Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

“I went to Andy’s house yesterday evening. He’d been out of town, a 4-H trip to the state fair. I told him his dog had died, but I didn’t say how. I kind of let him assume it was hit by a car. He was pretty upset. He loved that dog, Jiff.”

She paused. Once again, Pendergast’s eyes had drooped to mere slits. She hoped he wouldn’t go to sleep on her again.

“He said that for the past couple of days, Jiff had been acting kind of strange. He wouldn’t go outside and went whining and cringing around the house, had to be dragged out from under the bed when it was time for his dinner.”

She turned the page.

“Finally, two days ago—”

“Exact dates, please.”

“August tenth.”

“Proceed.”

“On August tenth, Jiff, er, took a dump on the living room rug.” She looked up nervously into the silence that followed. “Sorry, but that’s what he did.”

“My dear,” said Winifred, “you should say that the dog dirtied the rug.”

“But he didn’t just get the rug dirty, he, you know, crapped on it. Diarrhea, in fact.” What was this meddling old lady doing anyway, listening to the report? She wondered how Pendergast could put up with her.

“Please continue, Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said.

“So anyway, Mrs. Cahill, who’s kind of a bitch, got pissed off and kicked Jiff out of the house and made Andy clean up the mess. Andy had wanted to take Jiff to the vet but his mom didn’t want to pay for it. Anyway, that was the last he ever saw his dog.”

She glanced over at Winifred and noticed her face was all pinched up. It took her a moment to realize it was because she had used the word “bitch.”

“What time was this?” Pendergast asked.

“Seven o’clock in the evening.”

Pendergast nodded, tenting his fingers. “Where do the Cahills live?”

“It’s the last house on the Deeper Road , about a mile north of town, not far from the cemetery and just before the bridge.”

Pendergast nodded approvingly. “And Jiff was wearing his collar when he was ejected from the house?”

“Yes,” Corrie said, concealing a stab of pride that she’d thought to ask the question.

“Excellent work.” Pendergast sat up. “Any news on the missing William Stott?”

“No,” said Corrie. “They’ve got a search going. I heard they were bringing a plane down from Dodge City.”

Pendergast nodded, then rose from the table, strolled to the window, folded his hands behind his back, and looked out over the endless corn.

“Do you think he was murdered?” asked Corrie.

Pendergast continued looking out over the corn, his dark figure accented against the evening sky. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the avian fauna of Medicine Creek.”

“Right, sure,” said Corrie.

“For example,” Pendergast said, “do you see that vulture?”

Corrie drew up to his side. She could see nothing.

“There.”

Then she saw it: a lone bird, silhouetted against the orange sky. “Those turkey vultures are always flying around,” she said.

“Yes, but a minute ago it was riding a thermal, as it had been doing for the past hour. Now it’s flying upwind.”

“So?”

“It takes a great deal of energy for a vulture to fly upwind. They only do it under one circumstance.” He waited, staring intently out the window. “Now, observe—it’s made its turn. It sees what it wants.” Pendergast turned toward her quickly. “Come,” he murmured. “We don’t have any time to lose. We must get to the site—just in case, you understand—before the state trooper legions descend and ruin everything.” He turned toward Winifred and said, in a louder voice, “Excuse us, Miss Kraus, for the suddenness of our departure.”

The old lady rose, her face white. “Not another—”

“It could be anything.”

She sat down again, wringing her hands. “Oh dear.”

“We can take the powerline road,” Corrie said as she followed Pendergast out the door. “We’ll have to walk the last quarter mile, though.”

“Understood,” Pendergast replied tersely, getting into the car and closing the passenger door. “This is one instance in which you can exceed the speed limit, Miss Swanson.”

Five minutes later, Corrie was nosing the Gremlin down the narrow, rutted track that was known locally as the powerline road. She was familiar with this isolated, dusty stretch; this was where she came to read, daydream, or simply get away from her mother or the morons at the high school. The thought that a murderer might have lurked—might still be lurking—in these remote cornfields sent a shiver through her.

Ahead, the vulture had been joined by a couple of others, and they were now circling slowly, lazily. The car bumped and scraped over the washboard ruts. The last glory of the sunset lay in the west, an orgy of bloody thunderheads rapidly fading to darkness.

“Here,” said Pendergast, almost to himself.

Corrie stopped and they got out. The vultures rose in the sky, apprehensive at their presence. Pendergast began to stride swiftly into the corn, and Corrie moved into step behind him.

Abruptly, Pendergast stopped. “Miss Swanson,” he said. “You will recall my prior warning. We may well find something in the corn rather more disturbing than a dead dog.”

Corrie nodded.

“If you wanted to wait in the car . . .”

Corrie fought to keep her voice sounding calm. “I’m your assistant, remember?”

Pendergast looked at her inquiringly for a moment. Then he nodded. “Very well. I do believe you are capable of it. Please keep in mind your restricted SOC access. Touch nothing, walk where I walk, follow my instructions precisely.”

“Understood.”

He turned and began slipping through the rows of corn, silently and swiftly, brushing past ears that hardly rustled at his passage. Corrie followed behind, struggling to keep up. But she was glad of the effort; it kept her mind from thinking about what might lie ahead. But whatever it was, the thought of staying in the car, alone, in the gathering dark, was even less pleasant. I’ve seen a crime scene, she thought. I saw the dog. Whatever it is, I can take it.

And then, suddenly, Pendergast stopped again. Ahead, the rows of corn had been broken and swept aside, forming a small clearing. Corrie froze at the agent’s side, the sudden shock rooting her in place. The light was dim, but not dim enough to spare her any of the horror that lay splayed just ahead.

And still she was unable to move. The air lay still over the awful scene. Corrie’s nose filled with the odor of something like spoiled ham. She felt a sudden constriction in her throat, a burning sensation, a spasm of the abdominal muscles.

Oh shit, she thought. No, not now. Not in front of Pendergast.

Abruptly, she bent to one side and vomited into the corn; straightened; then bent and vomited again. She coughed, struggling upright, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Mortification, fear, horror all grappled within her.

But Pendergast seemed not to notice. He had moved ahead and was kneeling in the center of the clearing, completely engrossed. Somehow, the sheer physical act of retching seemed to have broken her paralysis, perhaps even prepared her a little better for the awful sight. She wiped her mouth again, took a cautious step forward, and stopped just inside the clearing.

The body was naked, splayed on its back, arms thrown wide, legs apart. The skin was an unreal, artificial grayish-white. There was a sticky sheen to everything. The corpse looked loose, somehow, as if the skin and flesh were liquefying, coming off the bones. And in fact they were coming off the bones, she realized with a shudder. The skin of the face was hanging loose, separating from the jaw and teeth; flesh was sagging and splitting at the shoulder and white bone could be seen poking through. An ear lay on the ground, misshapen and slimy, completely detached from the body. The other ear was missing entirely. Corrie felt her throat constrict again. She turned away, closed her eyes briefly, consciously slowed her breathing. Then she turned back.