Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  Pendergast removed his shield and passed it before the mans face.

  The mans eyes widened, then narrowed again. He laughed. FBI? Never wouldve guessed it.

  Special Agent Pendergast. He closed the leather case with a snap and it disappeared into his jacket.

  I dont talk to FBI.

  Before you make any more rash declarations which will cause you to lose face later, you should know you have a choice. You can have an informal chat with me here . . . He paused.

  Or?

  Pendergast smiled suddenly, his thin lips stretching to expose a row of perfect white teeth. But the effect, in the glow of the flashlight, was anything but friendly.

  The man removed a twisted chaw from his pocket, screwed a piece off, and packed it into his cheek. Shit, he said, and spat.

  May I ask your name? Pendergast asked.

  The silence stretched on for a minute, then two.

  Hell, the man said at last. I guess having a names no crime, is it? Gasparilla. Lonny Gasparilla. Can I have my gun back now?

  We shall see. Pendergast bobbed the beam of his light toward the bloody squirrels. Is that what you were doing up here? Hunting?

  I aint hanging around the Mounds for the view.

  Do you have a residence nearby, Mr. Gasparilla?

  The man barked a laugh. Thats a funny one. Again, when there was no reply from Pendergast, he jerked his head to one side. Im camped over yonder.

  Pendergast picked up the shotgun, broke it open, ejected the spent shells, and handed it empty to Gasparilla. Show me, if you please.

  Five minutes of walking brought them to the edge of the trees and into the sea of corn. Gasparilla ducked into a row and they followed it down a dusty, beaten path. A few more minutes brought them to a cottonwood grove that lined the banks of Medicine Creek. The air here smelled of moisture, and there was the faint sound of water purling over a bed of sand. Ahead was the reddish glow of a campfire, built against a clay bank. A big iron pot sat atop the fire, bubbling, smelling of onions, potatoes, and peppers.

  Gasparilla picked some pieces of wood off a pile and banked them beside the coals. Flames rose, illuminating the little campsite. There was a greasy-looking tent, a log for a seat, an abandoned wooden door set on more logs to make a table.

  Gasparilla plucked the bundle of squirrels off his shoulder and dropped them on the makeshift table. Then he took out his knife and went to work, slicing one open, pulling out the guts and tossing them aside. And then, with one sharp tug, he tore off the skin. A series of swift chops took off the head, paws, and tail; a few more hacks quartered the animal, and it went into the simmering pot. The process for each squirrel took less than twenty seconds.

  What are you doing here? Pendergast asked.

  On tour, said the man.

  Tour?

  Tool sharpening. Make two rounds of my territory in the warm months. Go south to Brownsville for the winter. You got it, I sharpen it, from chainsaws to combine rotors.

  How do you get around?

  Pickup.

  Wheres it parked?

  Gasparilla gave a final savage chop, tossed the last squirrel into the pot. Then he jerked his head toward the road. Over there, if you want to check it out.

  I plan to.

  They know me in town. I aint never been on the wrong side of the law, you can ask the sheriff. I work for a living, same as you. Only I dont go sneaking around in the dark, shining lights in peoples faces and scaring them half to death. He threw some parched lima beans into the pot.

  If, as you say, they know you in town, why do you camp out here?

  I like a little elbow room.

  And the bare feet?

  Huh?

  Pendergast shone his light at the mans filthy toes.

  Shoes are expensive. He rummaged in a pocket, pulled out the chaw of tobacco, screwed off another piece, and shoved it in his cheek. Whats an FBI man doing out here? he asked, poking his cheek with a finger, adjusting the chaw to his satisfaction.

  I imagine you could guess the answer to that question, Mr. Gasparilla.

  The man gave him a sidelong glance but did not reply.

  She was digging up in the Mounds, wasnt she? Pendergast asked at last.

  Gasparilla spat. Yeah.

  How long?

  Dont know.

  Did she find anything?

  He shrugged. It aint the first time theres been digging in the Mounds. I dont pay much attention to it. When Im here I only go up there to hunt. I dont mess around with the dead.

  Are there burials in the Mounds?

  So they say. There was also a massacre up there once. Thats all I know and all I want to know. The place gives me the creeps. I wouldnt go up there except thats where all the squirrels are.

  Ive heard talk of some legend associated with the place. The curse of the Forty-Fives, I believe.

  Gasparilla said nothing, and for a long time the camp was quiet. He stirred the pot with a stick, occasionally darting glances at Pendergast.

  The murder occurred three nights ago, during the new moon. Did you see or hear anything?

  Gasparilla spat again. Nothing.

  What were your movements that evening, Mr. Gasparilla?

  Gasparilla kept stirring. If youre hinting that I killed that woman, then I just about figure this conversations over, mister.

  Id say its just begun.

  Dont get snippy with me. I never killed nobody in my life.

  Then you should have no objection to detailing your movements that day.

  That was my second day here at Medicine Creek. I hunted up at the Mounds late that afternoon. She was there, digging. I came back here at sunset, spent the night in camp.

  Did she see you?

  Didyou see me?

  Where was she digging, exactly?

  All over. I gave her a wide berth. I know trouble when I see it. Gasparilla gave the stewpot a brisk stir, brought out an enameled tin bowl and a battered spoon, ladled some stew into it. He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, took a bite, dug the spoon in again. Then he stopped.

  I suppose youll be wanting a bowl.

  I would not object.

  Wordlessly, he brought out a second bowl, held it up before Pendergast.

  Thank you. Pendergast helped himself to the pot, took a taste of the stew. Burgoo, I believe?

  Gasparilla nodded and stuffed a goodly amount in his mouth, juice dribbling down into his tangled black beard. He chewed loudly, spat out a few bones, swallowed. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then wiped his hand on his beard.

  They finished their stew in silence. Gasparilla stacked the bowls, leaned back, took out the plug of tobacco. And now, mister, if you got what youre looking for, I hope youll be about your business. I like a quiet evening.

  Pendergast rose. Mr. Gasparilla, I will leave you in peace. But first, if theres anything youd care to add, I would advise you to tell it to me now, rather than waiting for me to discover it myself.

  Gasparilla spat a brown rope of saliva in the direction of the creek. I dont particularly care to get involved.

  Youre already involved. Either you are the murderer, Mr. Gasparilla, or your continued presence here puts you in grave danger. One or the other.

  Gasparilla grunted, bit off another plug, spat again. Then he asked, Do you believe in the devil?

  Pendergast regarded the man, his pale eyes glinting in the firelight. Why do you ask, Mr. Gasparilla?

  Because I dont. As far as Im concerned, the devils a lot of preacher bullshit. But thereis evil on this earth, Mr. FBI Agent. You asked about the curse of the Forty-Fives. Well, you might as well get on home right now, because you aint never going to get to the bottom ofthat. The evil Im talking about, most of the time its got an explanation. But some of the timeGasparilla spat more tobacco juice, then leaned forward as if to impart a secretsome of the time, itjust dont.

  Thirteen

  Smit Ludwig pulled his AMC Pacer into the parking lot of Calvary Lutheran, which w
as wall to wall with hot cars glittering in the August sun. A big placard, already curling in the intense heat, was affixed to the front of the neat, redbrick church. It announced, 33RD ANNUAL BAKED TURKEY SUPPER SOCIABLE. Another, even bigger placard beside it burbled,MEDICINE CREEK WELCOMES PROFESSOR STANTON CHAUNCY !!! There was a touch of desperation, Ludwig thought, to the three exclamation marks. He parked his car at the far end of the lot, got out, dabbed the back of his neck with a handkerchief, and walked up to the entrance.

  Then he paused, hand on the door. Over the years, the town had gotten used to his nice human interest stories; to his uncontroversial coverage of church and school, 4-H and Boy Scouts and Future Farmers of America. They had gotten used to theCourier glossing over and even ignoring the petty crimes of their childrenthe occasional joyrides, the drunken parties. They had taken for granted his downplaying of the inspection problems at Gro-Bain, the rising injury rate at the plant, the union troubles. They had forgotten that theCourier was a newspaper, not the town PR organ. Yesterday, all that had changed. TheCourier had become a real paper, reporting real news.

  Smit Ludwig wondered just what the reaction would be.

  With his free hand, he nervously fingered his bow tie. Hed covered the Baked Turkey Sociable for every one of its thirty-three years, but never had he approached it with such trepidation. It was times like this that he most missed his wife, Sarah. It would have been easier with her on his arm.

  Buck up, Smitty,he told himself, pushing open the doors.

  The Fellowship Hall of the church was jammed. Practically the entire town was there. Some were already seated, eating, while others had formed long lines to load up on mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. Some were even eating the turkey, although Smitty noticed, as usual, that the Gro-Bain plant workers were nowhere to be seen in the turkey lines. It was one of those things that nobody ever mentioned: how little turkey was actually consumed at the Turkey Sociable.

  A huge plastic banner on one wall thanked Gro-Bain and its general manager, Art Ridder, for their generosity in providing the turkeys. Another banner on the opposite wall thanked Buswell Agricon for their ongoing donations for the upkeep of the church. And yet another banner, the biggest of all, trumpeted the arrival of Stanton Chauncy, the years guest of honor. Ludwig looked around. Familiar faces all. One of the joys of living in small-town America.

  From across the room, Art Ridder caught his eye. Ridder was wearing a maroon-and-white polyester suit, and the usual smile was plastered on his unnaturally smooth face. His body was as solid as a chunk of suet, and he moved through the crowd slowly, without deviating from his path. People moved for Art Ridder, thought Ludwig, not the other way around. Maybe it was the faint smell of slaughtered turkey that seemed to hang around him, despite heavy doses of Old Spice; or maybe it was that he was the towns richest man. Ridder had sold the turkey plant to Gro-Bain Agricultural Products and had stayed on as its manager, though theyd written him a nice fat check. He said he liked the work. Ludwig thought it was more probable Ridder liked the Town Father status that being plant boss conveyed.

  Ridder was still approaching, eye on the reporter, the smile stamped on his face. Of all people, he was probably the least likely to appreciate yesterdays article on the murder. Ludwig braced himself.

  Out of nowhere, salvationMrs. Bender Lang darted up, whispered something in Ridders ear. Abruptly, the two veered off.This fellow Chauncy must be about to arrive, Ludwig thought. Nothing else would have made Ridder move that fast.

  In all thirty-three years of the Sociables history, this was the first year that the guest of honor had not been selected from among the towns own. That in itself demonstrated the importance that Medicine Creek placed in impressing Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University. It was Chauncy whod decide, by next Monday, whether or not Medicine Creek would become the test site for several acres of genetically modified corn, or . . .

  A high, shrill voice intruded on his thoughts. Smit Ludwig, how dare you! He turned to find Klick Rasmussen at his elbow, her beehive hairdo bobbing at about the level of his shoulder. Howcould it be one of us?

  He turned to face her. Now, Klick, I didnt say I believed

  If you didnt believe it, cried Klick Rasmussen, then why did youprint it?

  Because its my duty to report all the theories

  What happened to all thenice articles you used to print? TheCourier used to be such alovely paper.

  Not all news is nice, Klick

  But Klick wouldnt let him finish. If you want to write trash, why dont you write about that FBI agent wandering about town, asking questions, poking his nose where it doesnt belong, filling your head with darn-fool ideas? Lets see howhe likes it. And on top of that, raising the whole business of the Ghost Warriors, the curse of the Forty-Fives

  There wasnt anything in the paper about that.

  Not exactly in so manywords, but with that business about the old Indian arrows, whatelse are people going to think? Thats all we need, a resurrection of that old story.

  Please, lets be reasonable Ludwig took a step back. In the distance, he could see Swede Cahills wife, Gladys, approaching them, preparing to wade in. This was worse than hed imagined.

  Suddenly Maisie appeared from nowhere, her bulk covered by a white apron. Klick, leave Smitty alone, she said. Were lucky to have him. Most counties our size dont even have a newspaper, let alone a daily.

  Klick took a step backward. Ludwig felt doubly grateful to Maisie, because of the awkwardness he knew existed between the two women. Maisie was perhaps the only person in the room who could have called Klick Rasmussen off so quickly. Klick shot one dark glance at Ludwig, then turned toward the approaching Gladys Cahill, and the two drifted off toward the turkey tables, talking in low voices.

  Ludwig turned to Maisie. Thanks a lot. You saved me.

  I always take care of you, Smit. She winked and went back toward the carving station.

  As Ludwig turned to follow, he noticed that a hush was falling over the room. All eyes had swiveled in the direction of the door. Instinctively, Ludwig followed suit. There, framed against the golden sky, was a figure in black.

  Pendergast.

  There was something distinctly creepy in the way the FBI agent paused in the doorway, the bright sunlight silhouetting his severe form, like some gunslinger entering a saloon. Then he strode coolly forward, eyes roving the crowd before locking on Ludwig himself. Pendergast changed course immediately, gliding through the crowd toward him.

  Im relieved to see you, Mr. Ludwig, he said. I know no one here but you and the sheriff, and I cant very well expect the busy sheriff to take time for introductions. Come, lead the way, if you please.

  Lead the way? Ludwig echoed.

  I need introductions, Mr. Ludwig. Where I come from, its a social error to introduce oneself rather than have a proper introduction from a third party. And as publisher, editor, and chief reporter for theCry County Courier, you know everyone in town.

  I suppose I do.

  Excellent. Shall we begin with Mrs. Melton Rasmussen? I understand she is one of the leading ladies.

  Ludwig paused in mid-breath. Klick Rasmussen, of all people, who hed just gotten free of. A profound sinking feeling settled on Ludwig as he looked around the room. There was Klick at one of the turkey tables, holding forth with Gladys Cahill and the rest of the usual gang.

  Over there, he said, leading the way with a heavy tread.

  As they approached, the gaggle of ladies fell silent. Ludwig saw Klick glance at Pendergast, her features pinching with displeasure.

  Id like to introduce began Ludwig.

  I knowvery well who this man is. I have only one thing to say

  She stopped abruptly as Pendergast bowed, took her hand, and lifted it to within an inch of his lips, in the French manner. A great pleasure, Mrs. Rasmussen. My name is Pendergast.

  My, said Klick. Her hand went limp within his.

  I understand, Mrs. Rasmussen, that you are responsible for t
he decorations.

  Ludwig wondered where Pendergast had learned this little tidbit. The mans southern accent seemed to have deepened to the consistency of molasses as he gazed at Klick intently with his strange eyes. To Ludwigs private amusement, Klick Rasmussen blushed. Yes, I am, she said.

  They are enchanting.

  Thank you, Mr. Pendergast.

  Pendergast bowed again, still holding her hand. Ive heard a great deal about you, and now Im delighted to make your acquaintance.

  Klick blushed again, even more deeply. As she did so, Melton Rasmussen, having seen the exchange from afar, abruptly arrived. Well, well, he said heartily, sticking his hand out and interposing himself between his plump, blushing wife and Pendergast, welcome to Medicine Creek. Im Mel. Melton Rasmussen. I realize the circumstances could be a little happier, but I think youll find the Kansas hospitality of Medicine Creek to be just as warm as it always was.

  I have already found it so, Mr. Rasmussen, said Pendergast, shaking his hand.

  Wherere you from, Pendergast? Cant quite place the accent.

  New Orleans.

  Ah, the great city of New Orleans. Is it true they eat alligator? I hear it tastes like chicken.

  In my view the taste is more like iguana or snake than chicken.

  Right. Well, Ill stick to turkey, said Rasmussen with a laugh. You come by my store sometime and have a look-see. Youre welcome anytime.

  Youre very kind.

  So, said Rasmussen, moving a little closer, whats the news? Any more leads?

  Justice never sleeps, Mr. Rasmussen.

  Well, Ive got a theory of my own. Would you like to hear it?

  Id be delighted.

  Its that fellow camped down by the creek. Gasparilla. Hes worth looking into. Hes a strange one, always has been.

  Now, Mel, scolded Klick. You know hes been coming around for years and hes never been in any kind of trouble.

  You never know when somebodys gonna go queer on you. Why does he camp way out there on the creek? Isnt the town good enough for him?