Still Life With Crows (49 page)

“Wake up, you two. Did you hear me? I said, I don’t think this is the way they went.”

“I don’t know,” said Brast. “It seems right to me.”

“It seems right to you,” Larssen repeated sarcastically. “And you, Cole?”

Cole just shook his head.

“All right, that settles it. We turn around and get out of here.”

“What about Hazen?” Cole said. “Weeks?”

“Sheriff Hazen and Officer Weeks are trained law enforcement personnel who can take care of themselves.”

The two troopers just looked at him.

“Are we all in agreement on this?” Larssen asked, raising his voice. Damned idiots.

“I’m with you,” Brast said with evident relief.

“Cole?”

“I don’t like leaving people down here,” said Cole.

A real hero,
thought Larssen. “Sergeant Cole, it’s pointless to wander around down here any longer. We can go for backup. They could be anywhere in this maze. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already on their way out.”

Cole licked his lips. “All right,” he said.

“Then let’s go.”

They had been circling their way back toward the limestone forest for five minutes and had reached an unfamiliar-looking crossroads when Larssen first heard the sound. The others must have heard it, too, because they spun around with him. It was faint, but unmistakable: the sound of running footsteps, approaching at high speed. But not human, no: the tattoo of heavy footfalls was too rapid for that.

It was something big.

“Weapons!” shouted Larssen, dropping to one knee and raising the riot gun to his shoulder. He took aim down the intersecting tunnel.

The running came closer, accompanied by a metallic clanking. And now a big reddish form materialized out of the darkness. Whatever it was, it was huge.

“Ready!”

The thing bore down on them with terrible speed. It tore through a shallow puddle, raising a curtain of droplets in its wake.

“Wait!” Larssen said abruptly. “Hold your fire!”

It was one of the dogs.

The animal hurtled toward them, utterly heedless of their presence, the wide wild eyes staring fixedly ahead. The only sound it made was the drumming of its huge paws against the stone. As it flashed past, Larssen saw that the animal was covered with blood, and that one of the ears was torn away, as well as part of the lower jaw. Big black lips and tongue flapped loosely, dripping foam and blood.

In another second it was gone, the sound of its flight fading away. Then silence returned. It had all happened so quickly that Larssen almost wondered if he’d imagined it. “What the
fuck?
” Brast whispered. “Did you see—?”

Larssen swallowed, but no moisture came. His mouth felt dry as sawdust. “He must’ve slipped, fallen.”

“Bullshit,” said Cole, his voice unnaturally loud in the confined space. “You don’t lose half your jaw in a fall. Someone attacked that dog.”

“Or some
thing,
” Brast muttered.

“For chrissakes, Brast,” said Larssen, “show some backbone.”

“Why was he running like that? That dog was scared shitless.”

Larssen said, “Let’s just get out of here.”

“No argument there.”

They turned back, Larssen keeping his eyes on the damp tracks of the dog. They could probably follow those with confidence; that would make things a whole lot easier.

Brast spoke into the silence. “I heard something.”

They paused once again.

“Something splashing through that puddle back there.”

“Don’t start again, Brast.”

Then Larssen heard it, too: the faint splash of a footfall in water, followed by another. He stared down the dark tunnel behind them, the cavern walls a red wash in his goggles. He could make out nothing.

“Just dripping water, probably.” He shrugged, turned back to follow the dog tracks.

Muh!

Brast gave a yell, and at the same time Larssen felt a sudden brutal shove from behind that sent him sprawling to the ground, his night-vision goggles flying. Brast was still yelling, and Cole gave a sudden, sharp scream.

Larssen was blind. In desperation he crawled around on his hands and knees, feeling the ground, and then with enormous relief felt his hands close on the goggles. He slipped them back onto his head with thick stupid fingers and looked around.

Cole was on the ground, yelling and clutching his arm. Brast was on his hands and knees against the cavern wall, scrabbling around for his goggles just like Larssen had been a second before, cursing and gasping.

“My arm!” Cole screamed. A spear of bone protruded from his arm at a strange angle and hot blood poured from the wound, almost white in the sheen of the goggles.

Larssen tore his eyes from the sight and looked around wildly for whatever had attacked them, shotgun at the ready, but there was nothing—nothing but the grim artificial glow of the cavern walls.

A single sound, like a hoot of laughter or perhaps triumph, came from the darkness somewhere. Larssen tightened his grip on the shotgun. Exactly where it had come from was impossible to tell.

He was sure of only one thing: it was close.

Sixty-Six

C
orporal Shurte of the Kansas Highway Patrol fingered his shotgun and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He checked his watch: eleven-thirty. Hazen and the rest had been gone for over an hour. How long did it take to corner McFelty, cuff him, and drag his ass out? It was unnerving, standing out here without any contact. Part of it, of course, was the weather. He’d lived in this part of Kansas all his life but he couldn’t remember ever seeing a storm like this one. Usually, the really ugly weather came and went pretty quick. But this had been going on for hours, it seemed, and it was only getting worse. Unbelievable wind, pelting rain, lightning like to split the sky. Before radio communications had finally gone down there’d been early reports of an F-3 tornado chewing toward Deeper, all hell breaking lose, FEMA trying to get in, the highways blocked.

And the power: usually you’d get one grid segment, maybe two, down at a time. But tonight it had been like a giant hand pulling the plug on one tiny town after the next. After Medicine Creek it had been Hickok, DePew, Ulysses, Johnson City, Lakin, and finally Deeper, before his radio had stopped working altogether from the loss of repeater stations. Shurte was from Garden City and he was glad the other side of the county seemed to be taking the worst of it. Still, he worried about his wife and kids. It was a hell of a night to be away from home.

The hooded propane lamp they’d set up cast a faint glow around the mouth of the cave. Williams, standing on the far side of the cut, looked like a zombie, hunched against the rain, big dark hollows where his eyes should be. The only thing that made him look remotely human was the glowing cigarette that dangled from his lower lip.

Another bolt of lightning cracked the sky, tearing almost from horizon to horizon. Beyond the cave, it flashed a brief image of the big old Kraus mansion, all alone and dilapidated, darkened by the rain.

He glanced over at Williams. “So how long are we going to stake out the entrance? I mean, I’m getting soaked.”

Williams dropped his cigarette, ground it under his boot, shrugged.

There was another flash. Shurte glanced at the dark slot that led down into the cave. Maybe they had the perp holed up and were trying to persuade him to come out . . .

And then from the mouth of the cave, over the sound of the wind, he heard the heavy galloping of feet.

He took a step forward, raising his shotgun. “You hear that?” he began sharply.

A dark form suddenly came hurtling up the passage toward them: a huge dog, running like mad, chain twitching and lashing behind like a whip, feet drumming.

“Williams!” Shurte shouted.

The animal blew out of the cave mouth and into the open. Just then there was another terrific rip of lightning, followed instantaneously by an earth-shaking crash. The dog hesitated, confused, turning around and around, snapping at the air, eyes rolling and wild. In the livid lightning Shurte saw that it was bright red, wet and glistening.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

The dog crouched toward the light of the lantern, still trembling violently—all without making a sound.

“Son of a
bitch,
” said Williams. “You see his mouth? Looks like he caught a load of buckshot.”

The dog staggered, the blood pooling underneath him, and then righted himself, massive limbs shaking uncontrollably.

“Catch him,” said Shurte. “Grab his chain.”

Williams crouched and slowly picked up the end of the chain. The dog just stood there, still now, trembling with pain and terror.

“Easy, boy. Easy. Good dog.”

Williams slowly lifted the end of the leash toward the only suitable tie spot: a protruding pin on the door hinge of the cave. Suddenly the dog, feeling the gentle tug on his neck, whirled with a screech of fury and slashed out at Williams. The man went down with a howl, dropping the leash, and in a second the dog was gone, a black shape hurtling away into the cornfields.

“Son of a bitch bit me!” Williams cried, holding his leg.

Shurte rushed over and directed his flashlight at the fallen trooper. The pants were torn and blood welled from a gash in his thigh.

“Jesus, Williams,” Shurte said, shaking his head. “And to think he did that with only half a jaw.”

Sixty-Seven

L
arssen bent over Cole, who was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth and whimpering to himself. It was an ugly compound fracture, the jagged end of bone sticking out just above the elbow.

“I can’t see!” said Brast loudly from somewhere behind him. “I can’t see!”

“Cool it,” Larssen replied. He looked around, scouring the ground with his own set of goggles. They had all lost their goggles in the attack. He saw one of the sets lying in a puddle of water, one of its lenses broken. The other set was nowhere to be found. Was he the only one still able to see? It seemed so.

“Help me find my goggles!” Brast cried.

“They’re out of commission.”

“No,
no!
”

“Brast? Cole’s hurt. Pull yourself together.”

Larssen took off his shirt and tore it into strips, doing his best to ignore the chill dampness of the cave. He looked around for something that would do as a splint but saw nothing usable. Better to bind the arm to the torso and leave it at that. The important thing now was to get the hell out of there. Larssen wasn’t particularly frightened—he’d never had quite the right imaginative equipment for fear—but he perfectly understood the seriousness of their situation. Whoever attacked them, it was someone who
knew
the cave inside out. Someone who’d been down here a very long time. Someone who could come and go at will, and very quickly. He’d seen his outline: big, shambling, with a hunched back from years of living under low ceilings . . .

Hazen had only been half right. The killer was in the cave, but it sure as hell wasn’t McFelty—or anyone connected with Lavender, for that matter. This was something a lot weirder and deeper than that.

He forced himself back to the problem at hand. “Cole?” he asked.

“Yes?” Cole’s voice was weak and he could see the man was sweating. Shock.

“I don’t have anything to splint your arm with, so I’m going to immobilize it by tying it to your chest.”

Cole nodded.

“It’s going to hurt.”

Cole nodded again.

Larssen tied two of the strips into loops and hung them around Cole’s neck to form a sling, and then, as gently as possible, took hold of his arm and slid it in. Cole winced, cried out.

“What was that?” Brast shouted in a panic. “Is
he
back?”

“It’s nothing. Just stay calm, keep quiet, and do what I tell you.” Larssen tried to make his voice sound reassuring. He would almost rather have ended up with Hazen. The sheriff might be an asshole, but nobody could accuse him of cowardice.

Larssen tore another couple of strips from the shirt and tied them around Cole’s torso, binding up and immobilizing the broken arm. The broken bones grated against each other, and Cole winced. He was sweating profusely now, and shaking.

“Can you stand up?”

Cole nodded, rose, staggered. Larssen steadied him.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so,” he grunted.

“You’re not going, are you?” cried out Brast, groping for Larssen in the darkness.

“We’re all going.”

“But what about my goggles?”

“As I said, they’re broken.”

“Let me see them.”

With a hiss of irritation Larssen picked them out of the water and handed them to Brast. The man felt them frantically, tried to turn them on. There was a spark and a hiss. He hurled them away, his voice high and panicky. “Sweet Jesus, how are we ever going to get out of—”

Larssen reached out and grabbed a fistful of Brast’s shirt, gave it a good screw. “Brast?”

“Did you see it?
Did you see it—?
”

“No, and neither did you. Now shut up and do what I tell you. Turn around, I’ll need to get at your pack a moment. I’m going to make a lifeline with your rope. I’ll tie it around my waist and then pass it back to you and Cole. You hang on with one hand and help Cole along. Got it?”

“Yes, but—”

Larssen gave Brast a hard shake. “I said,
shut the hell up and do what I tell you.
”

Brast fell silent.

Larssen reached into the pack, found the rope, and tied it around his own waist. That left about ten feet or so of slack, and he made sure Brast and Cole grasped it tightly.

“Now we’re getting out of here. Keep tension on the rope, don’t drop it, and for God’s sake keep quiet.”

Larssen began moving slowly back through the long black passage. A trembling that had little to do with the chill air had settled into his bare limbs. Brast’s desperate
Did you see it?
ran through his head despite his best efforts to block it. The truth was, Larssen had gotten just a glimpse; just a glimpse, but it had been enough . . .