Still Life With Crows

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Wasn’t that a dainty dish,

To set before the king?

Job’s big head nodded to the rhythm of her voice, his mouth making anooooooo sound that rose and fell with the cadence of her words.

“Jesus Christ,” said Hazen. “The freak and his mother. It gives me the creeps just watching.”

Winifred Kraus finished the rhyme, then slowly turned the page. Job beamed, laughed. And she began again.

Davy Davy Dumpling,

Boil him in a pot;

Sugar him and butter him,

And eat him while he’s hot.

Hazen turned and grasped Pendergast’s hand. “I’m out of here. See you in purgatory.”

Pendergast took the hand without responding, without noticing. His eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him, the mother reading nursery rhymes to her child.

“Look at the pretty picture, Jobie. Look!”

As Winifred Kraus held the book up, Pendergast got a glimpse of the illustration. It was an old book, and the page was torn and stained, but the picture was still discernible.

He recognized the image instantly. The revelation hit Pendergast so suddenly that it was like a physical blow, staggering him. He backed away from the glass.

Job beamed and wentooooooooo, his head rolling back and forth.

Winifred Kraus smiled, face serene, and turned another page. The unnatural, electronically amplified voice of the mother continued to crackle through the loudspeaker.

What are little boys made of, made of?

What are little boys made of?

Snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails,

That’s what little boys are made of . . .

But Pendergast had not remained to hear any more. The cluster of psychiatrists and students at the glass did not even notice the dark, slender presence slip away, they were so busy discussing just where the diagnosis would be found in theDSM-IV manual—or if, indeed, it would ever be found there at all.