Still Life With Crows p-4 Read online

  At that moment the lights in the office flickered, brightened, and went out. A chorus of groans and murmurs went up.

  Hazen glanced out the window. No lights on the main drag, or anywhere else for that matter. Medicine Creek was blacked out from front to back. No surprise, really.

  “This doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He opened the door and they stepped out into the howling night.

  Fifty-Five

  As he pulled into Medicine Creek, Special Agent Pendergast slowed the big Rolls, then plucked his cell phone from his pocket and made another attempt to call Corrie Swanson.

  The only reply was a steady beeping, no longer even a recorded message. The relay stations were down.

  He replaced the phone. The police radio was also down and the lights of the town were out. Medicine Creek was effectively cut off from the outside world.

  He drove along Main Street. The trees were lashing back and forth in a frenzy under the angry wind. Sheets of rain swept across the streets, forming muddy whirlpools in drains that a few hours before had been choked with dust. The town was locked down tight: shades drawn, shutters closed. The only activity seemed to be at the sheriff’s office. Several state police cars were parked outside, and the sheriff and state police were moving around outside, loading equipment into a state police van and getting into squad cars. It looked like some operation was afoot, something more than the usual storm detail.

  He continued on, turning into the gates of Wyndham Parke Estates. Within, the windows of the mobile homes were heavily taped, and large rocks had been placed on many of the roofs. Everything was dark, except for the occasional glimmer of a candle or flashlight beam glimpsed through a taped window. The wind tore through the narrow dirt lanes, rocking the trailers, pulling pebbles from the ground and throwing them against the aluminum sidings. In a nearby yard the swings of a child’s playset were whipping crazily, as if propelled by manic ghosts.

  Pendergast pulled into the Swanson driveway. Corrie’s car was gone. He got out of his car, moved quickly to the door, and knocked.

  No answer. The house was dark.

  He knocked again, louder.

  There was a thump from inside, and the movement of a flashlight beam. A voice called out: “Corrie? Is that you? You’re in trouble, young lady.”

  Pendergast pushed at the door; it opened two inches and was stopped by the chain.

  “Corrie?” the voice shrieked. A woman’s face appeared.

  “FBI,” Pendergast said, flashing his badge.

  The woman peered out at him from beneath slitted lids. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from rouge-smeared lips. She poked the flashlight out the crack and shone it directly into his eyes.

  “I’m looking for Miss Swanson,” said Pendergast.

  The ravaged face continued to look out, and now a cloud of cigarette smoke issued from the chained crack.

  “She’s out,” said the woman.

  “I’m Special Agent Pendergast.”

  “I know who you are,” the woman said. “You’re the FBI creep who needed anassistant. ” She snorted more smoke. “I’m wise to you, mister, so don’t bullshit me. Even if I knew where Corrie was, I wouldn’t tell you. Assistant, yeah,right. ”

  “Do you know when Miss Swanson went out?”

  “No idea.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pendergast turned and walked briskly back toward his car. As he did so, the door to the trailer opened wide and the woman stepped out onto the sagging stoop.

  “She probably went out looking foryou. Don’t think you can hide the truth from me, Mr. Slick-ass in your fancy black suit.”

  Pendergast got into his car.

  “Oh, and looky what we have here, a, what is that, a Rolls-Royce? Sheee-it.Some FBI agent.”

  He shut the door and started the engine. The woman advanced across the little patch of lawn, into the lashing rain, clutching her nightgown, the storm tearing her shouted words and flinging them away.

  “You make me sick, mister, you know that? I know your type and you make mesick —”

  Pendergast swung out of the driveway, headed back toward Main Street.

  Within five minutes, he pulled into the parking lot of the Kraus mansion. Again, Corrie’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  Inside, Winifred sat in her usual chair, doing a cross-stitch by candlelight. She looked up as he came in and a wan smile creased her papery face. “I was worried about you, Mr. Pendergast, out in that storm. It’s a doozy, it really is. I’m glad you’re back safely.”

  “Has Miss Swanson been by today?”

  Winifred lowered her cross-stitch. “Why no, I don’t believe she has.”

  “Thank you.” Pendergast bowed and turned back to the door.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going out again!”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Pendergast walked back across the parking lot, his face grave. If he was aware of the storm that lashed and tore the landscape on all sides, he gave no sign. He reached his car, grabbed the door handle. Then he stopped and turned, thinking. Beyond the house with its dimly lit windows, the dark sea of corn swayed violently. The signboard advertising Kraus’s Kaverns banged repeatedly in the wind.

  Pendergast released the handle and walked quickly past the house, along the road. Within a hundred yards he came to a dirt road leading into the corn.

  Two minutes later he was standing beside Corrie’s car.

  Now he turned and strode briskly back toward the road. But even as he did so, a row of headlights appeared in the distance, approaching through the murk at high speed. As the cars blasted past and their brake lights went on as they turned into the Kaverns parking lot, growing concern became conviction, and he realized that the unthinkable had happened.

  By a terrible, ironic twist of fate, it seemed that all of them—first he, then Corrie, and now Hazen—had come to the same conclusion: that the killer was hiding in the cave.

  Pendergast quickly cut back through the corn, making directly for the opening to the cave. If he could manage to get inside before . . .

  He was one minute too late. As he emerged from the corn, Hazen, standing before the cut leading down into the cave, saw him and turned back, a dark expression on his face.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Special Agent Pendergast. And here I thought you’d left town.”

  Fifty-Six

  Sheriff Hazen stared at Pendergast. There was a moment of confused silence in which Hazen felt himself swell with rage. The guy had an amazing knack for appearing out of nowhere at exactly the wrong moment. Well, he was going to face down this son of a bitch, once and for all. This FBI prick wasn’t going to waste any more of his time.

  He advanced toward the thin figure, managing a smile. “Pendergast, what a surprise.”

  The agent halted. His black suit was almost invisible in the stormy half-light, and his face seemed to float, pale and ghostlike. “What are you doing here, Sheriff?” He spoke quietly, but his voice carried an edge that Hazen hadn’t heard before.

  “It’s my recollection you were served with a C-and-D this morning. You are in violation. I could have you arrested.”

  “You’re going in after the killer,” said Pendergast. “You’ve deduced he’s in the cave.”

  Hazen shifted uneasily. Pendergast must be guessing. There’s no way he could have heard; not yet.

  The agent went on. “You have absolutely no idea of what you’re getting into, Sheriff—neither in terms of the adversary you’re facing, nor the setting.”

  This was too much. “Pendergast, that’s it.”

  “You’re at the edge of the abyss, Sheriff.”

  “You’re the one on the edge.”

  “The killer’s got a hostage.”

  “Pendergast, you’re just blowing smoke out your ass.”

  “If you blunder in there, Sheriff, you’re going to cause the death of that hostage.”

  Despite himself, Hazen felt a chill.
It was every cop’s nightmare. “Yeah? And just who is this hostage?”

  “Corrie Swanson.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s been missing all day. And I just found her car, hidden in the corn a hundred yards to the west.”

  There was a moment of uneasy silence, and then Hazen shook his head in disgust. “Right from the beginning, Pendergast, you’ve done nothing but throw the investigation off track with your theories. We would already have this man in the bag if it weren’t for you. So Swanson’s car is parked in the corn. She’s probably out in the cornfield with some guy.”

  “She went into the cave.”

  “Now there’s a brilliant deduction for you. The cave door is solid iron. How did she get in? Pick the lock?”

  “Take a look for yourself.”

  Hazen looked in the direction Pendergast was indicating, down along the cut in the ground. The iron door wasn’t locked after all: a padlock lay at the bottom of the doorframe, half concealed in the dust and leaves.

  “If you think Corrie Swanson sprung that lock, Pendergast, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought. That’s not the work of a kid; it’s the work of a hardened felon. The man we’re after, in fact. And that’s more than you need to know about it.”

  “As I recall, Sheriff, you were the one to accuse Miss Swanson of—”

  Hazen shook his head. “I’ve listened enough. Pendergast, turn over your piece. You’re under arrest. Cole, cuff him.”

  Cole stepped forward. “Sheriff?”

  “He’s willfully disobeyed a standing cease-and-desist. He’s hindering a police investigation. He’s trespassing on private property. I’ll take full responsibility. Just get him the hellout of myface. ”

  Cole advanced toward Pendergast. In the next instant, Cole was lying on the ground, desperately trying to breathe, and Pendergast had vanished.

  Hazen stared.

  “Uff,”Cole said, rolling into a sitting position and cradling his gut. “The son of a bitch sucker-punched me.”

  “Christ,” Hazen muttered, shining his light around. But Pendergast was gone. Moments later he heard the roar of a big engine, the sound of tires pulling rapidly away from gravel.

  Cole got up, his face red, and dusted himself off. “We’ll tag him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”

  “Forget it, Cole. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let’s take care of business here and deal with that tomorrow.”

  “The son of a bitch,” Cole muttered again.

  Hazen slapped him on the back and grinned. “Next time you make an arrest, keep your eyes on the perp, hey, Cole?”

  There was the distant slamming of a door and Hazen could hear a shrill voice rising and falling on the wind. A moment later, the pallid form of Winifred Kraus came running down the path from the old mansion. The fierce gusts whipped and tugged at her white nightgown, and to Hazen it almost seemed as if a ghost was flying through the night. Rheinbeck was following in her tracks, protesting loudly.

  “What are you doing?” shrieked the old woman as she came up, her hair haggard in the rain, drops running down her face. “What’s this? What are you doing on my property?”

  Hazen turned to Rheinbeck. “For chrissakes, you were supposed to—”

  “I’ve been trying to explain to her, Sheriff. She’s hysterical.”

  Winifred was looking around at the troopers, her eyes rolling wildly. “Sheriff Hazen! I demand an explanation!”

  “Rheinbeck, get her out of—”

  “This is arespectable tourist attraction!”

  Hazen heaved a sigh and turned to her. “Look. Winifred, we believe the killer’s holed up in your cave.”

  “Impossible!” the woman shrieked. “I check it twice a week!”

  “We’re going in there to bring him out. I want you to stay in your house with Officer Rheinbeck here, nice and peaceable. He’ll take care of you—”

  “I willnot. Don’t youdare go into my cave! You have no right. There’s no killer in there!”

  “Miss Kraus, I’m sorry. We’ve got a warrant. Rheinbeck?”

  “I already showed her the warrant, Sheriff—”

  “Show it to her again and get her the hell out of here.”

  “But she won’t listen—”

  “Pick herup if you have to. Can’t you see we’re wasting time?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, ma’am—”

  “Don’t youdare touch me!” Winifred took a swipe at Rheinbeck, who fell back.

  She turned and advanced on Hazen, her fists balled up. “You get off my property! You’ve always been a bully! Get out of here!”

  He grabbed her wrists and she writhed and spat at him. Hazen was amazed at the old lady’s strength and ferocity.

  “Miss Kraus,” he began again, trying to be patient, to make his voice more soothing. “Just calm down, please. This is important law enforcement business.”

  “Get off my land!”

  Hazen struggled to hold her, and felt a sharp kick to his shin. The others were all standing around, gawking like civilian spectators. “How about a little help here?” he roared.

  Rheinbeck grabbed her by the waist while Cole waded in and managed to snag one of her flailing arms.

  “Easy now,” Hazen said. “Easy. She’s still a little old lady.”

  Her shrieks became hysterical. The three men held her immobile for a moment, struggling, and then Hazen finally extricated himself. Rheinbeck, with Cole’s help, picked her up off the ground. Her legs kicked and flailed.

  “Devils!” she shrieked. “You have no right!”

  Her shrieks died as Rheinbeck disappeared into the storm, carrying his thrashing burden.

  “Jesus, what’s with her?” Cole asked, panting.

  Hazen dusted off his pants. “She’s always been a loopy old bitch, but I never expectedthis. ” He gave one final slap. She had kicked him pretty good in the shin and it still smarted. He straightened up. “Let’s get into the cave before someone else pops up to spoil our party.” He turned to Shurte and Williams. “If that son of a bitch Pendergast comes back, you’re authorized to use all means to keep him out of the cave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hazen leading, the others moved down the dark slot in the ground. As they descended, the sounds of the storm became muffled, far away. They opened the unlocked door, switched on their infrared lights and night-vision goggles, and began descending the stairs. Within moments the silence became complete, broken only by the sound of dripping water. They were entering another world.

  Fifty-Seven

  The Rolls scraped and bumped up the dirt track, the headlights barely penetrating the screaming murk, hail hammering on the metal. When the vehicle could go no farther, Pendergast stopped, turned off the engine, tucked the rolled map inside his suit jacket, and stepped out into the storm.

  Here, at the highest point of land in Cry County, the mesocyclone had reached its highest pitch of intensity. The ground looked like a battlefield, littered with jetsam scattered by the ruinous winds: twigs, plant debris, clods of dirt picked up from fields many miles away. Up ahead, the still-invisible trees fringing the Mounds thrashed and groaned, leaves and limbs tearing at each other with a sound like the crashing of surf on rocks. The world of the Ghost Mounds had been reduced to sound and fury.

  Turning his head and leaning into the wind, Pendergast made his way along the track toward the Mounds. As he approached, the roar of the storm became more intense, occasionally punctuated by the earsplitting sound of cracking wood and the crash of a branch hitting the ground.

  Once in the relative shelter of the trees, Pendergast was able to see a little more clearly. Wind and rain boiled through, scouring everything with pebbles and fat pelting drops. The great cottonwoods around him groaned and creaked. The greatest danger now, Pendergast knew, came not from rain and hail, but from the possibility of high-F-scale tornadoes that could form at any time along the flanks of the storm.

  And
yet there was no time for caution. This was neither the time, nor the manner, in which he’d intended to confront the killer. But there was no longer any choice.

  Pendergast switched on his flashlight and arrowed it into the gloom beyond the copse of trees. As he did so, there came a terrific splitting noise; he leapt to one side as a giant cottonwood came tumbling out of the darkness, hurtling down with a grinding crash that shook the ground and sent up a maelstrom of leaves, splintered branches, and wet dirt.

  Pendergast left the trees and stepped back into the teeth of the storm. He moved forward as quickly as he could, eyes averted, until he reached the base of the first mound. Placing his back to the wind, he played his light carefully around its flanks until he had fully established a point of reference. And then—in the pitch of night, in the howling storm—he straightened, folded his arms across his chest, and paused. Sound and sensation alike faded from his consciousness as, from a marbled vault within the Gothic mansion of his memory, he took up the image of the Ghost Warriors. Once, twice, three times he ran through the reconstructed sequence from his memory crossing—where they had first emerged from the dust, where once again they had vanished—carefully superimposing this pattern upon the actual landscape around him.

  Then he opened his eyes, let his hands fall to his sides. Now—walking slowly, taking precise steps—he moved across the central clearing to the far side of the second mound. Soon he stopped before a large limestone outcrop. He moved slowly around it, back to the storm, oblivious to the wind and pelting rain, inspecting rocks with great care, touching first one, then another, until he found what he was looking for: a half dozen small, loose boulders, casually lying caught in a crack of the rock. After examining them for a moment, Pendergast rolled the smaller boulders aside, one by one, exposing an opening. He rapidly shifted more rocks. The ragged opening exhaled cool, damp air.

  The route through which the Ghost Warriors had first appeared, then vanished. And—unless he was sadly mistaken—the back door to Kraus’s Kaverns.