Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Ludwig waited.

“First, take a break from these goddamn articles about the killing. Okay, it happened. Now take a breather. And whatever you do, for chrissakes don’t do a story on the dead dog.”

Ludwig swallowed. There was a silence. Ridder was staring at him with a pair of red eyes, dark circles under them. He was really taking this seriously.

“That story qualifies as news,” Ludwig said, but his voice cracked when he said it.

Ridder smiled, laid a big hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. He lowered his voice. “I’m asking you, Smitty, as a favor, to just take a few days off from the story. Just while the KSU guy is here. I’m not telling you to kill it, or anything like that.” He gave Ludwig’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Look, you and I both know the Gro-Bain plant isn’t exactly a sure thing. When they cut the night shift back in ’96, twenty families left town. Those were good jobs, Smitty. People got hurt, had to uproot themselves and leave homes their granddaddies built. I don’t want to live in a dying town. You don’t want to live in a dying town. This could make a real difference for our future. One or two fields is just a start, but genetic crop engineering is the coming wave, it’s where the big money’s going to be, and Medicine Creek could be part of it. There’s a lot riding on this, Smitty. A lot more than you might think. All I’m asking, all I’m asking, is a two-, three-day break. The guy’s announcing his decision on Monday. Just save it up and publish it when the guy leaves. Tuesday morning. You following me?”

“I see your point.”

“I care about this town. So do you, Smitty, I know you do. This isn’t for me. I’m just trying to do my civic duty.”

Ludwig swallowed. He noticed that his eggs were congealing on the plate and his bacon had already stiffened.

Sheriff Hazen spoke at last. “Smitty, I know we’ve had our differences. But there’s another reason not to publish anything on the dog. The forensic psychology guys in Dodge think the killer might be feeding off the publicity. His goal is to terrorize the town. People are already dredging up the old rumors about the massacre and the curse of the Forty-Fives, and those damn arrows just seemed calculated to revive the whole thing. It seems the killer might be acting out some weird fantasy about the curse. They say articles in the paper just encourage him. We don’t want to do anything that might trigger another killing. This guy’s no joke, Smitty.”

There was a long silence.

Ludwig finally sighed. “Maybe I can put the dog story off a couple of days,” he said in a low voice.

Ridder smiled. “That’s great. Great.” He squeezed Smitty’s shoulder again.

“You mentioned two things,” Ludwig said a little weakly.

“That’s right, I did. Okay. I was thinking—again, this is just a suggestion, Smitty—that you could fill the gap with a story on Dr. Stanton Chauncy. Everybody loves a little attention, and this guy’s no exception. The project—maybe it’s better not to go into that too much. But a story on him, who he is, where he comes from, all his big degrees, all the great things he’s done up at KSU—you following me, Smitty?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Ludwig murmured. And, in fact, it really wasn’t a bad idea. If the guy proved to be interesting it would make a good story, and it was just the kind of thing people wanted to read. The future of the town was always the number one topic of conversation in Medicine Creek.

“Great. He’s going to be here in five minutes. I’ll introduce you, then leave you two alone.”

“Fine.” Ludwig swallowed again.

Ridder finally released his grip on Ludwig’s shoulder. He felt a cold patch where the warm, moist hand had been. “You’re a good guy, Smitty.”

“Right.”

Just then the sheriff’s radio crackled to life. Hazen pulled it off his belt and pressed the receive button. Ludwig could hear Tad’s tinny voice giving the sheriff the morning’s incident report. “Some joker let the air out of the tires of the football coach’s car,” came Tad’s voice.

“Next,” said Hazen.

“Another dead dog. This one reported by the side of the road.”

“Christ. Next.”

“Willie Stott’s wife says he didn’t come home last night.”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Check with Swede at the Wagon Wheel. He’s probably sleeping it off in the back room again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll check out the dog myself.”

“It’s two and a half miles out the Deeper Road , on the west side.”

“Check.”

Hazen shoved the radio back into his belt, ground out his cigarette in an ashtray, swept his hat off the empty seat next to him, fitted it to his head, and stood. “See you, Art. Smitty, thanks. Gotta run.”

The sheriff left, and then, as if on cue, Dr. Stanton Chauncy materialized at the far end of the bowling alley, glancing around.

Ridder called, waved at him through the glass. Chauncy nodded and walked past the alleys and into the Castle Club. He had the same stiff walk Ludwig had noticed at the Sociable. The man peered at the plastic decor and Ludwig thought he could see a flicker of something in his eyes: amusement? contempt?

Ridder rose and so did Ludwig.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Chauncy said. He shook their hands and they all sat down.

“Dr. Chauncy,” Ridder began, “I want to introduce to you Smit Ludwig from the Cry County Courier, our local paper. He’s the publisher, editor, and reporter. It’s a one-man band.” He laughed.

Ludwig found a pair of rather cool blue eyes turned on him. “That must be very interesting for you, Mr. Ludwig.”

“Call him Smitty. We don’t go on ceremony in Medicine Creek. We’re a friendly town.”

“Thank you, Art.” Chauncy turned to Ludwig. “Smitty, I hope you’ll call me Stan.”

Ridder spoke before Ludwig could answer. “Stan, listen. Smitty wants to do a story on you and I have to run, so I’ll leave you here. Order what you like; bill’s on me.”

In a moment Ridder was gone, and Chauncy had turned his two dry eyes back on Ludwig. For a moment, Ludwig wondered what he was waiting for. Then he remembered he was supposed to do an interview. He pulled out his steno book, fished out a pen.

“If you don’t mind, I prefer to work with questions presented to me ahead of time,” said Chauncy.

“I wish we were that organized,” said Ludwig, mustering a smile.

Chauncy did not smile. “Tell me what kind of story you had in mind.”

“It would be a profile, basically. You know, the man behind the project and all that.”

There was a silence. “We’re dealing with a sensitive subject. It has to be handled just so. ”

“It would be a favorable, uncontroversial article, focusing on you, not on the details of the experimental field.”

Chauncy thought a moment. “I’ll have to see the piece before it runs.”

“We don’t usually do that.”

“You’ll just have to make an exception in my case. University policy.”

Ludwig sighed. “Very well.”

“Proceed,” said Chauncy. He sat back in the chair.

“Would you like a coffee, some breakfast?”

“I ate hours ago, back in Deeper.”

“All right, then. Let’s see.” Ludwig opened the steno book to a blank page, smoothed it, readied his pen, and tried to think of a few pithy questions.

Chauncy looked at his watch. “I’m really a very busy man, so if you could keep this to fifteen minutes, I’d appreciate it. Next time, you should bring questions instead of making them up on the spot. It’s a simple courtesy when interviewing someone whose time is valuable.”