Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Ludwig exhaled. “So, tell me about yourself, where you went to school, how you got interested in agriculture, that sort of thing.”

“I was born and raised in Sacramento, California. I went to high school there, and attended the University of California at Davis, where I majored in biochemistry. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, in 1985.” He paused. “Would you like me to spell ‘summa cum laude’?”

“I think I can manage it.”

“Then I attended graduate school at Stanford University, graduating in four years—that would be 1989—with a doctorate in molecular biology. My dissertation was awarded the Hensley Medal. That’s H-E-N-S-L-E-Y. I shortly thereafter joined the biology department of Kansas State University on a tenure-track position. I was awarded the chair of Leon Throckmorton Distinguished Professor of Molecular Biology in 1995 and, in addition, became director of the Agricultural Extension Program in 1998.”

He paused for Ludwig to catch up.

Ludwig had done enough boring stories to know what one smelled like, and this reeked to high heaven. The Hensley Medal, Jesus Christ. Was this guy a prick or what?

“Right, thanks. Stan, when did, ah, genetic engineering really capture your interest? When did you know what you wanted to become?”

“We don’t refer to it as genetic engineering. We refer to it as genetic enhancement. ”

“Genetic enhancement, then.”

A pious look briefly settled on Chauncy’s features. “When I was twelve or thirteen, I saw a picture in Life magazine of a crowd of starving Biafran children all crowding around a UN truck, trying to get a bit of rice. I thought, I want to do something to feed those starving children. ”

What a crock. But Ludwig dutifully wrote it all down.

“And your father? Mother? What did they do? Does science run in the family?”

There was a brief silence. “I would prefer to keep the focus on myself.”

Father probably drove a truck and beat his wife, thought Ludwig. “Fine. Tell me, have you published any papers or books?”

“Yes. A great many. I will have a copy of my curriculum vitae faxed to your office if you will give me the number.”

“No fax machine. Sorry.”

“I see. Frankly, I find it a waste of time to answer questions like this when it would be far simpler for you to get the information yourself from the KSU public relations department. They have a file on me a foot thick. And it would be much better if you read some of my papers before interviewing me. It just saves everyone so much time.” He checked his watch again.

Ludwig shifted to another tack. “Why Medicine Creek?”

“May I remind you, we haven’t necessarily chosen Medicine Creek.”

“I know, but why is it in the running?”

“We were looking for an average place with typical growing conditions. Medicine Creek and Deeper came out of a comprehensive, two-hundred-thousand-dollar computerized study of almost a hundred towns in western Kansas. Thousands of criteria were used. We are now in phase three of the study, determining the final choice for the project. We have already struck agreements with the appropriate agribusinesses for possible access to their land. All we need now is to make a decision between the two towns. And that is why I am here: to make that final decision and announce it on Monday.”

Ludwig wrote it all down, all the while realizing that when you really parsed what the man had said, he in fact had said nothing.

“But what do you think of the town? ” he asked.

There was a brief silence, and Ludwig could see that this was one question Chauncy did not have a ready answer for.

“Well, I . . . Unfortunately there’s no hotel here, and the only place where I could stay had already been booked by a man, a difficult man it would seem, who took the entire floor and categorically refused to relinquish a room.” His lips pursed, bristling the short hairs around his mouth. “So I’ve had to stay in Deeper and make an inconvenient drive of twenty-five miles every morning and evening. There isn’t anything here, really, except a bowling alley and a diner . . . No library, no cultural events, no museum or concert hall. Medicine Creek really hasn’t got anything particular to recommend it, frankly.” He smiled quickly.

Ludwig found himself bristling. “We’ve got good, solid, small-town, old-fashioned American values here. That’s worth something.”

Chauncy shuddered faintly. “I have no doubt of that. Mr. Ludwig, when I make the final decision between Deeper and Medicine Creek, you will no doubt be among the first to know. And now, if you don’t mind, I have important business to tend to.” He rose.

Ludwig rose with him and grasped the extended hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sun-reddened, stubble-headed form of Dale Estrem and two other farmers looking at them through the glass front of the bowling alley. They had seen Chauncy inside and were obviously waiting for him to come out. Ludwig suppressed a smile.

“You can fax or e-mail the piece to the KSU public relations department,” said Chauncy. “The number is on my card. They will vet it and return it to you by the end of the week.” He snapped his card on the table and stood up.

By the end of the week. Ludwig watched the little prick walk stiffly past the bowling lanes, his head up, his back very straight, his small legs moving as briskly as machinery. Chauncy pushed open the door to the street and now Dale Estrem was striding toward him, his big farmer’s arms swinging. The sound of his raised voice was enough to penetrate even the inner sanctum of the Castle Club. It looked like Chauncy was in for a verbal mauling.

Ludwig smiled. Dale Estrem: now there was someone who was always willing to speak his mind. Screw Chauncy, screw Ridder, and screw the sheriff. Ludwig had a paper to publish.

The dog would stay.

Twenty

T ad walked back out of the Wagon Wheel into the blast-furnace heat. So far, no luck, no Willie Stott sleeping it off in the back room. Still, Tad was mighty glad he’d taken the time to check. He popped a mint into his mouth—his second—to cover up any possible beer breath from the ice-cold Coors Swede had slipped him under the bar. It sure tasted good on a day as hot as this one. Swede Cahill was one hell of a nice guy.

Tad’s cruiser was sitting outside the sheriff’s office, baking in the sun, and Tad made a beeline for it. He slid inside and started the engine, careful to let the minimum amount of back and buttcheek come in contact with the blistering leatherette. If he could land a desk job in Topeka or Kansas City, he wouldn’t have to spend his days hopping in and out of the suffocating heat, forced to drive a cruiser that carried its own little hell around inside it.

He switched his radio to the frequency of the county dispatcher.

“Unit twenty-one to Dispatch,” he said.

“Hiya, Tad,” came the voice of LaVerne, who worked the day shift. She was sweet on Tad and, had she been maybe twenty years younger, perhaps he might have felt the same way.

“LaVerne, anything new?” he asked.

“Someone at Gro-Bain just reported a vehicle parked by the side of the approach road. Seems abandoned.”

“What’s the model?” Tad didn’t have to ask for the make. Except for Art Ridder’s Caprice and the police ’91 Mustangs, bought secondhand from the Great Bend PD, just about every car in town was AMC. It had been the only dealership within an hour’s drive. Like so much else, though, it had closed down years ago.

“Hornet, license plate Whiskey Echo Foxtrot Two Niner Seven.”

He thanked LaVerne before slipping back into more formal jargon. “Unit twenty-one, moving,” he said, replacing the radio.