Still Life With Crows (31 page)

“Okay.”

“Finally, if I do not come back in one hour, you must wake me. Those are the three circumstances under which I am to be awakened. No others. Do you understand?”

“It’s simple enough.”

Pendergast crossed his arms over his chest. If Corrie had been lying there like that, there was no way she could have thought of anything but the hard ground and the stubble underneath her. And yet he seemed to be becoming so
still.

“So what time are you going back to?”

“I am going back to the evening of August 14, 1865.”

“The Ghost Massacre?”

“Precisely.”

“But why? What does this have to do with the serial murders?”

“The two are connected, that much I know.
How
they are connected is what I hope to discover. If there is no key to these new killings in the present, then that key must lie in the past. And the past is where I intend to go.”

“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?”

Hazen waited. Better to let Hank blow off a little steam.

“This is ridiculous! I can’t imagine anyone here brutally murdering three people over a damn cornfield.”

“It’s a lot more than a ‘damn cornfield,’ ” said Hazen coolly, “as I’m sure Professor Fisk can tell you.”

Fisk nodded.

“This project is important. There’s big money in it, for the town and for KSU. Buswell Agricon is one of the biggest agricultural companies in the world. There are patents, royalties, laboratories, grants, you name it, up for grabs here. So Hank, I’ll ask you the question again:
who in Deeper had the most to lose?
”

“I’m not going to open an investigation on the basis of a crackpot theory.”

Hazen smiled. “You don’t have to, Hank. I’m in charge of the case.
I’ll
open the investigation. All I ask is your cooperation.”

Larssen turned to Fisk and Raskovich. “Here in Deeper, we don’t habitually send law enforcement off on wild-goose chases.”

Fisk returned his gaze. “Frankly, what Sheriff Hazen is saying makes sense to me.” He turned to Raskovich. “What do you think, Chester?”

When Raskovich spoke, the sound came from deep within his barrel chest. “I’d say it’s definitely worth looking into.”

Larssen looked from one to the other. “We’ll look into it, of course, but I sincerely doubt the killer is going to turn up here. This is premature—”

Hazen broke in smoothly. “Dr. Fisk, with all due respect, I think you should keep your options open as to where the field should be sited. If the killer’s been trying to influence your decision . . .” He paused significantly.

“I certainly see your point, Sheriff.”

“But the decision’s already been made,” Larssen said.

“Nothing is engraved in stone,” said Fisk. “If the killer’s from Deeper—and I have to say the theory stacks up nicely—then, frankly, this is the
last
place we’d want to site the field.”

Larssen shut up. He was smart enough to know when to do that, at least. He gazed at Hazen, his face dark. Hazen felt sorry for him. He wasn’t a bad guy, really, even if he was a little short on both brains
and
imagination.

Hazen rose. “I have to get back to Medicine Creek—we’ve still got a body to find—but I’m coming back first thing tomorrow to start my investigation. Hank, I hope we can work together in a friendly way.”

“Sure we can, Dent.” Hank had to choke out the words.

Hazen turned to the KSU men. “Nice to meet you. I’ll keep you posted.”

“We appreciate that, Sheriff.”

Hazen plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and fixed an eye on Raskovich. “When you get to Medicine Creek, come by my office. We’ll see about getting you temporary peace officer status. It’s the modern-day equivalent of being deputized. We’re going to need your help, Mr. Raskovich.”

The campus security chief nodded as if this were the most normal thing in the world, his face a mask of stolidity, but Hazen knew he had just scored big with Chief Campus Doorshaker Chester Raskovich.

Thirty-Eight

T
he discipline of Chongg Ran, invented by the Confucian sage Ton Wei in the T’ang dynasty, was later transported from China to Bhutan, where it was further refined over a period of half a millennium at the Tenzin Torgangka monastery, one of the most isolated in the world. It is a form of concentration that marries utter emptiness with hyperawareness, the fusion of rigorous intellectual study with pure sensation.

The first challenge of Chongg Ran is to visualize white and black
simultaneously
—not as gray. Only one percent of adherents are able to move beyond this point. Far more difficult mental exercises await. Some involve simultaneous, self-contradictory imaginary games of Go, or more recent studious pastimes such as chess or bridge. In others, one must learn to fuse knowledge with nescience, sound with silence, self with annihilation, life with death, the universe with the quark.

Chongg Ran is an exercise in antitheses. It is not an end in itself, but a means to an end. It brings with it the gift of inexplicable mental powers. It is the ultimate enhancement of the human mind.

Pendergast lay on the ground, maintaining acute awareness of his surroundings: the smell of dry weeds, the feeling of sticky heat, the stubble and pebbles pressing into his back. He isolated every individual sound, every chirp, rustle, flutter, whisper, down to the faint breathing of his assistant sitting some yards away. With his eyes closed, he proceeded to visualize the surrounding scene exactly as if he were seeing it with his own eyes, spread out below him:
sight without seeing.
Piece by piece he assembled it: the trees, the three mounds, the play of shade and light, the cornfields stretching out below, the towering thunderheads above, the air, the sky, the living earth.

Soon the landscape had taken complete form. And now, having isolated each object, one by one he could extinguish them from his awareness.

He started with scents. He removed, one by one, the complex perfumes of the cottonwood trees, humidity, ozone from the approaching storm, the grass and leaves and dust. Then, sensation: he proceeded to extinguish, one at a time, every feeling impinging on his consciousness: the pebbles under his back, the heat, the crawling of an ant over his hand.

Next came sound. The trillings of the insects disappeared first, then the rustling of the leaves, the desultory tapping of a woodpecker, the fluttering and calling of the birds in the trees, the faint movement of air, the distant rumble of thunder.