Still Life with Crows

by Preston; Child

  He paused at the storm door and, balancing the tea tray on one hand, tapped lightly. He heard a stir within.

  “Miss Kraus?”

  No sound.

  “I have some tea and cakes here for you. It’ll do you good.”

  He heard another rustle, and then her voice came through the door. “Just a minute, please. I need to arrange my hair.”

  He waited, relieved by how calm she sounded. It was amazing, the propriety of the older generation. A minute passed, and then the old lady spoke again. “I’m ready for you now,” came the prim voice.

  Smiling, he slipped the big iron key out of his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and eased open the door.

  Seventy-Two

  Sheriff Hazen could feel the sweat running off his hands and down the dimpled stock of his riot gun. He’d heard a welter of distant noises over the last ten minutes: gunshots, screams, cries—it sounded like a major confrontation. They’d seemed to come from one general direction, and Hazen was heading toward it as quickly as he could. Others might have run like rabbits, but he was personally determined to bring the guy out.

  In the sandy floor he could now make out footprints: the bare ones he’d seen before.

  He straightened. The bare feet of the killer.

  He realized he’d been wrong about McFelty. The glance he’d had of the killer, brief as it was, had assured him of that. And maybe he was even wrong about Lavender’s connection. But he was right about the most important thing: the killer was holed up in the cave. This was his base of operations. Hazen had made the connection and he was determined to follow through and bring the son of a bitch out.

  Hazen followed the footprints in the sand. Who could he be? A question to be answered later. Find the guy, get him out. It was as simple as that. Once they had him, all else would become clear: whether he was connected to Lavender; the experimental field; whatever. All would become clear.

  He turned a sharp corner, following the footprints. The walls and roof suddenly pulled back, stretching away into vastness, their outlines dim in the infrared beam of his light. The ground was littered with huge, glittering crystals. Even with the monochromatic goggles, Hazen could tell they were all different colors. The cave was gigantic, a lot bigger and more spectacular than the miserable three-room tourist trap that Kraus had opened up. With the right management, it could be turned into a major tourist site. And the Indian burials he’d seen—they’d draw archeologists and maybe even a museum. Even if Medicine Creek didn’t get the experimental field, this cave was big enough to attract people from all over. It occurred to him, distantly, that the town was saved. This was better than Carlsbad Caverns. All this time the town had been sitting on a goldmine and they never knew it.

  Hazen set the musings aside. He could dream about the future once this creepy bastard was behind bars. One thing at a time.

  Ahead yawned a hole in the rock floor, from which came the sound of rushing water. He stepped cautiously around it and continued on, following the prints in the sand.

  They were clear. And they looked fresh.

  He sensed he was drawing closer to his quarry. The tunnel narrowed, then widened again. Hazen was noticing more and more signs of habitation: strange designs scratched into the walls with a sharp rock; moldering Indian fetishes arranged with care inside niches and atop limestone pillars. He tightened his grip on the shotgun and moved on. The freak, whoever he was, had been down here a long time.

  Ahead, the tunnel widened into another cavern. Hazen turned the corner cautiously, then stopped dead, staring.

  The cavern was a riot of ornamentation. Countless odd figures of twine and bone had been lashed together, and were hanging by strings from a thousand stalactites. Mummified cave creatures had been set together in little dioramas. Human bones and skulls of all shapes and sizes could be seen: some lined up along the rock walls; others laid along the floor in intricate, bizarre patterns; still others piled in rough heaps as if awaiting use. Ancient lanterns, tin cans, rusted turn-of-the-century gadgets, Indian artifacts, and detritus of all sorts lay along makeshift shelves. It looked like the den of some madman. Which, in fact, was exactly what it was.

  Hazen turned slowly, aiming his infrared beam at the spectacle. This was weird; seriously weird. He swallowed, licked his lips, and took a step backward. Maybe it was a mistake, coming blundering in here like a single-handed posse. Maybe hewas being too hasty. The exit to the cave couldn’t be that far away. He could return to the surface, get reinforcements, get help . . .

  And it was then that his eye fell on the far wall of the cave. The rocky floor was particularly uneven here, sloping down into deeper darkness.

  Someone was lying, motionless, on the floor.

  Raising the barrel of his shotgun, Hazen moved forward. There was a rough table of stone nearby, littered with moldy objects. Nearby were some empty burlap bags. And beyond, sprawled across the floor, was the figure, maybe asleep.

  Shotgun ready, he approached the stone table with the utmost care. Now that he was closer, he realized that the objects on the table weren’t covered in mold after all. Instead, they appeared to be dozens of little knots of black hair: dark tufts of whiskers; curly locks, bits of scalp still attached; kinky clumps of hair and God only knew what else besides. The image of Gasparilla’s scalped and stripped head came to mind. He pushed it away, focusing his attention back on the figure, which on closer inspection didn’t look asleep after all. It looked dead.

  He crept forward, tension abruptly knotting as he realized the body was gutted. Where the belly should be, there was a hollow cavity.

  Oh, my God. Another victim.

  He approached, hands slippery on the butt stock, stiff-legged with horror. The body had been arranged, its clothes mostly torn away, only a few ragged pieces left, its face covered with dried blood. It was gangly, not much more than a kid.

  His arm shaking almost beyond his ability to control it, Hazen stopped and, taking his handkerchief, wiped the blood and dirt off the face.

  Then he froze, handkerchief on the cold skin, a storm of revulsion and overwhelming loss erupting within him. It was Tad Franklin.

  He staggered, felt himself sway.

  Tad. . .

  And then everything burst out of him at once, and with a howl of grief and fury he began turning, around and around and around, pumping the shotgun in every direction, while he raged at the darkness, the fiery blasts punctuated again and again by the sound of the shattering stalactites that fell like showers of crystal rain.

  Seventy-Three

  “What was that?” Weeks asked, screwing up his face, blinking rapidly against the dark.

  “Somebody firing a twelve-gauge.” Pendergast remained still, listening. Then he glanced at Weeks’s gun. “Have you been trained in the proper use of that weapon, Officer?”

  “Of course,” Weeks sniffed. “I got a Distinguished Shooting in my unit at Dodge Academy.” As it happened, there had been only three cadets in the K-9 unit at the time, but Pendergast didn’t have to be told everything.

  “Then chamber a round and get ready. Stay on my right at all times and pace me exactly.”

  Weeks rubbed the back of his neck; humidity always gave him a rash. “It’s my informed opinion that we should get some backup before proceeding further.”

  Pendergast spoke without bothering to look over his shoulder. “Officer Weeks,” he said, “we’ve heard the crying of the killer’s intended victim. We’ve just heard shooting. Is it really yourinformed opinion we have the time to wait for backup?”

  The question lingered briefly in the chill air. Weeks felt himself flushing. And then another faint cry—high, thin, clearly female—echoed faintly through the caverns. In a flash Pendergast was off again, moving down the tunnel. Weeks scrambled to follow, fumbling with his shotgun.

  The crying seemed to rise and fall as they moved on, becoming fainter from time to time before growing louder again. They had entered a section of the cave that was drier an
d more spacious. The level floor was partially covered by large patches of sand, riddled with bare footprints.

  “Do you know who the killer is?” Weeks asked, unable to completely hide his querulous tone.

  “A man. But a man in form only.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Weeks didn’t like the way the FBI agent always seemed to speak in riddles.

  Pendergast bent briefly to examine the footprints. “All you need to know is this:identify your target. If it is the killer—and you will know it, I can assure you—then shoot to kill.Do not trouble yourself with any niceties beyond that.”

  “You don’t have to be nasty.” Weeks fell silent when he saw the look that Pendergast darted at him.

  A man in form only.The image of that, thatthing —it hadn’t looked much like a man to him—raising one of the thrashing dogs and tearing off its limbs came unbidden into Weeks’s mind. He shivered. But Pendergast paid no attention, moving ahead with great swiftness, gun in his hand, only pausing infrequently to listen. The sounds seemed to have died away completely.

  After a few minutes, Pendergast stopped to consult the map. Then, under his guidance, they retraced their steps. The sounds returned briefly, then faded away once again. Finally, Pendergast dropped to his knees and began examining the tracks, moving back and forth for what seemed an interminable length of time, peering closely, his nose sometimes mere inches from the sand. Weeks watched him, growing more and more restless.

  “Below,” Pendergast said.

  Pendergast squeezed through a crack along the edge of one wall, then dropped into a narrow space that descended steeply. Weeks followed. They inched along for a while, arriving shortly at a veritable ants’ nest of natural boreholes in the cave wall, some with frozen rivers of flowstone erupting from their mouths. Pendergast played his light across the honeycombed face for a moment, selected one of the holes, and then—to Weeks’s consternation—crawled into it. The opening was dank and wet-looking, and Weeks considered protesting, but decided against it as Pendergast’s light abruptly vanished. Scrambling after Pendergast down the sharply descending passage, Weeks half jumped, half tumbled into a tunnel so heavily used that a trail had been worn in the soft limestone of its bed.

  He clambered to his feet, brushing the mud from his clothes and checking his shotgun. “How long has the killer been living down here?” he asked, staring at the track in disbelief.

  “Fifty-one years this September,” said Pendergast. Already, he was moving again, following the trail down the narrow corridor.

  “So youknow who it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just how the heck did you figurethat out?”

  “Officer Weeks, shall we save the colloquy for later?”

  Pendergast flew down the passageway. The crying had stopped, but now the FBI agent seemed sure of the way . . .

  And then, quite suddenly, they came to a standstill. Ahead, a huge curtain of crystallized gypsum flowed from a rend in the ceiling, completely blocking the passageway. Pendergast shone his light onto the floor of the passage, and Weeks noticed that the heavy track had disappeared. “No time,” Pendergast murmured to himself, angling his light back down the tunnel, up over the walls and ceiling. “No time.”

  Then he took a few steps back from the curtain of gypsum. He seemed to be counting under his breath. Weeks frowned: maybe he’d been right the first time and Pendergast wasn’t such a good choice to be tagging along with, after all.

  Then the agent paused, moved his head close to the wall, and called out, “Miss Swanson?”

  To Weeks’s surprise, there was a faint gasp, a sob, and then a muffled shout: “Pendergast? Agent Pendergast? Oh, God—”

  “Be calm. We’re coming to get you. Ishe around?”

  “No. He left . . . I don’t know how long ago. Hours.”

  Pendergast turned to Weeks. “Now’s your chance to be useful.” He moved back to the curtain of gypsum, pointed. “Direct a shotgun blast at this spot, please.”

  “Won’t he hear?” said Weeks.

  “He’s already close.Follow my orders, Officer.”

  Pendergast spoke with such command that Weeks jumped. “Yes, sir!” He crouched, aimed, and pulled both triggers.

  The blast was deafening in the enclosed space. Pendergast’s light exposed a pall of glittering gypsum dust and, beyond, a great hole in the diaphanous stone. For a moment, nothing further happened. And then the curtain broke apart with a great crack, dropping to the floor and sending glittering crystal shards skidding everywhere. Beyond was another passageway, and beside it the narrow dark mouth of a pit. Pendergast rushed to the edge and shone his light within. Weeks came up behind and peered cautiously over his shoulder.

  There, at the bottom, he saw a filthy girl with purple hair, staring up with a muddy, blood-smeared, terrified face.

  Pendergast turned to look at him. “You’re the dog-handler. You must have a spare leash in your pack.”

  “Yes—”

  He found himself, in one swift movement, relieved of his pack. Pendergast reached inside and pulled out the spare, a length of chain with a leather strap. Then he fixed the chain end around the base of a limestone column and threw the other end into the pit.

  From below came the clank of the chain, the sobbing of the girl.

  Weeks peered over again. “It doesn’t reach,” he said.

  Pendergast ignored this. “Cover us. Ifhe comes, shoot to kill.”

  “Now, wait just a minute—”

  But Pendergast had already disappeared over the edge. Weeks hovered at the top, one eye on the passageway and the other on the pit. The FBI agent clambered down the chain with remarkable agility, and when he reached the end he hung from it, free arm down, offering the girl his hand. She reached for it, swiped, missed.

  “Stand aside, Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said to the girl. “Weeks, nudge some of those boulders into the pit. Try not to brain one of us. And keep a careful eye on that tunnel.”

  With his foot, Weeks pushed half a dozen large rocks over the lip of the pit. Then he watched as the girl, who understood immediately, stacked them against the wall and clambered to the top. Now Pendergast was able to grab her hand. He hoisted her upward, planted his free arm beneath her shoulders, brought the hand back to the chain, and slowly climbed up the stone face. Pendergast looked scrawny enough, but the strength it took to climb up that chain while carrying another person was remarkable.

  They emerged from the pit and the girl immediately fell to her knees, clinging to Pendergast, sobbing violently.

  Pendergast knelt beside her. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he gently wiped the blood and dirt from the girl’s face. Then he examined her wrists and hands. “Do they hurt?” he asked.

  “Not now. I’m so glad you came. I thought . . . I thought—” The rest of the sentence was lost in a sob.

  He took her hands. “Corrie? I know what you thought. You’ve been very brave. But it’s not over yet and I need your help.” He spoke gently but rapidly, in a low, urgent whisper.

  She fell silent, nodded.

  “Can you walk?”

  She nodded, then broke into a sob once again. “He wasplaying with me,” she cried. “He was going to keep playing with me, until . . . until Idied. ”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s difficult. But you’re going to need to be strong until we get out of here.”

  She swallowed, eyes down.

  Pendergast stood and briefly examined his map. “There might be a quicker way out. We’re going to have to risk it. Follow me.”

  Then he turned to Weeks. “I’ll go first. Then Miss Swanson. You cover us from the back. And I meancover, Officer: he could come from anywhere, above, below, beside, behind. He will be silent. And he will befast. ”

  Weeks licked dry lips. “How can you be so sure the killer will be coming after us?”

  Pendergast returned his gaze, pale eyes luminous in the darkness. “Because he won’t give up
willingly his only friend.”

  Seventy-Four

  Hazen moved fast, pausing only briefly to reconnoiter at the twists and intersections of the cavern, not bothering to conceal the noisy sounds of his passage. He gripped his twelve-gauge with white knuckles, fingers resting against the dual triggers.

  This bastard was as good as dead.

  He passed another little arrangement, then another, tiny crystals and dead cave animals placed on a rock ledge. A psychopath. The cave was where he’d practiced his craziness before going topside to do it to real people.

  The son of a bitch was going to pay. No Miranda rights, no call to a lawyer, just two loads of double-ought buck in the chest and then a third to the brainpan.

  There was such a confusing welter of footprints that Hazen wasn’t sure what trail he was following anymore, or even if it was fresh. But he knew the killer couldn’t be far away, and he didn’t care how long it took or where he had to go to find him. The corridors couldn’t go on forever. He’d find him.

  The rage prickled his scalp and made his face feel hot and flushed despite the clammy air of the cave.Tad . . . It was like he had lost a son.

  His grief was checked, at least for now, by a tidal wave of anger. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks but didn’t feel the emotion behind them. All he felt was hatred. He was crying with hatred.

  The tunnel suddenly ended in a rocky cave-in. There was a black hole above from which the boulders had fallen. His infrared beam revealed a little trail, winding up through the debris and disappearing into what looked like an upper gallery.

  Hazen charged his way up the debris slope, head down, shotgun pointed ahead. He came out into a soaring vertical space. Overhead, feathery crystals hung on long ropes of limestone, swaying slightly in an underground current of air. Passageways wandered off in all directions. He scanned the ground, fighting to get his breathing and his emotions under control; found what looked like a fresh track; and began following it again, threading his way through a maze of tunnels.