Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

“But you’re not really going anywhere, are you?”

“I assure you, Miss Swanson, the journey I make is strictly within my own mind. But even so, it is a long and dangerous interior journey to terra incognita, perhaps even more dangerous than a physical journey would be.”

“I don’t . . .” Corrie let her voice trail off. Any more questions would be useless.

“Are we ready, Miss Swanson?”

“I guess so.”

“In that case, I shall now ask for your absolute silence.”

Corrie waited. Pendergast remained absolutely still. As the minutes went by, he seemed even to have stopped breathing. The afternoon light poured through the trees as usual, the birds and grasshoppers chirped, the thunderheads continued to rear above the trees. Everything was as before—and yet, somehow, she herself could almost hear a faint whisper of that same late afternoon 140 years before, when thirty Cheyenne had come galloping out of a swirl of dust, bent on a most terrible revenge.

Thirty-Seven

S heriff Hazen pulled into the big parking lot at the Deeper Mall, sped across the nearly empty blacktop, and slid his cruiser into one of the “Law Enforcement Only” spaces outside the Deeper sheriff’s office. Hazen knew the Deeper sheriff, Hank Larssen, well. He was a regular guy, decent, if a little slow on the uptake. Hazen felt a twinge of envy as he walked through the hushed outer office with its humming computers and pretty secretaries. Christ, in Medicine Creek they couldn’t even afford to recharge the AC in the squad cars. Where did these guys get the money?

It was almost five, but everyone was still busy propping up the decrepit Lavender empire. Hazen was well known here, and nobody stopped him as he made his way through the building toward Larssen’s office. The door was shut. He knocked, and then, without waiting for a reply, opened.

Larssen was sitting in his wooden swivel chair, listening to two guys in suits who were both talking at once. They broke off when he entered.

“Perfect timing, Dent,” Larssen said with a quick smile. “This is Seymour Fisk, dean of faculty at KSU, and Chester Raskovich, head of campus security. This is Sheriff Dent Hazen, Medicine Creek.”

Hazen took a seat, giving the two KSU people the once-over. Fisk was a typical academic, bald, jowly, reading glasses dangling from his neck. Chester Raskovich was a type, also: brown suit, heavyset, sweating all over, with close-set eyes and a handshake even more crushing than Agent Paulson’s had been. A cop wannabe if he’d ever seen one.

“I don’t have to tell you why they’re here,” Larssen went on.

“No.” Hazen genuinely liked Hank and he was sorry about what he was going to have to do. He had done nothing but think about his theory, and it amazed even him how beautifully it came together.

“We were just talking about the ramifications for Medicine Creek and Deeper. Regarding the experimental field, I mean.”

Hazen nodded. He was in no rush. Perfect timing, indeed: it was a major stroke of luck the KSU people were there to hear what he had to say.

Fisk leaned forward, resuming what he had been saying before Hazen entered. “The fact is, Sheriff, this tragic killing changes everything. I just don’t see how we can proceed with Medicine Creek now as the site for the field. That leaves Deeper, by default. What I must have from you, Sheriff, are assurances that the negative effects won’t spill over here. I can’t emphasize enough that publicity will be intolerable. Intolerable. The whole point of locating the field in this, ah, quiet corner of the state was to avoid the kind of circus atmosphere and excess publicity generated by those with irrational fears of so-called genetic engineering.”

Sheriff Larssen nodded sagely, his face a mask of seriousness. “Medicine Creek is twenty miles away and the crimes are strictly confined to that town. The authorities—and Sheriff Hazen will confirm this—believe the killer is local to Medicine Creek. I can assure you in the strongest terms that there will be no spillover to Deeper. We haven’t had a homicide here since 1911.”

Hazen said nothing.

“Good,” said Fisk, with a nod that set his jowls shaking. “Mr. Raskovich is here to assist the police”—he nodded toward Sheriff Hazen—“in finding the psychopath who committed this horrendous crime, and also in finding Dr. Chauncy’s body, which we understand is still missing.”

“That is correct.”

“He’s also going to interface with you, Mr. Larssen, in making sure the publicity and security environment of Deeper is appropriately maintained. Of course, any announcement of the new location of the field has been put off until this situation settles down, but just among us I can say it will be Deeper. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Sheriff Hazen, any news on the investigation at your end?”

This was what Hazen had been waiting for. “Yes,” he said mildly. “As a matter of fact, there is.”

They all leaned toward him. Hazen settled back in his chair, letting the moment build. Finally, he spoke.

“It appears that Chauncy went down near the creek and collected some last-minute corn samples, which he tagged and labeled. They say he was waiting for the corn to get ripe or something.”

All three of them nodded.

“The other news is the killer isn’t local. Local to Medicine Creek, that is.” Hazen said this as casually as possible.

This perked everybody up.

“It also appears that these killings aren’t the work of some psychopathic serial killer, either. That’s what they were meant to look like. The scalping, the bare feet, the hint of a connection to the old Ghost Massacre and the curse of the Forty-Fives—all that’s just window dressing. No: these killings are the work of someone with a motive as old as the hills—money.”

Now he really had their attention.

“How so?” Fisk asked.

“The killer struck first three days before Dr. Chauncy’s scheduled arrival. Then he struck again the day after Chauncy arrived. Coincidence?”

He let the word hang in the air a moment.

“What do you mean?” Larssen was getting worried.

“The first two killings didn’t have the desired effect. And that is why Chauncy had to be killed.”

“I’m not following you,” Larssen said. “What desired effect are you talking about?”

“To persuade Chauncy that Medicine Creek wasn’t the right place for the experimental field.”

He had dropped his bombshell. There was a stunned silence.

He continued. “The first two killings were an attempt to convince KSU to forgo Medicine Creek and site the field in Deeper. But it didn’t work. So the killer had no choice but to kill Chauncy himself. Right on the eve of his big announcement.”

“Now wait—” began Sheriff Larssen.

“Let him finish,” said Fisk, placing his tweedy elbows on his tweedy knees.

“These so-called serial killings were nothing more than a way to make Medicine Creek look unsuitable for a sensitive project like this—a way to make sure the experimental field went to Deeper. The mutilations and Indian crap were all designed to stir up Medicine Creek, get everyone talking about the curse, make us all look like a bunch of superstitious yahoos.” Hazen turned to Hank. “If I were you, Hank, I’d start asking myself: who had the most to lose with the field going to Medicine Creek?”

“Now hold on here,” the Deeper sheriff said, rising in his chair. “You’re not suggesting that the killer is from Deeper, I hope.”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“You haven’t a shred of proof! What you’ve got is nothing more than a theory. A theory! Where’s the evidence?”