Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

The propane lantern guttered and he looked over at it, scowling. It figured: some jackass hadn’t bothered to screw in a fresh canister, and now the thing was about to go out. He shook his head, rose, and went to the fireplace. A fire was laid and ready to go; above the hearth, on the stone mantelpiece, he noticed an old box of kitchen matches.

He stood for a minute, thinking. Hell with it, he decided. As long as he was stuck in this creepy old place, he might as well make himself comfortable.

He ducked his head into the fireplace and made sure the flue was open. Then he reached for the box, removed a match, struck it, and lit the fire. The flames licked up the newspaper and immediately he felt better: there was something reassuring about the warm glow of a fire. As it took, it threw a nice yellow light into the parlor, reflecting off the framed embroidery, the glass and porcelain knickknacks. Rheinbeck went and turned off the propane lantern. Might as well conserve its last few minutes of light.

Rheinbeck felt a little sorry for the old lady. It was tough having to lock her in the basement. But there was a major tornado warning out, and she’d been uncooperative, to say the least. He settled back in the rocker. It couldn’t be easy for an old woman, having a bunch of strangers with guns and dogs descending on your property in the middle of the night, in a terrible storm. It would be a shock for anybody, especially a shut-in like old Miss Kraus.

He leaned back in the rocker, enjoying the warmth of the flickering firelight. He was reminded of the Sunday afternoons he and the wife occasionally spent visiting his mother. In the winter, she’d make a pot of tea and serve it by a fire just like this one. And with the tea would always come cookies: she had an old family recipe for ginger snaps she kept promising to give his wife, but somehow never did.

It occurred to him that the old lady had been down in the cellar for almost three hours without any kind of nourishment. Now that she’d calmed down, he should bring her something. Nobody could accuse him later of having starved the old woman or allowing her to dehydrate. He could make a pot of tea. There was no power, but he could boil the tea water over the fire. In fact, he wished he’d thought of it earlier.

He roused himself from the chair, turned on his flashlight, and went into the kitchen. The place was remarkably well stocked. There were boxes of funny-looking dry goods stacked up along the walls: herbs and spices he’d never heard of, exotic vinegars, pickled vegetables in jars. On the counters were silver canisters covered with Japanese lettering, or maybe Chinese, he wasn’t sure which. Finally he found the teakettle, set near the stove between a pasta maker and some contraption like an oversized steel funnel with a crank. He rummaged in the cabinets, located some good old-fashioned tea bags. He hung the kettle on a hook above the fire, then returned to the kitchen. The refrigerator was also well stocked, and it was the work of a few minutes to arrange a little tray with cream and sugar, tea cakes, jam, marmalade, and bread. A lace doily and linen napkin with spoon and knife completed the refreshment. Soon the tea was ready, and he put the kettle on the tray and started down the stairs.

He paused at the storm door and, balancing the tea tray on one hand, tapped lightly. He heard a stir within.

“Miss Kraus?”

No sound.

“I have some tea and cakes here for you. It’ll do you good.”

He heard another rustle, and then her voice came through the door. “Just a minute, please. I need to arrange my hair.”

He waited, relieved by how calm she sounded. It was amazing, the propriety of the older generation. A minute passed, and then the old lady spoke again. “I’m ready for you now,” came the prim voice.

Smiling, he slipped the big iron key out of his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and eased open the door.

Seventy-Two

S heriff Hazen could feel the sweat running off his hands and down the dimpled stock of his riot gun. He’d heard a welter of distant noises over the last ten minutes: gunshots, screams, cries—it sounded like a major confrontation. They’d seemed to come from one general direction, and Hazen was heading toward it as quickly as he could. Others might have run like rabbits, but he was personally determined to bring the guy out.

In the sandy floor he could now make out footprints: the bare ones he’d seen before.

He straightened. The bare feet of the killer.

He realized he’d been wrong about McFelty. The glance he’d had of the killer, brief as it was, had assured him of that. And maybe he was even wrong about Lavender’s connection. But he was right about the most important thing: the killer was holed up in the cave. This was his base of operations. Hazen had made the connection and he was determined to follow through and bring the son of a bitch out.

Hazen followed the footprints in the sand. Who could he be? A question to be answered later. Find the guy, get him out. It was as simple as that. Once they had him, all else would become clear: whether he was connected to Lavender; the experimental field; whatever. All would become clear.

He turned a sharp corner, following the footprints. The walls and roof suddenly pulled back, stretching away into vastness, their outlines dim in the infrared beam of his light. The ground was littered with huge, glittering crystals. Even with the monochromatic goggles, Hazen could tell they were all different colors. The cave was gigantic, a lot bigger and more spectacular than the miserable three-room tourist trap that Kraus had opened up. With the right management, it could be turned into a major tourist site. And the Indian burials he’d seen—they’d draw archeologists and maybe even a museum. Even if Medicine Creek didn’t get the experimental field, this cave was big enough to attract people from all over. It occurred to him, distantly, that the town was saved. This was better than Carlsbad Caverns. All this time the town had been sitting on a goldmine and they never knew it.

Hazen set the musings aside. He could dream about the future once this creepy bastard was behind bars. One thing at a time.

Ahead yawned a hole in the rock floor, from which came the sound of rushing water. He stepped cautiously around it and continued on, following the prints in the sand.

They were clear. And they looked fresh.

He sensed he was drawing closer to his quarry. The tunnel narrowed, then widened again. Hazen was noticing more and more signs of habitation: strange designs scratched into the walls with a sharp rock; moldering Indian fetishes arranged with care inside niches and atop limestone pillars. He tightened his grip on the shotgun and moved on. The freak, whoever he was, had been down here a long time.

Ahead, the tunnel widened into another cavern. Hazen turned the corner cautiously, then stopped dead, staring.

The cavern was a riot of ornamentation. Countless odd figures of twine and bone had been lashed together, and were hanging by strings from a thousand stalactites. Mummified cave creatures had been set together in little dioramas. Human bones and skulls of all shapes and sizes could be seen: some lined up along the rock walls; others laid along the floor in intricate, bizarre patterns; still others piled in rough heaps as if awaiting use. Ancient lanterns, tin cans, rusted turn-of-the-century gadgets, Indian artifacts, and detritus of all sorts lay along makeshift shelves. It looked like the den of some madman. Which, in fact, was exactly what it was.

Hazen turned slowly, aiming his infrared beam at the spectacle. This was weird; seriously weird. He swallowed, licked his lips, and took a step backward. Maybe it was a mistake, coming blundering in here like a single-handed posse. Maybe he was being too hasty. The exit to the cave couldn’t be that far away. He could return to the surface, get reinforcements, get help . . .