by Still Life
And yet, beyond all understanding, that seemed to be Wilbur’s intent. He spread his arms with magisterial pomp.
“Here we are, once again, the little town of Medicine Creek, surrounded by the bounty of God. Summer. Harvest. All around us are the fruits of God’s green earth, God’s promise to us: thecorn, the stalks trembling under the weight of the ripe ears beneath the giving summer sun.”
Ludwig looked around with a kind of desperation. It was the same sermon Wilbur always gave at this time of the year, for as long as Ludwig could remember. There was a time, when his wife still lived, that Ludwig found Wilbur’s cycle of sermons—as predictable as the cycle of seasons—comfortable and reassuring. But not now. Especially not now.
“To those who would ask for a sign of God’s bounty, for those who require proof of His goodness, I say to you: go to the door. Go to the door and look out over the great sea of life, the harvest of corn that stands ready to be plucked and eaten, to provide physical nourishment to our bodies and spiritual comfort to our souls . . .”
“To be made into gasohol for our cars, you mean,” Ludwig heard someone nearby mutter.
He waited. Maybe the minister was just warming up and was going to get onto the real topic soon.
“. . . While Thanksgiving is the accepted time to thank God for the bounty of His earth, I like to offer thanks now, justbefore harvest, when the gift of God’s goodness is made incarnate all around us, in the fields of corn that stretch from horizon to horizon. Let us all walk, as the immortal bard John Greenleaf Whittier impels us to, ‘Up from the meadows rich with corn.’ Let us all then pause, and look out over the great Kansas earth covered with the harvest and give thanks.” He paused for effect.
The mood in the room remained one of suspension, of desperate hope that the sermon would take an unexpected turn.
“The other day,” the minister began in a more jocular tone, “I was driving to Deeper with my wife, Lucy, when our car ran out of gas.”
Oh, no. He told this story last year. And the year before.
“There we were, by the side of the road, completely surrounded by corn. Lucy turned to me and asked, ‘Whatever are we going to do, dear?’
“I answered, ‘Trust in God.’ ”
He chuckled, blissfully ignorant of the ugly undercurrent that was now beginning to ripple through the congregation. “Well, she got mad at that. Being the man, you see, I was supposed to have filled up the tank, and so it was my fault that we’d run out. ‘You trust in God,’ she said. ‘I’m going to trust in my two good legs.’ And she started to get out of the car—”
Suddenly a voice rang out: “and got the gas can out of the back and walked to the gas station!”
It was Swede Cahill himself who had completed the reverend’s sentence: Swede Cahill, the nicest man in town. But there he was, on his feet, red-faced.
Pastor Wilbur compressed his lips so hard they almost disappeared. “Mr. Cahill, may I remind you that this is a church, and that I am giving a sermon?”
“I know very well what you’re doing, Reverend.”
“Then I shall continue—”
“No,”said Cahill, panting heavily. “No, you will not.”
“For heaven’s sake, sit down, Swede,” a voice cried from somewhere.
Cahill turned toward the voice. “There’ve been two horrible murders in this town and all he can do is read some sermon he wrote back in 1973? No, this won’t scour. It won’t scour, I say.”
A woman had arisen: Klick Rasmussen. “Swede, if you have something to say, have thedecency to wait until—”
“No, he’s right,” interrupted another voice. Ludwig turned. It was a worker from the Gro-Bain plant. “Swede’s right. We didn’t come here to listen to a damn sermon about corn. There’s a killer on the loose and none of us are safe.”
Klick turned her short, furious bulk on him. “Young man, this is a church service, not a town meeting!”
“Didn’t you hear about what that man Gasparilla said on his deathbed?” Swede cried. His face had, if possible, grown even redder. “This is no joke, Klick. This town’s in crisis.”
There was a general murmuring of assent. Smit Ludwig scribbled madly, trying to get down Swede’s words.
“Please,please! ” Pastor Wilbur was saying, holding up two thin arms. “Not in God’s house!”
But others were on their feet. “Yeah,” said another plant worker. “I heard what Gasparilla said. I sure as hell heard it.”
“I did, too.”
“It can’t be true, can it?”
The murmuring of voices rose dramatically.
“Pastor,” said Swede, “why do you think the church is full? People are here because they’re frightened. This land has seen bad times before, terrible times. But this is different. People are talking about the curse of the Forty-Fives, the massacre, as if the town itself is cursed. As if these murders are some awful judgment upon us. They’re looking to you for reassurance.”
“Mr. Cahill, as the localtavern-keeper I hardly think you’re in a position to lecture me on my duties as a pastor,” said Wilbur furiously.
“Look here, Reverend, with all due respect—”
“And what about this freakish corn they want to grow here?” called out a very deep voice. It was Dale Estrem, on his feet, raising a hoe in a knotted fist. “What about that?”
He brought that hoe here as a prop,thought Ludwig, writing madly.He came prepared to make a scene.
“It’s going to cross-pollinate and pollute our fields! These scientists want to come here and play God with our food, Reverend! When are you going to talk aboutthat? ”
Now a far more hysterical voice rang out, trumping all. An old man, skinny as a rail, with a huge bobbing Adam’s apple that made his neck whiskers bristle like quills, had stood up and was shaking his fist furiously at Wilbur. It was old Whit Bowers, the recluse who managed the town dump. “The End Days are come! Can’t you see it, you blind fool!”
Swede turned. “Look, Whit, that wasn’t what I was—”
“You’re all a pack of fools if you don’t see it! The devil is walking among us!”
The man’s voice was shriekingly high, raspy, cutting like a knife through the babel.
“The devil himselfis in this church! Are you all blind? Can’t you see it? Can’t yousmell it?”
Pastor Wilbur was holding up his hands and shouting something, but his dry, pedantic voice could not compete with the general hubbub. Now everyone was on their feet. The church was in chaos.
“He’s here!”Whit shrieked. “Look to your neighbor! Look to your friend! Look to your brother! Is that the devil’s eyes staring back at you? Look well! And take heed! Have you all forgotten the words of Peter?Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking who he may devour!! ”
Others were shouting to be heard. People were milling in the aisle. There was a cry and someone fell. Ludwig lowered his pad, strained to see. There was Pendergast, still as death in his shadowy corner. There was Corrie beside him, grinning with delight. The sheriff was yelling and gesturing. There was a sudden backward movement of the crowd.
“You son of a bitch!” someone shouted. There was a violent motion, the smack of a landed fist. My God, it was a fight, right here in the church. Ludwig was stunned. He hastily climbed up on the pew to get a better view, notebook in hand. It was Randall Pennoyer, a friend of Stott’s, dusting it up with another plant worker. “Nobody deserved to die like that, parboiled like a hog!”
There was more confused shouting, and several men surged forward to separate the combatants. Ridder himself was now wading in, shouting, trying to reach the fight. Sheriff Hazen, too, was ploughing down the aisle like a bulldog, his head lowered. As Ludwig watched, Hazen fell over Bertha Blodgett and rose again, his face dark with fury. Horrified voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The people in the back had pushed open the doors and were exiting in a confused mass.
A pew cam
e crashing down to the frightened screams of a woman.
“Not in the house of God!”Wilbur was shouting, his eyes bulging.
Above it all, the apocalyptic voice of Whit continued, piping out a shrill warning:“Look into their eyes and you will see! Breathe the air and smell the brimstone! He’s a crafty one, but you will find him out! Yes, you will! The killer is here! He’s one of us! The devil has come to Medicine Creek and he’s walking hand in hand with us. You heard it: the devil with the face of a child!”
Twenty-Nine
Corrie Swanson sat in her car beneath the shade of the trees in the little turnout by the creek, where Pendergast had—in his mysterious fashion—asked her to drive him. It had just passed noon, and the heat was suffocating. Corrie shifted in her seat, feeling the beads of sweat gathering on her forehead, on the back of her neck. Once again, Pendergast was acting strange. He’d simply reclined in his broken seat and closed his eyes. He looked asleep, but of course Corrie knew enough by now to realize he wasn’t sleeping. He was thinking. But about what? And why here? And whatever the hell it was, why had it taken half an hour, and counting?
She shook her head. He was a weird one. Nice weird, but weird all the same.
She picked up the book she was reading,Beyond the Ice Limit, found her dog-eared place at the beginning of chapter six, and began to read.
The sea horizon lay against the sky, blue against perfect blue, and it seemed to beckon the ship southward, ever southward.
She closed the book, put it down again. Not bad, but it lacked the punch of the original. Or maybe it was just that something else was on her mind. Such as what she’d just seen in church.
Her mother was not the church-going type, and Corrie had only been inside a few times. Even so, she realized that nobody in town, no matter how many times they’d set foot within Calvary Lutheran, had ever,ever seen anything like it. The whole town was falling apart. That Pastor Wilbur, who always passed her with his eyes averted and lips compressed in disapproval, had blown it big-time. What a self-righteous ass. She couldn’t help but smile afresh at the images that reeled through her head: crazy old Whit shrieking hell and damnation, Estrem up there waving his hoe, everyone fleeing out the back and falling down the stairs, the plant workers fighting and knocking over pews. So many times in her fantasies she had imagined earthquakes leveling the town, bombs dropping, huge fires consuming everything, riots in the streets, the high school being swallowed by a bottomless pit. And now, in a way, it had come to pass. She was still smiling at the images, but the smile had grown fixed on her face. The reality wasn’t quite so funny.
She glanced over at Pendergast and almost jumped. He was sitting there, at full attention, regarding her with his pale cat’s eyes.
“To the Castle Club, if you please,” he said quietly.
Corrie quickly composed herself. “Why?”
“I understand that Sheriff Hazen and Art Ridder will be lunching with Dr. Chauncy. As you know, Chauncy will make his announcement tomorrow as to which town will get the experimental field. No doubt citizens Hazen and Ridder are making a final pitch for Medicine Creek. Since Chauncy’s leaving the area tomorrow, there are certain questions I’d like to put to him first.”
“You don’t thinkhe’s involved?”
“As I’ve said, I am keeping my deductive faculties as quiescent as possible, and I’d advise you to do the same.”
“You really think they’ll be there? I mean, after what happened in church just now?”
“Chauncy was not in church. He may know nothing of what transpired. Regardless, the sheriff and Mr. Ridder will want to make a great show of normalcy. To reassure him, if need be.”
“Okay,” Corrie said, throwing the Gremlin in reverse. “You’re the boss.”
Although it galled her to do so, Corrie kept the car within the speed limit as Medicine Creek hove into view above the corn. In another moment they were pulling into the big parking lot of the bowling alley. It was almost empty, she noticed; but then, this was Medicine Creek, and emptiness was the norm.
Pendergast motioned her to precede him, and they entered the alley and made their way past the lanes to the glassed-in front of the Castle Club. Within, Chauncy, Ridder, and Hazen were seated at Ridder’s usual table. The rest of the place was deserted. All three stared as they entered.
Hazen rose and quickly moved forward, intercepting them in the middle of the dining room.
“Pendergast, what is it now?” he said in a low voice. “We’re in the middle of an important business meeting.”
“Sheriff, I’m very sorry to interrupt your luncheon,” the agent replied mildly. “I have a few questions for Dr. Chauncy.”
“Now is not the time.”
“Once again, I’m very sorry.” Pendergast brushed past the sheriff, Corrie following.
As they approached the table, Corrie noticed that Art Ridder, too, had risen, an angry smile frozen on his smooth, plump face.
“Ah, Special Agent Pendergast,” he said in a voice that almost managed to sound amiable. “Good to see you. If it’s about the, ah, case, we’ll be with you shortly. We were just finishing here with Dr. Chauncy.”
“But it is Dr. Chauncy I’ve come to see.” Pendergast held out his hand. “My name is Pendergast.”
Chauncy, failing to rise, took the hand and gave it a shake. “I remember you now, the fellow that refused to relinquish a room to me.” He smiled as if making a pleasantry, but irritation lurked in his eyes.
“Dr. Chauncy, I understand you will be leaving us tomorrow?”
“Today, actually,” said Chauncy. “The announcement will be made at KSU.”
“In that case, I have a few questions.”
Chauncy folded his napkin into a neat square, taking his sweet time, then laid it down beside a plate of half-eaten stewed tomatoes. “Sorry, but I’m running late as it is. We’ll have to have our chat some other time.” He stood, shrugged into his jacket.
“I am afraid that won’t be possible, Dr. Chauncy.”
Chauncy turned and raked him with arrogant eyes. “If this is about the killings, naturally I know nothing. If this is about the experimental field, then you are out of your jurisdiction, Officer, you and your, ah,sidekick. ” He cast a pointed glace at Corrie. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was even milder. “I determine whether or not questioning a person is relevant.”
Chauncy reached into his suit coat, pulled out a wallet, took out a business card. He handed it to Pendergast. “You know the rules. I decline to be interviewed except in the presence of my attorney.”
Pendergast smiled. “Of course. And your attorney’s name?”
Chauncy hesitated.
“Until you give me the name and number of your attorney, Dr. Chauncy, I must deal with you directly. As you said, the rules.”
“Look, Mr. Pendergast—” Ridder began.
Chauncy snatched the card out of Pendergast’s hand and scribbled something on the back. He thrust it back. “For your information, Agent Pendergast, I am engaged in a confidential business of great importance to the Agricultural Extension at KSU, to Kansas, and indeed to the hungry people of the world. I will not be sucked into a local investigation of a couple of sordid murders.” He turned. “Gentlemen, I thank you for lunch.” He managed a brief pause before the word “lunch” that made it sound like an insult instead of a compliment.
But even before Chauncy had finished speaking, Pendergast had removed a cell phone from his suit and was dialing a number. This unexpected action caused everyone to pause. Even Chauncy hesitated.
“Mr. Blutter?” said Pendergast as he glanced at Chauncy’s card. “This is Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Chauncy frowned sharply.
“I am here in Medicine Creek with a client of yours, Dr. Stanton Chauncy. I would like to ask him a few questions about the killings that have occurred here. There are two ways we could proceed
. One is voluntarily, right now; and the other is later, through a subpoena, issued by a judge for cause, in a public proceeding. Dr. Chauncy seeks your advice.”
He held the phone out toward Chauncy. The man grabbed it. “Blutter?”
There was a long silence and then Chauncy exploded into the telephone. “Blutter, this is pure harassment. It’s going to drag KSU through the mud. I can’t have any negative publicity. We’re at a delicate moment here—”
There was another, longer silence. Chauncy’s face darkened. “Blutter, damn it, I’m not going to talk to this cop—”
Another pause. Then “Christ!” He hung up and almost threw the phone back at Pendergast. “All right,” he muttered. “You have ten minutes.”
“Thank you, but I’ll take as long as I need. My very capablesidekick will take notes. Miss Swanson?”
“What? Yeah, sure.” Corrie was alarmed; she’d left her notebook in the car. But almost as if by magic a notebook and pen appeared in Pendergast’s hand. She took them and flipped the pages, trying to look as if this was something she did every day.
Ridder spoke again. “Hazen? Are you just going to stand there and let this happen?”
Hazen looked back at Ridder, his face an unreadable mask. “And what would you have me do?”
“Stop this farce. This FBI agent is going to ruin everything.”
Hazen’s reply was quiet. “You know very well I can’t do that.” He turned to Pendergast and said nothing, his face neutral. But Corrie knew Hazen well enough to read the look in his eyes.
Pendergast spoke cheerfully to Chauncy. “Tell me, Dr. Chauncy, when did Medicine Creek first come up as a suggested host for the experimental field?”
“A computer analysis produced the name last year. In April.” Chauncy spoke in a curt monotone.
“When did you first visit the town?”
“June.”
“Did you make contact with anyone here at that time?”
“No. It was just a preliminary trip.”
“Then what, exactly, did you do?”
“I fail to see—”
Pendergast held up the phone and said cheerfully, “Just hit redial.”