Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  He forced himself through the gate, along the weed-choked sidewalk, and up the steps onto the crooked wraparound porch. His leather boots made a hollow sound as he walked up to the door. The air was still, and in the corn he could hear the cicadas droning. He paused, then rapped on the door.

  It opened so quickly that he jumped. Special Agent Pendergast.

  Deputy Sheriff Franklin. Please come in.

  Tad took off his hat and came into the parlor, feeling uncomfortable. The sheriff had wanted him to quietly check up on what Pendergast was up to, what else he had learned about the dog killing. But now that he was here, he felt embarrassed. He couldnt imagine any way to broach the subject without making the reason for his visit painfully obvious.

  Youre just in time for lunch, said the agent, closing the door behind him. The shades were drawn and it was a little cooler here, out of the sun, but without air conditioning it was still uncomfortably hot. Not far from the front door sat two oversized suitcaseswardrobe trunks, reallyovernight express labels still affixed to the expensive-looking leather exteriors. It seemed that Pendergast was settling in for a longer stay.

  Lunch? Tad repeated.

  A light salad with antipasti. Prosciutto di San Daniele, pecorino cheese with truffled honey, baccelli, tomatoes, and rucola. Something light for a hot day.

  Er, sure. Great. If they were going to eat Italian, why not stick with pizza? He advanced another step, not knowing what to say. It was one oclock. Who ate lunch at one oclock? He had eaten at the normal time of eleven-thirty.

  Miss Kraus is feeling poorly. Shes taken to bed. Ive been filling in.

  I see. Tad followed Pendergast into the kitchen. In one corner a stack of Federal Express and DHL boxes had been neatly piled halfway to the ceiling. The counter was littered with at least a dozen food packages sporting foreign-sounding names: Balduccis, Zabars. Tad wondered if maybe Pendergast wasnt Italian or French. He sure didnt eat like an American.

  Pendergast had busied himself in the kitchen, his movements deft and economical, quickly arranging odd-looking food onto three platessalami and cheese and what had to be some kind of lettuce. Tad watched, shifting his hat from one hand to the other.

  Ill just bring this plate back to Miss Kraus, said Pendergast.

  Right. Okay.

  Pendergast disappeared into the back recesses of the house. Tad could hear Winifreds soft voice, Pendergasts murmured responses. A moment later, the agent returned.

  Is she okay? Tad asked.

  Fine, Pendergast said in a low voice. Its more psychological than physical. These delayed reactions are common in such cases. You can imagine the kind of shock she had, learning about the murder.

  We were all shocked.

  Of course you were. I recently wrapped up a rather unpleasant case myself in New York, where killings are regrettably more common. I am used to it, Mr. Franklin, or as used to it as a creature can ever be. For all of you, I have no doubt this wasand isa most unwelcome new experience. Please sit down.

  Tad sat down, put his hat on the table, decided that wasnt a good place, laid it on a chair, then snatched it up again, afraid he might forget it.

  Ill take that, said Pendergast, placing it on a hat rack nearby.

  Tad shifted in his chair, feeling more awkward by the minute. A plate was put in front of him.Buon appetito, Pendergast said, gesturing for Tad to dig in.

  Tad picked up a fork and stabbed into a piece of cheese. He cut some off and tasted it gingerly.

  Youll want to drizzle a little of thismiele al tartufo bianco on there, Pendergast said, offering him a tiny jar of odd-smelling honey.

  Ill stick to it plain, thanks.

  Nonsense. Pendergast took a pearl spoon and dribbled some honey over the rest of Tads cheese.

  Tad took another bite, and discovered it wasnt bad.

  They ate in silence. Tad found the food much to his liking, especially some small slices of salami. Whats this? he asked.

  Cinghiale.Wild boar.

  Oh.

  Now Pendergast was pouring olive oil all over everything, as well as some liquid as black as tar. He poured some on Tads own plate as well. And now, Deputy, I imagine you are here for a briefing.

  Somehow, having it stated so baldly made everything much less awkward. Well, yes. Right.

  Pendergast dabbed his mouth and sat back. The dog was named Jiff and he belonged to Andy Cahill. I understand that Andy is quite an explorer and that he used to roam all over the place with his dog. My assistant will be providing me soon with the results of an interview.

  Tad fumbled for his notebook, brought it out, and started taking notes.

  It appears the dog was killed that previous night. You may recall it was overcast for a few hours after midnight, and that appears to be when the killing occurred. I have the results of the autopsy right here, which I just received. The C 2, 3, and 4 vertebrae were actuallycrushed. There was no indication that any kind of machine or instrument was used, which is problematic, since if only ones hands were employed, such crushing would require considerable force. The tail appears to have been hacked off with a crude implement and removed from the scene, along with the collar and tags.

  Tad took notes furiously. This was good stuff. The sheriff would be pleased. Then again, hed probably gotten the same report. He continued taking notes, just to be sure.

  I followed the bare footprints leading to and from the scene. The same corn row was used in both cases, leading away from, and then back to, Medicine Creek. Once in the creek, it was no longer possible to follow the tracks. So I spent the morning with Mrs. Tealander, the town administrator, acquainting myself with the local residents. I fear that this task will take much longer than Id originally

  A tremulous voice came from the rear of the house. Mr. Pendergast?

  Pendergast held his finger to his lips. Miss Kraus is out of bed, he murmured. It wouldnt do for her to hear us talking this way. He turned, and said in a louder tone, Yes, Miss Kraus?

  Tad saw the figure of the old woman appear in the doorway, muffled despite the heat in a nightgown and robes. Tad quickly rose.

  Why, hello, Tad, said the old lady. Ive been poorly, you know, and Mr. Pendergast has been kind enough to take care of me. Dont stand on my account. Please, take your seat.

  Yes, maam, said Tad.

  She sat down heavily in a chair at the table, her face careworn. I have to tell you, Im getting awfully tired of that bed. I dont know how invalids do it. Mr. Pendergast, would you mind pouring me a cup of that green tea of yours? I find it settles my nerves.

  Delighted. Pendergast rose and moved toward the stove.

  Its just terrible, isnt it, Tad? she said.

  The deputy sheriff didnt quite know how to respond.

  This killing. Who could have done it? Doesanyone know?

  Weve got some leads were following up, Tad replied. It was the line the sheriff always used.

  Miss Kraus drew the robe more tightly around her throat. I feel dreadful, just dreadful, knowing someone like thats on the loose. And maybe even one of our own, if the papers are to be believed.

  Yes, maam.

  Pendergast served tea all around and the table fell silent. Through the gauze curtains Tad could see the great fields of corn stretching out toward the horizon, a monochromatic rusty yellow. It made the eyes tired just looking at it. For the first time, the idea occurred to him that working on this caseif it had a successful resolutioncould be just the ticket out hed been waiting for. All of a sudden, checking up on Pendergast didnt seem like a chore. It seemed, instead, like something he should do regularly. But Miss Kraus was speaking again, and he politely turned to listen.

  I fear for our little town, Winifred Kraus was saying. With this murderer out there, I fear for it truly.

  Seventeen

  Corrie Swanson brought the Gremlin to a shuddering halt, sending up a swirl of dust that spiraled slowly into the air. God, it was hot. She looked over at the passenger seat. Pendergast returned the
glance, eyebrows slightly raised.

  This is the place, she said. You still havent told me why were here.

  Were going to pay a visit to one James Draper.

  Why?

  I understand he makes certain claims regarding the Medicine Creek Massacre. I think its time I learned more about them.

  Brushy Jim makes a lot of claims.

  You doubt him?

  Corrie laughed. He cant say hello without lying.

  I have found that liars in the end communicate more truth than do truth tellers.

  Hows that?

  Because truth is the safest lie.

  Corrie eased the car forward, shaking her head. No question about it: weird, weird, weird.

  Brushy Jims place was an eighth-section of land out on the Deeper Road, fenced in with barbed wire. The plankboard, two-room house stood well back from the highway, a lone cottonwood in front offering a semblance of privacy. The house was surrounded by a sea of junked cars, old trailers, rusted boilers, abandoned refrigerators, washing machines, old telephone poles, compressors, a couple of boat hulls, something that appeared to be a steam locomotive, and other things too sunken into decrepitude to be recognizable.

  As Corrie rolled into the dirt driveway she gave the car just a bit too much gas, and the Gremlin shuddered, backfired thunderously, and died. For a moment all was still. Then the door of the house banged open and a man appeared in the shade of the porch. As they got out of the car, he advanced into the light. Like most people in Medicine Creek, Corrie went out of her way to avoid meeting Brushy Jim, yet he looked just the same as she remembered: a mass of pale red hair and beard that sprouted from his entire face, leaving nothing visible but two beady black eyes, a pair of lips, and a patch of forehead. He was dressed in thick denim jeans, big chocolate-colored roper boots, a blue shirt with fake pearl snaps, and a battered felt cowboy hat. A bolo tie with a chunk of turquoise big enough to split the skull of a mule hung around his thick neck, the knotted leather partially obscured by the heavy beard. He was well over fifty, but with all the hair managed to look a decade younger. He gripped the post and peered at them suspiciously.

  Pendergast strode toward the porch, suit coat flapping.

  Just hold it right there, Brushy Jim called out, and state your business. Now.

  Corrie swallowed. If something bad was going to happen, it was going to happen now.

  Pendergast halted. I understand you are Mr. James Draper, great-grandson of Isaiah Draper?

  At this, Brushy Jim straightened slightly. The look of mistrust did not go away. And?

  My name is Pendergast. Im interested in learning more about the Medicine Creek Massacre of August 14, 1865, of which your great-grandfather was the lone survivor.

  The mention of the massacre wrought a dramatic change in Brushy Jims countenance. The suspicious glare in his eye softened somewhat. And the young lady, if thats what she is? Whos she?

  Miss Corrie Swanson, Pendergast replied.

  At this, Jim stood even straighter. Little Corrie? he said in surprise. What happened to your pretty blonde hair?

  Ate too much eggplant,Corrie almost said. But Brushy Jim was unpredictable, and he had a hair-trigger temper, so she decided that a shrug was the safest response.

  You look terrible, Corrie, all dressed in black. He stood there a moment, looking at the two of them. Then he nodded his head. Well, you might as well come in.

  They followed Brushy Jim into the stuffy confines of his house. There were few windows and it was dark, a house crammed full of shadowy objects. It smelled of old food and taxidermy gone bad.

  Sit down and have a Coke. The refrigerator threw out a rectangle of welcome light as Brushy Jim opened it. Corrie perched on a folding chair, while Pendergastafter a quick scan of the premisestook a seat on the only portion of a cowhide sofa not stacked with dusty copies ofArizona Highways. Corrie had never been inside before, and she looked around uneasily. The walls were covered with old rifles, buckskins, boards with arrowheads glued on, Civil War memorabilia, plaques displaying different types of barbed wire. A row of moldering old books ran along one shelf, bookended by huge pieces of unpolished petrified wood. An entire stuffed horse, an Appaloosa, worn and moth-eaten, stood guard in one corner. The floor was littered with dirty laundry, broken saddle trees, pieces of leather, and other bric-a-brac. It was remarkable: the entire place was like a dusty museum devoted to relics of the Old West. Corrie had expected to see mementos of Vietnam: weapons, insignia, photographs. But there was absolutely nothing, not a trace, of the war that reputedly had changed Brushy Jim forever.

  Brushy Jim handed Corrie and Pendergast cans of Coke. Now, Mr. Pendergast, just what do you want to know about the massacre?

  Corrie watched Pendergast set the Coke can aside. Everything.

  Well, it started during the Civil War. Brushy Jim threw his massive body into a big armchair, took a noisy sip. You know all about Bloody Kansas, Im sure, Mr. Pendergast, being a historian.

  Im not a historian, Mr. Draper. Im a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  There was a dead silence. Then Brushy Jim cleared his throat.

  All right, then, Mr. Pendergast. So youre FBI. May I ask what brings you to Medicine Creek?

  The recent homicide.

  Brushy Jims look of suspicion had returned, full force. And what,exactly, does that have to do with me?

  The victim was a relic hunter named Sheila Swegg. Shed been digging in the Mounds.

  Brushy Jim spat on the floor, twisted it into the dust with his boot. Goddamned relic hunters. They should leave the stuff in the ground. Then he looked quickly back at Pendergast. You still havent said what the murder has to do with me.

  I understand the history of the Mounds, and the Medicine Creek Massacre, are intertwined. Along with something Ive heard referred to locally as the curse of the Forty-Fives. And as you may know, a large number of Southern Cheyenne arrows were found arranged with the body.

  A long time passed while Brushy Jim seemed to consider this. What kind of arrows? he finally asked.

  They were of cane, feathered with bald eagle primaries and tipped with a type II Plains Cimarron style point of Alibates chert and Bighorn red jasper. A matched set, by the way, in almost perfect condition. They date to around the time of the massacre.

  Brushy Jim issued a long low whistle, and then fell into silence, his brow furrowed with thought.

  Mr. Draper? Pendergast prompted at last.

  For another moment, Brushy Jim was still. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he began his story.

  Before the Civil War, southwestern Kansas was completely unsettled, just Cheyenne and Arapaho, Pawnee and Sioux. The only white folks were those passing through on the Santa Fe Trail. But settlement was rolling this way from the frontier, which at that time was eastern Kansas. Folks had their eye on the good range in the valleys of the Cimarron River, the Arkansas, Crooked Creek, and Medicine Creek. When the Civil War broke out all the soldiers went off, leaving the territory defenseless. The settlers had been brutalizing the Indians and now it was payback time. There was a whole string of Indian attacks along the frontier. Then when the Civil War ended, a lot of soldiers came back, armed and bitter. Theyd seen war, Mr. Pendergast. And I meanwar. That kind of violence can do something to a man. It can damage the mind.

  The man paused, cleared his throat.

  So they came back here and began forming vigilante groups to push the Indians west so they could take the land. Clearing the country, they called it. There was a group formed over in Dodge, called the Forty-Fives. Course, it wasnt Dodge then, just the Hickson Brothers ranch. Forty-five men, it was, some of the worst dregs of humanity, murderers and crooks pushed out of settled towns farther east. My great-grandfather Isaiah Draper was just a boy of sixteen, barely in long pants, and he got sucked into it. I guess his thinking was hed missed the war, so hed better hurry up and prove his manhood damn quick while he still could.

  Brushy Jim took another
noisy sip.

  Anyway, in June of 65 the Forty-Fives went on a rampage, heading down the criks south of the Canadian and Cimarron and into the Oklahoma panhandle. These were Civil War veterans who knew all about fighting a mounted enemy. They were hardened men, tough, survivors of the very worst sort. Theyd been through the fires of hell, Mr. Pendergast. But they were also cowards. If you want to survive a war, nothing helps like being a chicken-livered, yellow-bellied poltroon. They waited until the warriors had gone off on the hunt and then attacked Indian settlements at night, killing mostly women and children. They showed no mercy, Mr. Pendergast. They had a saying: nits make lice. They even killed the babies. Bayoneted them to save ammunition.

  Another sip. His low gravelly voice in the dark cool room was hypnotic. It almost seemed to Corrie that he was describing something he himself had seen. Maybe he had, in a way . . . She averted her eyes.

  My great-grandfather was sickened by what he saw. Raping and killing women and cutting up babies wasnt his idea of becoming a man. He wanted to leave the group, but with the Indians all riled up it wouldve been certain death to peel off and try to get home alone. So he had to go along. One night they got drunk and beat the hell out of him cause he wouldnt join in the fun. Busted a few ribs. Thats what saved his life in the endthose broken ribs.