Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  Weeks, if those dogs arent going to track, then get them the hell out of here. Your dragging them up and down the creek is just wrecking the site for everyone else. This is a disgrace.

  Its not my fault.

  Hazen stalked off down the creek. It was a ten-minute walk to the spot where his cruiser and a dozen other vehicles, marked and unmarked, glittered alongside the road. He coughed, spat, breathed through his nose. There was definitely that curious stillness in the air that precedes a storm.

  And there on the gravel shoulder was Art Ridder, getting out of his idling vehicle, standing and waving. Sheriff!

  The sheriff walked over.

  Hazen, Ive been looking all over creation for you, said Ridder, his face even redder than usual.

  Art, Im having a bad day.

  I can see that.

  Hazen took a deep breath. Ridder might be the towns big shot, but there was only so much crap he was going to take.

  I just got a call from a guy named Dean Fisk, up at the Agricultural Extension. KSU. Hes on his way down with an entourage.

  I heard.

  Ridder looked surprised. You did? Well, heres something Ill bet youdont know. Listen, youre not going to believe this.

  Hazen waited.

  Chauncy was going to announce today thatMedicine Creek had been awarded the experimental field.

  Just when he thought he couldnt get any hotter, Hazen felt a sudden flush burn its way through him. Medicine Creek?Not Deeper?

  It was going to be us all along.

  Hazen just stared, stupid with heat and surprise. I cant believe it.

  He may have hated the town, but that didnt change the fact that its a perfect place for their field. Ridder wiped his greasy brow, tucked the soiled handkerchief back into his breast pocket. Were a dying town, Sheriff. My house is worth sixty percent what it was twenty years ago. Sooner or later the turkey plants going to lose another shift, maybe even close down. Do you know what this field would have meant for us? Genetic engineering, Hazen. One field wouldve just been the beginning. Thered have been more fields, a computer center, accommodations for visiting scientists and faculty, maybe a weather station. There would have been construction opportunities, real estate opportunities, more business for everyone, work for our children. His voice rose into the dead air. That field would havesaved our town.

  Lets not get ahead of ourselves, Art, Hazen said woodenly, still stunned.

  Youre a fool if you dont see it! But do you think were going to get it now? Now that their man just had his guts ripped out in the center of our town? Huh?

  Hazen felt an immense weariness settling on his shoulders. He began to walk past Ridder. I dont have time for this, Art. Ive got a body to find.

  But Ridder blocked him. Look, Sheriff. Ive been thinking. He lowered his voice. Have you looked into this guy Pendergast? Think about it. He showed up in town awfully goddamn fast after that first killing. We only have his word that hes FBI. How do you knowhe isnt involved? Thathe isnt the psycho? Hes at every killing, poking his albino nose everywhere

  But Hazen barely heard. Suddenly Ridders voice seemed to have gone far away.

  Hazen had an idea.

  Ridder was right: Deeper would get the experimental field now, by default. But by rights it should have gone to Medicine Creek. Right on the eve of Chauncys announcementthe very evehe comes up murdered. And now Deeper would get the field.

  Deeper would get the field . . .

  It was suddenly coming together.

  He tuned out Ridders droning voice, trying hard to think. The first killing, Sheila Swegg, had occurred three days before Chauncys arrival. The killer struck again the day after he arrived. In both cases, the killer had left all kinds of clues and bizarre shit behind, arrows and bare footprints and what-not, as if he were trying to capitalize on the legend of the Ghost Warriors, the curse of the Forty-Fives. But the strategy didnt work. Chauncy didnt pay a lot of attention to the murders, and he could care less about legends and curses. He wasnt even reading the papers. He was a scientific man looking at things long-term. Ghosts and murders might scare the residents of Medicine Creek, but they just didnt register with Chauncy.

  And then, the night before Chauncy was to announce Medicine Creek got the field, he himself comes up dead.

  Could it be any clearer? This wasnt a serial killer. And it wasnt someone local, like Pendergast believed. It was someone who had a lot to lose if the experimental field went to Medicine Creek. Someone from Deeper. Art was right: there was a shitload of money at stake here, maybe even the future of the towneithertown. Deeper was hurting, too. Christ, in the last thirty years they were down fifty percent in population, worse than Medicine Creek. They were bigger, they had farther to fall, and they didnt even have the turkey plant.

  It was kill or be killed.Deeper.

  You following me? Ridder was shouting.

  Hazen looked at him. Art, he said abruptly, Ive got some important business to take care of.

  You havent heard a goddamn word Ive said!

  Hazen placed a hand on his shoulder. Im going to solve these murders, and maybe even get that field back for Medicine Creek. You just wait.

  And how the hell do you plan to dothat?

  But Hazen was already walking back to his car. Ridder followed, waiting for an answer. Hazen paused, his hand on the door handle. And another thing. Youre right about that FBI agent. Hes the source of the whole problem.

  Hes the killer, you mean!

  The sheriff opened the door. Art, dont be an idiot. Hes no killer. But heis the one whos screwed everything up. Hes the one who came roaring in here, insisting it was a serial killer. Insisting it was someone local. He got the investigation off on the wrong foot right from the get-go. Got me so confused I wasnt thinking straight. Made me doubt my own instincts.

  What are you talking about?

  I cant believe I didnt see it before.

  See what?

  Hazen grinned, gave Arts shoulder an affectionate squeeze. Let me take care of this, Art. Trust me.

  Hazen swung into his cruiser, unhooked the radio. Pendergast had shown up without a car and driver, no backup, and he hadnt liaised with the local Dodge office. The son of a bitch was freelancing. It was time to put an end to that, once and for all.

  Hazen punched the radio, spoke into it. Harry? Sheriff Hazen here from Medicine Creek. Listen, this is important. Its about the killings. You know anyone in the FBI field office in Dodge whos in a position to do me a favor? Yeah, I need to call in a big one. He listened for a moment, nodded. Thanks a lot, Harry.

  As he hung up the radio, Ridder leaned in the window, his face rashy from the heat. I hope to hell you know what youre doing, Hazen. The future of Medicine Creek is at stake here.

  Hazen grinned. May all your dreams come true, Art.

  He gunned the engine and pointed the big cruiser east, toward Dodge.

  Thirty-Four

  Smit Ludwig sat disconsolately at Maisies counter, displaced from his usual corner booth by a loud group of AP reporters, or maybe they wereNational Enquirer orWeekly World News. It hardly mattered. The diner was full of reporters and townspeople, who seemed to have gravitated there as the place to go, to gossip, to get reassurance, to share news and speculate. Each new murder had brought more reporters, and each time theyd stayed a little longer. But it wasnt just reporters who were choking the usually quiet eatery. There was Mrs. Bender Lang and her gaggle of blue-rinsed beauties; there was Ernie the mechanic at another table with his buddies; there was Swede Cahill, whod kept the Wagon Wheel closed for the day; there was the Gro-Bain contingent, workers at one table, management at the other. The place was full, the noise level like a New York City club. The only one who seemed to be missing was Art Ridder himself.

  Where, Ludwig asked himself, was he going to turn for the rest of the story? Hed had a taste of being a real reporterjust a little taste, true, but he found himself liking it nevertheless. Hed recounted the curse of the Forty-Fives, hed written
up the Ghost Massacre, hed covered all the gossip in town along those lines. The scalping of Gasparilla with some kind of primitive knife, on top of the arrows left with the Swegg corpse, had really gotten the rumor mill in high pitch. He had written up the killings and the church riot and he had the story on Chauncys disappearance in the can. But he wanted to take it one step further. He needed something new and he needed it for tomorrow.

  A real reporter wouldnt be sitting in a diner nursing his coffee. A real reporter would be out in the field talking to the cops, getting the lowdown. That bully, Hazen: there must be some kind of complaint he could make. What did you do if the police didnt cooperate, if they threatened to arrest you just for doing your job?

  For the first time in his life, Ludwig had gotten a story between his teeth. It was real, and it was big. He had broken it and he was in the best position to finish it. My God, hedearned that, at least. At sixty-two years old, it would be nice to go out with a bang. His grandkids could look over the yellowing issues of theCourier, turning the pages like precious parchment, and say, Remember those murders back in 03? Our granddad covered them. Boy, he was some reporter.

  This pleasant little daydream faded as a man climbed onto the stool next to his. Ludwig turned to find the man sticking out his hand in greeting. A young, fresh, eager face filled his field of view. There was the stubble, the butt hanging off the lip, the mussed-up hair, the skewed tie, but despite all the affectation he still looked like a kid trying to be a reporter.

  Smit took the hand.

  Joe Rickey,Boston Globe.

  Howdy-do. Smit shook the hand, a little surprised.Boston Globe ? He was a long way from home.

  Smit Ludwig, right?Cry County Courier ?

  Ludwig nodded.

  Hot enough for you?

  Ive seen it hotter.

  Yeah? Well, I havent. The man plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser, dabbed it across his temples. Ive been here for two days and I cant get dick on this story. I promised my editor something different, you know; a little piece of Americana. Thats my column: Americana. People in Boston like to read about stuff that goes on in the rest of the country. Like these killings here, a man boiled, buttered, and sugared. He shuddered with pleasure.

  Ludwig looked at the kid. In an odd way he reminded him of himself, forty years ago. TheBoston Globe ? The kid must have talent. He looked J-school, smart and eager but without real-life reporting skills.

  Anyway, that redneck sheriff of yours and those state police storm troopers wont give me the time of day. But you, youre local, you know where the bodies are buried. So to speak. Am I right?

  Sure. Ludwig wasnt about to tell the kid he was in the same boat.

  Im going to be in deep shit, after all theGlobe paid to send me out here, if I come back empty-handed.

  It was your idea? Ludwig asked.

  Yeah. It took a lot of persuading, too.

  Ludwig felt for the kid. It could have been himself, if hed taken that scholarship to Columbia instead of the copy-boy job at theCourier, back when it was more than a one-man paper. A fateful decision, but one that curiously enough hed never regretted making. Especially as he read the desperation, the ambition, the fear and hope in the young mans eyes.

  The man leaned closer, dropping his voice. I was just wondering. Is there anything you might like to share with me? I swear, Id hold it back until you publish first.

  Well now, Ludwig paused. To tell you the truth, Mr. Rickey

  Joe.

  Well, Joe, I dont really have anything new at this point myself.

  But surely you could get something?

  Ludwig looked at the kid. In a way he even looked like himself, forty years before. I could always try, he said.

  Ive got to file by eleven tonight.

  Ludwig glanced at his watch. Three-thirty.

  At that moment the door burst open and Corrie Swanson came barging into the diner, tossing back her purple hair, all the little chains and doohickeys pinned to her tank top astir.

  Two large iced coffees to go, she said, one black, one with double cream and sugar.

  Ludwig watched her, palm resting on her hip, elbow jutting out, tapping her change impatiently on the counter, ignoring everybody in the place. She was working for Pendergast, his girl Friday. And here she was, getting two coffees to go.

  To go where?

  But even as he asked the question, Ludwig guessed the answer. Once again, Pendergast would come to his rescue.

  Maisie delivered the coffees. Corrie paid and turned away.

  Ludwig gave Rickey a quick smile and stood up. Ill see what I can do. He started to take out some money but Rickey stopped him. Coffees on me.

  Ludwig nodded and was up and out the door after her. As he left, he heard Rickeys voice: Ill be here, Mr. Ludwig. And thanks. Thanks a lot.

  Thirty-Five

  All FBI buildings look the same,Hazen thought as he squinted up at the white, slablike facade with the smoked windows, burning in the afternoon sun: brick-shithouse ugly. He tucked in his shirt, straightened his tie, ground out his cigarette on the asphalt, and adjusted his hat. Then he passed through the double doors into a blast of cold air that, had it been wintertime, would have caused an uproar of complaint.

  He paused at the desk, signed in, got directions, clipped a temporary ID to his lapel, and headed down the polished linoleum hall for the elevator.Second floor, second right, third door on the left . . . He repeated the directions in his head.

  The elevator opened onto a long hall, decorated with government bulletins and typed lists of esoteric directives. As he walked along it, Hazen noticed that every door was open, and inside each office sat men and women in white shirts. Jesus Christ, there werent enough crimes in the entire state of Kansas to keep this bunch busy. What the hell did they do all day?

  Hazen threaded the hallways, finally locating an open door labeledPAULSON, J., SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE . Within, a woman in cats-eye glasses was pecking away at her computer with robotic precision. She glanced up, then nodded him past into an inner office.

  This office seemed as sterile as the rest of the building, but there was at least a framed photo on the wall of its occupant riding a horse, and another picture on the desk of the guy with his wife and kids. The man himself pushed his chair back from his desk, rose, and held out his hand.

  Jim Paulson.

  Hazen grasped it and was just about crushed. Paulson indicated a seat, then settled back into his chair, threw one leg over the other, and leaned back.

  Well, Sheriff Hazen, what can I do for you? Paulson said. A friend of Harry McCullen is a friend of mine.

  No bullshit, no small talk. Here was Mr. Straight-Shooter, crew-cut, fit, dressed in a decent suit, blue eyes, even dimples when he smiled. Probably had a dick as big as a bargepole. A wifes dream.

  Hazen knew just how to play it. He was the small-town sheriff, just trying to do his job.

  Well, now, Mr. Paulson, its right kind of you to see me

  Jim, please.

  Hazen smiled a self-deprecating little smile. Jim, you probably dont know Medicine Creek. Were a town down Deeper way.

  Ive sure heard of it, what with the recent killings.

  Then you know were a small town with solid American values. Were a close-knit community and we trust each other. And as sheriff, Im the embodiment of that trust. You know that better than I. Its more than just law enforcement. Its abouttrust.

  Paulson nodded sympathetically.

  And then these killings happened.

  Yes. Tragic.

  And being a little town, we can use all the help we can get.

  Paulson smiled, dimpled. Sheriff, wed love to help you with this case, but we need evidence of interstate flight or other interstate or terrorist activitywell, Sheriff, you know when the FBI can justify involvement. Unless theres something Im not aware of, my hands are tied.

  Perfect,thought Hazen. He feigned surprise. Oh, but Jim, thats just it. Were already getting help from the FBI
. Right from the beginning. You didnt know?

  Jim Paulsons smile froze on his features. After a moment, he shifted position. Right. Of course. Now that you mention it.

  Thats what Im here about. This Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI. Hes been on the case since day one. You know all about him, right?

  Paulson shifted again, a little uneasily. I have to tell you I wasnt fully aware of this mans activities.

  You werent? He says hes out of the New Orleans office. I thought hed liaised with you. Isnt that the usual courtesy?

  He paused. Paulson was silent.

  Anyway, Jim, Im sorry. I justassumed . . . he let his voice trail off.

  Paulson picked up the phone. Darlene? Pull me the jacket on a Special Agent Pendergast, New Orleans office. Thats right,Pendergast. He hung up.

  Anyway, the reason Im here is that, with all due respect, I wanted to ask the FBI to withdraw him from the case.

  Paulson tilted his eye at him. Is that so? A reddish blush was creeping up his well-shaven neck.

  I told you that Medicine Creek can use all the help it can get. And, normally, thats true. Now, I know Im just a small-town Kansas sheriff, but weve got help from the Dodge forensic unit and the state police, andwell, to tell you the truth, Special Agent Pendergast has been . . . His voice trailed off, as if he was reluctant to criticize one agent to another.

  Has been what?

  Just a little heavy-handed. And not respectful of local law enforcement.

  I see. Paulson was looking more pissed by the minute.

  Hazen leaned toward the desk, lowered his voice confidentially. To tell you Gods own truth, Jim, he goes around in expensive suits and handmade English shoes quoting poetry.