pendergast stepped away. I have to go down for Sheriff Hazen. Hes badly hurt. Well be right back.

  He? Corrie managed to say.

  Yes. He saved your life. And mine. Pendergast nodded, then was gone.

  Corrie leaned back against the stone floor. And only now the true storm of feelings flooded through her: the fear, pain, relief, horror, shock. A breeze came wafting down from out of the darkness, stirring her hair. It carried with it a familiar, horrible smell: the smell of that cauldron, in the room where the killer had first grabbed her. But along with it was the faint smell of something else, something almost forgotten: fresh air.

  Perhaps she fell asleep then, or perhaps she simply shut down. But the next thing she remembered was the ring of footsteps against rock. She opened her eyes and saw Agent Pendergast looking down at her, gun once again in his hand. Beside him, leaning heavily against the FBI agent, was the sheriff: bloody, clothes ripped, nothing but a knot of gristle where one of his ears had once been. Corrie blinked, stared. He looked as tired and battered as a human being could be and still remain standing.

  Pendergast spoke. Come. Were not far now. The sheriff needs both our help.

  Corrie staggered to her feet. She swayed a moment and Pendergast steadied her. Then they began moving slowly down the tunnel. And as the smell of fresh, sweet air began growing stronger, Corrie knew for sure that they were finally on their way out.

  Seventy-Eight

  Williams toiled up the path, the bite smarting with each step. The corn in the fields along the road had been ripped to shreds, husks gone, ears scattered across the path, broken stalks rustling crazily against each other. He cursed extravagantly at the rain and the wind. He shouldve packed it in an hour ago. Now he was soakedand injured. Great combination for pneumonia.

  He struggled up onto the porch, his feet crunching over broken glass from a window blown out by the wind. Now he could make out a faint glow from inside.

  It was a fire in the fireplace. Nice. Rheinbeck, it seems, had been taking it easy up here while he and Shurte were down in the storm, guarding the cave entrance. Well, now it was his turn at the fire.

  Williams stopped, leaning on the door and catching his breath. He tried the handle, found it locked. The firelight flickered through the leaded panes, making warm kaleidoscopic patterns in the glass.

  He gave the knocker a few raps. Rheinbeck! Its me, Williams!

  No response.

  Rheinbeck!

  He waited one minute, then another. Still no response.

  Christ, Williams thought, he was probably in the bathroom. Or the kitchen, maybe. That was it. He was in the kitchen eatingor drinking, more likelyand couldnt hear with all the wind.

  He went around the flank of the house and found another broken window panel in the side door. He put his mouth to it and shouted, Rheinbeck!

  Very strange.

  He pushed out the rest of the glass in the panel, reached inside to unlock the door, then eased it open, nosing his light ahead of him.

  Inside, the entire house seemed to be alive with the creaking, groaning, and muttering of the storm. Williams looked around uneasily. It looked solid enough, but old places like this were sometimes full of dry rot. He hoped the whole structure didnt come crashing down on him.

  Rheinbeck!

  Still no answer.

  Williams limped forward. The door from the parlor to the dining room was half closed. He pushed through, looked around. All was in order, the dining table covered with a lace tablecloth, a vase of fresh flowers in the middle. He shone his light into the kitchen, but it was dark and there was no smell of cooking.

  Williams returned to the parlor entrance and stood there indecisively. Looked like Rheinbeck had left with the old woman. Maybe an ambulance had finally come. But why hadnt they notified him and Shurte? It was only a five-minute walk to the cave mouth. Typical Rheinbeck, looking after himself and to hell with everyone else.

  He glanced over at the fire, at the cheery yellow glow it threw over the parlor.

  Hell with it,he decided. As long as he was stuck in this creepy old place, he might as well make himself comfortable. After all, hed been badly injured in the line of duty, hadnt he?

  He hobbled over to the sofa and eased himself down onto it. Now this was more like it: there was always something reassuring about the warm glow of a fire. He fetched a contented sigh, noticing the way the firelight reflected off the framed embroidery, the glass and porcelain knickknacks. He sighed again, more deeply, then closed his eyes, still seeing the flickering warm light through his eyelids.

  He awoke suddenly, wondering for a wild moment where he was. Then it all came flooding back. He had dozed off for a moment, it seemed. He stretched, yawned.

  There was a muffled thump.

  He froze for a moment before figuring it must have been the wind, coming through another broken window. He sat up, listening.

  Another thump.

  It sounded like it was inside the house. Down below, in the basement. And then Williams
suddenly understood. Naturally, Rheinbeck and the old lady were down in the cellar because of the tornado warnings. That was why the house seemed deserted.

  He exhaled with irritation. He should go down there, just to report. He rose from the comfortable sofa, cast a regretful eye on the warm fire, and hobbled toward the door to the cellar stairs.

  At the top he hesitated, then began to descend. The treads protested under his weight, squeaking frightfully over the fury of the storm outside. Halfway down he paused, craned his neck to see into the pool of darkness.

  Rheinbeck!

  There was that thump again, followed by a sigh. He fetched a sigh of his own. Christ, why was he bothering? He was injured, damn it.

  He shone his light down and around, the banister rails throwing alternating bars of yellow and black in the cluttered space. At one end, a huge storm door had been set into the stone wall. That was where they must be.

  Rheinbeck?

  Another sigh. Now that he was closer, it didnt really sound like wind coming in a broken window, after all. It sounded forced, soundedwet somehow.

  He took another step down, and another, and then he was at the bottom. The door was straight ahead. He hobbled over to it, and slowlyvery slowlypushed open the door.

  A candle guttered on a small worktable, where tea for two had been set up with a pot: cups, cream, tea cakes, and jam all neatly arranged. Rheinbeck was sitting in a chair facing the table, slumped over, hands hanging at his sides, blood pouring into his mouth from a terrible gash in his skull. A broken porcelain statue lay in pieces on the ground around him.

  Williams stared, uncomprehending. Rheinbeck?

  No movement. A muffled boom of thunder shook the foundations of the house.

  Williams could not move, could not think, could not even reach for his service piece. For some reason, all he could do was stare in disbelief. Even down here the old house seemed almost alive with the fury of the storm, groaning and swaying, and yet Williams could not pull his eyes away from the tea tray.