Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  Ludwig paused. Run a filet mignon through a meat grinder? How was Maisie going to react now? He practically held his breath.

  Maisie was staring at the FBI agent. The diner had gone very still. And how would you like your, er, hamburger cooked?

  Raw.

  You mean very rare?

  I mean raw, if you please. Please bring it back to me with an uncooked egg, in the shell, along with some finely chopped garlic and parsley.

  Maisie swallowed visibly. Sesame or plain bun?

  No bun, thank you.

  Maisie nodded, turned, and thenwith a single backward glancetook the plate and disappeared into the kitchen. Ludwig watched her depart, waited a beat, and then made his move. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his coffee and strolled over, pausing in front of the FBI agent. The man looked up and fixed Ludwig with a long, cool gaze from a pair of extremely pale eyes.

  Ludwig stuck out his hand. Smit Ludwig. Editor of theCry County Courier.

  Mr. Ludwig, said the man, shaking the proffered hand. My name is Pendergast. Do sit down. You were at the press conference early this morning. I must say you asked some rather insightful questions.

  Ludwig flushed at the unexpected praise and eased his creaky and not exactly youthful frame into the banquette opposite.

  Maisie reappeared in the swinging kitchen door. In one hand, she carried a plate mounded with freshly ground sirloin, in the other, a second plate with the rest of the ingredients, and an egg in an egg cup. She set both plates before Pendergast.

  Anything else? she asked. She looked strickenand who wouldnt be, Ludwig thought, running a decent sirloin like that through a meat grinder?

  That will be all, thank you very much.

  We aim to please. Maisie attempted a smile, but Ludwig could see she was thoroughly defeated. This was something utterly foreign to her experience.

  Ludwigand the entire dinerwatched as Pendergast sprinkled the garlic over the raw meat, added salt and pepper, cracked the raw egg on top, and carefully folded the ingredients together. Then he molded it with his fork into a pleasing mound, sprinkled parsley on top, and sat back to contemplate his work.

  Suddenly, Ludwig understood. Steak tartare? he asked, nodding toward the plate.

  Yes, it is.

  I saw somebody make that on the Food Network. How is it?

  Pendergast delicately lifted a portion to his mouth, chewed with half-closed eyes. All that is lacking is a 97 Léoville Poyferré.

  You really should try the meatloaf, Ludwig replied, lowering his voice. Maisie has her strengths and weaknesses: the meatloaf is one of her strengths. Its damn good, in fact.

  I shall take it under consideration.

  Where are you from, Mr. Pendergast? Cant quite place the accent.

  New Orleans.

  What a coincidence! I went there for Mardi Gras once.

  How nice for you. I myself have never attended.

  Ludwig paused, the smile frozen on his face, wondering how to steer the conversation onto a more pertinent topic. Around him, the low murmur of conversation had picked up once again.

  This killings really shaken us up, he said, lowering his voice still further. Nothing like this has ever happened in sleepy little Medicine Creek before.

  The case has its atypical aspects.

  It appeared Pendergast wasnt biting. Ludwig knocked back his coffee cup, then raised it above his head. Maisie! Another!

  Maisie came over with the pot and an extra cup. You need to learn some manners, Smit Ludwig, she said, refilling his cup and pouring one for Pendergast as well. You wouldnt yell for your mother that way.

  Ludwig grinned. Maisies been teaching me manners these past twenty years.

  Its a lost cause, said Maisie, turning away.

  Small talk had failed. Ludwig decided to try the direct approach. He removed a steno notebook from his pocket and placed it on the table. Got time for a few questions?

  Pendergast paused, a forkful of raw meat halfway to his mouth. Sheriff Hazen would prefer that I not speak to the press.

  Ludwig lowered his voice. Ineed something for tomorrows paper. The townspeople are hurting. Theyre frightened. Theyve got a right to know.Please.

  He stopped, surprising even himself at the depth of feeling in his comments. The FBI agents eyes held his own in a gaze that seemed to last for minutes. At last, Pendergast lowered his fork and spoke, in a voice even lower than Ludwigs own.

  In my opinion, the killer is local.

  What do you mean, local? From southwestern Kansas?

  No. From Medicine Creek.

  Ludwig felt the blood drain out of his face. It was impossible. He knew everyone in town. The FBI agent was dead wrong.

  What makes you say that? he asked weakly.

  Pendergast finished his meal and leaned back. He pushed his coffee away and picked up a menu. How is the ice cream? he asked, with a faint but distinct tone of hope in his voice.

  Ludwig lowered his voice. Niltona Brand Xtra-Creamy.

  Pendergast shuddered. The peach cobbler?

  Out of a can.

  The shoo-fly pie?

  Dont go there.

  Pendergast laid down the menu.

  Ludwig leaned forward. Desserts are not Maisies strong point. Shes a meat and potatoes kind of gal.

  I see. Pendergast regarded him once again with his pale eyes. Then he spoke. Medicine Creek is as isolated as an island in the wide Pacific. Nobody can come or go on the roads without being noticed, and its a twenty-mile hike through the cornfields from Deeper, the nearest town with a motel. He paused, smiled faintly, then glanced at the steno book. I see youre not taking notes.

  Ludwig laughed nervously. Give me something I can print. Theres one unshakable article of faith in this town: the killer and the victim are both from away. We have our share of troublemakers, but believe me, no killers.

  Pendergast looked at him with mild curiosity. What, exactly, constitutes trouble in Medicine Creek?

  Ludwig realized that if he wanted information, he was going to have to give some in return. Only there wasnt much to give. Domestic violence, sometimes. Come Saturday night we get our share of drunken hooliganism, drag racing out on the Cry Road. Last year, a B-and-E down at the Gro-Bain plant, that sort of thing.

  He paused. Pendergast seemed to be waiting for more.

  Kids sniffing aerosols, the occasional drug overdose. Plus, unwanted pregnancies have always been a problem.

  Pendergast arched an eyebrow.

  Most of the time they settle it by getting married. In the old days the girl was sometimes sent away to have her baby and it was put up for adoption. You know how it is in a small town like this, not a lot for a young person to do except Ludwig smiled, remembering back to the days when he and his wife were in high school, Saturday night parking down by the creek, the windows all steamed up . . . It seemed so long ago, a world utterly gone. He shook off the memory. Well, he said, thats about all the trouble we ever get around here. Until now.

  The FBI agent smiled and leaned forward, speaking so softly Ludwig could barely hear him. The victim has been identified as Sheila Swegg, of Oklahoma. A petty criminal and con artist. They found her car hidden in the corn five miles out on the Cry Road. It seems shed been digging up at some Indian mounds in the area.

  Smit Ludwig looked at Pendergast. Thank you, he said. Now, this was much better. This was more than a crumb. It was practically a whole cake. He felt a surge of gratitude.

  And another thing. Arranged with the body they found a number of antique Southern Cheyenne arrows in almost perfect condition.

  It seemed to Ludwig as though Pendergast was looking at him intently. Thats extraordinary, he replied.

  Yes.

  They were interrupted by a sudden commotion outside, punctuated by a voice raised in shrill protest. Ludwig glanced across the street and saw Sheriff Hazen marching a teenage girl down the sidewalk, toward his office. The girl was protesting gamely, digging in her heels, lunging against her ha
ndcuffs, her black fingernails cutting the air. He knew immediately who she was; it was all too obvious from the black leather miniskirt, pale skin, spiked collar, Day-Glo purple hair, and the glint of body piercings. A shrieked phrase managed to penetrate the plate glass of Maisies Dinereclair-eating, fart-biting, cancer-sticksmokingbefore the sheriff manhandled her through the door of the office and slammed it behind him.

  Ludwig shook his head in amused disbelief.

  Who is she? Pendergast asked.

  Corrie Swanson, our resident troublemaker. I believe shes what kids call a Goth or something like that. She and Sheriff Hazen have a tiff going. Looks like hes finally got something on her, judging from the cuffs.

  Pendergast laid a large bill on the table and rose, nodding to Maisie. I trust we shall see each other again, Mr. Ludwig.

  Sure thing. And thanks for the tips.

  The door jingled shut. Ludwig watched the dark form of Special Agent Pendergast as he passed by outside the window and moved down the dusky street until he merged with the falling darkness.

  Ludwig slowly sipped his coffee, mulling over what Pendergast had said. And as he did so, the front-page story hed been assembling in his head changed; he broke down the type, rewrote the opening paragraph. It was dynamite, especially the stuff about the arrows. As if the murder wasnt bad enough, those arrows would strike a particularly unpleasant note to anyone familiar with the history of Medicine Creek. As soon as hed gotten the paragraph right, he rose from the table. He was over sixty and his joints ached from the humidity. But even if he wasnt the man he used to be, he could still stay up half the night, write a snappy lead with two scotches under his belt, slap together an impeccable set of mechanicals, and make deadline. And tonight, he had one hell of a story to write.

  Nine

  Winifred Kraus bustled about the old-fashioned kitchen, making toast, setting out a pitcher of orange juice, boiling her guests egg, and making his pot of green tea. Her busyness was an effort to keep her mind off the horrible news she had read that morning in theCry County Courier. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And the arrows theyd found with the body, surely that couldnt mean that . . . She shook the thoughts from her head with a little shiver. Despite the strange hours Special Agent Pendergast kept, she was very glad to have him under her roof.

  The man was quite particular about his food and his tea, and Winifred had taken pains to make sure everything was perfect. She had even gotten out her mothers old lace tablecloth and had laid it, freshly ironed, on the breakfast table, along with a small vase of freshly cut marigolds to make everything as cheery as possible. Partly it was to cheer her own distressed state.

  As she moved about the kitchen, Winifred felt her dread over the murder slowly supplanted by a sense of anticipation. Pendergast had asked to take the morning tour of the Kaverns. Well, he hadnt asked exactly, but hed seemed quite interested when she suggested it the night before. The last visitors to the Kaverns had been over a month ago, two nice young Jehovahs Witnesses who took the tour and then had the kindness to spend most of the day chatting with her.

  Precisely at eight she heard a light tread on the stair and Mr. Pendergast came gliding into view, dressed in the usual black suit.

  Good morning, Miss Kraus, he said.

  As Winifred ushered him into the dining room and began serving breakfast, she felt quite breathless. Even as a girl, shed loved the family business: the different people from all over the country, the parking lot full of big cars, the murmurs of awe and amazement during the tours. Helping out in the cave, doing tours, had been one way shed tried to earn the approval of her father. And although things had changed completely with the building of the interstate up north, shed never lost that feeling of excitement before a toureven if it was a tour of one.

  Breakfast finished, she left Pendergast with that morningsCry County Courier and went on ahead to the Kaverns. She visited the Kaverns at least once a day even when there were no visitors, just to sweep up leaves and replace bulbs. She now did a swift check and found that all was in tip-top order. Then she went behind the counter of the gift shop and waited. At a few minutes to ten, Pendergast appeared. He purchased a tickettwo dollarsand she led him along the cement walkway, down into the cut in the earth, to the padlocked iron door. It was another scorcher of a day, and the cool air that flowed from the cave entrance was pleasantly enticing. She unlocked and removed the padlock, then turned and launched into her opening speech, which hadnt varied since her pa had taught it to her with a switch and ruler half a century before.

  Krauss Kaverns, she began, was discovered by my grandfather, Hiram Kraus, who came to Kansas from upstate New York in 1888 looking to start a new life. He was one of the original pioneers of Cry County, and homesteaded a hundred and sixty acres right here along Medicine Creek.

  She paused and flushed pleasurably at the careful attentiveness of her audience.

  On June 5, 1901, while searching for a lost heifer, he came across the opening to a cave, almost completely hidden by scrub and brush. He came back with a lantern and axe, cut his way down the slope into the cave, and began exploring.

  Did he find the heifer? Pendergast asked.

  The question threw Winifred off. Nobody asked about the heifer.

  Why, yes, he did. The heifer had gotten into the cave and fallen into the Bottomless Pit. Unfortunately, she was dead.

  Thank you.

  Lets see. Winifred stood at the cave entrance, trying to pick up the thread once again. Oh, yes. Right about this time the motorcar was making its debut on the American scene. The Cry Road started to see some motorcar traffic, mostly families on their way to California. It took Hiram Kraus a year to build the wooden walkwaysthe same ones we will walk onand then he opened the cave to the public. Back then, admission was a nickel. She paused for the obligatory chuckle, grew a little flustered when none was forthcoming. It was an immediate success. The gift shop soon followed, where visitors can buy rocks, minerals, and fossils, as well as handcrafts and needlepoint to benefit the church, all at a ten percent discount for those who have taken the Kaverns Tour. And now, if you will kindly step this way, we will enter the cave.

  She pulled the iron door wide and motioned Pendergast to follow her. They descended a set of broad, worn stairs that had been built over a declivity leading into the bowels of the earth. Walls of limestone rose on both sides, arching over into a tunnel. Bare bulbs hung from the rocky ceiling. After a descent of about two hundred feet, the steps gave onto a wooden walkway, which angled around a sharp turn and entered the cavern proper.

  Here, deep beneath the earth, the air smelled of water and wet stone. It was a smell that Winifred loved. There was no unpleasant undercurrent of mold or guano: no bats lived in Krauss Kaverns. Ahead, the boardwalk snaked its way through a forest of stalagmites. More bulbs, placed between the stalagmites, threw grotesque shadows against the cavern walls. The roof of the cave rose into darkness. She proceeded to the center of the cavern, paused, and turned with her hands unfolded, just as her pa had taught her.

  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, Santas 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 dont charge the locals, of course. It would hardly do to profit from ones 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.

  Dont 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 Giants 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 wasnt there. She must have left it back in the gift shop. And shed 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 Beethovens Ode to Joy on those stalactites. Its 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 shed realized, perhaps.