Still Life With Crows p-4 Read online

  “What was involved in the inspection of these fields? How did you proceed?”

  “On foot. I took samples of earth, corn, other samples.”

  “Such as?”

  “Water. Botanicals. Insects. Scientific samples. Things you wouldn’t understand, Mr. Pendergast.”

  “What day, exactly, was this?”

  “I’d have to check my diary.”

  Pendergast folded his arms, waiting.

  Scowling, Dr. Chauncy fished into his pocket, pulled out a diary, flipped the pages. “June eleven.”

  “And did you see anything unusual? Out of the ordinary?”

  “As I’ve said, I saw nothing.”

  “Tell me, whatexactly is this ‘experimental field’ going to experiment with?”

  Chauncy drew himself up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but these scientific concepts are rather too complex for a non-scientist to comprehend. It’s pointless to answer questions along that line.”

  Pendergast smiled in a self-deprecating way. “Well, then, perhaps you could simplify it in a way that any idiot could understand.”

  “I suppose I could try. We’re trying to develop a strain of corn for gasohol production—you know what that is?”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “We need a strain that has high starch content and that produces a natural pesticide which eliminates the need for external pesticides. There’s the idiot explanation, Mr. Pendergast. I trust you followed it.” He gave a quick smile.

  Pendergast leaned forward slightly, his face assuming a blank expression. He reminded Corrie of a cat about to pounce. “Dr. Chauncy, how do you plan to prevent cross-pollination? If your genetic strain escaped into this sea of corn around us, there would be no way of putting the genie back into the bottle, so to speak.”

  Chauncy looked disconcerted. “We’ll create a buffer zone. We’ll plough a hundred-foot strip around the field and plant alfalfa.”

  “And yet, Addison and Markham, in a paper published in the April 2002 issue of theJournal of Biomechanics, stated that cross-pollination by genetically modified corn had been shown to extend several miles beyond the target field. Surely you recall that paper, Dr. Chauncy? Addison and Markham, April—”

  “I’m familiar with the paper!” Chauncy said.

  “And then you must also know of the work of Engels, Traumerai, and Green, which demonstrated that the 3PJ-Strain 5 genetically modified plant produced a pollen toxic to monarch butterflies. Are you by chance working with the 3PJ strain?”

  “Yes, but monarch mortality only occurs in concentrations greater than sixty pollen grains per square millimeter—”

  “Which is present within at least three hundred yards downwind of the field, according to a University of Chicago study published in theProceedings of the Third Annual —”

  “I know the bloody paper! You don’t have to cite it to me!”

  “Well, then, Dr. Chauncy. I ask again: how are you going to prevent cross-pollination, and how are you going to protect the local butterfly population?”

  “That’s what this whole experiment is all about, Pendergast! Those are thevery problems we’re trying to solve—”

  “So Medicine Creek will be, in effect, a guinea pig location to test possible solutions to these problems?”

  For a moment, Chauncy spluttered, unable to reply. He looked apoplectic. Corrie could see he had lost it completely. “Why should I have to justify my important work to a—a—a fuckingcop— !”

  There was a silence as Chauncy breathed heavily, the sweat pouring off his brow and creeping through the underarms of his suit jacket.

  Pendergast turned to Corrie. “I think we’re done here. Did you get it all down, Miss Swanson?”

  “Everything, sir, right down to the ‘fucking cop.’ ” She slapped the notebook shut with a satisfying crack and jammed the pen into one of her leather pockets, then gave the group at the table a broad smile. Pendergast nodded, turned to go.

  “Pendergast,” Ridder said. His voice was low and very, very cold. Despite herself, Corrie shivered when she saw the look on his face.

  Pendergast stopped. “Yes?”

  Ridder’s eyes glittered like mica. “You’ve disturbed our lunch and agitated our guest. Isn’t there something you ought to say to him before you leave?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Pendergast seemed to consider a moment. “Unless, perhaps, it is a quotation from Einstein: ‘The only thing more dangerous than ignorance is arrogance.’ I would suggest to Dr. Chauncy that in combination, the two qualities are even more alarming.”

  Corrie followed Pendergast out through the darkened bowling alley and into the strong sun. As they climbed into the car she couldn’t hold herself back any longer and laughed.

  Pendergast looked at her. “Amused?”

  “Why not? You really ripped Chauncy a new one.”

  “That is the second time I’ve heard that curious expression. What does it mean?”

  “It means, well, you made him look like the fool he is.”

  “If only it were so. Chauncy and his ilk are anything but fools and are, as such, decidedly more dangerous.”

  Thirty

  It was nine o’clock when Corrie got back to Wyndham Parke Estates, the mobile home community just behind the bowling alley where she shared a double-wide with her mother. After leaving Pendergast she had driven to her secret reading place on the powerline road to kill time, but as soon as the sun had set she got spooked and decided to head on home.

  She carefully opened the shabby front door and closed it behind her with a silence born of years of practice. By now, her mother should be out like a light. It was a Sunday, her mother’s day off, and she would have started hitting the bottle as soon as she was up. Still, silence was always the wisest policy.

  She crept into the kitchen. The trailer had no AC and was stiflingly hot. She eased open a cupboard, took out a box of Cap’n Crunch and a bowl, and carefully filled it. She poured in milk from the refrigerator and began to eat. God, she was famished. A second bowl disappeared before she felt sated.

  She carefully washed the bowl, dried it, put it away, put away the cereal and the milk, and erased any sign of her presence. If her mother was really out cold, she might even be able to play an hour or two of the latestResident Evil on her Nintendo before going to bed. She took off her shoes and began to sneak down the hall.

  “Corrie?”

  She froze. What was her mother doing awake? The raspy voice that issued from the bedroom boded ill.

  “Corrie, I know it’s you.”

  “Yes, Mom?” She tried to make her voice as casual as possible.

  There was a silence. God, it was hot in the trailer. She wondered how her mother could stand being in here all day, baking, sweating, drinking. It made her sad.

  “I think you have something to tell me, young lady,” came the muffled voice.

  “Like what?” Corrie tried to sound cheerful.

  “Like your new job.”

  Corrie’s heart fell. “What about it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, it’s just that I’m your mother, and I think that gives me a right to knowwhat’s going on in your life.”

  Corrie cleared her throat. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”

  “We can talk about it right now. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Corrie wondered where to start. No matter how she put it, it was going to sound strange.

  “I’m working for the FBI agent who’s investigating the killings.”

  “So I heard.”

  “So you already know about it.”

  There was a snort. “How much is he paying you?”

  “That’s not your business, Mom.”

  “Really? Not my business? You think you can just live here for free, eat here for free, come and go as you please? Is that what you think?”

  “Most kids live with their parents for free.”

  “Not when they have a good paying job. Theycontribut
e. ”

  Corrie sighed. “I’ll leave some money on the kitchen table.” How much did it cost to buy Cap’n Crunch? She couldn’t even remember the last time her mother had gone shopping or cooked dinner, except to bring home snacks from the bowling alley where she was a cocktail waitress during the week. Snacks and those miniature bottles of vodka. That’s where the money went, all those vodka minis.

  “I’m still waiting for an answer to my question, young lady. What’s he paying you? It can’t be much.”

  “Isaid, it’s none of your business.”

  “You don’t have any skills, what can you possibly be worth? You can’t type, you don’t know how to write a business letter—I can’t imagine why he’d hire you, frankly.”

  Corrie replied hotly, “Hethinks I’m worth it. And for your information he’s paying me seven fifty a week.” Even as she said it, she knew she was making a big mistake.

  There was a short silence.

  “Did you say sevenhundred and fifty dollarsa week? ”

  “That’s right.”

  “And just what are youdoing to earn that money?”

  “Nothing.” God, why did she let her mother goad her into the admission?

  “Nothing?Nothing? ”

  “I’m his assistant. I take notes. I drive him around.”

  “What do you know about being an assistant? Who is this man? How old is he? Youdrive himaround? Inyour car? For seven hundred and fifty dollars aweek? ”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have acontract? ”

  “Well, no.”

  “No contract? Don’t you knowanything? Corrie, why do you think he’s paying you seven fifty? Or do you already know why—is that what it’s come to? No wonder you’ve been lying to me, hiding from me this little job of yours. I can just imagine what kind ofjob you do for him, young lady.”

  Corrie held her hands over her ears. If only she could get out, get into her car, get away. Anywhere. She could sleep in the car down by the creek. But she was scared. It was night. The killer was out there, somewhere, in the corn. “Mom, it’s not like that, okay?”

  “Not okay. Not okay. You’re just a high school kid, you aren’t worth anything, let alone seven fifty. Corrie, I’ve been around the block a few times. I know what’s what. I know aboutmen, I know what they want, how they think. I know what jerks they can be. Look at your father, look how he ran out on me, on us. Never paying a dime in child support. He was worthless, worse than worthless. And I can tell you right now thatthis man of yours is no FBI agent. What FBI agent would hire a delinquent with a record?Don’t you lie to me, Corrie. ”

  “I’mnot lying to you.” If only she could get away, just this night. But tonight the whole town was as quiet as a tomb. Fallout from the riot at the church. Just driving home had really spooked her. Every house had been locked up and shuttered tight. And it was barely nine o’clock.

  “If this is on the up and up, bring him here to me, then. I want to meet him.”

  “I’d die before I ever let him see this dump!” Corrie shouted, suddenly white-hot with rage. “Oryou! ”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, young lady!”

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Don’t you walk away while I’m talking to you—”

  Corrie went into her room and slammed the door. She quickly put on some earphones and shoved a CD into her player, hoping that Kryptopsy would drown out the angry voice she could still hear yelling through the wall. The chances were good her mother wouldn’t get out of bed. Standing up brought on a headache. She’d eventually get tired of yelling and, if Corrie were lucky, wouldn’t even remember the conversation in the morning. But then again, maybe she would. She’d seemed alarmingly sober.

  By the time the mangled thrashing of the last song had ended, all seemed to be quiet. She eased off the earphones and went to the window to breathe the night air. Crickets trilled in the darkness. The smell of night, of the corn just beyond the trailer park, of sticky heat, all flowed into the room. It was very dark outside; the streetlights on their lane had burned out long ago and had never been replaced. She stared out into the darkness for a while, wiping silent tears out of her eyes, and then lay down on her bed, in her clothes, and started the CD again from the beginning.Look at your father, her mom had said.He was worthless. As always, Corrie tried not to think about him. Thinking about her father only hurt more, because despite everything her mother said she only had good memories of him. Why had he left the way he did? Why had he never written her, not once, to explain? Maybe she really was worthless, useless, undeserving of love, as her mother had taken pains to point out many times.

  She turned up the volume, trying to drive the train of thought from her mind. One more year. Just one more year. Lying on her bed in a dying town in the middle of nowhere, another year seemed like an eternity. But surely anyone could get through a year. Even her . . .

  She woke up in blackness. The crickets had stopped trilling and it was now completely silent. She sat up, plucking off the dead headphones. Something had woken her. What was it? A dream? But she could remember no dream. She waited, listening.

  Nothing.

  She got up and went to the window. A sliver of a moon drifted from behind some clouds, then disappeared again. Heat lightning danced along the horizon, little flickers of dull yellow. Her heart was racing, her nerves strung tight. Why? Maybe it was the creepy music she’d fallen asleep to.

  She moved closer to the open window. The night air, laden with the fragrance of the fields, came drifting in, humid and sticky. It was unrelievedly dark. Beyond the black outline of the trailer next door she could see the distant darkness of the cornfields, a single glowing star.

  She heard a sound. A snuffle.

  Was it her mother? But it seemed to have come fromoutside: out there, in the darkness.

  Another snuffle, like someone with a bad cold.

  She peered hard into the darkness, into the deep pools of shadow that lay alongside the trailer. The street beyond was like a dark river. She strained to see, every sense alert. There, by the hedge that lined the street: was there something moving? A shape? Was it just her imagination?

  She placed her hand on the window and tried to draw it shut, but as usual it was stuck fast. She jiggled it, trying to free the mechanism with a feeling of rising panic.

  She heard more snuffling, like the heavy panting of a large animal. It seemed very close now. But the act of listening caused her to pause for just an instant; then in a sudden panic she redoubled her struggle to get the window shut, rattling it in desperation, trying to free the cheap aluminum latch. Somethingwas moving out there. She could feel it, she could sense it—and now, yes now, she was sure she couldsee it: a lumpen, malformed shadow, a mass, black against black, moving ever so stealthily toward her.

  Instinct took over and she fell away from the window, abandoning her attempt to close it in favor of reaching for the light and banishing the darkness. She fumbled, knocked the CD player to the floor, found the light.

  The instant it went on, the room lit up and the window became an opaque rectangle of black. She heard a sudden grunt; a dull thud; a frantic rustling sound. And then, silence.

  She waited, taking a few slow steps back from the black window. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, and her throat was very dry. She could see nothing outside now, nothing at all. Wasit there, in the window, looking at her? A minute ticked off, then another and another. Then she heard, in the middle distance, what sounded like a cough and groan: very low, but so replete with terror and pain that it chilled her to the marrow. It cut off abruptly, replaced with a strange wet ripping noise, and then a sound like someone dumping a bucket of water on the pavement down the street. Then, silence: utter, total silence.

  Somehow, the silence was even worse than the noise. She felt a scream rising, unbidden, in her throat.

  Then, all of a sudden, there was a snap, a gurgle, and a hissing sound, which slowly subsided to a steady swishin
g murmur.

  She slumped, her body abruptly relaxing. It was just Mr. Dade’s sprinkler system coming on, as it did every morning at exactly 2A .M.

  She glanced at her clock: sure enough, it read 2:00.

  How many times had she heard that sprinkler system cough and splutter and gurgle and make all sorts of weird noises as it started up?Get a grip, she thought. Her imagination was really working overtime. Not surprising, given all that was going on in the town . . . and given what she’d seen, with Pendergast, out there in the cornfields.

  She returned to the window and grabbed the latch, feeling a little sheepish. This time, a single, brutal thrust was enough to close it. She locked the window and climbed back into bed and turned out the light.

  The sound of the sprinklers filtering through the glass, the caressing patter of raindrops, was like a lullaby. And yet it wasn’t until four that she was finally able to fall back to sleep.

  Thirty-One

  Tad rolled over so hard that he fell out of bed. Staggering to his knees, he passed a hand across his face, then reached blindly for the ringing telephone. He found it, fumbled with it, lifted it to his face.

  “Hello?” he mumbled. “Hello?” Through the sleep-heavy bars of his lashes, he could see that outside the bedroom window it was still dark, the stars hard in the sky, only the faintest streak of yellow on the eastern horizon.

  “Tad.” It was Hazen, and he sounded very awake indeed. “I’m over on Fairview, near the side entrance to Wyndham Parke. I need you here. Ten minutes.”

  “Sheriff—?” But the phone was already dead.

  Tad made it in five.

  Although the sun had yet to rise, a crowd from the nearby trailer park had gathered, clad mostly in bathrobes and flip-flops. They were strangely silent. Hazen was there, in the middle of the street, setting up crime-scene tape himself while talking into a cell phone propped beneath his jaw. And there, too, was the FBI man, Pendergast, standing off to one side, slender and almost invisible in his black suit. Tad looked around, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. But there was no body, no new victim; just a lumpy, irregular splotch in the middle of the street. Sitting next to it was a canvas bag, full of something. The uneasy feeling gave way to relief. Another animal, it seemed. He wondered what all the hurry was.