Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Deeper would get the field . . .

It was suddenly coming together.

He tuned out Ridder’s droning voice, trying hard to think. The first killing, Sheila Swegg, had occurred three days before Chauncy’s arrival. The killer struck again the day after he arrived. In both cases, the killer had left all kinds of clues and bizarre shit behind, arrows and bare footprints and what-not, as if he were trying to capitalize on the legend of the Ghost Warriors, the curse of the Forty-Fives. But the strategy didn’t work. Chauncy didn’t pay a lot of attention to the murders, and he could care less about legends and curses. He wasn’t even reading the papers. He was a scientific man looking at things long-term. Ghosts and murders might scare the residents of Medicine Creek, but they just didn’t register with Chauncy.

And then, the night before Chauncy was to announce Medicine Creek got the field, he himself comes up dead.

Could it be any clearer? This wasn’t a serial killer. And it wasn’t someone local, like Pendergast believed. It was someone who had a lot to lose if the experimental field went to Medicine Creek. Someone from Deeper. Art was right: there was a shitload of money at stake here, maybe even the future of the town– eithertown. Deeper was hurting, too. Christ, in the last thirty years they were down fifty percent in population, worse than Medicine Creek. They were bigger, they had farther to fall, and they didn’t even have the turkey plant.

It was kill or be killed. Deeper.

“You following me?” Ridder was shouting.

Hazen looked at him. “Art,” he said abruptly, “I’ve got some important business to take care of.”

“You haven’t heard a goddamn word I’ve said!”

Hazen placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to solve these murders, and maybe even get that field back for Medicine Creek. You just wait.”

“And how the hell do you plan to do that?”

But Hazen was already walking back to his car. Ridder followed, waiting for an answer. Hazen paused, his hand on the door handle. “And another thing. You’re right about that FBI agent. He’s the source of the whole problem.”

“He’s the killer, you mean!”

The sheriff opened the door. “Art, don’t be an idiot. He’s no killer. But he isthe one who’s screwed everything up. He’s the one who came roaring in here, insisting it was a serial killer. Insisting it was someone local. He got the investigation off on the wrong foot right from the get-go. Got me so confused I wasn’t thinking straight. Made me doubt my own instincts.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

“See what?”

Hazen grinned, gave Art’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Let me take care of this, Art. Trust me.”

Hazen swung into his cruiser, unhooked the radio. Pendergast had shown up without a car and driver, no backup, and he hadn’t liaised with the local Dodge office. The son of a bitch was freelancing. It was time to put an end to that, once and for all.

Hazen punched the radio, spoke into it. “Harry? Sheriff Hazen here from Medicine Creek. Listen, this is important. It’s about the killings. You know anyone in the FBI field office in Dodge who’s in a position to do me a favor? Yeah, I need to call in a big one.” He listened for a moment, nodded. “Thanks a lot, Harry.”

As he hung up the radio, Ridder leaned in the window, his face rashy from the heat. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, Hazen. The future of Medicine Creek is at stake here.”

Hazen grinned. “May all your dreams come true, Art.”

He gunned the engine and pointed the big cruiser east, toward Dodge.

Thirty-Four

 

Smit Ludwig sat disconsolately at Maisie’s counter, displaced from his usual corner booth by a loud group of AP reporters, or maybe they were National Enquireror Weekly World News.It hardly mattered. The diner was full of reporters and townspeople, who seemed to have gravitated there as the place to go, to gossip, to get reassurance, to share news and speculate. Each new murder had brought more reporters, and each time they’d stayed a little longer. But it wasn’t just reporters who were choking the usually quiet eatery. There was Mrs. Bender Lang and her gaggle of blue-rinsed beauties; there was Ernie the mechanic at another table with his buddies; there was Swede Cahill, who’d kept the Wagon Wheel closed for the day; there was the Gro-Bain contingent, workers at one table, management at the other. The place was full, the noise level like a New York City club. The only one who seemed to be missing was Art Ridder himself.

Where, Ludwig asked himself, was he going to turn for the rest of the story? He’d had a taste of being a real reporter—just a little taste, true, but he found himself liking it nevertheless. He’d recounted the curse of the Forty-Fives, he’d written up the Ghost Massacre, he’d covered all the gossip in town along those lines. The scalping of Gasparilla with some kind of primitive knife, on top of the arrows left with the Swegg corpse, had really gotten the rumor mill in high pitch. He had written up the killings and the church riot and he had the story on Chauncy’s disappearance in the can. But he wanted to take it one step further. He needed something new and he needed it for tomorrow.

A real reporter wouldn’t be sitting in a diner nursing his coffee. A real reporter would be out in the field talking to the cops, getting the lowdown. That bully, Hazen: there must be some kind of complaint he could make. What did you do if the police didn’t cooperate, if they threatened to arrest you just for doing your job?

For the first time in his life, Ludwig had gotten a story between his teeth. It was real, and it was big. He had broken it and he was in the best position to finish it. My God, he’d earnedthat, at least. At sixty-two years old, it would be nice to go out with a bang. His grandkids could look over the yellowing issues of the Courier,turning the pages like precious parchment, and say, “Remember those murders back in ’03? Our granddad covered them. Boy, he was some reporter.”

This pleasant little daydream faded as a man climbed onto the stool next to his. Ludwig turned to find the man sticking out his hand in greeting. A young, fresh, eager face filled his field of view. There was the stubble, the butt hanging off the lip, the mussed-up hair, the skewed tie, but despite all the affectation he still looked like a kid trying to be a reporter.

Smit took the hand.

“Joe Rickey, Boston Globe.”

“Howdy-do.” Smit shook the hand, a little surprised. Boston Globe? He was a long way from home.

“Smit Ludwig, right? Cry County Courier?”

Ludwig nodded.

“Hot enough for you?”

“I’ve seen it hotter.”

“Yeah? Well, I haven’t.” The man plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser, dabbed it across his temples. “I’ve been here for two days and I can’t get dick on this story. I promised my editor something different, you know; a little piece of Americana. That’s my column: ‘Americana.’ People in Boston like to read about stuff that goes on in the rest of the country. Like these killings here, a man boiled, buttered, and sugared.” He shuddered with pleasure.

Ludwig looked at the kid. In an odd way he reminded him of himself, forty years ago. The Boston Globe? The kid must have talent. He looked J-school, smart and eager but without real-life reporting skills.

“Anyway, that redneck sheriff of yours and those state police storm troopers won’t give me the time of day. But you, you’re local, you know where the bodies are buried. So to speak. Am I right?”

“Sure.” Ludwig wasn’t about to tell the kid he was in the same boat.

“I’m going to be in deep shit, after all the Globepaid to send me out here, if I come back empty-handed.”

“It was your idea?” Ludwig asked.

“Yeah. It took a lot of persuading, too.”

Ludwig felt for the kid. It could have been himself, if he’d taken that scholarship to Columbia instead of the copy-boy job at the Courier,back when it was more than a one-man paper. A fateful decision, but one that curiously enough he’d never regretted making. Especially as he read the desperation, the ambition, the fear and hope in the young man’s eyes.

The man leaned closer, dropping his voice. “I was just wondering. Is there anything you might like to share with me? I swear, I’d hold it back until you publish first.”

“Well now,” Ludwig paused. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Rickey—”

“Joe.”

“Well, Joe, I don’t really have anything new at this point myself.”

“But surely you could get something?”

Ludwig looked at the kid. In a way he even looked like himself, forty years before. “I could always try,” he said.

“I’ve got to file by eleven tonight.”

Ludwig glanced at his watch. Three-thirty.

At that moment the door burst open and Corrie Swanson came barging into the diner, tossing back her purple hair, all the little chains and doohickeys pinned to her tank top astir.

“Two large iced coffees to go,” she said, “one black, one with double cream and sugar.”

Ludwig watched her, palm resting on her hip, elbow jutting out, tapping her change impatiently on the counter, ignoring everybody in the place. She was working for Pendergast, his girl Friday. And here she was, getting two coffees to go.

To go where?

But even as he asked the question, Ludwig guessed the answer. Once again, Pendergast would come to his rescue.

Maisie delivered the coffees. Corrie paid and turned away.

Ludwig gave Rickey a quick smile and stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.” He started to take out some money but Rickey stopped him. “Coffee’s on me.”

Ludwig nodded and was up and out the door after her. As he left, he heard Rickey’s voice: “I’ll be here, Mr. Ludwig. And thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Thirty-Five

 

All FBI buildings look the same,Hazen thought as he squinted up at the white, slablike facade with the smoked windows, burning in the afternoon sun: brick-shithouse ugly. He tucked in his shirt, straightened his tie, ground out his cigarette on the asphalt, and adjusted his hat. Then he passed through the double doors into a blast of cold air that, had it been wintertime, would have caused an uproar of complaint.

He paused at the desk, signed in, got directions, clipped a temporary ID to his lapel, and headed down the polished linoleum hall for the elevator. Second floor, second right, third door on the left . . .He repeated the directions in his head.

The elevator opened onto a long hall, decorated with government bulletins and typed lists of esoteric directives. As he walked along it, Hazen noticed that every door was open, and inside each office sat men and women in white shirts. Jesus Christ, there weren’t enough crimes in the entire state of Kansas to keep this bunch busy. What the hell did they do all day?

Hazen threaded the hallways, finally locating an open door labeledPAULSON, J., SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE . Within, a woman in cat’s-eye glasses was pecking away at her computer with robotic precision. She glanced up, then nodded him past into an inner office.

This office seemed as sterile as the rest of the building, but there was at least a framed photo on the wall of its occupant riding a horse, and another picture on the desk of the guy with his wife and kids. The man himself pushed his chair back from his desk, rose, and held out his hand.

“Jim Paulson.”

Hazen grasped it and was just about crushed. Paulson indicated a seat, then settled back into his chair, threw one leg over the other, and leaned back.

“Well, Sheriff Hazen, what can I do for you?” Paulson said. “A friend of Harry McCullen is a friend of mine.”

No bullshit, no small talk. Here was Mr. Straight-Shooter, crew-cut, fit, dressed in a decent suit, blue eyes, even dimples when he smiled. Probably had a dick as big as a bargepole. A wife’s dream.

Hazen knew just how to play it. He was the small-town sheriff, just trying to do his job.

“Well, now, Mr. Paulson, it’s right kind of you to see me—”

“Jim, please.”

Hazen smiled a self-deprecating little smile. “Jim, you probably don’t know Medicine Creek. We’re a town down Deeper way.”

“I’ve sure heard of it, what with the recent killings.”

“Then you know we’re a small town with solid American values. We’re a close-knit community and we trust each other. And as sheriff, I’m the embodiment of that trust. You know that better than I. It’s more than just law enforcement. It’s about trust.”

Paulson nodded sympathetically.

“And then these killings happened.”

“Yes. Tragic.”

“And being a little town, we can use all the help we can get.”

Paulson smiled, dimpled. “Sheriff, we’d love to help you with this case, but we need evidence of interstate flight or other interstate or terrorist activity—well, Sheriff, you know when the FBI can justify involvement. Unless there’s something I’m not aware of, my hands are tied.”

Perfect,thought Hazen. He feigned surprise. “Oh, but Jim, that’s just it. We’re already getting help from the FBI. Right from the beginning. You didn’t know?”

Jim Paulson’s smile froze on his features. After a moment, he shifted position. “Right. Of course. Now that you mention it.”

“That’s what I’m here about. This Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI. He’s been on the case since day one. You know all about him, right?”

Paulson shifted again, a little uneasily. “I have to tell you I wasn’t fully aware of this man’s activities.”

“You weren’t? He says he’s out of the New Orleans office. I thought he’d liaised with you. Isn’t that the usual courtesy?”

He paused. Paulson was silent.

“Anyway, Jim, I’m sorry. I just assumed . . .” he let his voice trail off.

Paulson picked up the phone. “Darlene? Pull me the jacket on a Special Agent Pendergast, New Orleans office. That’s right, Pendergast.” He hung up.

“Anyway, the reason I’m here is that, with all due respect, I wanted to ask the FBI to withdraw him from the case.”

Paulson tilted his eye at him. “Is that so?” A reddish blush was creeping up his well-shaven neck.

“I told you that Medicine Creek can use all the help it can get. And, normally, that’s true. Now, I know I’m just a small-town Kansas sheriff, but we’ve got help from the Dodge forensic unit and the state police, and—well, to tell you the truth, Special Agent Pendergast has been . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he was reluctant to criticize one agent to another.

“Has been what?”

“Just a little heavy-handed. And not respectful of local law enforcement.”

“I see.” Paulson was looking more pissed by the minute.

Hazen leaned toward the desk, lowered his voice confidentially. “To tell you God’s own truth, Jim, he goes around in expensive suits and handmade English shoes quoting poetry.”

Paulson nodded. “Right.”

The phone buzzed and Paulson picked it up with alacrity. “Darlene? Great. Bring it in.”

A moment later the secretary came in, a long computer printout trailing from one hand. She gave it to Jim, who touched her hand lightly in response.

Secretary’s dream,revised Hazen, his eye falling on the picture on the desk of Paulson with his wife and kids. Cute wife, too. Nice to have two of them.

Paulson was scrutinizing the printout. A low whistle escaped his lips.

“Quite a guy, this Pendergast. First name Al—Al . . . Christ, I can’t even pronounce it. FBI All-National Pistol-Shooting, First Place, 2002; FBI Bronze Cluster for Distinguished Service, 2001; Gold Eagle for Valor, 2000 and 1999; Distinguished Service Cluster, ’98; another Gold Eagle in ’97; four Purple Heart Ribbons for injuries received in the line of duty. It goes on. Done a lot of casework in New York City—figures—and there’s a bunch of earlier, classified assignments in here, with classified decorations to boot. Military, by the look of them. Who the hell isthis guy?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Hazen said.

Jim Paulson was really mad now. “And who the hell does he think he is, coming into Kansas like some kind of hot shot? The case isn’t even FBI purview.”

Hazen sat tight, saying nothing.

Paulson slapped down the printout. “Nobody in this office authorized him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to stop by and present credentials.” He picked up the phone. “Darlene, get me Talmadge in K.C.”

“Yes, Mr. Paulson.”

A moment later the telephone rang. Paulson picked it up. He glanced at Hazen. “Sheriff, if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the outer office?”

Hazen passed the time in the outer office getting a better look at Miss Cat’s Eyes. Behind those silly glasses was a pert little face; below them was a nice twitchy figure. It wasn’t a long wait. Within five minutes, Paulson emerged. He was calm again, smiling. The dimples were back.

“Sheriff?” he said. “Leave your fax number with my secretary.”

“Sure thing.”

“In a day or two we’ll be faxing you a cease-and-desist order, which you will be asked to serve on Special Agent Pendergast. Nobody in the New Orleans office knows what he’s up to. All the New York office would say is that he’s supposed to be on vacation. He has peace officer status here, of course, but that’s it. It doesn’t appear he’s actually broken any rules, but this is highly irregular, and these days we have to be exceptionally careful.”

Hazen tried to maintain the look of grave concern on his face, although he could hardly keep himself from shouting for joy.

“This guy has got some big-time friends in the Bureau, but it seems he also has some big-time enemies. So just wait for the order, say nothing, and deliver it with courtesy when it comes in. That’s all. Any problems, here’s my card.”

Hazen pocketed the card. “I understand.”

Paulson nodded. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Sheriff Hazen.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Another flash of the dimples, a glance and wink at Miss Cat’s Eyes, and the head of the field office withdrew.

A day or two,Hazen thought as he glanced at his watch. He could hardly wait.

It was now three o’clock. He had a trip to make to Deeper.

Thirty-Six

 

Corrie maneuvered her Gremlin over the dirt track at a crawl, one-handed, balancing the two iced coffees in her lap to keep them from spilling. The ice was mostly melted already, and her thighs were wet and numb. The car jounced over a particularly deep rut, and she winced: her muffler had been dangling rather loosely under the chassis lately, and she didn’t want it torn off by one of these murderous gullies.

Ahead, the low shoulders of the Mounds reared above the surrounding trees, the light of the afternoon sun turning the grass along their crests into halos of gold. She got as close as she dared, then threw the car into park and eased her way gingerly out of the driver’s seat. Coffees in hand, she climbed the grade into the trees. Bronze thunderheads loomed in the north, already covering a third of the sky, great towering air-mountains with dark streaks at their base. The air was dead, totally dead. But that wouldn’t last long.

She entered the sparse scattering of trees and continued along the path toward the Mounds. There was Pendergast, dark and slim, looking around, his back partly to her. “Looking” really wasn’t the word, she realized: more like staring. Intently. Almost as if he was trying to memorize the very landscape around him.

“Coffee delivery!” she called out, a little too cheerfully. Something about Pendergast sometimes gave her the shivers.

He slowly turned, his eyes focusing on her, then he smiled faintly. “Ah, Miss Swanson. How kind of you. Alas, I drink tea only. Never coffee.”

“Oh. Sorry.” For a moment she felt disappointed, somehow, that she hadn’t been able to please him the way she’d hoped. She shook the thought away: now she could drink both coffees herself. As she looked around, she noticed there were topographical maps and diagrams of all kinds spread out on the ground, held down with rocks. Under another rock was an old journal, its weathered pages full of spidery, childlike script.

“You are kind to think of me, Miss Swanson. I’m almost finished here.”

“What are you doing?”

“Reading the genius loci.And preparing myself.”

“For what?”

“You shall see.”

Corrie sat on a rock and sipped her coffee. It was strong and cold and as sweet as ice cream: just the way she liked it. She watched as Pendergast walked about the area, stopping to stare for minutes at a time in seemingly random directions. Occasionally he would pull out his notebook and jot something down. At other times he would return to one of his maps—some of them looked old, at least nineteenth-century—and make a mark or draw a line. Once Corrie tried to ask a question, but he quietly raised his hand to silence her.

Forty-five minutes passed as the sun began to sink into a swirl of ugly clouds on the western horizon. She watched him, mystified as usual, but with a perverse kind of admiration she didn’t really understand. She was aware of feeling a desire to help him; to impress him with her abilities; to gain his respect and trust. In recent years no teacher, no friend, and certainly not her mother had ever made her feel useful, worthwhile, needed. She felt that way now, with him. She wondered what it was that motivated Pendergast to do this kind of job, to investigate horrible murders, to put himself in danger.

She wondered if perhaps she wasn’t just a little bit in love with him.

But no, that was impossible: not someone with those creepy long fingers and skin as pale as a corpse and strange blond-white hair and cold silver-blue eyes that always seemed to be looking a little too intently at everything, including her. And he was so old,at least forty. Ugh.

Finally Pendergast was finished. He came strolling over, slipping his notebook into his jacket pocket. “I believe I’m ready.”

“I would be, too, if I knew what was up.”

Pendergast knelt on the ground among his maps and documents, gathering them carefully together. “Have you ever heard of a memory palace?”

“No.”

“It is a mental exercise, a kind of memory training, that goes back at least as far as the ancient Greek poet Simonides. It was refined by Matteo Ricci in the late fifteenth century, when he taught the technique to Chinese scholars. I perform a similar form of mental concentration, one of my own devising, which combines the memory palace with elements of Chongg Ran, an ancient Bhutanese form of meditation. I call my technique a memory crossing.”

“You’ve totally lost me.”

“Here’s a simplified explanation: through intense research, followed by intense concentration, I attempt to re-create, in my mind, a particular place at a particular time in the past.”

“In the past? You mean, like time travel?”

“I do not actually travelin time, of course. Instead, I attempt to reconstruct a finite location in time and space within my mind;to place myself within that location; and to then proceed to make observations that could not otherwise be made. It gives me a perspective obtainable in no other way. It fills in gaps, missing bits of data, that otherwise would not even be perceivedas gaps. And it is frequently in these very gaps that the crucial information lies.” He began removing his suit coat. “It’s especially relevant in this particular case, where I have made absolutely no progress through the usual methods, the offices of the good Mrs. Tealander not excepting.”

Pendergast carefully folded his suit coat and laid it across the gathered maps, charts, and journal. Corrie was startled to see a large weapon strapped beneath one arm.

“Are you going to do it now?” Corrie said, feeling a mixture of curiosity and alarm.

Pendergast lay down on the ground, like a corpse, very still. “Yes.”

He folded his hands on his chest.

“But . . . but what am I supposed to do?”

“You are here to watch over me. If you hear or see anything unusual, wake me. A good hard shake should bring me back.”

“But—”

“Do you hear those birds? Those chirping grasshoppers? If you hear them stop,you must also awaken me.”

“Okay.”

“Finally, if I do not come back in one hour, you must wake me. Those are the three circumstances under which I am to be awakened. No others. Do you understand?”

“It’s simple enough.”

Pendergast crossed his arms over his chest. If Corrie had been lying there like that, there was no way she could have thought of anything but the hard ground and the stubble underneath her. And yet he seemed to be becoming so still.

“So what time are you going back to?”

“I am going back to the evening of August 14, 1865.”

“The Ghost Massacre?”

“Precisely.”

“But why? What does this have to do with the serial murders?”

“The two are connected, that much I know. Howthey are connected is what I hope to discover. If there is no key to these new killings in the present, then that key must lie in the past. And the past is where I intend to go.”

“But you’re not really going anywhere, are you?”

“I assure you, Miss Swanson, the journey I make is strictly withinmy own mind. But even so, it is a long and dangerous interior journey to terra incognita, perhaps even more dangerous than a physical journey would be.”

“I don’t . . .” Corrie let her voice trail off. Any more questions would be useless.

“Are we ready, Miss Swanson?”

“I guess so.”

“In that case, I shall now ask for your absolute silence.”

Corrie waited. Pendergast remained absolutely still. As the minutes went by, he seemed even to have stopped breathing. The afternoon light poured through the trees as usual, the birds and grasshoppers chirped, the thunderheads continued to rear above the trees. Everything was as before—and yet, somehow, she herself could almost hear a faint whisper of that same late afternoon 140 years before, when thirty Cheyenne had come galloping out of a swirl of dust, bent on a most terrible revenge.

Thirty-Seven

 

Sheriff Hazen pulled into the big parking lot at the Deeper Mall, sped across the nearly empty blacktop, and slid his cruiser into one of the “Law Enforcement Only” spaces outside the Deeper sheriff’s office. Hazen knew the Deeper sheriff, Hank Larssen, well. He was a regular guy, decent, if a little slow on the uptake. Hazen felt a twinge of envy as he walked through the hushed outer office with its humming computers and pretty secretaries. Christ, in Medicine Creek they couldn’t even afford to recharge the AC in the squad cars. Where did these guys get the money?

It was almost five, but everyone was still busy propping up the decrepit Lavender empire. Hazen was well known here, and nobody stopped him as he made his way through the building toward Larssen’s office. The door was shut. He knocked, and then, without waiting for a reply, opened.

Larssen was sitting in his wooden swivel chair, listening to two guys in suits who were both talking at once. They broke off when he entered.

“Perfect timing, Dent,” Larssen said with a quick smile. “This is Seymour Fisk, dean of faculty at KSU, and Chester Raskovich, head of campus security. This is Sheriff Dent Hazen, Medicine Creek.”

Hazen took a seat, giving the two KSU people the once-over. Fisk was a typical academic, bald, jowly, reading glasses dangling from his neck. Chester Raskovich was a type, also: brown suit, heavyset, sweating all over, with close-set eyes and a handshake even more crushing than Agent Paulson’s had been. A cop wannabe if he’d ever seen one.

“I don’t have to tell you why they’re here,” Larssen went on.

“No.” Hazen genuinely liked Hank and he was sorry about what he was going to have to do. He had done nothing but think about his theory, and it amazed even him how beautifully it came together.

“We were just talking about the ramifications for Medicine Creek and Deeper. Regarding the experimental field, I mean.”

Hazen nodded. He was in no rush. Perfect timing, indeed: it was a major stroke of luck the KSU people were there to hear what he had to say.

Fisk leaned forward, resuming what he had been saying before Hazen entered. “The fact is, Sheriff, this tragic killing changes everything. I just don’t see how we can proceed with Medicine Creek now as the site for the field. That leaves Deeper, by default. What I must have from you, Sheriff, are assurances that the negative effects won’t spill over here. I can’t emphasize enough that publicity will be intolerable. Intolerable. The whole point of locating the field in this, ah, quiet corner of the state was to avoid the kind of circus atmosphere and excess publicity generated by those with irrational fears of so-called genetic engineering.”

Sheriff Larssen nodded sagely, his face a mask of seriousness. “Medicine Creek is twenty miles away and the crimes are strictly confined to that town. The authorities—and Sheriff Hazen will confirm this—believe the killer is local to Medicine Creek. I can assure you in the strongest terms that there will be no spillover to Deeper. We haven’t had a homicide here since 1911.”

Hazen said nothing.

“Good,” said Fisk, with a nod that set his jowls shaking. “Mr. Raskovich is here to assist the police”—he nodded toward Sheriff Hazen—“in finding the psychopath who committed this horrendous crime, and also in finding Dr. Chauncy’s body, which we understand is still missing.”

“That is correct.”

“He’s also going to interface with you, Mr. Larssen, in making sure the publicity and security environment of Deeper is appropriately maintained. Of course, any announcement of the new location of the field has been put off until this situation settles down, but just among us I can say it will be Deeper. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Sheriff Hazen, any news on the investigation at your end?”

This was what Hazen had been waiting for. “Yes,” he said mildly. “As a matter of fact, there is.”

They all leaned toward him. Hazen settled back in his chair, letting the moment build. Finally, he spoke.

“It appears that Chauncy went down near the creek and collected some last-minute corn samples, which he tagged and labeled. They say he was waiting for the corn to get ripe or something.”

All three of them nodded.

“The other news is the killer isn’t local. Local to Medicine Creek, that is.” Hazen said this as casually as possible.

This perked everybody up.

“It also appears that these killings aren’t the work of some psychopathic serial killer, either. That’s what they were meantto look like. The scalping, the bare feet, the hint of a connection to the old Ghost Massacre and the curse of the Forty-Fives—all that’s just window dressing. No: these killings are the work of someone with a motive as old as the hills—money.”