Still Life With Crows

safe.”

Klick turned her short, furious bulk on him. “Young man, this is a church service, not a town meeting!”

“Didn’t you hear about what that man Gasparilla said on his deathbed?” Swede cried. His face had, if possible, grown even redder. “This is no joke, Klick. This town’s in crisis.”

There was a general murmuring of assent. Smit Ludwig scribbled madly, trying to get down Swede’s words.

“Please,please! ” Pastor Wilbur was saying, holding up two thin arms. “Not in God’s house!”

But others were on their feet. “Yeah,” said another plant worker. “I heard what Gasparilla said. I sure as hell heard it.”

“I did, too.”

“It can’t be true, can it?”

The murmuring of voices rose dramatically.

“Pastor,” said Swede, “why do you think the church is full? People are here because they’re frightened. This land has seen bad times before, terrible times. But this is different. People are talking about the curse of the Forty- Fives, the massacre, as if the town itself is cursed. As if these murders are some awful judgment upon us. They’re looking to you for reassurance.”

“Mr. Cahill, as the localtavern-keeper I hardly think you’re in a position to lecture me on my duties as a pastor,” said Wilbur furiously.

“Look here, Reverend, with all due respect—”

“And what about this freakish corn they want to grow here?” called out a very deep voice. It was Dale Estrem, on his feet, raising a hoe in a knotted fist. “What about that?”

He brought that hoe here as a prop,thought Ludwig, writing madly.He came prepared to make a scene.

“It’s going to cross-pollinate and pollute our fields! These scientists want to come here and play God with our food, Reverend! When are you going to talk aboutthat? ”

Now a far more hysterical voice rang out, trumping all. An old man, skinny as a rail, with a huge bobbing Adam’s apple that made his neck whiskers bristle like quills, had stood up and was shaking his fist furiously at Wilbur. It was old Whit Bowers, the recluse who managed the town dump. “The End Days are come! Can’t you see it, you blind fool!”

Swede turned. “Look, Whit, that wasn’t what I was—”

“You’re all a pack of fools if you don’t see it! The devil is walking among us!”

The man’s voice was shriekingly high, raspy, cutting like a knife through the babel.

“The devil himselfis in this church! Are you all blind? Can’t you see it? Can’t yousmell it?”

Pastor Wilbur was holding up his hands and shouting something, but his dry, pedantic voice could not compete with the general hubbub. Now everyone was on their feet. The church was in chaos.

“He’s here!”Whit shrieked. “Look to your neighbor! Look to your friend! Look to your brother! Is that the devil’s eyes staring back at you? Look well! And take heed! Have you all forgotten the words of Peter?Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking who he may devour!! ”

Others were shouting to be heard. People were milling in the aisle. There was a cry and someone fell. Ludwig lowered his pad, strained to see. There was Pendergast, still as death in his shadowy corner. There was Corrie beside him, grinning with delight. The sheriff was yelling and gesturing. There was a sudden backward movement of the crowd.

“You son of a bitch!” someone shouted. There was a violent motion, the smack of a landed fist. My God, it was a fight, right here in the church. Ludwig was stunned. He hastily climbed up on the pew to get a better view, notebook in hand. It was Randall Pennoyer, a friend of Stott’s, dusting it up with another plant worker. “Nobody deserved to die like that, parboiled like a hog!”

There was more confused shouting, and several men surged forward to separate the combatants. Ridder himself was now wading in, shouting, trying to reach the fight. Sheriff Hazen, too, was ploughing down the aisle like a bulldog, his head lowered. As Ludwig watched, Hazen fell over Bertha Blodgett and rose again, his face dark with fury. Horrified voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The people in the back had pushed open the doors and were exiting in a confused mass.

A pew came crashing down to the frightened screams of a woman.

“Not in the house of God!”Wilbur was shouting, his eyes bulging.

Above it all, the apocalyptic voice of Whit continued, piping out a shrill warning:“Look into their eyes and you will see! Breathe the air and smell the brimstone! He’s a crafty one, but you will find him out! Yes, you will! The killer is here! He’s one of us! The devil has come to Medicine Creek and he’s walking hand in hand with us. You heard it: the devil with the face of a child!”

Twenty-Nine

 

Corrie Swanson sat in her car beneath the shade of the trees in the little turnout by the creek, where Pendergast had—in his mysterious fashion—asked her to drive him. It had just passed noon, and the heat was suffocating. Corrie shifted in her seat, feeling the beads of sweat gathering on her forehead, on the back of her neck. Once again, Pendergast was acting strange. He’d simply reclined in his broken seat and closed his eyes. He looked asleep, but of course Corrie knew enough by now to realize he wasn’t sleeping. He was thinking. But about what? And why here? And whatever the hell it was, why had it taken half an hour, and counting?