Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Tad sat down, put his hat on the table, decided that wasn’t a good place, laid it on a chair, then snatched it up again, afraid he might forget it.

“I’ll take that,” said Pendergast, placing it on a hat rack nearby.

Tad shifted in his chair, feeling more awkward by the minute. A plate was put in front of him. “Buon appetito,” Pendergast said, gesturing for Tad to dig in.

Tad picked up a fork and stabbed into a piece of cheese. He cut some off and tasted it gingerly.

“You’ll want to drizzle a little of this miele al tartufo bianco on there,” Pendergast said, offering him a tiny jar of odd-smelling honey.

“I’ll stick to it plain, thanks.”

“Nonsense.” Pendergast took a pearl spoon and dribbled some honey over the rest of Tad’s cheese.

Tad took another bite, and discovered it wasn’t bad.

They ate in silence. Tad found the food much to his liking, especially some small slices of salami. “What’s this?” he asked.

“ Cinghiale. Wild boar.”

“Oh.”

Now Pendergast was pouring olive oil all over everything, as well as some liquid as black as tar. He poured some on Tad’s own plate as well. “And now, Deputy, I imagine you are here for a briefing.”

Somehow, having it stated so baldly made everything much less awkward. “Well, yes. Right.”

Pendergast dabbed his mouth and sat back. “The dog was named Jiff and he belonged to Andy Cahill. I understand that Andy is quite an explorer and that he used to roam all over the place with his dog. My assistant will be providing me soon with the results of an interview.”

Tad fumbled for his notebook, brought it out, and started taking notes.

“It appears the dog was killed that previous night. You may recall it was overcast for a few hours after midnight, and that appears to be when the killing occurred. I have the results of the autopsy right here, which I just received. The C 2, 3, and 4 vertebrae were actually crushed. There was no indication that any kind of machine or instrument was used, which is problematic, since if only one’s hands were employed, such crushing would require considerable force. The tail appears to have been hacked off with a crude implement and removed from the scene, along with the collar and tags.”

Tad took notes furiously. This was good stuff. The sheriff would be pleased. Then again, he’d probably gotten the same report. He continued taking notes, just to be sure.

“I followed the bare footprints leading to and from the scene. The same corn row was used in both cases, leading away from, and then back to, Medicine Creek. Once in the creek, it was no longer possible to follow the tracks. So I spent the morning with Mrs. Tealander, the town administrator, acquainting myself with the local residents. I fear that this task will take much longer than I’d originally—”

A tremulous voice came from the rear of the house. “Mr. Pendergast?”

Pendergast held his finger to his lips. “Miss Kraus is out of bed,” he murmured. “It wouldn’t do for her to hear us talking this way.” He turned, and said in a louder tone, “Yes, Miss Kraus?”

Tad saw the figure of the old woman appear in the doorway, muffled despite the heat in a nightgown and robes. Tad quickly rose.

“Why, hello, Tad,” said the old lady. “I’ve been poorly, you know, and Mr. Pendergast has been kind enough to take care of me. Don’t stand on my account. Please, take your seat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tad.

She sat down heavily in a chair at the table, her face careworn. “I have to tell you, I’m getting awfully tired of that bed. I don’t know how invalids do it. Mr. Pendergast, would you mind pouring me a cup of that green tea of yours? I find it settles my nerves.”

“Delighted.” Pendergast rose and moved toward the stove.

“It’s just terrible, isn’t it, Tad?” she said.

The deputy sheriff didn’t quite know how to respond.

“This killing. Who could have done it? Does anyone know?”

“We’ve got some leads we’re following up,” Tad replied. It was the line the sheriff always used.

Miss Kraus drew the robe more tightly around her throat. “I feel dreadful, just dreadful, knowing someone like that’s on the loose. And maybe even one of our own, if the papers are to be believed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Pendergast served tea all around and the table fell silent. Through the gauze curtains Tad could see the great fields of corn stretching out toward the horizon, a monochromatic rusty yellow. It made the eyes tired just looking at it. For the first time, the idea occurred to him that working on this case—if it had a successful resolution—could be just the ticket out he’d been waiting for. All of a sudden, checking up on Pendergast didn’t seem like a chore. It seemed, instead, like something he should do regularly. But Miss Kraus was speaking again, and he politely turned to listen.

“I fear for our little town,” Winifred Kraus was saying. “With this murderer out there, I fear for it truly.”

Seventeen

C orrie Swanson brought the Gremlin to a shuddering halt, sending up a swirl of dust that spiraled slowly into the air. God, it was hot. She looked over at the passenger seat. Pendergast returned the glance, eyebrows slightly raised.

“This is the place,” she said. “You still haven’t told me why we’re here.”

“We’re going to pay a visit to one James Draper.”

“Why?”

“I understand he makes certain claims regarding the Medicine Creek Massacre. I think it’s time I learned more about them.”

“Brushy Jim makes a lot of claims.”

“You doubt him?”

Corrie laughed. “He can’t say hello without lying.”

“I have found that liars in the end communicate more truth than do truth tellers.”

“How’s that?”

“Because truth is the safest lie.”

Corrie eased the car forward, shaking her head. No question about it: weird, weird, weird.

Brushy Jim’s place was an eighth-section of land out on the Deeper Road , fenced in with barbed wire. The plankboard, two-room house stood well back from the highway, a lone cottonwood in front offering a semblance of privacy. The house was surrounded by a sea of junked cars, old trailers, rusted boilers, abandoned refrigerators, washing machines, old telephone poles, compressors, a couple of boat hulls, something that appeared to be a steam locomotive, and other things too sunken into decrepitude to be recognizable.

As Corrie rolled into the dirt driveway she gave the car just a bit too much gas, and the Gremlin shuddered, backfired thunderously, and died. For a moment all was still. Then the door of the house banged open and a man appeared in the shade of the porch. As they got out of the car, he advanced into the light. Like most people in Medicine Creek, Corrie went out of her way to avoid meeting Brushy Jim, yet he looked just the same as she remembered: a mass of pale red hair and beard that sprouted from his entire face, leaving nothing visible but two beady black eyes, a pair of lips, and a patch of forehead. He was dressed in thick denim jeans, big chocolate-colored roper boots, a blue shirt with fake pearl snaps, and a battered felt cowboy hat. A bolo tie with a chunk of turquoise big enough to split the skull of a mule hung around his thick neck, the knotted leather partially obscured by the heavy beard. He was well over fifty, but with all the hair managed to look a decade younger. He gripped the post and peered at them suspiciously.

Pendergast strode toward the porch, suit coat flapping.

“Just hold it right there,” Brushy Jim called out, “and state your business. Now.”

Corrie swallowed. If something bad was going to happen, it was going to happen now.