Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Pendergast was observing her intently. “Are you all right, Miss Kraus?”

“I forgot my rubber hammer to play the Krystal Chimes.” She almost felt like crying.

Pendergast glanced around at the forest of stalactites. “I see. I imagine those resonate when tapped.”

She nodded. “You can play Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ on those stalactites. It’s the highlight of the tour.”

“How very intriguing. I shall have to return, then.”

Winifred searched her mind for the continuation of the talk, but could find nothing. She began to feel a rising panic.

“There must be a great deal of history in this town,” Pendergast said as he casually examined some gypsum feathers glinting in a pool of reflected light.

Winifred felt a glow of gratitude for this little rescue. “Oh yes, there is.”

“And you must know most of it.”

“I suppose I do know most everything,” she said. She felt a little better. Now she had a second tour to look forward to, and she would never forget her rubber hammer again. That dreadful murder had upset her a great deal. More than she’d realized, perhaps.

Pendergast bent to examine another cluster of crystals. “There was a curious incident at Maisie’s Diner last evening. The sheriff arrested a girl named Corrie Swanson.”

“Oh, yes. She’s a troublemaker from way back. Her father ran off, and the mother is the cocktail waitress at the Candlepin Castle.” She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I think she drinks. And . . . sees men. ”

“Ah!” said Pendergast.

Winifred was encouraged. “Yes. They say Corrie takes drugs. She’ll leave Medicine Creek, like so many others, and good riddance. That’s how it is nowadays, Mr. Pendergast: they grow up and leave, never to come back. Though there are some I could name that stick around who ought to leave. That Brushy Jim, for instance.”

The FBI agent seemed to be intently examining a dripstone mound. It was nice to see someone so interested. “The sheriff seemed to be rather enthusiastic in making Miss Swanson’s arrest.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. And yet that sheriff’s a bully. That’s what I think. And I’ll say it to anyone. Just about the only person he’s nice to is Tad Franklin, his deputy.” She stopped, wondering if she had gone too far, but Mr. Pendergast was looking at her now, nodding sympathetically.

“And that son of his is also a bully. He thinks having a sheriff for a father gives him the right to do whatever he pleases. Terrorizes the high school, I hear.”

“I see. And this Brushy Jim you mentioned?”

Winifred shook her head. “The most disreputable fellow you ever saw.” She clucked disapprovingly. “Lives in a junkyard out on the Deeper Road . Claims to be descended from the lone survivor of the Medicine Creek Massacre. He was in Vietnam, you know, and it did something to the man. Turned his brain. You just won’t see a lower specimen of humanity, Mr. Pendergast. Uses the Lord’s name in vain. Drinks. Never sets foot in church.”

“I saw a large banner being erected on the front lawn of the church last evening.”

“That’s for the fellow from Kansas State.”

Pendergast looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“He wants to plant a new cornfield here. Some kind of experiment. They’ve narrowed it down to two towns, us and Deeper. The decision’s to be announced next Monday. The man from Kansas State’s due to arrive today and the town is laying out the red carpet for him. Not that everybody’s happy about it, of course.”

“And why is that?”

“Something about the corn they want to test. It’s been fiddled with somehow. I don’t really understand it, to tell you the truth.”

“Well, well,” Pendergast said, and then held out his hand. “But here I am, interrupting the tour with questions.”

Winifred remembered the thread. She bustled forward happily, leading Pendergast to the edge of a wide, dark hole from which even cooler air was rising. “And here is the Bottomless Pit. When Grandfather first arrived, he tossed a stone down and he did not hear it land. ” She paused dramatically.

“How did he know the heifer was down there?” Pendergast asked.

She was thrown into a sudden panic. Once again, nobody had asked the question before.

“Why, I don’t know,” she said.

Pendergast smiled, waved his hand. “Do continue.”

They passed on to the Infinity Pool, where Winifred was disappointed that he did not make a wish—the collecting of tossed coins had once been a profitable sideline. From the Pool, the walkway looped back to the Krystal Kathedral where they had begun. She finished her lecture, shook Pendergast’s hand, and was surprised but pleased to find herself generously tipped. Then, slowly, she led the way back up the wooden stairs to the surface world. At the top, the heat struck her like a hammer. She paused again.

“As I mentioned, all tour members are allowed a ten percent discount from the gift shop on the day of their tour.” She hustled back into the shop and was not disappointed when Pendergast followed.

“I should like to see the needlepoint,” he said.

“Of course.” She directed him to the display case, where he spent a great deal of time poring over the work before choosing a beautiful cross-stitched pillowcase. Winifred was especially pleased because it was one she had done herself.

“My dear Great-Aunt Cornelia will adore this,” Pendergast said as he paid for the pillowcase. “She’s an invalid, you see, and can only take pleasure in small things.”

Winifred smiled as she gift-wrapped the parcel. It was so nice having a gentleman like Mr. Pendergast around. And how thoughtful to think of his elderly relation. Winifred was sure Pendergast’s great-aunt would love the pillowcase.

Ten

C orrie Swanson sat on the little folding bunk in the lone holding cell of the Medicine Creek jail, staring at the graffiti that covered the peeling walls. There was quite a lot of it, and despite the variety of inks and handwritings, it was remarkably consistent in subject matter. She could hear the television set blaring in the sheriff’s office up front. It was one of those sick soap operas for housewives with empty lives, complete with quavering organ music and hysterical female sobbing. And she could hear the sheriff moving noisily around the office in his clown shoes, restlessly, like a ferret in a cage, rustling paper and making phone calls. How could such a short man have such big feet? And smoking, too—the place stank. Four more hours and her mom would be sober enough to come down and get her. So here she was, being “taught a lesson”—her mother’s words—listening to the comings and goings of the world’s most ratlike human being. Some lesson. Well, it wasn’t any worse than sitting at home, listening to her mother’s nagging or drunken snoring. And the folding bunk was at least as comfortable as the broken-down mattress in her own bedroom.

She heard a door slam in the outer office, footsteps, muffled greetings. Corrie recognized one of the voices. It was Brad Hazen, the sheriff’s son and her classmate, with his jock friends. They said something about going into the back to check out the TV.

Quickly, she lay down on the bunk and turned her face to the wall.

She heard them moving around the inner office. One of them started changing the television channels, finger held to the button as it clicked through one raspy channel after another: game shows, soaps, cartoons, all divided by loud blasts of white noise.

Search unsuccessful, the shuffling of footsteps and grunted comments began again. Corrie heard them pass the open doorway to the back room, where her cell was located. There was a sudden pause and then Brad spoke in a low undertone. “Hey guys, check out who’s here. Well, well, well.”