Still Life With Crows

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.