Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

For a moment there was no answer. When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was chill, distant. “I have told you, Wren, neverto 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, entitled An 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 seen himin 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. Now therewas an odd couple.

A hush fell over the congregation as the Reverend John Wilbur made his fussy way toward the pulpit. The service began, as usual, with the entrance hymn, the prayer of the day. During the readings that followed, the silence was absolute. Ludwig could see that people were waiting for the sermon. He wondered just how Pastor Wilbur would handle it. The man, narrow and pedantic, was not known for his oratory. He larded his sermons with quotations from English literature and poetry in an attempt to show erudition, but the effect only seemed pompous and long-winded. The moment of truth had come for Pastor Wilbur. This was the time of his town’s greatest need.

Would he rise to the occasion?

The reading from the Gospel was complete; the time for the sermon had arrived. The air was electric. This was it: the moment of spiritual reassurance that people had yearned for, had waited for, had come to find.

The minister stepped up to the pulpit, gave two delicate little coughs into his balled hand, pursed his thin lips, and smoothed with a crackle the yellowed papers that lay hidden behind the elaborately carved wood.

“Two quotes come to mind this morning,” Wilbur said, glancing over the congregation. “One, of course, from the Bible. The other, from a famous sermon.”

Hope leapt in Ludwig’s heart. This sounded new. This sounded promising.

“Recall, if you will, God’s promise to Noah in the Book of Genesis: While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.And in the words of the good Doctor Donne, God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sheaves in harvest.” Wilbur paused to survey the packed church from over his reading glasses.

Abruptly, Ludwig’s spirits fell, all the harder for having been falsely raised. He recognized these quotations all too well. Wilbur’s air of practiced improvisation had fooled him. Oh my God,he thought, he’s not going to do the harvest sermon again, is he?

And yet, beyond all understanding, that seemed to be Wilbur’s intent. He spread his arms with magisterial pomp.

“Here we are, once again, the little town of Medicine Creek, surrounded by the bounty of God. Summer. Harvest. All around us are the fruits of God’s green earth, God’s promise to us: the corn,the stalks trembling under the weight of the ripe ears beneath the giving summer sun.”

Ludwig looked around with a kind of desperation. It was the same sermon Wilbur always gave at this time of the year, for as long as Ludwig could remember. There was a time, when his wife still lived, that Ludwig found Wilbur’s cycle of sermons—as predictable as the cycle of seasons—comfortable and reassuring. But not now. Especially not now.

“To those who would ask for a sign of God’s bounty, for those who require proof of His goodness, I say to you: go to the door. Go to the door and look out over the great sea of life, the harvest of corn that stands ready to be plucked and eaten, to provide physical nourishment to our bodies and spiritual comfort to our souls . . .”

“To be made into gasohol for our cars, you mean,” Ludwig heard someone nearby mutter.

He waited. Maybe the minister was just warming up and was going to get onto the real topic soon.

“. . . While Thanksgiving is the accepted time to thank God for the bounty of His earth, I like to offer thanks now, just beforeharvest, when the gift of God’s goodness is made incarnate all around us, in the fields of corn that stretch from horizon to horizon. Let us all walk, as the immortal bard John Greenleaf Whittier impels us to, ‘Up from the meadows rich with corn.’ Let us all then pause, and look out over the great Kansas earth covered with the harvest and give thanks.” He paused for effect.

The mood in the room remained one of suspension, of desperate hope that the sermon would take an unexpected turn.

“The other day,” the minister began in a more jocular tone, “I was driving to Deeper with my wife, Lucy, when our car ran out of gas.”

Oh, no. He told this story last year. And the year before.

“There we were, by the side of the road, completely surrounded by corn. Lucy turned to me and asked, ‘Whatever are we going to do, dear?’

“I answered, ‘Trust in God.’ ”

He chuckled, blissfully ignorant of the ugly undercurrent that was now beginning to ripple through the congregation. “Well, she got mad at that. Being the man, you see, I was supposed to have filled up the tank, and so it was my fault that we’d run out. ‘You trust in God,’ she said. ‘I’m going to trust in my two good legs.’ And she started to get out of the car—”

Suddenly a voice rang out: “and got the gas can out of the back and walked to the gas station!”

It was Swede Cahill himself who had completed the reverend’s sentence: Swede Cahill, the nicest man in town. But there he was, on his feet, red-faced.

Pastor Wilbur compressed his lips so hard they almost disappeared. “Mr. Cahill, may I remind you that this is a church, and that I am giving a sermon?”

“I know very well what you’re doing, Reverend.”

“Then I shall continue—”

“No,”said Cahill, panting heavily. “No, you will not.”

“For heaven’s sake, sit down, Swede,” a voice cried from somewhere.

Cahill turned toward the voice. “There’ve been two horrible murders in this town and all he can do is read some sermon he wrote back in 1973? No, this won’t scour. It won’t scour, I say.”

A woman had arisen: Klick Rasmussen. “Swede, if you have something to say, have the decencyto wait until—”

“No, he’s right,” interrupted another voice. Ludwig turned. It was a worker from the Gro-Bain plant. “Swede’s right. We didn’t come here to listen to a damn sermon about corn. There’s a killer on the loose and none of us are 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 local tavern-keeperI 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 about that?”

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 himself is in this church!Are you all blind? Can’t you see it? Can’t you smellit?”

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?

She shook her head. He was a weird one. Nice weird, but weird all the same.

She picked up the book she was reading, Beyond the Ice Limit,found her dog-eared place at the beginning of chapter six, and began to read.

The sea horizon lay against the sky, blue against perfect blue, and it seemed to beckon the ship southward, ever southward.

She closed the book, put it down again. Not bad, but it lacked the punch of the original. Or maybe it was just that something else was on her mind. Such as what she’d just seen in church.

Her mother was not the church-going type, and Corrie had only been inside a few times. Even so, she realized that nobody in town, no matter how many times they’d set foot within Calvary Lutheran, had ever, everseen anything like it. The whole town was falling apart. That Pastor Wilbur, who always passed her with his eyes averted and lips compressed in disapproval, had blown it big-time. What a self-righteous ass. She couldn’t help but smile afresh at the images that reeled through her head: crazy old Whit shrieking hell and damnation, Estrem up there waving his hoe, everyone fleeing out the back and falling down the stairs, the plant workers fighting and knocking over pews. So many times in her fantasies she had imagined earthquakes leveling the town, bombs dropping, huge fires consuming everything, riots in the streets, the high school being swallowed by a bottomless pit. And now, in a way, it had come to pass. She was still smiling at the images, but the smile had grown fixed on her face. The reality wasn’t quite so funny.

She glanced over at Pendergast and almost jumped. He was sitting there, at full attention, regarding her with his pale cat’s eyes.

“To the Castle Club, if you please,” he said quietly.

Corrie quickly composed herself. “Why?”

“I understand that Sheriff Hazen and Art Ridder will be lunching with Dr. Chauncy. As you know, Chauncy will make his announcement tomorrow as to which town will get the experimental field. No doubt citizens Hazen and Ridder are making a final pitch for Medicine Creek. Since Chauncy’s leaving the area tomorrow, there are certain questions I’d like to put to him first.”

“You don’t think he’sinvolved?”

“As I’ve said, I am keeping my deductive faculties as quiescent as possible, and I’d advise you to do the same.”

“You really think they’ll be there? I mean, after what happened in church just now?”

“Chauncy was not in church. He may know nothing of what transpired. Regardless, the sheriff and Mr. Ridder will want to make a great show of normalcy. To reassure him, if need be.”

“Okay,” Corrie said, throwing the Gremlin in reverse. “You’re the boss.”

Although it galled her to do so, Corrie kept the car within the speed limit as Medicine Creek hove into view above the corn. In another moment they were pulling into the big parking lot of the bowling alley. It was almost empty, she noticed; but then, this was Medicine Creek, and emptiness was the norm.

Pendergast motioned her to precede him, and they entered the alley and made their way past the lanes to the glassed-in front of the Castle Club. Within, Chauncy, Ridder, and Hazen were seated at Ridder’s usual table. The rest of the place was deserted. All three stared as they entered.

Hazen rose and quickly moved forward, intercepting them in the middle of the dining room.

“Pendergast, what is it now?” he said in a low voice. “We’re in the middle of an important business meeting.”

“Sheriff, I’m very sorry to interrupt your luncheon,” the agent replied mildly. “I have a few questions for Dr. Chauncy.”

“Now is not the time.”

“Once again, I’m very sorry.” Pendergast brushed past the sheriff, Corrie following.

As they approached the table, Corrie noticed that Art Ridder, too, had risen, an angry smile frozen on his smooth, plump face.

“Ah, Special Agent Pendergast,” he said in a voice that almost managed to sound amiable. “Good to see you. If it’s about the, ah, case, we’ll be with you shortly. We were just finishing here with Dr. Chauncy.”

“But it is Dr. Chauncy I’ve come to see.” Pendergast held out his hand. “My name is Pendergast.”

Chauncy, failing to rise, took the hand and gave it a shake. “I remember you now, the fellow that refused to relinquish a room to me.” He smiled as if making a pleasantry, but irritation lurked in his eyes.

“Dr. Chauncy, I understand you will be leaving us tomorrow?”

“Today, actually,” said Chauncy. “The announcement will be made at KSU.”

“In that case, I have a few questions.”

Chauncy folded his napkin into a neat square, taking his sweet time, then laid it down beside a plate of half-eaten stewed tomatoes. “Sorry, but I’m running late as it is. We’ll have to have our chat some other time.” He stood, shrugged into his jacket.

“I am afraid that won’t be possible, Dr. Chauncy.”

Chauncy turned and raked him with arrogant eyes. “If this is about the killings, naturally I know nothing. If this is about the experimental field, then you are out of your jurisdiction, Officer, you and your, ah, sidekick.” He cast a pointed glace at Corrie. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was even milder. “I determine whether or not questioning a person is relevant.”

Chauncy reached into his suit coat, pulled out a wallet, took out a business card. He handed it to Pendergast. “You know the rules. I decline to be interviewed except in the presence of my attorney.”

Pendergast smiled. “Of course. And your attorney’s name?”

Chauncy hesitated.

“Until you give me the name and number of your attorney, Dr. Chauncy, I must deal with you directly. As you said, the rules.”

“Look, Mr. Pendergast—” Ridder began.

Chauncy snatched the card out of Pendergast’s hand and scribbled something on the back. He thrust it back. “For your information, Agent Pendergast, I am engaged in a confidential business of great importance to the Agricultural Extension at KSU, to Kansas, and indeed to the hungry people of the world. I will not be sucked into a local investigation of a couple of sordid murders.” He turned. “Gentlemen, I thank you for lunch.” He managed a brief pause before the word “lunch” that made it sound like an insult instead of a compliment.

But even before Chauncy had finished speaking, Pendergast had removed a cell phone from his suit and was dialing a number. This unexpected action caused everyone to pause. Even Chauncy hesitated.

“Mr. Blutter?” said Pendergast as he glanced at Chauncy’s card. “This is Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Chauncy frowned sharply.

“I am here in Medicine Creek with a client of yours, Dr. Stanton Chauncy. I would like to ask him a few questions about the killings that have occurred here. There are two ways we could proceed. One is voluntarily, right now; and the other is later, through a subpoena, issued by a judge for cause, in a public proceeding. Dr. Chauncy seeks your advice.”

He held the phone out toward Chauncy. The man grabbed it. “Blutter?”

There was a long silence and then Chauncy exploded into the telephone. “Blutter, this is pure harassment. It’s going to drag KSU through the mud. I can’t have any negative publicity. We’re at a delicate moment here—”

There was another, longer silence. Chauncy’s face darkened. “Blutter, damn it, I’m not going to talk to this cop—”

Another pause. Then “Christ!” He hung up and almost threw the phone back at Pendergast. “All right,” he muttered. “You have ten minutes.”

“Thank you, but I’ll take as long as I need. My very capable sidekickwill take notes. Miss Swanson?”

“What? Yeah, sure.” Corrie was alarmed; she’d left her notebook in the car. But almost as if by magic a notebook and pen appeared in Pendergast’s hand. She took them and flipped the pages, trying to look as if this was something she did every day.

Ridder spoke again. “Hazen? Are you just going to stand there and let this happen?”

Hazen looked back at Ridder, his face an unreadable mask. “And what would you have me do?”

“Stop this farce. This FBI agent is going to ruin everything.”

Hazen’s reply was quiet. “You know very well I can’t do that.” He turned to Pendergast and said nothing, his face neutral. But Corrie knew Hazen well enough to read the look in his eyes.

Pendergast spoke cheerfully to Chauncy. “Tell me, Dr. Chauncy, when did Medicine Creek first come up as a suggested host for the experimental field?”

“A computer analysis produced the name last year. In April.” Chauncy spoke in a curt monotone.

“When did you first visit the town?”

“June.”

“Did you make contact with anyone here at that time?”

“No. It was just a preliminary trip.”

“Then what, exactly, did you do?”

“I fail to see—”

Pendergast held up the phone and said cheerfully, “Just hit redial.”

Chauncy made a huge effort to control himself. “I had lunch at Maisie’s Diner.”

“And?”

“And what? It was the most revolting lunch it has been my misfortune to consume.”

“And after?”

“Diarrhea, of course.”

Before she could stop herself, Corrie burst out laughing. Ridder and Hazen looked at each other, not knowing how to respond. Chauncy’s face broke into a mirthless smile; he seemed to be recovering his equilibrium, if not his arrogance. Then he continued. “I inspected a field owned by Buswell Agricon, the agricultural combine, who are our partners in this venture.”

“Where?”

“Down by the creek.”

“Where exactly by the creek?”

“Township five, Range one, the northwest quadrant of Section nine.”

“What was involved in the inspection of these fields? How did you proceed?”

“On foot. I took samples of earth, corn, other samples.”

“Such as?”

“Water. Botanicals. Insects. Scientific samples. Things you wouldn’t understand, Mr. Pendergast.”

“What day, exactly, was this?”

“I’d have to check my diary.”

Pendergast folded his arms, waiting.

Scowling, Dr. Chauncy fished into his pocket, pulled out a diary, flipped the pages. “June eleven.”

“And did you see anything unusual? Out of the ordinary?”

“As I’ve said, I saw nothing.”

“Tell me, what exactlyis this ‘experimental field’ going to experiment with?”

Chauncy drew himself up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but these scientific concepts are rather too complex for a non-scientist to comprehend. It’s pointless to answer questions along that line.”

Pendergast smiled in a self-deprecating way. “Well, then, perhaps you could simplify it in a way that any idiot could understand.”

“I suppose I could try. We’re trying to develop a strain of corn for gasohol production—you know what that is?”

Pendergast nodded.

“We need a strain that has high starch content and that produces a natural pesticide which eliminates the need for external pesticides. There’s the idiot explanation, Mr. Pendergast. I trust you followed it.” He gave a quick smile.

Pendergast leaned forward slightly, his face assuming a blank expression. He reminded Corrie of a cat about to pounce. “Dr. Chauncy, how do you plan to prevent cross-pollination? If your genetic strain escaped into this sea of corn around us, there would be no way of putting the genie back into the bottle, so to speak.”

Chauncy looked disconcerted. “We’ll create a buffer zone. We’ll plough a hundred-foot strip around the field and plant alfalfa.”

“And yet, Addison and Markham, in a paper published in the April 2002 issue of the Journal of Biomechanics,stated that cross-pollination by genetically modified corn had been shown to extend several miles beyond the target field. Surely you recall that paper, Dr. Chauncy? Addison and Markham, April—”

“I’m familiar with the paper!” Chauncy said.

“And then you must also know of the work of Engels, Traumerai, and Green, which demonstrated that the 3PJ-Strain 5 genetically modified plant produced a pollen toxic to monarch butterflies. Are you by chance working with the 3PJ strain?”

“Yes, but monarch mortality only occurs in concentrations greater than sixty pollen grains per square millimeter—”

“Which is present within at least three hundred yards downwind of the field, according to a University of Chicago study published in the Proceedings of the Third Annual—”

“I know the bloody paper! You don’t have to cite it to me!”

“Well, then, Dr. Chauncy. I ask again: how are you going to prevent cross-pollination, and how are you going to protect the local butterfly population?”

“That’s what this whole experiment is all about, Pendergast! Those are the veryproblems we’re trying to solve—”

“So Medicine Creek will be, in effect, a guinea pig location to test possible solutions to these problems?”

For a moment, Chauncy spluttered, unable to reply. He looked apoplectic. Corrie could see he had lost it completely. “Why should I have to justify my important work to a—a—a fucking cop—!”

There was a silence as Chauncy breathed heavily, the sweat pouring off his brow and creeping through the underarms of his suit jacket.

Pendergast turned to Corrie. “I think we’re done here. Did you get it all down, Miss Swanson?”

“Everything, sir, right down to the ‘fucking cop.’ ” She slapped the notebook shut with a satisfying crack and jammed the pen into one of her leather pockets, then gave the group at the table a broad smile. Pendergast nodded, turned to go.

“Pendergast,” Ridder said. His voice was low and very, very cold. Despite herself, Corrie shivered when she saw the look on his face.

Pendergast stopped. “Yes?”

Ridder’s eyes glittered like mica. “You’ve disturbed our lunch and agitated our guest. Isn’t there something you ought to say to him before you leave?”

“I don’t believe so.” Pendergast seemed to consider a moment. “Unless, perhaps, it is a quotation from Einstein: ‘The only thing more dangerous than ignorance is arrogance.’ I would suggest to Dr. Chauncy that in combination, the two qualities are even more alarming.”

Corrie followed Pendergast out through the darkened bowling alley and into the strong sun. As they climbed into the car she couldn’t hold herself back any longer and laughed.

Pendergast looked at her. “Amused?”

“Why not? You really ripped Chauncy a new one.”

“That is the second time I’ve heard that curious expression. What does it mean?”

“It means, well, you made him look like the fool he is.”

“If only it were so. Chauncy and his ilk are anything but fools and are, as such, decidedly more dangerous.”

Thirty

 

It was nine o’clock when Corrie got back to Wyndham Parke Estates, the mobile home community just behind the bowling alley where she shared a double-wide with her mother. After leaving Pendergast she had driven to her secret reading place on the powerline road to kill time, but as soon as the sun had set she got spooked and decided to head on home.