Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Now he reallyhad their attention.

“How so?” Fisk asked.

“The killer struck first three days before Dr. Chauncy’s scheduled arrival. Then he struck again the day afterChauncy arrived. Coincidence?”

He let the word hang in the air a moment.

“What do you mean?” Larssen was getting worried.

“The first two killings didn’t have the desired effect. And that is why Chauncy had to be killed.”

“I’m not following you,” Larssen said. “What desired effect are you talking about?”

“To persuade Chauncy that Medicine Creek wasn’t the right place for the experimental field.”

He had dropped his bombshell. There was a stunned silence.

He continued. “The first two killings were an attempt to convince KSU to forgo Medicine Creek and site the field in Deeper. But it didn’t work. So the killer had no choice but to kill Chauncy himself. Right on the eve of his big announcement.”

“Now wait—” began Sheriff Larssen.

“Let him finish,” said Fisk, placing his tweedy elbows on his tweedy knees.

“These so-called serial killings were nothing more than a way to make Medicine Creek look unsuitable for a sensitive project like this—a way to make sure the experimental field went to Deeper. The mutilations and Indian crap were all designed to stir up Medicine Creek, get everyone talking about the curse, make us all look like a bunch of superstitious yahoos.” Hazen turned to Hank. “If I were you, Hank, I’d start asking myself: who had the most to lose with the field going to Medicine Creek?”

“Now hold on here,” the Deeper sheriff said, rising in his chair. “You’re not suggesting that the killer is from Deeper, I hope.”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“You haven’t a shred of proof! What you’ve got is nothing more than a theory. A theory!Where’s the evidence?”

Hazen waited. Better to let Hank blow off a little steam.

“This is ridiculous! I can’t imagine anyone here brutally murdering three people over a damn cornfield.”

“It’s a lot more than a ‘damn cornfield,’ ” said Hazen coolly, “as I’m sure Professor Fisk can tell you.”

Fisk nodded.

“This project is important. There’s big money in it, for the town and for KSU. Buswell Agricon is one of the biggest agricultural companies in the world. There are patents, royalties, laboratories, grants, you name it, up for grabs here. So Hank, I’ll ask you the question again: who in Deeper had the most to lose?”

“I’m not going to open an investigation on the basis of a crackpot theory.”

Hazen smiled. “You don’t have to, Hank. I’m in charge of the case. I’llopen the investigation. All I ask is your cooperation.”

Larssen turned to Fisk and Raskovich. “Here in Deeper, we don’t habitually send law enforcement off on wild-goose chases.”

Fisk returned his gaze. “Frankly, what Sheriff Hazen is saying makes sense to me.” He turned to Raskovich. “What do you think, Chester?”

When Raskovich spoke, the sound came from deep within his barrel chest. “I’d say it’s definitely worth looking into.”

Larssen looked from one to the other. “We’ll look into it, of course, but I sincerely doubt the killer is going to turn up here. This is premature—”

Hazen broke in smoothly. “Dr. Fisk, with all due respect, I think you should keep your options open as to where the field should be sited. If the killer’s been trying to influence your decision . . .” He paused significantly.

“I certainly see your point, Sheriff.”

“But the decision’s already been made,” Larssen said.

“Nothing is engraved in stone,” said Fisk. “If the killer’s from Deeper—and I have to say the theory stacks up nicely—then, frankly, this is the lastplace we’d want to site the field.”

Larssen shut up. He was smart enough to know when to do that, at least. He gazed at Hazen, his face dark. Hazen felt sorry for him. He wasn’t a bad guy, really, even if he was a little short on both brains andimagination.

Hazen rose. “I have to get back to Medicine Creek—we’ve still got a body to find—but I’m coming back first thing tomorrow to start my investigation. Hank, I hope we can work together in a friendly way.”

“Sure we can, Dent.” Hank had to choke out the words.

Hazen turned to the KSU men. “Nice to meet you. I’ll keep you posted.”

“We appreciate that, Sheriff.”

Hazen plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and fixed an eye on Raskovich. “When you get to Medicine Creek, come by my office. We’ll see about getting you temporary peace officer status. It’s the modern-day equivalent of being deputized. We’re going to need your help, Mr. Raskovich.”

The campus security chief nodded as if this were the most normal thing in the world, his face a mask of stolidity, but Hazen knew he had just scored big with Chief Campus Doorshaker Chester Raskovich.

Thirty-Eight

 

The discipline of Chongg Ran, invented by the Confucian sage Ton Wei in the T’ang dynasty, was later transported from China to Bhutan, where it was further refined over a period of half a millennium at the Tenzin Torgangka monastery, one of the most isolated in the world. It is a form of concentration that marries utter emptiness with hyperawareness, the fusion of rigorous intellectual study with pure sensation.

The first challenge of Chongg Ran is to visualize white and black simultaneously—not as gray. Only one percent of adherents are able to move beyond this point. Far more difficult mental exercises await. Some involve simultaneous, self-contradictory imaginary games of Go, or more recent studious pastimes such as chess or bridge. In others, one must learn to fuse knowledge with nescience, sound with silence, self with annihilation, life with death, the universe with the quark.

Chongg Ran is an exercise in antitheses. It is not an end in itself, but a means to an end. It brings with it the gift of inexplicable mental powers. It is the ultimate enhancement of the human mind.

Pendergast lay on the ground, maintaining acute awareness of his surroundings: the smell of dry weeds, the feeling of sticky heat, the stubble and pebbles pressing into his back. He isolated every individual sound, every chirp, rustle, flutter, whisper, down to the faint breathing of his assistant sitting some yards away. With his eyes closed, he proceeded to visualize the surrounding scene exactly as if he were seeing it with his own eyes, spread out below him: sight without seeing.Piece by piece he assembled it: the trees, the three mounds, the play of shade and light, the cornfields stretching out below, the towering thunderheads above, the air, the sky, the living earth.

Soon the landscape had taken complete form. And now, having isolated each object, one by one he could extinguish them from his awareness.

He started with scents. He removed, one by one, the complex perfumes of the cottonwood trees, humidity, ozone from the approaching storm, the grass and leaves and dust. Then, sensation: he proceeded to extinguish, one at a time, every feeling impinging on his consciousness: the pebbles under his back, the heat, the crawling of an ant over his hand.

Next came sound. The trillings of the insects disappeared first, then the rustling of the leaves, the desultory tapping of a woodpecker, the fluttering and calling of the birds in the trees, the faint movement of air, the distant rumble of thunder.

The landscape still existed, but now it was a tableau of absolute silence.

Next, he suppressed in himself the very sensation of corporeality, that innate feeling of having a body and knowing where that body is in space and time.

Now the real concentration began. One by one, Pendergast removed each object in the landscape. He stripped it away, in the reverse order of its arrival. First the road disappeared, then the corn, then the trees, the town, the grass, the rocks, then the very light itself. A mathematically pure landscape was left: bare, empty, dark as night, existing only in form.

He waited five minutes, then ten, holding this empty fractal perfection in his head, preparing himself. And then, slowly, he began to put the landscape back together; but it would not be the same landscape he had just stripped away.

First the light returned. Then the grass rolled over the landscape, virgin tallgrass prairie dotted with prairie aster, wild poppies, cornflowers, rocketweed, and lupine. Then he piled back the bronze mountains of cloud, the rocky outcrops, the shady creek wandering free across the Great Plains. Now other things began to take shape: a herd of buffalo in the far distance; shallow water pans blazing silver in the late afternoon light; and everywhere an infinite array of wild grasses, undulating from horizon to horizon like a great rippling sea of green.

A thread of smoke came up from below. There were black dots of people moving about, a few ragged tents. Fifty horses were grazing the bottomlands by the creek, their noses in the grass.

Slowly, Pendergast permitted first the sounds, and then the smells, to return: voices laughing and cursing; fecund humidity; the whiff of woodsmoke and roasting buffalo steaks; the distant whinny of a horse; the jingle of spurs and the clank of cast iron cookware.

Pendergast waited, watchful, all senses alert. The voices became clearer.

Didier’s buckskin come up lame again,said a voice.

The chunk of wood on fire. Chuck’s about ready.

That boy wouldn’t know where to piss less’n his mammy aimed his dingus for him.

Laughter. Men were standing around, battered tin plates in hand. The scene was still vague, tremulous, not yet fully formed.

I can’t wait to get to Dodge and strip off this goddamned dust.

Use this to clean out what’s in your throat, Jim.

The late afternoon sun refracted through a bottle and there was the sloshing of drink. There was a clank, the sound of an iron lid settling. A gust of wind swept up a skein of dust, settled back down. A piece of wood popped in the fire.

When we get to Dodge I’ll introduce you to a lady who can clean the dust off another part.

More laughter.

Whiskey over here, amigo.

What’s this you’ve been feeding us, Hoss, boiled sheepshit?

No tickee no washee, Crowe.

Whiskey over here, amigo.

Gradually, the scene crystallized. Men were standing around a fire at the base of a mound. They were wearing greasy cowboy hats, frayed bandannas, ragged shirts, and pants that looked so stiff from dirt and grease they almost crackled as they walked. All had scraggly beards.

The hill was a dusty island in the sea of grass. Below, the land swept away, open and free. The thick scrub that then covered the base of the mounds cast long shadows. The wind was picking up, rippling the grass in restless, random waves. The clean scent of wildflowers drifted on the air, mingling the sweet smell of cottonwood smoke, simmering beans, unwashed humanity. In the lee of one mound the men had unrolled their bedrolls and upended their saddles, using the sheepskin linings as headrests. There were a couple of pitched pole tents, badly rotted. Beyond, partway down the hill, stood one of the pickets, alert, carrying a rifle. Another picket was on the far side.

As the wind picked up, more clouds of dust swirled upward.

Chuck’s ready.

A man with a narrow face, narrow eyes, and a scar across his chin stood lazily and shook out his legs, causing his spurs to jingle. Harry Beaumont, the leader. You, Sink, get Web and go relieve the pickets. You eat later.

But last time—

Any more out of you, Sink, and I’ll fish the crik with your balls.

There was some muffled laughter.

Remember back at Two Forks, that Lo with the giant balls? The javelina sure did fight over those, remember?

More laughter.

Musta had some kind of disease.

They’re all diseased.

You didn’t worry ’bout that when you went for the squaws, Jim.

Mind shutting the hell up while I eat my chuck?

From one side, a man began to sing in a fine low voice:

Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle,

I hung and I rattled with them long-horn cattle,

Last night I was on guard and the leader broke ranks,

I hit my horse down the shoulders, I spurred him in the flanks,

The wind commenced to blow, the rain began to fall,

Hit looked, by grab, like we was going to lose ’em all.

The two pickets came back and propped their rifles on their saddles, then came over with their plates, shaking the rising dust from their shirts and leggings. The cook ladled the beans and stew meat and then went and sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Damn you, Hoss, this stew is half dirt!

Aids the digestion.

Whiskey over here, amigo.

A broad sweep of prairie rippled now with the wind. The wind could be seen as it approached, pressing the grass down, exposing its paler side, a wave of lighter green. It struck the bottom of the mounds, picking up dust, swirling it up into a curtain. The sun, sitting on the horizon, dimmed abruptly.

There was a stasis, a suspended moment, and then the sudden pounding of hooves.

What the hell?

The horses, something’s spooked the horses.

Those ain’t ours.

Cheyenne!

The guns get your guns get the guns.

Instant chaos. The cloud of dust, rising higher, parted and a white horse, painted with blood-red handprints, appeared, followed by another and another. A cry arose. The stream of horses divided, one on either side of the scrambling men: horses that, quite literally, had appeared out of nowhere.

Aieeeeeeeeeee—!

A sudden hissing in the air. The arrows came from two directions, followed by a tattoo of thuds. Screams, groans, the rattle of spurs, the sound of bodies hitting the ground.

The dust had now rolled over them, enveloping them in a fog through which could be dimly glimpsed the shapes of men running, falling, spinning. There was a shot, then another, disorganized. A horse fell heavily against the ground. A vague figure fired point-blank into the head of the Indian atop it, sending up a small cloud of dark matter.

The dust rose and fell in cascading sheets; the wind moaned and muttered; the wounded screamed and choked. The sound of beating hooves faded, stopped momentarily, then resumed.

They’re coming back.

Back, they’re turning back, get ready men.

The ghostly shapes of the riders appeared again, a second dividing stream.

Aieeeee-yip-yip-yip-aieeeee!

Now there was a coordinated volley of shots from those still alive, kneeling on the exposed ground, taking careful aim. Another terrible twanging and hissing of death on the air, the sound of a hundred arrows thudding into dirt and bodies, more falling horses, the crash and clink of bridle and spur, men clawing at their clothes, more firing. A man suddenly appeared out of the dimness, staggering, gargling, trying to pull an arrow from his mouth; another spun around and around with four arrows in his chest; then, abruptly, three more emerged like magic from his back. A horse, standing absolutely still, head hanging, its guts in a steaming pile beneath.

Another pass, a turn, then another. The smell of blood rose, rivers of it running from the dead horses and men.

A fifth pass. Now only sporadic shots, quickly silenced by the hiss of arrows. A field in which groaning, wailing, writhing men moved feebly between inert forms. This time the Indians reined in their horses, dismounted, and began walking casually among the wounded, knives out. They became dark forms, bending over dark shapes on the ground. Shrieks, begging, weeping; the wet sound of scalps being ripped away; and then silence.

A man, lying on the ground, faking death, was dragged to his feet. His pleading cut through the dust and the dying moans: Harry Beaumont. The dark forms of the Indians clustered about him, silent, wraithlike, unhurried. The pleading rose in pitch, incomprehensible. He was grasped firmly, his head pulled back. A flash of a steel knife against the dust; a scream. A piece of flesh tossed aside. The Indians worked on the man’s head, arms making short sharp movements as if carving a piece of wood; the screams became hysterical, choked. More red pieces discarded. Another wet ripping sound, more protracted than the others. Another scream. Two final movements, two more pieces dropping to the ground. Another, shorter scream.

And then, with ropes and poles hooked to their saddles, the Indians were dragging their dead horses away into the curtains of dust, heaping their dead warriors on travois and dragging them away as well. In less than a minute, they had disappeared completely into the dust from which they came.

Only one man was left, staggering through the dust, crying. Harry Beaumont. He dropped to his knees at the center of the mounds. He had no face left: no nose, lips, ears, or scalp. Just an oval of raw, red meat where his features had once been.

Rounded.

He rocked on his knees, head drooping, the blood pooling around his ruined jaws and chin and dripping into the ground. A dark hole opened in the bloody oval and a shriek arose:

Thon of a bith I curth thith groun I curth thith groun may it forever be damned may it rain blood for my blood guth for my guth damn thith evil groun—

He fell slowly, gargling and twitching in the bloody dust.

As the wind abated, as the dust settled and vision slowly returned, nothing remained but dead white men. The Cheyenne dead, the dead horses, all were gone. Only the endless grass now, stretching from horizon to horizon. And then a lone figure could be seen rising from a brushy fold in the earth a hundred yards downhill—a boy, previously hidden, who now staggered up in terror and ran across the empty prairie, his little figure fading into the orange glow of the horizon until he could be seen no more.

And then, silence.

Corrie jumped as Pendergast’s eyes flew open, silvery and luminous in the twilight. The hour was up, and she had been about to rouse him. She’d almost woken him earlier, when the birdsong suddenly stopped; but within a minute or two it had resumed and her anxiety had faded. She stood, unsure for a moment what to say. It was now dark under the trees and the muggy night air was filled with the sound of rasping insects.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

Pendergast rose, brushing the leaves, dust, and grass off his coat and pants. His face looked drawn, almost as if he was ill.

“I am fine, thank you,” he answered. His voice was toneless.

Corrie hesitated. She desperately wanted to know what he had seen or discovered, but she found herself afraid to ask.

Pendergast checked his watch. “Eight o’clock.”

He swiftly collected his documents, papers, and notes, and began striding down the track toward the car. She followed, stumbling in her effort to keep up. He was already in the passenger seat, waiting, when she reached her own door and fumbled in the twilight with the handle.

“Please take me back to the Kraus place, Miss Swanson.”

“Right. Okay.”

The car engine turned over, turned again, rattled and shook into life. She turned on the headlights and crept back down the bumpy track.

After a few minutes, she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Well?” she asked. “How’d it go?”

Pendergast’s eyes turned to her, glistening strangely in the night.

“I saw the impossible,” was all he said.

Thirty-Nine

 

The light faded and twilight crept into the air. The silent leaves disclosed, in the open area between the mounds, infrequent glimpses of the man and the girl. They had been talking, their low voices a murmur at this distance, but now there was only silence. The man had lain down and the girl was now sitting on a rock maybe twenty yards away, once in a while getting up to look around. The light had died in the west and only a faint glow lay over the landscape, rapidly turning to night.

The cornfields, dark and still, stretched out beyond the copse of trees. A star had appeared. From his place of concealment, the watcher looked for another star, found it. Then another, and another.

His eyes turned back to the figure on the ground. What in the world was Pendergast doing? Lying there, silently, like a corpse. Two hours had passed—two hours, wasted. It was well after seven o’clock. And now that Globereporter, Joe Rickey, was soon going to be coming up against his deadline. Not to mention Ludwig’s own deadline for the next edition of the Courier.Was this some kind of psychic crap? New Age communication with the spirits? Perhaps there wasa story here after all, only it wasn’t the story he was after. Still, it was the only story around, and he wasn’t going to move until he saw it through.

Smit Ludwig shifted his cramped limbs, yawned. The night crickets stopped chirping at the movement, then resumed: a peaceful, familiar sound. The whole landscape was familiar to him. He had spent his boyhood up at these mounds, playing Cowboys and Indians with his brother or swimming down in the creek. They’d even camped up here a couple of times. The tale of Harry Beaumont and the Forty-Fives, the fact that the Mounds had a sinister reputation, only added to the boyish sense of adventure. He could remember one night in August, camped here, watching the shooting stars. They’d counted to a hundred and then quit. His brother had left Medicine Creek, was now a retired grandfather in Leisure, Arizona. That was a different era back then. Mothers never thought twice about letting their kids run off and play all day long out of sight. Today it was different. The ugly modern world had come to Medicine Creek, bit by bit. And now, these killings. A part of him was glad Sarah hadn’t lived to see this. Even if they found the killer, the town would never be the same.

Ludwig peered again through the gloaming. Pendergast was still lying on the ground, totally motionless. Even a sleeping person shifted once in a while. And nobody slept like that, perfectly straight, legs together, hands folded on the chest. Christ, he was still wearing his shoes. It was very bizarre.

He cursed under his breath. Should he just stand up and interrupt them, ask them what was going on? But somehow he couldn’t do that. He’d waited this long, he’d wait to see what happened when—

Abruptly, he saw Pendergast rise and dust himself off. Ludwig quickly shrank back into the deepest shadows. There was a murmuring of voices, then without further ado the two started walking back toward their car.

Ludwig swore again bitterly. It had been utter folly to follow Corrie: a self-delusion, born of an attempt to help a cub reporter and to find his own new angle on the story. Now the story was gone, the kid would be in trouble, and next day’s Courierwould be left high and dry.

He waited for them to leave, bitterness continuing to rise. What was the hurry? There was no story to write up, nobody to go home to. He might as well just sit here all night. Nobody would miss him or his paper . . .

But Ludwig’s tolerance for self-pity was limited, and before long he, too, had risen. He’d hidden his car well behind Corrie’s, down the road and in the corn, where he knew they would not see it on their way out. He dusted himself off and looked around. The light was now completely gone and the wind had started to pick up—wind at dusk was a sure sign of a coming storm. The leaves started to rustle above his head, then thrashed under a sudden gust. It was very dark, the moon now covered by quick-moving clouds.

He saw a flash of lightning and waited, counting. A faint rumble reached him after almost half a minute.

The storm had a ways to come still.

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 under hisfoot.

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 could feel,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 volunteer corn. He was safe, thank the risen Lord, he was safe! With a sob and a gasp he seized the door handle, pulled open the door.

From the dark semicircle of surrounding corn, the thing launched itself out at him with a rising bellow.

MuuuuuuuUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Ludwig’s gargling scream was swallowed by the shrieking of the wind.

Forty

 

From his suite of rooms on the second floor of the old Kraus place, Pendergast watched a dirty red dawn break along the eastern horizon. Distant lightning had flickered and rumbled all night. And the wind was still rising, rippling the fields of corn, causing the “Kraus’s Kaverns” sign to swivel and shiver on its weatherbeaten post. The trees along the creek, half a mile away, were tossing in the gusts, and dusty sheets rose from the dry fields, carried aloft in rolling folds before disappearing into the dirty sky.

He lowered his eyes from the window. For the hundredth time he went over the memory crossing in his mind, re-creating the preparation, the setting of the scene, the mental deconstruction and reconstruction of the Mounds region, the past events that had followed. It was the first time a memory crossing had failed him. Having had no luck in his investigation into present-day Medicine Creek, he had made the crossing in an attempt to understand the events of the past: to solve the riddle of the curse of the Forty-Fives, to understand what really happened on that day in 1865. But it was as the legends held: the Indians really had appeared out of nowhere, and then vanished back into nowhere.

Yet that was impossible. Unless it was at last time to contemplate a possibility he had always resisted: that there were, in fact, extra-natural forces at work here, forces that he neither apprehended nor comprehended.

It was a most frustrating turn of events indeed.

There was a faint droning sound to the southeast. Raising his head, Pendergast saw the dot of a plane coming in high over the corn. It grew in size, flying across his field of vision, resolving into a Cessna crop duster. As it receded again toward the opposite horizon, it banked and came back—the spotter plane, still looking for Chauncy’s body.