Paulson was scrutinizing the printout. A low whistle escaped his lips.
“Quite a guy, this Pendergast. First name Al—Al . . . Christ, I can’t even pronounce it. FBI All-National Pistol-Shooting, First Place, 2002; FBI Bronze Cluster for Distinguished Service, 2001; Gold Eagle for Valor, 2000 and 1999; Distinguished Service Cluster, ’98; another Gold Eagle in ’97; four Purple Heart Ribbons for injuries received in the line of duty. It goes on. Done a lot of casework in New York City—figures—and there’s a bunch of earlier, classified assignments in here, with classified decorations to boot. Military, by the look of them. Who the hellis this guy?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” Hazen said.
Jim Paulson was really mad now. “And who the hell does he think he is, coming into Kansas like some kind of hot shot? The case isn’t even FBI purview.”
Hazen sat tight, saying nothing.
Paulson slapped down the printout. “Nobody in this office authorized him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to stop by and present credentials.” He picked up the phone. “Darlene, get me Talmadge in K.C.”
“Yes, Mr. Paulson.”
A moment later the telephone rang. Paulson picked it up. He glanced at Hazen. “Sheriff, if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the outer office?”
Hazen passed the time in the outer office getting a better look at Miss Cat’s Eyes. Behind those silly glasses was a pert little face; below them was a nice twitchy figure. It wasn’t a long wait. Within five minutes, Paulson emerged. He was calm again, smiling. The dimples were back.
“Sheriff?” he said. “Leave your fax number with my secretary.”
“Sure thing.”
“In a day or two we’ll be faxing you a cease-and-desist order, which you will be asked to serve on Special Agent Pendergast. Nobody in the New Orleans office knows what he’s up to. All the New York office would say is that he’s supposed to be on vacation. He has peace officer status here, of course, but that’s it. It doesn’t appear he’s actually broken any rules, but this is highly irregular, and these days we have to be exceptionally careful.”
Hazen tried to maintain the look of grave concern on his face, although he could hardly keep himself from shouting for joy.
“This guy has got some big-time friends in the Bureau, but it seems he also has some big-time enemies. So just wait for the order, say nothing, and deliver it with courtesy when it comes in. That’s all. Any problems, here’s my card.”
Hazen pocketed the card. “I understand.”
Paulson nodded. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Sheriff Hazen.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Another flash of the dimples, a glance and wink at Miss Cat’s Eyes, and the head of the field office withdrew.
A day or two,Hazen thought as he glanced at his watch. He could hardly wait.
It was now three o’clock. He had a trip to make to Deeper.
Thirty-Six
Corrie maneuvered her Gremlin over the dirt track at a crawl, one-handed, balancing the two iced coffees in her lap to keep them from spilling. The ice was mostly melted already, and her thighs were wet and numb. The car jounced over a particularly deep rut, and she winced: her muffler had been dangling rather loosely under the chassis lately, and she didn’t want it torn off by one of these murderous gullies.
Ahead, the low shoulders of the Mounds reared above the surrounding trees, the light of the afternoon sun turning the grass along their crests into halos of gold. She got as close as she dared, then threw the car into park and eased her way gingerly out of the driver’s seat. Coffees in hand, she climbed the grade into the trees. Bronze thunderheads loomed in the north, already covering a third of the sky, great towering air-mountains with dark streaks at their base. The air was dead, totally dead. But that wouldn’t last long.
She entered the sparse scattering of trees and continued along the path toward the Mounds. There was Pendergast, dark and slim, looking around, his back partly to her. “Looking” really wasn’t the word, she realized: more like staring. Intently. Almost as if he was trying to memorize the very landscape around him.
“Coffee delivery!” she called out, a little too cheerfully. Something about Pendergast sometimes gave her the shivers.
He slowly turned, his eyes focusing on her, then he smiled faintly. “Ah, Miss Swanson. How kind of you. Alas, I drink tea only. Never coffee.”
“Oh. Sorry.” For a moment she felt disappointed, somehow, that she hadn’t been able to please him the way she’d hoped. She shook the thought away: now she could drink both coffees herself. As she looked around, she noticed there were topographical maps and diagrams of all kinds spread out on the ground, held down with rocks. Under another rock was an old journal, its weathered pages full of spidery, childlike script.
“You are kind to think of me, Miss Swanson. I’m almost finished here.”
“What are you doing?”
“Reading thegenius loci. And preparing myself.”
“For what?”
“You shall see.”
Corrie sat on a rock and sipped her coffee. It was strong and cold and as sweet as ice cream: just the way she liked it. She watched as Pendergast walked about the area, stopping to stare for minutes at a time in seemingly random directions. Occasionally he would pull out his notebook and jot something down. At other times he would return to one of his maps—some of them looked old, at least nineteenth-century—and make a mark or draw a line. Once Corrie tried to ask a question, but he quietly raised his hand to silence her.
Forty-five minutes passed as the sun began to sink into a swirl of ugly clouds on the western horizon. She watched him, mystified as usual, but with a perverse kind of admiration she didn’t really understand. She was aware of feeling a desire to help him; to impress him with her abilities; to gain his respect and trust. In recent years no teacher, no friend, and certainly not her mother had ever made her feel useful, worthwhile, needed. She felt that way now, with him. She wondered what it was that motivated Pendergast to do this kind of job, to investigate horrible murders, to put himself in danger.
She wondered if perhaps she wasn’t just a little bit in love with him.
But no, that was impossible: not someone with those creepy long fingers and skin as pale as a corpse and strange blond-white hair and cold silver-blue eyes that always seemed to be looking a little too intently at everything, including her. And he was soold, at least forty. Ugh.
Finally Pendergast was finished. He came strolling over, slipping his notebook into his jacket pocket. “I believe I’m ready.”
“I would be, too, if I knew what was up.”
Pendergast knelt on the ground among his maps and documents, gathering them carefully together. “Have you ever heard of a memory palace?”
“No.”
“It is a mental exercise, a kind of memory training, that goes back at least as far as the ancient Greek poet Simonides. It was refined by Matteo Ricci in the late fifteenth century, when he taught the technique to Chinese scholars. I perform a similar form of mental concentration, one of my own devising, which combines the memory palace with elements of Chongg Ran, an ancient Bhutanese form of meditation. I call my technique a memory crossing.”
“You’ve totally lost me.”
“Here’s a simplified explanation: through intense research, followed by intense concentration, I attempt to re-create, in my mind, a particular place at a particular time in the past.”
“In the past? You mean, like time travel?”
“I do not actuallytravel in time, of course. Instead, I attempt to reconstruct a finite location in time and space within mymind; to place myself within that location; and to then proceed to make observations that could not otherwise be made. It gives me a perspective obtainable in no other way. It fills in gaps, missing bits of data, that otherwise would not even beperceived as gaps. And it is frequently in these very gaps that the crucial information lies.” He began removing his suit coat. “It’s especi
ally relevant in this particular case, where I have made absolutely no progress through the usual methods, the offices of the good Mrs. Tealander not excepting.”
Pendergast carefully folded his suit coat and laid it across the gathered maps, charts, and journal. Corrie was startled to see a large weapon strapped beneath one arm.
“Are you going to do it now?” Corrie said, feeling a mixture of curiosity and alarm.
Pendergast lay down on the ground, like a corpse, very still. “Yes.”
He folded his hands on his chest.
“But . . . but what am I supposed to do?”
“You are here to watch over me. If you hear or see anything unusual, wake me. A good hard shake should bring me back.”
“But—”
“Do you hear those birds? Those chirping grasshoppers? If you hear themstop, you must also awaken me.”
“Okay.”
“Finally, if I do not come back in one hour, you must wake me. Those are the three circumstances under which I am to be awakened. No others. Do you understand?”
“It’s simple enough.”
Pendergast crossed his arms over his chest. If Corrie had been lying there like that, there was no way she could have thought of anything but the hard ground and the stubble underneath her. And yet he seemed to be becoming sostill.
“So what time are you going back to?”
“I am going back to the evening of August 14, 1865.”
“The Ghost Massacre?”
“Precisely.”
“But why? What does this have to do with the serial murders?”
“The two are connected, that much I know.How they are connected is what I hope to discover. If there is no key to these new killings in the present, then that key must lie in the past. And the past is where I intend to go.”
“But you’re not really going anywhere, are you?”
“I assure you, Miss Swanson, the journey I make is strictlywithin my own mind. But even so, it is a long and dangerous interior journey to terra incognita, perhaps even more dangerous than a physical journey would be.”
“I don’t . . .” Corrie let her voice trail off. Any more questions would be useless.
“Are we ready, Miss Swanson?”
“I guess so.”
“In that case, I shall now ask for your absolute silence.”
Corrie waited. Pendergast remained absolutely still. As the minutes went by, he seemed even to have stopped breathing. The afternoon light poured through the trees as usual, the birds and grasshoppers chirped, the thunderheads continued to rear above the trees. Everything was as before—and yet, somehow, she herself could almost hear a faint whisper of that same late afternoon 140 years before, when thirty Cheyenne had come galloping out of a swirl of dust, bent on a most terrible revenge.
Thirty-Seven
Sheriff Hazen pulled into the big parking lot at the Deeper Mall, sped across the nearly empty blacktop, and slid his cruiser into one of the “Law Enforcement Only” spaces outside the Deeper sheriff’s office. Hazen knew the Deeper sheriff, Hank Larssen, well. He was a regular guy, decent, if a little slow on the uptake. Hazen felt a twinge of envy as he walked through the hushed outer office with its humming computers and pretty secretaries. Christ, in Medicine Creek they couldn’t even afford to recharge the AC in the squad cars. Where did these guys get the money?
It was almost five, but everyone was still busy propping up the decrepit Lavender empire. Hazen was well known here, and nobody stopped him as he made his way through the building toward Larssen’s office. The door was shut. He knocked, and then, without waiting for a reply, opened.
Larssen was sitting in his wooden swivel chair, listening to two guys in suits who were both talking at once. They broke off when he entered.
“Perfect timing, Dent,” Larssen said with a quick smile. “This is Seymour Fisk, dean of faculty at KSU, and Chester Raskovich, head of campus security. This is Sheriff Dent Hazen, Medicine Creek.”
Hazen took a seat, giving the two KSU people the once-over. Fisk was a typical academic, bald, jowly, reading glasses dangling from his neck. Chester Raskovich was a type, also: brown suit, heavyset, sweating all over, with close-set eyes and a handshake even more crushing than Agent Paulson’s had been. A cop wannabe if he’d ever seen one.
“I don’t have to tell you why they’re here,” Larssen went on.
“No.” Hazen genuinely liked Hank and he was sorry about what he was going to have to do. He had done nothing but think about his theory, and it amazed even him how beautifully it came together.
“We were just talking about the ramifications for Medicine Creek and Deeper. Regarding the experimental field, I mean.”
Hazen nodded. He was in no rush. Perfect timing, indeed: it was a major stroke of luck the KSU people were there to hear what he had to say.
Fisk leaned forward, resuming what he had been saying before Hazen entered. “The fact is, Sheriff, this tragic killing changes everything. I just don’t see how we can proceed with Medicine Creek now as the site for the field. That leaves Deeper, by default. What I must have from you, Sheriff, are assurances that the negative effects won’t spill over here. I can’t emphasize enough that publicity will be intolerable. Intolerable. The whole point of locating the field in this, ah, quiet corner of the state was to avoid the kind of circus atmosphere and excess publicity generated by those with irrational fears of so-called genetic engineering.”
Sheriff Larssen nodded sagely, his face a mask of seriousness. “Medicine Creek is twenty miles away and the crimes are strictly confined to that town. The authorities—and Sheriff Hazen will confirm this—believe the killer is local to Medicine Creek. I can assure you in the strongest terms that there will be no spillover to Deeper. We haven’t had a homicide here since 1911.”
Hazen said nothing.
“Good,” said Fisk, with a nod that set his jowls shaking. “Mr. Raskovich is here to assist the police”—he nodded toward Sheriff Hazen—“in finding the psychopath who committed this horrendous crime, and also in finding Dr. Chauncy’s body, which we understand is still missing.”
“That is correct.”
“He’s also going to interface with you, Mr. Larssen, in making sure the publicity and security environment of Deeper is appropriately maintained. Of course, any announcement of the new location of the field has been put off until this situation settles down, but just among us I can say it will be Deeper. Any questions?”
Silence.
“Sheriff Hazen, any news on the investigation at your end?”
This was what Hazen had been waiting for. “Yes,” he said mildly. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
They all leaned toward him. Hazen settled back in his chair, letting the moment build. Finally, he spoke.
“It appears that Chauncy went down near the creek and collected some last-minute corn samples, which he tagged and labeled. They say he was waiting for the corn to get ripe or something.”
All three of them nodded.
“The other news is the killer isn’t local. Local to Medicine Creek, that is.” Hazen said this as casually as possible.
This perked everybody up.
“It also appears that these killings aren’t the work of some psychopathic serial killer, either. That’s what they weremeant to look like. The scalping, the bare feet, the hint of a connection to the old Ghost Massacre and the curse of the Forty-Fives—all that’s just window dressing. No: these killings are the work of someone with a motive as old as the hills—money.”
Now hereally had their attention.
“How so?” Fisk asked.
“The killer struck first three days before Dr. Chauncy’s scheduled arrival. Then he struck again the dayafter Chauncy arrived. Coincidence?”
He let the word hang in the air a moment.
“What do you mean?” Larssen was getting worried.
“The first two killings didn’t have the desired effect. And that is why Chauncy had to be killed.”
“I’m not following you,” Larssen said. “What desired effect are you talking about?”
“To persuade Chauncy that Medicine Creek wasn’t the right place for the experimental field.”
He had dropped his bombshell. There was a stunned silence.
He continued. “The first two killings were an attempt to convince KSU to forgo Medicine Creek and site the field in Deeper. But it didn’t work. So the killer had no choice but to kill Chauncy himself. Right on the eve of his big announcement.”
“Now wait—” began Sheriff Larssen.
“Let him finish,” said Fisk, placing his tweedy elbows on his tweedy knees.
“These so-called serial killings were nothing more than a way to make Medicine Creek look unsuitable for a sensitive project like this—a way to make sure the experimental field went to Deeper. The mutilations and Indian crap were all designed to stir up Medicine Creek, get everyone talking about the curse, make us all look like a bunch of superstitious yahoos.” Hazen turned to Hank. “If I were you, Hank, I’d start asking myself: who had the most to lose with the field going to Medicine Creek?”
“Now hold on here,” the Deeper sheriff said, rising in his chair. “You’re not suggesting that the killer is from Deeper, I hope.”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“You haven’t a shred of proof! What you’ve got is nothing more than a theory. Atheory! Where’s the evidence?”
Hazen waited. Better to let Hank blow off a little steam.
“This is ridiculous! I can’t imagine anyone here brutally murdering three people over a damn cornfield.”
“It’s a lot more than a ‘damn cornfield,’ ” said Hazen coolly, “as I’m sure Professor Fisk can tell you.”
Fisk nodded.
“This project is important. There’s big money in it, for the town and for KSU. Buswell Agricon is one of the biggest agricultural companies in the world. There are patents, royalties, laboratories, grants, you name it, up for grabs here. So Hank, I’ll ask you the question again:who in Deeper had the most to lose? ”
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