Still Life With Crows

“Without success?” Now Wren chuckled. “Not surprising, given your notion of getting away from it all: investigating serial murders. And from what I understand, such a strange set of murders, too. In fact, they’re so unusual as to seem almost familiar. Your brother isn’t vacationing in Kansas, by any chance?”

For a moment there was no answer. When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was chill, distant. “I have told you, Wren,never to speak of my family.”

“Of course, of course,” Wren replied quickly.

“I’m calling with a request.” Pendergast’s tone became brisk and businesslike. “I need you to locate an article for me, Wren.”

Wren sighed.

“It’s a handwritten journal by one Isaiah Draper, entitledAn Account of the Dodge Forty- Fives. My research indicates that this journal became part of Thomas Van Dyke Selden’s collection, acquired on his tour through Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas in 1933. I understand this collection is now held by the New York Public Library.”

Wren scowled. “The Selden Collection is the most riotous, disorganized aggregation of ephemera ever assembled. Sixty packing cases, occupying two storage rooms, and all utterly worthless.”

“Not all. I need details that only this journal can provide.”

“What for? What light could an old journal shed on these murders?”

There was no answer, and Wren sighed again.

“What does this journal look like?”

“Alas, I can’t say.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“Unknown.”

“Just how quickly do you need it?”

“The day after tomorrow, if possible. Monday.”

“Surely you jest,hypocrite lecteur. My days are taken up here, and my nights . . . well, you know my work. So many damaged books, so little time. Finding a specific item in that hurricane of—”

“There would be a special remuneration for your efforts, of course.”

Wren fell quickly silent. He licked his lips. “Pray tell.”

“An Indian ledger book in need of conservation.”

“Indeed.”

“It appears to be a particularly important one.”

Wren pressed the phone close to his ear. “Tell me.”

“At first, I thought it to be the work of the Sioux chief Buffalo Hump. But further examination convinces me it is the work of Sitting Bull himself, most likely composed in his cabin at Standing Rock, perhaps during the Moon of Falling Leaves in the final months before his death.”

“Sitting Bull.” Wren said the words carefully, lovingly, like poetry.

“It will be in your hands by Monday. For conservation only. You may enjoy it for two weeks.”

“And the journal—if indeed it exists—will be in yours.”

“It exists. But let me not disturb your work any further. Good afternoon, Wren. Be careful.”

“Fare thee well.” Replacing the phone in his pocket, Wren returned to his laptop, going over the physical layout of the Selden Collection in his mind, his veined hands almost trembling at the thought of holding, a day or two hence, Sitting Bull’s ledger book.

From the pool of darkness behind the glass-fronted cabinets, a pair of small, serious eyes watched intently as, once again, Wren began to type.

Twenty-Eight

 

Smit Ludwig rarely attended church anymore, but he had the gut sense, as he rose that brutally hot Sunday morning, that it might be worth going. He couldn’t say why, exactly, except that tensions had risen to a fever pitch in the town. The killings were all that people could talk about. Neighbors were glancing sidelong at each other. People were scared, uncertain. They were looking for reassurance. His reporter’s nose told him that Calvary Lutheran was where they would seek it.

As he approached the neat brick church with its white spire, he knew he’d been right. The parking lot was overflowing with cars, which also spilled out along both sides of the street. He parked at the far end and had to walk almost a quarter mile. It was hard to believe so many people still lived in Medicine Creek, Kansas.

The doors were open and the greeters pushed the usual program into his hand as he entered. He eased his way through the crowd in the back and moved off to one side, where he had a decent view. This was more than a church service; this was a story. There were people in church who had never been inside the building their entire lives. He patted his pocket and was glad to see he’d brought his notebook and pencil. He removed them and surreptitiously began jotting notes. There were the Bender Langs, Klick and Melton Rasmussen, Art Ridder and his wife, the Cahills, Maisie, and Dale Estrem with his usual buddies from the Farmer’s Co-op. Sheriff Hazen stood to one side, looking grumpy—hadn’t seenhim in church since his mother died. His son was beside him, an irritable look on his puffy face. And there, off in a shadowy corner, stood the FBI man, Pendergast, and Corrie Swanson, all spiked purple hair and black lipstick and dangly silver things. Nowthere was an odd couple.