Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Another bark of laughter. “Take that long! Hoo- eee! Man alive, that’s a good one.”

Marge turned her swivel chair to the back wall of the office, where an old-fashioned safe stood. It was massive and decorated around the edges with faded gold leaf. Aside from the desk and a small bookshelf, it was the only article of furniture in the room. She twirled its large central dial back and forth, entering the combination, then grasped the handle and pulled the iron door open. Inside was a smaller box, closed with a padlock. She unlocked the padlock with a key that she drew from around her neck. Reaching inside, she removed an even smaller, wooden box. Then she turned around in her swivel chair again and placed it on the desk between herself and Pendergast.

“There you go,” she said, patting the little box with satisfaction. “Where do you want to start?”

Pendergast looked at the box. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, where do you want to start?”

“Do you mean to tell me that—” For a very brief moment, the man’s face seemed to go completely blank before once again assuming its look of casual curiosity.

“What, did you think it took a computer to run a town the size of Medicine Creek? I’ve got everything I need right in this little box. And what isn’t there is up here.” She tapped her temple. “Look, I’ll show you.” She opened the box, drew out an index card by random. It contained perhaps a dozen lines of neat handwriting, followed by a row of numbers, a couple of squiggles and symbols, and a few stickers of various colors: red, yellow, green. “You see?” she said, waving it under Pendergast’s nose. “This is the card of Dale Estrem, the cranky young farmer. His father was a cranky old farmer. And his grandfather—well, we won’t mention him. Dale and the rest of those troublemakers in the Farmer’s Co-operative, always standing in the way of progress. See, it shows here that he’s two quarters behind in his taxes, that his oldest kid had to repeat ninth grade, that his septic tank’s not in compliance with the code, and that he’s applied for farm relief seven years out of the last seven.” She clucked disapprovingly.

Pendergast looked from her, to the card, and back to her again. “I see,” he said.

“I’ve got ninety-three cards here, one for each family in Medicine Creek and in the unincorporated areas around it. I could talk for an hour on each, maybe two hours if necessary.” Marge felt herself growing excited. It wasn’t every day that somebody official took an interest in her records. And with Rocky passed on, God knows, she had precious few people to chat with. “I promise, you’ll know all there is to know about Medicine Creek when I’m done with you.”

This was greeted by a profound silence.

“Of course,” Pendergast said after a few moments, as if re-collecting himself.

“So I ask again, Mr. Pendergast. Where do you want to start?”

Pendergast thought a moment. “I suppose we should start with the A’s.”

“There are no last names starting with ‘A’ in Medicine Creek, Mr. Pendergast. We’ll start with David Barness, out on the Cry Road . So sorry I can’t get you a chair. Maybe when we start in again tomorrow I’ll bring one along for you from my kitchen.” And she returned the card she was holding to its spot, licked her finger eagerly, plucked the first card from the box, and began to talk. At her elbow the television flickered on, the game show now completely forgotten.

Sixteen

D eputy Sheriff Tad Franklin guided his cruiser into the gravel parking lot between the big old Victorian house and the gift shop. He crunched to a halt, pushed open the car door, and unfolded himself into the hot August sun. He paused to stretch, scratch at his black crew cut, and to peer, a little warily, at the house. The white picket fence that surrounded it was falling apart, paint peeling, slats hanging every which way. Beyond lay the overgrown yard. The giant old gabled house looked like it hadn’t been painted in fifty years. Kansas dust storms had sandblasted it right down to weatherbeaten wood and were now stripping the wood down to tarpaper. The “Kraus’s Kaverns” sign, off-kilter, with its great strips of peeling red and white paint, looked like something out of a grade-B horror flick. The whole place depressed him. He had to get out of Medicine Creek. But to do that, he needed to put in his time, get some more experience under his belt. And he dreaded the idea of telling Sheriff Hazen. The sheriff, Tad knew, was grooming him, in his rough paternal way, to take his place. Tad didn’t like to think about what the sheriff would say when he told him he was taking a job in Wichita or Topeka. Anywhere but Medicine Creek.

He forced himself through the gate, along the weed-choked sidewalk, and up the steps onto the crooked wraparound porch. His leather boots made a hollow sound as he walked up to the door. The air was still, and in the corn he could hear the cicadas droning. He paused, then rapped on the door.

It opened so quickly that he jumped. Special Agent Pendergast.

“Deputy Sheriff Franklin. Please come in.”

Tad took off his hat and came into the parlor, feeling uncomfortable. The sheriff had wanted him to quietly check up on what Pendergast was up to, what else he had learned about the dog killing. But now that he was here, he felt embarrassed. He couldn’t imagine any way to broach the subject without making the reason for his visit painfully obvious.

“You’re just in time for lunch,” said the agent, closing the door behind him. The shades were drawn and it was a little cooler here, out of the sun, but without air conditioning it was still uncomfortably hot. Not far from the front door sat two oversized suitcases—wardrobe trunks, really—overnight express labels still affixed to the expensive-looking leather exteriors. It seemed that Pendergast was settling in for a longer stay.

“Lunch?” Tad repeated.

“A light salad with antipasti. Prosciutto di San Daniele, pecorino cheese with truffled honey, baccelli, tomatoes, and rucola. Something light for a hot day.”

“Er, sure. Great.” If they were going to eat Italian, why not stick with pizza? He advanced another step, not knowing what to say. It was one o’clock. Who ate lunch at one o’clock? He had eaten at the normal time of eleven-thirty.

“Miss Kraus is feeling poorly. She’s taken to bed. I’ve been filling in.”

“I see.” Tad followed Pendergast into the kitchen. In one corner a stack of Federal Express and DHL boxes had been neatly piled halfway to the ceiling. The counter was littered with at least a dozen food packages sporting foreign-sounding names: Balducci’s, Zabar’s. Tad wondered if maybe Pendergast wasn’t Italian or French. He sure didn’t eat like an American.

Pendergast had busied himself in the kitchen, his movements deft and economical, quickly arranging odd-looking food onto three plates—salami and cheese and what had to be some kind of lettuce. Tad watched, shifting his hat from one hand to the other.

“I’ll just bring this plate back to Miss Kraus,” said Pendergast.

“Right. Okay.”

Pendergast disappeared into the back recesses of the house. Tad could hear Winifred’s soft voice, Pendergast’s murmured responses. A moment later, the agent returned.

“Is she okay?” Tad asked.

“Fine,” Pendergast said in a low voice. “It’s more psychological than physical. These delayed reactions are common in such cases. You can imagine the kind of shock she had, learning about the murder.”

“We were all shocked.”

“Of course you were. I recently wrapped up a rather unpleasant case myself in New York, where killings are regrettably more common. I am used to it, Mr. Franklin, or as used to it as a creature can ever be. For all of you, I have no doubt this was—and is—a most unwelcome new experience. Please sit down.”