The question hung in the air, unanswered. Klick was staring past her husband, her mouth forming a small, perfect O. Ludwig heard a hushed murmur ripple through the assembly. There was a brief clapping of hands. He turned to see Art Ridder and the sheriff escorting a man he didnt recognize through the crowd. The man was small and thin, with a closely trimmed beard, and he wore a light blue seersucker suit. In his wake came Mrs. Bender Lang and a few of the towns other leading ladies.
Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Medicine Creek! Art Ridder boomed to the assembly. It is my great privilege to introduce this years guest of honor, Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University!
This was followed by thunderous applause and a few piercing whistles. The man named Chauncy stood, nodded once at the crowd, then turned his back on them and began to converse with Ridder. Slowly, the applause faltered into silence.
Mr. Ludwig, Pendergast said. Theres a group of gentlemen in the far corner?
Ludwig looked in the indicated direction. Four or five men in bib overalls were drinking lemonade and talking amongst themselves in low voices. Rather than joining in the applause, they were looking in the direction of Chauncy with narrowed eyes.
Oh, thats Dale Estrem and the rest of the Farmers Co-operative, Ludwig replied. The last of the die-hard holdouts. Theyre the only ones who havent sold out to the big farming conglomerates. Still own their own farms around Medicine Creek.
And why dont they share in the towns good feeling?
The Farmers Co-op holds no truck with genetically modified corn. They fear itll cross-pollinate and ruin their own crops.
Ridder was now introducing the man from Kansas State to select knots of people.
There are several other introductions Id like you to make, if you would, Pendergast said. The minister, for example.
Of course. Ludwig scanned the crowd for Pastor Wilbur, finally spotting him standing alone, in line for turkey. This way.
Tell me about him first, if you please.
Ludwig hesitated, not wishing to speak ill of anybody. Pastor Wilburs been here for forty years, at least. He means well. Its just that . . . He faltered.
Yes? said Pendergast. Ludwig found the mans gray eyes focused on him in a most unsettling way.
I guess youd have to say hes a little set in his ways. Hes not really in touch with whats happening, ornot happening, in Medicine Creek these days. He struggled a moment. There are some who feel a younger, more vibrant ministry would help revive the town, keep the youngsters from leaving. Fill the spiritual void thats opened up here.
I see.
The minister raised his head as they approached. As usual, a pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose, whether or not he was reading anything. Ludwig figured he did it to look scholarly. Pastor Wilbur? Ludwig said. Id like to introduce Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.
Wilbur took the proffered hand.
I envy you, Pastor, Pendergast said. Ministering to the souls of a community such as Medicine Creek.
Wilbur gazed benevolently at Pendergast. It is at times a fearsome responsibility, being entrusted with so many hundreds, Mr. Pendergast. But I flatter myself that Ive shepherded them well.
It seems a good life here, Pendergast went on. For a man of God such as yourself, I mean.
God has seen fit to both bless me and bring me trials. We all share equally in the curse of Adam, but perhaps a man of the cloth shares more than most. Wilburs face had assumed a saintly, almost martyred demeanor.
Ludwig recognized that look: Wilbur was about to spout one of his prized little scraps of poetry.
Alas,Wilbur began,what boots it with uncessant care, to tend the homely, slighted shepherds trade? He looked through his reading glasses at Pendergast with evident satisfaction. Milton. Naturally.
Naturally.Lycidas.
Wilbur was slightly taken aback. Ah, I believe thats correct, yes.
Another line from that elegy comes to mind:The hungry sheep look up and are not fed.
There was a brief silence. Ludwig looked back and forth between the two men, uncertain what, if anything, had just passed between them.
Wilbur blinked. I
I look forward to greeting you again in church on Sunday, Pendergast interjected smoothly, grasping Wilburs hand once more.
Ah, yes, yes, so do I, Wilbur said, the note of surprise still detectable in his voice.
Excuse me! The booming voice of Art Ridder, amplified, again cut through the babble of overlapping conversations. Ladies and gentlemen, if you would all be so kind, our guest of honor would like to say a few words. Dr. Stanton Chauncy!
All around the Fellowship Hall, people put down their forks and turned their attention to the little man in the seersucker suit.
Thank you, the man said. He stood erect, hands folded in front of him like he was at a wake. My name is Stanton Chauncy. Dr. Stanton Chauncy. I represent the Agricultural Extension of Kansas State University. But of course you know that. His voice was high, and his manner of speaking was so crisp and precise that his words were almost overarticulated.
The genetic enhancement of corn is a complicated subject, and not one that I can readily elucidate in a venue such as this, he began. It requires knowledge of certain disciplines such as organic chemistry and plant biology that one could not expect a lay audience to possess. He sniffed. However, I will attempt to impart the most rudimentary of overviews to you this afternoon.
As if of one mind, those who had gathered in the Fellowship Hall appeared to slump. There was a collective exhalation of breath. If they had hoped to hear praise heaped on their town or their Sociable, or evendared one hope?word of Chauncys impending decision, they were sadly disappointed. Instead, the man launched into an explanation of corn varietals so detailed that the eyes of even the most enthusiastic corn farmer glazed over. It almost seemed to Ludwig as if Chauncy wastrying to be as boring as possible. Whispered conversations resumed; forkfuls of mashed potato and turkey gravy were slipped into furtive mouths; small streams of people began moving back and forth along the far walls of the hall. Dale Estrem and the Farmers Co-op crowd stood at the back, arms folded, faces set hard.
Smit Ludwig tuned out the droning voice as he looked around the hall. Despite everything, he appreciated the small-town atmosphere of the Sociable: its homespun provinciality, and the fact that it brought the community together, even forcing people who didnt like each other to acknowledge the other and be civil. It was one of the many reasons why he never wanted to leaveeven after his wife had passed away. A person could not get lost in Medicine Creek. People were taken care of, nobody was forgotten, and everyone had a place. It wasnt like that in L.A., where old people died unloved and alone every day. His daughter had been calling a lot lately, urging him to relocate nearer her. But he wasnt going to do that. Not even after he closed the paper and retired. For better or worse, he was going to end his days in Medicine Creek and be buried in the cemetery out on the Deeper Road, beside his wife.
He glanced at his watch. What had generated these thoughts of mortality? He had a deadline to make, even if it was self-imposed, and the time had come for him to go home and write up the story.
He made his stealthy way to the open doors of the hall. Beyond, late afternoon light illuminated the broad green lawn of the church. The heat was unbroken as it lay over the grass, the parking lot, and the cornfields like a suffocating blanket. But despite the heatand, in fact, despite everythinga part of Smit Ludwig felt relieved. He could have fared a lot worse at the hands of his fellow townsfolk; he had Maisie, and perhaps Pendergast, to thank for that. And on a less selfish note, hed be able to write an upbeat piece about the Sociable without dissembling. It had started with a certain grimness, he felt: a stoic sense that the show must go on, despite everything. But the gloom and oppression had seemed to lift. The town had become itself again, and not even Chauncys stultifying lecture, which still droned on behind him, could change that. The thirty-third annual Gro-Bain Tu
rkey Sociable was a success.
Ludwig fetched a deep, slow breath as he looked out from the steps of the church. And then, suddenly, he froze.
One by one, the people around him began to do the same, staring out from the wooden doorway. There was a gasp, a low murmur. Like an electric current, the murmur began to jump from person to person, running back into the crowds within the hall itself, growing in volume until Chauncys exegesis of variegated corn kernels came under threat.
What is it? Chauncy said, stopping in mid-sentence. Whats going on?
Nobody answered. All eyes were fixed on the horizon beyond the open doors of the hall, where, against the yellow sky, a lazy column of vultures wheeled in ever tightening circles above the endless corn.
Fourteen
When Corrie Swanson pulled up to the church, people were standing on the front lawn, huddled together in groups, murmuring anxiously. Now and then somebody would break away from one of the groups and stare out in the direction of the cornfields. There must have been fifty people out there, but she didnt see Pendergast among them. And that made no sense, because hed asked her to come right away. Hed been most insistent on it, in fact.
It was almost a relief to find him missing. Pendergast was going to get her into even worse trouble than she already was in this townshe could feel it in her bones. She was already the towns A-number-one pariah. Once again, she wondered what the hell shed gotten herself into. The money was still burning a hole in her glove compartment. Hed get her in trouble, and then hed be gone, and shed still be stuck in Medicine Creek dealing with the consequences. If she were smart, shed give him back the money and wash her hands of the whole thing.
She jumped involuntarily as a black figure seemed to materialize out of nowhere beside the car. Pendergast opened the passenger door and slid in as sleekly as a cat. The way he moved gave her the creeps sometimes.
She reached for the dashboard, turned down the blaring sound of Starfuckers by Nine Inch Nails. So, where to, Special Agent? she said as casually as she could.
Pendergast nodded toward the cornfields. Do you see those birds?
She shaded her eyes against the glow of the sunset. What, those turkey vultures? What about them?
Thats where were going.
She revved the engine; the car shuddered and coughed black smoke. Theres no roads out that way, and this is a Gremlin, not a Hummer, in case you hadnt noticed.
Dont worry, Miss Swanson, I will not get you mired in a cornfield. Head west on the Cry Road, please.
Whatever. She stamped on the accelerator and the Gremlin pulled away from the curb, shuddering with the effort.
So how was the Turkey Sociable? she asked. Thats like the big event of the year in Shit Creek.
It was most instructivefrom an anthropological point of view.
Anthropological? Yeah, right, Special Agent Pendergast among the savages. Did they introduce that guy from KSU, the one who wants to grow radioactive corn around here?
Genetically modified corn. They did.
And what was he like? Did he have three heads?
If he did, two must have been successfully removed in infancy.
Corrie looked at him. He looked back from the broken seat with his usual placid, mild, unsmiling expression. She could never tell whether or not he was cracking a joke. He had to be the weirdest adult shed ever met, and with all the characters wandering around Medicine Creek, that was saying something.
Miss Swanson? Your speed.
Sorry. She braked. I thought you FBI guys drove as fast as you wanted.
Im on vacation.
The sheriff goes everywhere at a hundred miles an hour even when hes off duty. And you always know when theres fresh eclairs at the Wagon Wheel. Then he goes a hundred and twenty.
They hummed along the smooth asphalt for a while in silence.
Miss Swanson, take a look up the road, if you please. Do you see where the sheriffs car is parked? Pull in behind it.
Corrie squinted into the gathering dusk. Ahead, she could see the cruiser pulled over onto the wrong shoulder, lights flashing. Overhead, and maybe a quarter mile into the corn, she could see the column of turkey vultures more clearly.
It suddenly clicked. Jesus, she said. Not another one?
That remains to be seen.
Corrie pulled up behind the cruiser and put on her flashers. Pendergast got out. I may be a while.
Im not coming with you?
Im afraid not.
No problem, I brought a book.
She watched Pendergast push his way into the corn and disappear, feeling vaguely annoyed. Then she turned her attention to the back seat. She always had five or six books flung about willy-nilly back therescience fiction, horror, splatterpunk, occasionally a teen romance that she never, ever let anybody catch her reading. She glanced over the pile. Maybe, while she waited, shed start that new techno-thriller,Beyond the Ice Limit. She picked it up, then paused again. Somehow, the idea of sitting in the car, reading, all alone, didnt seem quite as appealing as it usually did. She couldnt help but glance again at the column of vultures. They had soared higher now. Even against the gathering dusk, she could see they were agitated. Perhaps the sheriff had scared them off. She felt a twinge of curiosity: there might be something out there in the corn a whole lot more interesting than anything shed find in one of her escapist novels.
She tossed the book in the back seat with a snort of impatience. Pendergast wasnt going to keep her away like that. She had as much a right as anyone to see what was going on.
She flung open the car door and headed off into the corn. She could see where the sheriff had tramped through the dirt. There was another, narrower pair of tracks that ran back and forth over the sheriffs clown shoes: probably his well-meaning but brain-dead deputy, Tad. And near them, Pendergasts light step.
It was very hot and claustrophobic in the corn. The husks rose high over Corries head, and as she passed by they rattled, showering her with dust and pollen. There was still some light in the sky, but in the corn it seemed that night had already fallen. Corrie felt her breath coming faster as she walked. She began to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. She never went into the corn. All her life she had hated the cornfields. They started in the spring as so much endless dirt, the giant machines tearing up the earth, leaving behind plumes of dust that coated the town and filled her bed with grit. And then the corn came up and the only thing anyone talked about for four months was the weather. Slowly the roads got closed in by claustrophobic walls of corn until you felt like you were driving in a tunnel of green. Now the corn was yellowing and pretty soon the giant machines would be back, leaving the land as naked and ugly as a shaved poodle.
It was awful: the dust filled her nose and stung her eyes and the moldy, papery smell made her sick. All this corn, probably growing not to feed people or even animals, but cars. Car corn. Sick, sick, sick.
And then, quite suddenly, she broke through into a small trampled clearing. There were the sheriff and Tad, holding flashlights and bending over something. Pendergast stood to one side, and as she entered the clearing he turned toward her, his pale eyes almost luminous in the gathering twilight.
Corries heart gave an ugly lurch. There was something dead in the middle. But when she forced herself to look she realized it was only a dead dog. It was brown and so bloated with the gases of rot that its hair stood on end, making it look horribly strange, like a four-legged blowfish. An awful, sweetish smell hung in the still air and there was a steady roar of flies.
The sheriff turned. Well, Pendergast, he said in a genial voice, looks like we got all riled up for nothing. Then his eyes flickered over Pendergasts shoulder, and landed on her. He stared at her for a few uncomfortable seconds before looking back at Pendergast. The agent said nothing.
Pendergast had slipped a small light out of his own pocket and was playing its bright beam over the bloated corpse. Corrie felt sick: she recognized the dog. It was a chocolate Lab mutt belonging to
Swede Cahills son, a nice freckled kid of twelve.
Okay, Tad, said the sheriff, slapping his hand on the gangly deputys shoulder, weve seen all there is to see. Lets call it a day.
Pendergast had now moved in and was kneeling, examining the dog more closely. The flies, disturbed, were swarming above the corpse in a wild cloud.
The sheriff walked past Corrie without acknowledging her, then turned at the edge of the clearing. Pendergast? You coming?
I havent completed my examination.
You finding anything interesting?
There was a silence, and then Pendergast said, This is another killing.
Another killing? Its a dead dog in a cornfield and were two miles from the site of the Swegg homicide.
Corrie watched in vague horror as the FBI agent picked up the dogs head, moved it back and forth gently, laid it down, shone his light in the mouth, the ears, down the flank. The angry drone of flies grew louder.
Well? asked the sheriff, his voice harder.
This dogs neck has been violently broken, said Pendergast.
Hit by a car. Dragged himself out here to die. Happens all the time.
A car wouldnt have done that to the tail.
What tail?
Exactly my point.
Both the sheriff and Tad directed their lights to the dogs rump. Where the tail had been there was nothing but a ragged pink stump with a white bone at the center.
The sheriff said nothing.
And over therePendergast shone his light into the cornI imagine you will find the footprints of the killer. Bare footprints, size eleven, heading back down toward the creek. Same as the footprints found at the site of the first homicide.
There was another silence. And then the sheriff spoke. Well, Pendergast, all I can say is, its kind of a relief. Here you thought we were dealing with a serial killer. Now we know hes just some sicko. Murdering a dog and cutting off the tail. Jesus Christ.
But you will note the difference here. There was no ceremony to this killing, no feeling that the corpse has been arrangeden tableau.
Still Life With Crows Page 9