Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Muuuh!

The arm was reaching out, clawing at her, and he took a step forward, his face distorted with rage, filling the room with his stink.

“No!” she screamed. “No, no, get away—!”

He advanced, slashing and roaring incoherently.

She turned and raced back down the hall to her room. He was after her, blundering down the hall. She slammed the door and shot the bolt home, but he came through with a shuddering crash that flattened the flimsy plywood against the wall. Without pausing to think, she dove out the window headfirst, rolled over the broken glass and wet grass, stood up, and began sprinting toward town. Behind came a crash; a roar of frustration; another crash. Lights were going on in the trailers around her. She glanced back to see Job roaring, literally clawing his way out the window, smashing and tearing.

If she could get to the main road, she might have a chance. She raced through the trailer park. The gate was just a few hundred yards ahead.

She heard a roar and glanced sideways to see the bent and wounded figure running crablike across the grass with horrible speed, cutting off her route into town.

She strained, gulping air, but now he was angling back toward her, leaving her no choice but to veer toward the back of the trailer park, toward the darkness of the naked fields. She jammed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the phone, pressing it to her ear as she ran. There was the voice of Pendergast, speaking calmly.

“I’m coming, Corrie, I’m coming right now.”

“He’s going to kill me, please—”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible with the police. Run, Corrie. Run. ”

She ran for all she was worth, jumping the back fence and flying into the field, the sharp corn stubble lacerating her bare feet.

Muh! Muh! Muuuuuh!

Job was behind her, closing in with a strange, brutal, apelike gait, loping ahead on the knuckles with his good arm. She kept going, hoping he might tire, might give up, might find the pain too much—but he kept on, roaring in agony as he went.

She redoubled her effort, her lungs burning in her chest. It was no good. He was gaining, steadily gaining. He was going to catch her. No matter how fast she ran, he was going to catch her.

No. . .

What could she do? There was no way she’d reach the creek. And even if she did, what then? She was running directly away from the town, into the heart of nowhere. Pendergast would never arrive in time.

Muuuh! Muuuh!

She heard a distant siren. It just confirmed that Pendergast was way too far away. She was on her own. He was going to catch her, grab her from behind and kill her.

Now she could hear feet pounding like a frenzied accompaniment to his agonized cries. He couldn’t be more than ten yards behind. She called up every ounce of energy but could already feel herself faltering, her legs weakening, her lungs almost bursting from the effort. And still he kept coming, closing the gap. In a second he would be on her. She had to do something. There had to be some way to reach him, to make him understand, to make him stop.

She turned back. “Job!” she yelled.

He came on, roaring, oblivious.

“Job, wait!”

In another instant she felt the blow, the terrible blow that threw her backwards into the soft dirt. And then he was on top of her, roaring, spittle spraying into her face, his great fist raised to smash in her skull.

“Friend!” she cried.

She closed her eyes, turning away from the anticipated blow, and said again: “Friend! I want to be your friend.” She choked, sobbed, repeating it over and over. “Your friend, your friend, your friend . . .”

Nothing happened. She waited, swallowed, and opened her eyes.

The fist was there, still raised, but the face looking down at her was completely different. Gone was the rage, the fury. The face was twisted into some new, powerful, and unfathomable emotion.

“You and me,” Corrie croaked. “Friends.”

The face remained horribly twisted, but she thought she could see hope, even eagerness, shine from his one good eye.

Slowly the great fist uncurled. “Fwiend?” Job asked in his high voice.

“Yes, friends,” she gasped.

“Pway wif Job?”

“Yes, I’ll play with you, Job. We’re friends. We’ll play together.” She was babbling, choking with fear, struggling to get a grip on herself.

The arm dropped. The mouth was stretched in a horrible grimace that Corrie realized must be a smile. A smile of hope.

Job lumbered off her awkwardly, managed to stand unsteadily, grimacing with pain but still smiling that grotesque smile. “Pway. Job pway.”

Corrie gasped and sat up, moving slowly, trying not to frighten him. “Yes. We’re friends now. Corrie and Job, friends.”

“Fwiends,” repeated Job, slowly, as if recalling a long-forgotten word.

The sirens were louder now. She heard the distant screech of brakes, the slamming of car doors.

Corrie tried to stand, found her legs collapsing underneath her. “That’s right. I won’t run away; you don’t need to hurt me. I’ll stay here and play with you.”

“We pway!” And Job squealed with happiness in the dark of the empty field.

2

The Rolls-Royce stood in the parking lot beside Maisie’s Diner, covered with dust, its once-glossy surface sandblasted to dullness by the storm. Pendergast was leaning against it, dressed in a fresh black suit, his arms in his pockets, motionless in the crisp morning light.

Corrie turned off the road, eased her Gremlin to a stop beside him, and threw it into park. The engine died with a belch of black exhaust and she stepped out.

Pendergast straightened. “Miss Swanson, I’ll be driving through Allentown on my way back to New York. Are you sure you won’t accept a ride?”

Corrie shook her head. “This is something I’d like to do on my own.”

“I could run your father’s name through the database and give you advance notice of anything, shall we say, unusual in his current situation?”

“No. I’d rather not know in advance. I’m not expecting any miracles.”

He looked at her intently, not speaking.

“I’m going to be just fine,” she said.

After a moment he nodded. “I know you will. If you won’t accept a ride, however, you must at least accept this.”

He took a step closer, withdrew an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Consider it an early graduation present.”

Corrie opened it and a savings account passbook came sliding out. The sum of $25,000 had been deposited in an educational trust account in her name.

“No,” she said immediately. “No, I can’t.”

Pendergast smiled. “Not only can you, but you must.”

“Sorry. I just can’t accept it.”

Pendergast seemed to hesitate a moment. Then he spoke again. “Then let me explain why you must,” he said, his voice very low. “By chance, under circumstances I’d rather not go into, last fall I came into a considerable inheritance from a distant and wealthy relation. Suffice to say, he did not make his money via good works. I am trying to rectify, if only partially, the blot he left on the Pendergast family name by giving his money away to worthy causes. Quietly, you understand. You, Corrie, are just such a cause. A most excellent cause, in fact.”

Corrie lowered her eyes for a moment. She could make no answer. Nobody her whole life long had ever given her anything. It felt strange to be cared about—especially by someone as remote, as aloof, as unlike her as Pendergast was. And yet the passbook was there, in her hand, as physical proof.