Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Pendergast.

There was something distinctly creepy in the way the FBI agent paused in the doorway, the bright sunlight silhouetting his severe form, like some gunslinger entering a saloon. Then he strode coolly forward, eyes roving the crowd before locking on Ludwig himself. Pendergast changed course immediately, gliding through the crowd toward him.

“I’m relieved to see you, Mr. Ludwig,” he said. “I know no one here but you and the sheriff, and I can’t very well expect the busy sheriff to take time for introductions. Come, lead the way, if you please.”

“Lead the way?” Ludwig echoed.

“I need introductions, Mr. Ludwig. Where I come from, it’s a social error to introduce oneself rather than have a proper introduction from a third party. And as publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the Cry County Courier, you know everyone in town.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Excellent. Shall we begin with Mrs. Melton Rasmussen? I understand she is one of the leading ladies.”

Ludwig paused in mid-breath. Klick Rasmussen, of all people, who he’d just gotten free of. A profound sinking feeling settled on Ludwig as he looked around the room. There was Klick at one of the turkey tables, holding forth with Gladys Cahill and the rest of the usual gang.

“Over there,” he said, leading the way with a heavy tread.

As they approached, the gaggle of ladies fell silent. Ludwig saw Klick glance at Pendergast, her features pinching with displeasure.

“I’d like to introduce—” began Ludwig.

“I know very well who this man is. I have only one thing to say—”

She stopped abruptly as Pendergast bowed, took her hand, and lifted it to within an inch of his lips, in the French manner. “A great pleasure, Mrs. Rasmussen. My name is Pendergast.”

“My,” said Klick. Her hand went limp within his.

“I understand, Mrs. Rasmussen, that you are responsible for the decorations.”

Ludwig wondered where Pendergast had learned this little tidbit. The man’s southern accent seemed to have deepened to the consistency of molasses as he gazed at Klick intently with his strange eyes. To Ludwig’s private amusement, Klick Rasmussen blushed. “Yes, I am,” she said.

“They are enchanting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pendergast.”

Pendergast bowed again, still holding her hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and now I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Klick blushed again, even more deeply. As she did so, Melton Rasmussen, having seen the exchange from afar, abruptly arrived. “Well, well,” he said heartily, sticking his hand out and interposing himself between his plump, blushing wife and Pendergast, “welcome to Medicine Creek. I’m Mel. Melton Rasmussen. I realize the circumstances could be a little happier, but I think you’ll find the Kansas hospitality of Medicine Creek to be just as warm as it always was.”

“I have already found it so, Mr. Rasmussen,” said Pendergast, shaking his hand.

“Where’re you from, Pendergast? Can’t quite place the accent.”

“New Orleans.”

“Ah, the great city of New Orleans. Is it true they eat alligator? I hear it tastes like chicken.”

“In my view the taste is more like iguana or snake than chicken.”

“Right. Well, I’ll stick to turkey,” said Rasmussen with a laugh. “You come by my store sometime and have a look-see. You’re welcome anytime.”

“You’re very kind.”

“So,” said Rasmussen, moving a little closer, “what’s the news? Any more leads?”

“Justice never sleeps, Mr. Rasmussen.”

“Well, I’ve got a theory of my own. Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“It’s that fellow camped down by the creek. Gasparilla. He’s worth looking into. He’s a strange one, always has been.”

“Now, Mel,” scolded Klick. “You know he’s been coming around for years and he’s never been in any kind of trouble.”

“You never know when somebody’s gonna go queer on you. Why does he camp way out there on the creek? Isn’t the town good enough for him?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Klick was staring past her husband, her mouth forming a small, perfect O. Ludwig heard a hushed murmur ripple through the assembly. There was a brief clapping of hands. He turned to see Art Ridder and the sheriff escorting a man he didn’t recognize through the crowd. The man was small and thin, with a closely trimmed beard, and he wore a light blue seersucker suit. In his wake came Mrs. Bender Lang and a few of the town’s other leading ladies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Medicine Creek!” Art Ridder boomed to the assembly. “It is my great privilege to introduce this year’s guest of honor, Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University!”

This was followed by thunderous applause and a few piercing whistles. The man named Chauncy stood, nodded once at the crowd, then turned his back on them and began to converse with Ridder. Slowly, the applause faltered into silence.

“Mr. Ludwig,” Pendergast said. “There’s a group of gentlemen in the far corner—?”

Ludwig looked in the indicated direction. Four or five men in bib overalls were drinking lemonade and talking amongst themselves in low voices. Rather than joining in the applause, they were looking in the direction of Chauncy with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, that’s Dale Estrem and the rest of the Farmer’s Co-operative,” Ludwig replied. “The last of the die-hard holdouts. They’re the only ones who haven’t sold out to the big farming conglomerates. Still own their own farms around Medicine Creek.”

“And why don’t they share in the town’s good feeling?”

“The Farmer’s Co-op holds no truck with genetically modified corn. They fear it’ll cross-pollinate and ruin their own crops.”

Ridder was now introducing the man from Kansas State to select knots of people.

“There are several other introductions I’d like you to make, if you would,” Pendergast said. “The minister, for example.”

“Of course.” Ludwig scanned the crowd for Pastor Wilbur, finally spotting him standing alone, in line for turkey. “This way.”

“Tell me about him first, if you please.”

Ludwig hesitated, not wishing to speak ill of anybody. “Pastor Wilbur’s been here for forty years, at least. He means well. It’s just that . . .” He faltered.

“Yes?” said Pendergast. Ludwig found the man’s gray eyes focused on him in a most unsettling way.

“I guess you’d have to say he’s a little set in his ways. He’s not really in touch with what’s happening, or not happening, in Medicine Creek these days.” He struggled a moment. “There are some who feel a younger, more vibrant ministry would help revive the town, keep the youngsters from leaving. Fill the spiritual void that’s opened up here.”

“I see.”

The minister raised his head as they approached. As usual, a pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose, whether or not he was reading anything. Ludwig figured he did it to look scholarly. “Pastor Wilbur?” Ludwig said. “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

Wilbur took the proffered hand.

“I envy you, Pastor,” Pendergast said. “Ministering to the souls of a community such as Medicine Creek.”

Wilbur gazed benevolently at Pendergast. “It is at times a fearsome responsibility, being entrusted with so many hundreds, Mr. Pendergast. But I flatter myself that I’ve shepherded them well.”

“It seems a good life here,” Pendergast went on. “For a man of God such as yourself, I mean.”

“God has seen fit to both bless me and bring me trials. We all share equally in the curse of Adam, but perhaps a man of the cloth shares more than most.” Wilbur’s face had assumed a saintly, almost martyred demeanor.