Still Life With Crows

Corrie held her nose, took in a deep breath. Then she took the light, directed the beam as Pendergast indicated. The gloom was rapidly filling the air. A test tube had appeared out of Pendergast’s suit coat and now the agent was kneeling, putting invisible things into it with a pair of tweezers. Then another test tube appeared, and another, specimens going deftly into each one. He worked swiftly, moving around the body in ever narrower circles, every now and then murmuring low instructions about the placement of the light.

She could already hear the faint siren of the sheriff’s car drifting over the corn.

More quickly now, Pendergast was going over the body bit by bit, his face inches from the skin, plucking off something here, something there. The smell of rotting ham refused to go away, and she felt another twinge deep in her gut.

The siren got louder and louder, then finally stopped. From beyond the fastness of corn, she heard a door slam, then another.

Pendergast straightened up. All the paraphernalia had vanished, almost miraculously, into the folds of his well- pressed black suit.

“Step back, please,” he said.

They withdrew to the edge of the clearing just as the sheriff arrived, followed by his deputy. There were more sirens now and the sound of radios blaring in the corn.

“So it’s you, Pendergast,” said the sheriff, coming over. “When’d you get here?”

“I’d like permission to examine the site.”

“As if you haven’t already, I’ll bet. Permission denied until we’ve completed our own examination.”

Now more men were crashing through the corn: state troopers and grim-looking men in blue suits whom Corrie guessed were members of the Dodge City homicide squad.

“Set up a perimeter here!” bawled the sheriff. “Tad, lay out some tape!” He turned back to Pendergast. “You can stand behind the tape, like the others, and wait your turn.”

Corrie was surprised at Pendergast’s reaction. He seemed to have lost all interest. Instead, he began to steer an erratic course around the periphery of the site, looking for nothing in particular. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly off into the corn. Corrie followed. She stumbled once, then twice, and realized that the shock was still heavy upon her.

Suddenly, Pendergast stopped again, between two rows of corn. He took his flashlight gently from Corrie and pointed it at the ground. Corrie peered, but could see nothing.

“You see these marks?” Pendergast murmured.

“Sort of.”

“They’re footprints. Bare footprints. They seem to be heading down toward the creek.”

Corrie took a step backward.

Pendergast switched off the light. “You’ve done—and seen—more than enough for one day, Miss Swanson. I’m very grateful for your help.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight-thirty, still early enough for you to get home without danger. Go back to your car, go straight home, and get a good rest. I’ll continue here on my own.”

“But what about driving you—?”

“I’ll get a ride back with one of those fine, eager young policemen over there.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated, strangely unwilling to leave. “Um, I’m sorry I puked back there.”

She could barely see his smile in the gathering dark. “Think nothing of it. The same thing happened to a close acquaintance of mine, a veteran lieutenant of the NYPD, at a homicide site a few years back. It merely proves your humanity.”

As she turned to go, he spoke again. “One last thing, Miss Swanson.”

She stopped, looked back at him. “Yes?”

“When you get home, be sure to lock your house up tight.Tight. Agreed?”

She nodded, then turned again, making her way quickly through the corn, toward the striped red wash of police lights, thinking of Pendergast’s words:it’s still early enough for you to get home without danger.

Twenty-Two

 

Shading his light carefully, Pendergast followed the bare prints into the darkness of the cornfield. The tracks were now quite distinct in the dry dirt between the rows of corn. As he walked, the noise of the crime scene fell away. When the field began to slope ever so slightly down toward the creek, he stopped to look back. The row of skeletal powerline towers stood silhouetted against the last light of the sky, steel sentinels, the stars winking into view above them. Crows, coming to roost in the towers, were cawing fitfully. He waited as the noise of the crows gradually settled for the night. Then there was no sound at all. The air was still and close as the air of a tomb, and smelled of dust and dry cornhusks.

Pendergast slipped his hand into his jacket and removed his Les Baer custom .45. Carefully hooding his light, he examined the footprints again. They led straight on between the rows, unhurried, heading methodically toward the creek.

Straight toward Gasparilla’s camp.

He turned off the light and waited, allowing his eyes to adjust. Then, as quietly as a lynx, he moved through the