Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

That would be Stott’s Hornet. No doubt the guy was sleeping in the back, like he had the last time his shitbox broke down outside of town. He’d curled up and made a nice little evening out of it, just the two of them, him and Old Grand-Dad.

Tad put the cruiser in gear and pulled away from the curb. It was the work of fifteen seconds to leave the town behind. Four minutes later, he turned into the plant road. There was a huge semi-load of live turkeys lumbering ahead of him, laying down a stink of turkey shit on the road so thick you could almost see it. Tad overtook the semi as quickly as he could, glancing over at the stacked cages full of terrified turkeys, their eyes bulging.

Tad’s job had carried him into the Gro-Bain plant a couple of times. His first visit was right before Thanksgiving, and that year he and his widowed mother had enjoyed a nice pork roast. It had been pork roast ever since. Tad was glad he had never seen a pig farm.

There it was: Stott’s Hornet, parked by the side of the road, almost invisible in the shadow of the corn. Tad stopped behind it, switched on his flashers, and got out.

The windows were open, the car was empty. There was no key in the ignition.

The turkey truck blasted by, rocking the corn on either side of the road and leaving behind the stench of diesel and panicked poultry. Tad turned away with a wince. Then he pulled his radio from his belt.

“Yeah?” came Hazen’s response when he called.

“I’m here at Stott’s car. It’s parked on the access road leading to Gro-Bain. It’s empty, no sign of Stott.”

“Figures. He’s probably sleeping it off in the corn.”

Tad looked out into the sea of corn. Somehow, he didn’t think anyone would choose to sleep in there, even drunk. “You really think so?”

“Sure I do. What else?”

The question hung in the air.

“Well . . .”

“Tad, Tad. You can’t let this craziness get to you. Not every missing person turns up murdered and mutilated. Look, I’m out here at the dog. And guess what?”

“What?” Tad felt a constriction in his throat.

“It’s just a dog hit by a car. Still got its tail and everything.”

“That’s good.”

“So listen. You know Willie as well as I do. His car breaks down and he sets off on foot to wet his whistle at the Wagon Wheel. He’s got his usual hip flask in his back pocket, and he nips it until it’s gone. On the way, he decides to take a little snooze in the corn. And that’s where you’ll find him, hungover as hell but otherwise intact. Cruise back along the road slow, you’ll probably find him in the shade of the ditch. Okay?”

“Okay, Sheriff.”

“That’s a boy. You be careful, huh?”

“Will do.”

As Tad was about to get back in the cruiser, he noticed something gleaming in the dirt beside Stott’s Hornet: an empty pint bottle. He walked over, picked it up, sniffed. The smell of fresh bourbon filled his nose.

It was just as the sheriff had said. Hazen seemed to know everything in town, almost before it happened. He was a good cop. And he’d always acted like a second father to him. Tad should be grateful to be working for a guy like that, he really should.

Tad put the pint into a plastic evidence bag and flagged the spot. The sheriff appreciated thoroughness, even in the little things. As he was heading back toward his cruiser, another truck passed. But this was a refrigerated truck coming from the plant, full of nice, sanitized, frozen Butterballs. No odor, no nothing. The driver waved cheerfully. Tad waved back, lowered himself into his car, and started back down the road, looking for Stott.

Two hundred yards later, he stopped. To the left, the cornstalks had been broken. And on the right-hand side the corn was broken as well, a few stalks angled sharply to one side. It looked to Tad like someone had pushed into the corn on the left, while someone else had come out and crossed the road from the right.

He stopped the cruiser, his sense of unease returning.

He got out of the car and looked at the ground under the corn on the left side of the road. There was a disturbance in the dry clods. A disturbance that suggested someone had walked—or, more likely, run—through the dirt between two corn rows. A little deeper in, Tad could see some broken stalks and a couple of dry cobs that had been torn away and were now lying on the ground.

Tad pushed into the first row, eyes on the ground. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast. It was hard to make out marks in the clumpy, dry earth, but there were depressions that looked like footprints, scuffed areas, places where clods had been overturned, showing their dark undersides. He paused, suppressing an urge to call the sheriff. The trail went on, and here it broke through another row of corn, flattening five or six stalks.

There seemed to be more than one set of blurred, incomplete tracks. Tad didn’t want to articulate, even to himself, what this was starting to resemble. It looked like a chase. Jesus, it was really looking like a chase.

He continued walking, hoping it would turn out to be something else.

The trail went through another row, ran along the corn for a while, then broke through yet another. And then Tad came suddenly upon an area where there had been some thrashing in the dirt. A dozen stalks were broken and scattered. The ground was all torn up. It was a mess. It looked like something violent, really violent, had happened here.

Tad swallowed, scanning the ground intently. There, finally—on the far side of the disturbance—was a clear footprint in the dry earth.

It was bare.

Oh, God, thought Tad, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. Oh, God. And his hand trembled as he raised the radio to his lips.

Twenty-One

C orrie Swanson brought the shuddering Gremlin into the dirt lot of Kraus’s Kaverns, parking it amidst a swirl of dust that spiraled up and away. She glanced at the dashboard clock: six-thirty exactly. God, it was hot. She snapped off the blaring music, threw open her door and got out, scooping up her new notebook as she did so. She walked across the lot and mounted the steps to the old, decaying Victorian pile. The oval windows in the door revealed little of the gloom beyond. She raised the big iron knocker and let it drop, once, twice. The soft creak of footsteps, then Pendergast appeared at the door.

“Miss Swanson,” he said. “Punctual, very punctual. We, on the other hand, are running late. I must admit to a certain difficulty adjusting to the early dinner hour of this town.”

Corrie followed him into the dining room, where the remains of what looked like an elaborate dinner could be seen beneath the glow of candles. Winifred Kraus sat at the head of the table, wiping her mouth primly with a lace napkin.

“Please sit down,” said Pendergast. “Coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks.”

Pendergast disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a funny-looking metal teapot. He filled two cups with a green liquid, handing one to Winifred and keeping the other himself. “Now, Miss Swanson, I understand you’ve completed your interview with Andy Cahill.”

Corrie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, laid her notebook on the table.

Pendergast’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s this?”

“My notebook,” said Corrie with a defensiveness she didn’t quite understand. “You wanted me to interview Andy, so I did. I had to write it down somewhere.”

“Excellent. Let’s have the report.” The FBI agent settled into his chair, his hands clasped together.

Feeling awkward, Corrie opened the notebook.

“What lovely handwriting you have, my dear,” said Winifred, leaning just a little too close.

“Thanks.” Corrie edged the notebook away. Prying old gossip.