Still Life with Crows

by Preston; Child

  “We are now in the Krystal Kathedral, the first of the three great caverns in the cave system. These stalagmites are twenty feet high on average. The ceiling is almost ninety feet above our heads, and the cavern measures one hundred and twenty feet from side to side.”

  “Magnificent,” said Pendergast.

  Winifred beamed and went on to talk about the geology of the chalk beds of southwestern Kansas, and how the cave had formed from the slow percolation of water over millions of years. She ended with a recitation of the names Grandfather Hiram had given to the various stalagmites: “The Seven Dwarves,” “White Unicorn,” “Santa’s Beard,” “Needle and Thread.” Then she paused for questions.

  “Has everyone in town been here?” Pendergast asked.

  Again, the question brought Winifred up short. “Why, yes, I believe so. We don’t charge the locals, of course. It would hardly do to profit from one’s neighbors.”

  When no more questions were forthcoming, she turned and led the way through the forest of stalagmites and into a low, narrow passageway leading to the next cavern.

  “Don’t bump your head!” she warned Pendergast over her shoulder. She entered the second cavern, strode to the center, and turned with a sweep of her dress.

  “We are now in the Giant’s Library. My grandfather named it that because, if you look to your right, you will see how layers of travertine have built up over millions of years to form what looks like stacked books. And over on that side, the vertical pillars of limestone on the walls appear to be shelved books. And now—”

  She stepped forward again. They were about to come to her favorite part, the Krystal Chimes. And then suddenly she realized: she had forgotten her little rubber hammer. She felt in the pocket where she kept it hidden, ready to bring it out to the surprise of the guests. It wasn’t there. She must have left it back in the gift shop. And she’d forgotten the flashlight, as well, always brought along in case the electricity failed. Winifred felt mortified. Fifty years of giving tours and she had never once forgotten her little rubber hammer.

  Pendergast was observing her intently. “Are you all right, Miss Kraus?”

  “I forgot my rubber hammer to play the Krystal Chimes.” She almost felt like crying.

  Pendergast glanced around at the forest of stalactites. “I see. I imagine those resonate when tapped.”

  She nodded. “You can play Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ on those stalactites. It’s the highlight of the tour.”

  “How very intriguing. I shall have to return, then.”

  Winifred searched her mind for the continuation of the talk, but could find nothing. She began to feel a rising panic.

  “There must be a great deal of history in this town,” Pendergast said as he casually examined some gypsum feathers glinting in a pool of reflected light.

  Winifred felt a glow of gratitude for this little rescue. “Oh yes, there is.”

  “And you must know most of it.”

  “I suppose I do know most everything,” she said. She felt a little better. Now she had a second tour to look forward to, and she would never forget her rubber hammer again. That dreadful murder had upset her a great deal. More than she’d realized, perhaps.

  Pendergast bent to examine another cluster of crystals. “There was a curious incident at Maisie’s Diner last evening. The sheriff arrested a girl named Corrie Swanson.”

  “Oh, yes. She’s a troublemaker from way back. Her father ran off, and the mother is the cocktail waitress at the Candlepin Castle.” She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I think she drinks. And . . . seesmen. ”

  “Ah!” said Pendergast.

  Winifred was encouraged. “Yes. They say Corrie takes drugs. She’ll leave Medicine Creek, like so many others, and good riddance. That’s how it is nowadays, Mr. Pendergast: they grow up and leave, never to come back. Though there are some I could name that stick around whoought to leave. That Brushy Jim, for instance.”

  The FBI agent seemed to be intently examining a dripstone mound. It was nice to see someone so interested. “The sheriff seemed to be rather enthusiastic in making Miss Swanson’s arrest.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder. And yet that sheriff’s a bully. That’s what I think. And I’ll say it to anyone. Just about the only person he’s nice to is Tad Franklin, his deputy.” She stopped, wondering if she had gone too far, but Mr. Pendergast was looking at her now, nodding sympathetically.

  “And that son of his is also a bully. He thinks having a sheriff for a father gives him the right to do whatever he pleases. Terrorizes the high school, I hear.”

  “I see. And this Brushy Jim you mentioned?”

  Winifred shook her head. “The most disreputable fellow you ever saw.” She clucked disapprovingly. “Lives in a junkyard out on the Deeper Road. Claims to be descended from the lone survivor of the Medicine Creek Massacre. He was in Vietnam, you know, and it did something to the man. Turned his brain. You just won’t see a lower specimen of humanity, Mr. Pendergast. Uses the Lord’s name in vain. Drinks. Never sets foot in church.”

  “I saw a large banner being erected on the front lawn of the church last evening.”

  “That’s for the fellow from Kansas State.”

  Pendergast looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

  “He wants to plant a new cornfield here. Some kind of experiment. They’ve narrowed it down to two towns, us and Deeper. The decision’s to be announced next Monday. The man from Kansas State’s due to arrive today and the town is laying out the red carpet for him. Not that everybody’s happy about it, of course.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Something about the corn they want to test. It’s been fiddled with somehow. I don’t really understand it, to tell you the truth.”

  “Well, well,” Pendergast said, and then held out his hand. “But here I am, interrupting the tour with questions.”

  Winifred remembered the thread. She bustled forward happily, leading Pendergast to the edge of a wide, dark hole from which even cooler air was rising. “And here is the Bottomless Pit. When Grandfather first arrived, he tossed a stone down andhe did not hear it land. ” She paused dramatically.

  “How did he know the heifer was down there?” Pendergast asked.

  She was thrown into a sudden panic. Once again, nobody had asked the question before.

  “Why, I don’t know,” she said.

  Pendergast smiled, waved his hand. “Do continue.”

  They passed on to the Infinity Pool, where Winifred was disappointed that he did not make a wish—the collecting of tossed coins had once been a profitable sideline. From the Pool, the walkway looped back to the Krystal Kathedral where they had begun. She finished her lecture, shook Pendergast’s hand, and was surprised but pleased to find herself generously tipped. Then, slowly, she led the way back up the wooden stairs to the surface world. At the top, the heat struck her like a hammer. She paused again.

  “As I mentioned, all tour members are allowed a ten percent discount from the gift shop on the day of their tour.” She hustled back into the shop and was not disappointed when Pendergast followed.

  “I should like to see the needlepoint,” he said.

  “Of course.” She directed him to the display case, where he spent a great deal of time poring over the work before choosing a beautiful cross-stitched pillowcase. Winifred was especially pleased because it was one she had done herself.

  “My dear Great-Aunt Cornelia will adore this,” Pendergast said as he paid for the pillowcase. “She’s an invalid, you see, and can only take pleasure in small things.”

  Winifred smiled as she gift-wrapped the parcel. It was so nice having a gentleman like Mr. Pendergast around. And how thoughtful to think of his elderly relation. Winifred was sure Pendergast’s great-aunt would love the pillowcase.

  Ten

  Corrie Swanson sat on the little folding bunk in the lone holding cell of the Medicine Creek jail, staring at the graffiti that covered the peeling walls. There was quite a
lot of it, and despite the variety of inks and handwritings, it was remarkably consistent in subject matter. She could hear the television set blaring in the sheriff’s office up front. It was one of those sick soap operas for housewives with empty lives, complete with quavering organ music and hysterical female sobbing. And she could hear the sheriff moving noisily around the office in his clown shoes, restlessly, like a ferret in a cage, rustling paper and making phone calls. How could such a short man have such big feet? And smoking, too—the place stank. Four more hours and her mom would be sober enough to come down and get her. So here she was, being “taught a lesson”—her mother’s words—listening to the comings and goings of the world’s most ratlike human being. Some lesson. Well, it wasn’t any worse than sitting at home, listening to her mother’s nagging or drunken snoring. And the folding bunk was at least as comfortable as the broken-down mattress in her own bedroom.

  She heard a door slam in the outer office, footsteps, muffled greetings. Corrie recognized one of the voices. It was Brad Hazen, the sheriff’s son and her classmate, with his jock friends. They said something about going into the back to check out the TV.

  Quickly, she lay down on the bunk and turned her face to the wall.

  She heard them moving around the inner office. One of them started changing the television channels, finger held to the button as it clicked through one raspy channel after another: game shows, soaps, cartoons, all divided by loud blasts of white noise.

  Search unsuccessful, the shuffling of footsteps and grunted comments began again. Corrie heard them pass the open doorway to the back room, where her cell was located. There was a sudden pause and then Brad spoke in a low undertone. “Hey guys, check out who’s here. Well, well, well.”

  She heard them shuffling through the doorway, snickering and whispering. There were at least two of them, maybe three. No doubt Chad was one of them, and probably Biff, too. Brad, Chad, and Biff. The fucking Hardy Boys.

  Someone made a low farting sound with his lips. There was suppressed laughter.

  “What’s that smell?” It was Brad again. “Somebody step in it?”

  More low laughter. “What’d you do this time?”

  Corrie spoke without turning around. “Your Deputy Dawg John Q. Ratface left his car running, keys in the ignition, windows down, for half an hour in front of the Wagon Wheel while he refueled on eclairs. How could I resist?”

  “My what?”

  “Your Ripley’s Believe It or Not amazing chain-smoking eclair-to-shit converting dad.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” The voice was rising.

  “Yourfather, dork.”

  Muffled laughter from his two friends.

  “What a twat,” Brad said. “At least I’vegot a father. Which is more than I can say for you. And you don’t exactly have much of a mother, either.” He cackled and someone—Chad, probably—made another disgusting sound with his mouth.

  “The town slut. She was in this cell just last month, wasn’t she, on a drunk and disorderly. Like mother, like daughter. Guess the apple never falls far from the tree. Or in your case, the shit never falls far from the asshole.”

  There was another burst of smothered laughter. Corrie lay still, facing the wall.

  Brad resumed his whisper. “Hey, did you read the paper today? Says the murderer might be local. Maybe a devil worshiper. You fit the bill, with that fucked-up purple hair and black eye makeup. Is that what you do at night? Go out and do mumbo-jumbo?”

  “That’s right, Brad,” said Corrie, still not turning around. “At the dark of each moon, I bathe in the blood of a newborn lamb and recite the Curse of the Nine Gates, and then I summon Lucifer to wither your dick. If you have one.”

  This brought forth another muffled snicker from Brad’s friends, but Brad didn’t join in.

  “Bitch,”Brad muttered. He advanced a step and lowered his voice still further. “Look at you. You think you’re so cool, all dressed in black. Well, you’renot cool. You’re a loser. And I’ll bet for once you’re not lying. I’ll bet youdo go out at night for a little animal killing. Or better yet, animal fucking.” He gave a low chuckle. “Because noman would ever want to screw you, you freak.”

  “If I see anymen around here I’ll let you know,” Corrie replied.

  She heard the door into the back room open and a sudden silence fell. The sheriff spoke, his voice low, calm, and full of menace.

  “Brad? Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Oh, hi, Dad. We were just talking to Corrie here, that’s all.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. I know exactly what you were doing.”

  There was a tense silence.

  “You harass a prisoner of mine again and I’ll book you and lock you up myself. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Now get the hell out, you and your friends. You’re late for scrimmage.”

  There was the sound of guilty shuffling as Brad and his friends left the cellblock. “You all right, Swanson?” the sheriff asked gruffly.

  Corrie ignored the question. Soon the door closed and she lay there, alone once again, listening to the sounds of the television and the voices in the outer office. She tried to keep her breathing normal, tried to forget what Brad had said. One more year and she was out of this loser town, this butt-crack capital of Kansas. One more year. Then it was goodbye, Medicine Shit Creek. It occurred to her, for the millionth time, that if she hadn’t blown it in tenth grade she’d already be out of here. And now she had done it to herself again. Well, no use thinking about that.

  The door to the outer office tinkled again. Someone new had come in. A conversation began in the outer office. Was it Tad, the deputy? Or her mother, sober for once? But no—the new arrival, whoever it was, spoke so softly that Corrie couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The sheriff’s voice, on the other hand, took on a hard edge, but Corrie couldn’t make out the words over the blaring of the television set.

  Eventually, she heard footsteps enter the back room.

  “Swanson?”

  It was the sheriff. She heard him draw heavily on his cigarette and smelled the fresh smoke. There was a rattle of keys, a click as her cell was unlocked. The rusty iron door creaked as it opened.

  “You’re out of here.”

  She didn’t move. Hazen’s voice sounded particularly thick. Something had made him mad.

  “Someone just made your bail.”

  Still she didn’t move. And the other voice spoke. It was low and soft, with an unfamiliar accent.

  “Miss Swanson? You are free to leave.”

  “Who are you?” she asked without turning around. “Did Mom send you?”

  “No. I am Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

  God. It was that creepy-looking man in the undertaker’s getup she’d seen walking around town.

  “I don’t need your help,” she said.

  His voice still heavy with annoyance, Hazen said to Pendergast, “Maybe you should’ve saved your money and stayed out of local law enforcement business.”

  But Corrie had grown curious despite herself. After a moment, she asked, “What’s the catch?”

  “We’ll speak about it outside,” said Pendergast.

  “So thereis a catch. I can just imagine what it is, you pervert.”

  Sheriff Hazen issued a burst of laughter that degenerated into a smoker’s hack. “Pendergast, what’d I tell you?”

  Corrie remained curled on the folding bed. She wondered why this Pendergast was offering to bail her out. It was clear that Hazen didn’t particularly like Pendergast. She remembered a phrase: the enemy of your enemy is your friend. She sat up and looked around. There he was, the undertaker, arms folded, looking at her pensively. The little bulldog Hazen stood next to him, arms squared, scalp glistening under the thinning crew cut, razor rash on his face.

  “So I can just get up and walk out of here?” she asked.r />
  “If that’s what you want,” Pendergast replied.

  She got up, brushed past the FBI agent, past the sheriff, and headed toward the door.

  “Don’t forget your car keys,” called Hazen.

  She paused in the door, turned, held out her hand. The sheriff was standing there, dangling them in his hand. He made no move to give them to her. She took a step forward and snatched them.

  “Your car’s out back in the lot,” he said. “You can settle up the seventy-five-dollar towing fee later.”

  Corrie opened the door and went outside. After the air-conditioned jail, it felt like walking into hot soup. Blinking against the glare, she made her way around the corner and down the alley to the little parking lot behind the sheriff’s office. There was her Gremlin, and there, leaning against it, was the pervert in the black suit. As she approached, he stepped forward and opened the door for her. She got in without a word and slammed the door behind her. Slipping the key into the ignition, she cranked the engine, and after turning over a few times it coughed into life, laying down a huge cloud of oily smoke. The man in black stepped away. She waited a moment, then leaned out the window.

  “Thanks,” she said grudgingly.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  She pressed the accelerator and the car stalled.Shit.

  She restarted it, revved a few times. More smoke poured out. The FBI man was still there. What the hell did he want? She had to admit, he didn’t really look like a pervert. Curiosity finally got the better of her and she leaned out the window once again.

  “All right, Mr. Special Agent. What’s the catch?”

  “I’ll tell you while you give me a lift back to Winifred Kraus’s place. That’s where I’m staying.”

  Corrie Swanson hesitated, then opened the door. “Get in.” She swept a heap of McDonald’s trash off the passenger seat onto the floor. “I hope you’re not going to do something stupid.”

  The FBI agent smiled and slid in beside her as smoothly as a cat. “You can trust me, Miss Swanson. Can I trust you?”