Still Life With Crows

Hunching forward against the rising wind, he walked toward the spot where Pendergast had lain. There might be something there, some clue as to what he was doing. But there was nothing, not even a faint impression. Ludwig drew out his notebook to jot down a few notes, but then stopped himself. Who was he kidding? There was no story here.

Suddenly, the air seemed full of sound: rustling grass and leaves, sighing branches, swaying trees. The smell of humidity and ozone came to him, mingled with the scent of flowers. Another faint rumble of thunder.

He’d better hurry back and break the bad news to the kid.

It was so dark now that he wondered briefly if he could follow the old track. But he’d been down it a thousand times as a child, and childhood memories never died. He walked down the path, huddled against the wind. Leaves blew past him and a flying twig got caught in his hair. The rush of wind was almost pleasant after the weeks of heat and stillness.

He paused, aware of a new sound to his right. The rustle of an animal, perhaps.

He waited, took a step, another—and then he heard the distinct crackle of dry leaves underfoot.

But not underhis foot.

He waited, hearing nothing but the whisper of leaves, the rising wind. After a minute or so, he turned and continued walking quickly.

Immediately he could hear footsteps to his right again.

He stopped. “Who is it?”

The wind blew, the cottonwoods creaked.

“Pendergast?”

He resumed walking, and almost immediately he could hear, he couldfeel, that he was being paced. A chill hit him.

“Whoever it is, I know you’re there!” he said, walking faster. He tried to sound loud, angry, but he was unable to keep the quaver from his voice. His heart was pounding in his chest.

The unknown thing kept pace.

Unbidden, the words old Whit had quoted in church that Sunday came back to Ludwig, here in the darkness:. . . the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking who he may devour . . .

He felt breath come snorting through his nose, and he fought hard against a rising panic. Soon, he told himself, he’d be out of the trees, back between two walls of corn. From there it was only two hundred yards to the road, and only another two hundred to the car. The road, at least, would be safe.

But, oh God, those horrible, plodding, crunching footfalls . . . !

“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled over his shoulder.

He hadn’t meant to yell: it had burst out from some instinctual place within him. Just as instinctual was the dead run that he now broke into. He was too old to run, especially all-out, and his heart felt like it would break loose in his chest. But even if he’d tried he could not have stopped his feet.

In the darkness beside him, the thing kept pace. Now Ludwig could hear the breathing—short rhythmic grunts in time to each thudding footfall.

I could run into the corn, lose him,Ludwig thought as he dashed out of the trees. Before him, the dark sea of corn was being tossed by the wind, roaring and rattling. Dust stung his eyes. There was a brief flash of lightning.

Muh!The sudden bark, alarmingly near, sent terror breaking in waves over him: it seemed human, and yet at the same time so very inhuman.

“Get away from me!”he screamed, running even faster now, faster than he dreamed possible.

Muh, muh, muh,the thing grunted as it ran alongside.

Another flicker of lightning, and in the pale flash he could see the shape pacing him through the corn. He saw it very briefly, but with brutal distinctness. For a moment, he almost stumbled in shock. It was mind-warping, impossible. Oh, dear Jesus, that face,that face—!!

Ludwig ran. And as he ran, he heard the figure keeping pace effortlessly.

Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

The road! The flash of headlights, a car just passing—!

Ludwig rushed out into the road with a banshee wail of terror, screaming and running down the center line, waving his arms at the receding taillights. His cries were swallowed by another rumble of thunder. He stopped, sagging forward, palms on his knees, feeling as if his lungs would rupture. Completely spent now, he waited, limp and defeated, for the sudden blow, the white-hot lance of pain . . .

But there was nothing, and after a moment he straightened up and looked around.

The wind tossed and agitated the corn on both sides of the road, drowning all sound, but in the dimmest light Ludwig could see the monster was gone. Gone. Frightened away by the car, perhaps. He looked about more wildly now, heaving, coughing, and trying to suck in air, dazed by his own good fortune.

And his own car was only two hundred yards down the road.

Half stumbling, half running, Smit Ludwig went wheezing, gasping down the middle of the road. His heart hammered with a wild abandon. Just one hundred yards now. Fifty. Ten.

With a final gasp he staggered into the turnaround where he had hidden the car. With a surge of relief so strong it threatened to buckle his knees, he could see the faint gleam of its metal side, within a ragged patch of