Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

“Any explanation for the, ah, the strange tableau? You got any theory on the arrangement of the body and the various appurtenances?”

“Appurtenances?”

“Yeah. You know, the stuff around it.”

“Not yet.”

“Could this be some kind of satanic cult?”

Tad glanced involuntarily across the street. The black-clad figure had lifted his bag but was still standing there, motionless.

“That’s a possibility we’ll be looking into, for sure,” said Hazen. “We’re obviously dealing with a very sick individual.”

Now Tad noticed the man in black taking a step into the street, strolling nonchalantly toward them. Who could he be? He certainly didn’t look like a reporter, policeman, or traveling salesman. In fact, what he most looked like to Tad Franklin was a murderer. Maybe themurderer.

He noticed that the sheriff was also staring, and even some members of the press had turned around.

Hazen fished a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He resumed talking. “Whether it’s a cult, or a lunatic, or whatever, I just want to emphasize—and Smitty, this will be important for your readers—that we’re dealing with out-of-town, perhaps out-of-state, elements.”

Hazen’s voice faltered as the figure in black stopped at the edge of the crowd. It was already well into the nineties but the man was dressed in black worsted wool, with a starched white shirt and a silk tie knotted tightly at his neck. Yet he looked as cool and crisp as a cucumber. The gaze from his silvery eyes was directed piercingly at Hazen.

A hush fell.

The black-clad figure now spoke. The voice wasn’t loud, but somehow it seemed to dominate the crowd. “An unwarranted assumption,” the figure said.

There was a silence.

Hazen took his time to open the pack, shake out a butt, and slide it into his mouth. He said nothing.

Tad stared at the man. He seemed so thin—his skin almost transparent, his blue-gray eyes so light they looked luminous—that he could have been a reanimated corpse, a vampire fresh from the grave. If he wasn’t the walking dead, he could just as easily have passed for an undertaker; either way, there was definitely the look of death about the man. Tad felt uneasy.

His cigarette lit, Hazen finally spoke. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, mister.”

The man strolled into the crowd, which parted silently, and halted ten feet from the sheriff. The man spoke again, in the mellifluous accent of the deepest South. “The killer works in the blackest night with no moon. He appears and disappears without a trace. Are you really so sure, Sheriff Hazen, that he is not from Medicine Creek?”

Hazen took a long drag, blew a stream of blue smoke in the general direction of the man, and said, “And what makes you such an expert?”

“That is a question best answered in your office, Sheriff.” The man held out his hand, indicating that the sheriff and Tad should precede him into the little headquarters.

“Who the hell are you, inviting me into my own damn office?” Hazen said, beginning to lose his temper.

The man looked mildly at him and answered in the same low, honeyed voice. “May I suggest, Sheriff Hazen, that that equally excellent question is also best answered in private? I mean, for yoursake.”

Before Sheriff Hazen could respond, the man turned to the reporters. “I regret to inform you this press conference is now over.”

To Tad’s absolute amazement, they turned and began shuffling away.

Four

The sheriff took up position behind his battered Formica desk. Tad sat down in his usual chair with a tingling sense of anticipation. The stranger in black placed his bag by the door and the sheriff offered him the hard wooden visitor’s chair that he claimed would break any suspect in five minutes. The man settled into it with one smooth elegant motion, flung one leg over the other, leaned back, and looked at the sheriff.

“Get our guest a cup of coffee,” said Hazen, with a faint smile.

There was enough left in the pot for half a cup, which was quickly passed.

The man accepted it, glanced at it, set it down on the table, and smiled. “You are most kind, but I am a tea drinker myself. Green tea.”

Tad wondered if the man was weird, or possibly a faggot.

Hazen cleared his throat, frowned, shifted his squat body. “Okay, mister, this better be good.”

Almost languidly, the man removed a leather wallet from his jacket pocket, let it fall open. Hazen leaned forward, scrutinized it, sat back with a sigh.

“FBI. Shit-fire. Might have known.” He glanced over at Tad. “We’re running with the big boys now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tad. Although he’d never actually met an FBI agent before, this guy looked exactly the opposite of what he thought an FBI agent should look like.

“All right, Mr., ah—”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Pendergast. Pendergast. I’m bad with names.” Hazen lit another cigarette, sucked on it hard. “You here on the crows murder?” The words came out with a cloud of smoke.

“Yes.”

“And is this official?”

“No.”

“So it’s just you.”

“So far.”

“What office are you out of?”

“Technically, I’m with the New Orleans office. But I operate under, shall we say, a special arrangement.” He smiled pleasantly.

Hazen grunted. “How long will you be staying?”

“For the duration.”

Tad wondered, For the duration of what?

Pendergast turned his pale eyes on Tad and smiled. “Of my vacation.”

Tad was speechless. Did the guy read his mind?

“Your vacation?” Hazen shifted again. “Pendergast, this is irregular. I’m going to need some kind of official authorization from the local field office. We’re not running a Club Med for Quantico here.”

There was a silence. Then the man named Pendergast said, “Surely you don’t want me here officially,Sheriff Hazen?”

When this was greeted with silence, Pendergast continued pleasantly. “I will not interfere with your investigation. I will operate independently. I will consult with you regularly and share information with you when appropriate. Any, ah, ‘collars’ will be yours. I neither seek nor will I accept credit. All I ask are the usual law enforcement courtesies.”

Sheriff Hazen frowned, scratched, frowned again. “As for the collar, frankly I don’t give a damn who gets the credit. I just want to catch the son of a bitch.”

Pendergast nodded approvingly.

Hazen took a drag, exhaled, took another. He was thinking. “All right, then, Pendergast, take your busman’s holiday here. Just keep a low profile and don’t talk to the press.”

“Naturally not.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I was hoping to receive the benefit of your advice.”

The sheriff barked a laugh. “There’s only one place in town, and that’s the Kraus place. Kraus’s Kaverns. You passed it on the way in, big old house set out in the corn about a mile west of town. Old Winifred Kraus rents out rooms on the top floor. Not that she has many takers these days. And she’ll talk you into a tour of her cave. You’ll probably be the first visitor she’s had in a year.”

“Thank you,” said Pendergast, rising and picking up his bag.

Hazen’s eyes followed the movement. “Got a car?”

“No.”

The sheriff’s lip curled slightly. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“I enjoy walking.”

“You sure? It’s almost a hundred degrees out there. And I wouldn’t exactly call that suit of yours appropriate dress for these parts.” Hazen was grinning now.

“Is it indeed that hot?” The FBI agent turned and reached for the door, but Hazen had one more question.

“How did you learn about the murder so quick?”

Pendergast paused. “By arrangement, I have someone at the Bureau watching the cable and e-mail traffic of local law enforcement agencies. Whenever a crime within a certain category occurs, I’m notified of it immediately. But as I said, I’m here for personal reasons, having recently concluded a rather strenuous investigation back east. It’s simply that I’m intrigued by the rather, ah, interesting nature of this particular case.”

Something in the way the man said “interesting” raised the hairs on the back of Tad’s neck.

“And just what ‘certain category’ are we talking about here?” The sarcasm was creeping back into the sheriff’s voice.

“Serial homicide.”

“Funny, I’ve only seen one murder so far.”

The figure gradually turned back. His cool gray eyes settled on Sheriff Hazen. In a very low voice he said, “So far.”

Five

Winifred Kraus paused in her cross-stitch to gaze at the very strange sight out her parlor window. She felt vaguely frightened. A tall man in black was walking down the middle of the road, carrying a leather valise. He was several hundred yards away, but Winifred Kraus had sharp eyes and she could see that he was ghostly-looking, thin and insubstantial in the bright summer light. She was frightened because she remembered, as a child many years ago, her father telling her that this was the way death would arrive; that it would happen when she least expected it: just a man strolling down the road, coming up the steps and knocking on the door. A man dressed in black. And when you looked down at his feet, instead of shoes you’d see cloven hooves, and then you’d smell the brimstone and fire and that would be it and you’d be dragged screaming into hell.

The man was approaching with long, cool strides, his shadow eating up the road before him. Winifred Kraus told herself she was being silly, that it was just a story, and that death didn’t carry a valise anyway. But why would anyone be dressed in black at this time of year? Not even Pastor Wilbur wore black in this heat. And this man wasn’t just wearing black, but a black suit, jacket and all. Was he selling something? But then where was his car? Nobody walked on the Cry County Road—no one. At least not since she was a little girl, before the war, when the drifters used to come through in the early spring, heading for the fields of California.

The man had paused at the spot where her rutted and dusty drive met the macadam of the road. He looked up at the house, right at the parlor it seemed, and Winifred automatically laid aside her cross-stitch. Now he was stepping into her lane. He was coming to the house. He was actually coming to the house. And his hair was so white, his skin so pale, his suit so black . . .

There was the low rap of the doorknocker. Winifred’s hand flew to her mouth. Should she answer it? Should she wait for him to go away? Wouldhe go away?

She waited.

The knock came again, more insistent.

Winifred frowned. She was being an old silly. Taking a deep breath, she rose from the chair, walked across the parlor into the foyer, unlocked the door, and opened it a crack.

“Miss Kraus?”

“Yes?”

The man actually bowed. “You aren’t by chance the Miss Winifred Kraus who offers lodging to travelers? And, I’m given to understand, some of the most excellent home cooking in Cry County, Kansas?”

“Why, yes.” Winifred Kraus opened the door a little wider, delighted to find a polite gentleman instead of Death.

“My name is Pendergast.” He offered his hand, and after a moment Winifred took it. It was surprisingly cool and dry.

“You gave me quite a start, walking up the road like that. Nobody walks anymore.”

“I came by bus.”

Abruptly remembering her manners, Winifred opened the door wider and stepped aside. “I’m sorry, do come in. Would you like some iced tea? You must be dreadfully hot in that suit. Oh, forgive me, there hasn’t been a death in your family—?”

“Iced tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Winifred, feeling a strangely pleasant confusion, bustled back into the pantry, poured a glass over ice, added a fresh sprig of mint from the planter in her windowsill, placed the glass on a silver tray, and returned.

“There you are, Mr. Pendergast.”

“You are too kind.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

They sat in the parlor. The polite man crossed his legs and sipped his tea. Close up, Winifred could see he was younger than she’d first thought: what she had taken to be white hair was instead remarkably blond. He was quite handsome and elegant, too, if one didn’t mind such pale eyes and skin.

“I rent three rooms upstairs,” she explained. “You have to share the bath, I’m afraid, but there’s nobody presently—”

“I’ll take the entire floor. Would five hundred dollars a week be acceptable?”

“Oh, my.”

“I will pay extra, naturally, for my board. I’ll only be requiring a light breakfast and the occasional afternoon tea and dinner.”

“That’s rather more money than I usually ask. I wouldn’t feel right—”

The man smiled. “I fear you may find me a difficult boarder.”

“Well, then—”

He sipped his tea, placed it on the coaster, and leaned forward. “I don’t want to shock you, Miss Kraus, but I do need to tell you who I am and why I’m here. You asked me if there has been a death. In fact, as you probably know, there has. I am a special agent for the FBI investigating the murder in Medicine Creek.” He flashed his badge, as a courtesy.

“A murder!”

“You haven’t heard? On the far side of town, discovered last night. You will no doubt read all about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

“Oh, dear me.” Winifred Kraus felt dazed. “A murder? In Medicine Creek?”

“I’m sorry. Does that change your mind about taking me in as a lodger? I’ll understand if it does.”

“Oh no, Mr. Pendergast. Not at all. I’d feel much safer, really, having you here. A murder, how very dreadful . . .” She shuddered. “Who on earth—?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you as a source of information on the case. And now, may I examine my rooms? There’s no need to show me upstairs.”

“Of course.” Winifred Kraus smiled a little breathlessly as she watched the man climb the stairs. Such a polite young gentleman, and so . . . Then she remembered the murder. She rose and went to the telephone. Perhaps Jenny Parker would know more. She picked up and dialed the number, shaking her head.

After a swift inspection, Pendergast chose the smallest room—the one in the rear—and laid his valise on its princess bed. On the bureau stood a swivel mirror, in front of which was set a china washbasin and pitcher. He pulled open the top drawer, releasing the faint scent of rosewater and oak. The drawer was lined with shellacked newspapers from the early 1900s, advertising farming equipment. In a corner stood a chamber pot, the lid placed upside down in the old-fashioned way. The walls were papered in a Victorian flowered print, much faded; the moldings were painted green and the ceiling was beadboard. The curtains were hand-embroidered lace.

He returned to the bed, laid one hand lightly upon the bedspread. It had been needlepointed in a pattern of roses and peonies. He examined the stitching closely. Hand done. It had taken someone—no doubt Miss Kraus herself—at least a year.

Pendergast remained motionless, staring at the needlepoint, breathing the antique air of the bedroom. Then, straightening, he walked across the creaking floorboards to the old rippled window and looked out.

To his right and down, set back from the house, Pendergast could see the shabby low metal roof of the gift shop. Behind, a cracked cement walkway ran down to a depression leading to a rupture in the earth, where it disappeared into darkness. Beside the gift shop, a peeling sign read:

KRAUS’S KAVERNS

THEBIGGESTCAVE INCRYCOUNTY, KANSAS

MAKE AWISH IN THEINFINITYPOOL

PLAY THEKRYSTALCHIMES

SEE THEBOTTOMLESSPIT

TOURS AT10:00AND 2:00 DAILY

TOURGROUPS, BUSESWELCOME

He tried the window, found it opened with surprising ease. A muggy flow of air came into the room, carrying with it the smell of dust and crops. The lace curtains bellied. Outside, the great sea of yellow corn stretched to the horizon, broken only by distant lines of trees along the bottomlands of Medicine Creek. A flock of crows rose out of the endless corn and fell back in, feasting on the ripe ears. Thunderheads piled up to the west. The silence was as unending as the landscape.

In the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, Winifred Kraus replaced the telephone in its cradle. Jenny Parker wasn’t in. Perhaps she was in town, getting news. She’d try calling again after lunch.

She wondered if she should bring the nice man, Mr. Pendergast, a second glass of tea. Southerners were so well-bred; she believed they drank a lot of iced tea on big shady verandas and such. It was such a hot day and he’d walked from town. She went into the kitchen, poured a fresh glass, began mounting the stairs. But no—she should let him unpack, have his privacy. What was she thinking? News of the murder had her all in a tizzy.

She turned to descend the staircase. But then she stopped again. A voice had sounded from upstairs: Pendergast had said something. Was he speaking to her?

Winifred cocked her head, listening. For a moment, the house was still. Then Pendergast spoke again, and this time, she made out what he was saying.

“Excellent,” came the dulcet voice. “Most excellent.”

Six

The road was as straight as the nineteenth-century surveyor’s original line of sight, and it was flanked by two unmoving walls of corn. Special Agent Pendergast walked down the shimmering road, his polished black oxfords—handmade by John Lobb of St. James’s Street, London—leaving a row of faint impressions in the sticky asphalt.

Ahead, he could see where heavy vehicles had come in and out of the cornfield, leaving brown tracks and clots of dirt on the road. Approaching, he turned to make his way along the crude access road that had been bulldozed into the cornfield to the murder site. His feet sank into the powdery earth.

Where the access widened into a makeshift parking lot a state trooper cruiser sat, motor running, water dripping into the dirt from the AC. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked off the site, wound around tall stakes hammered into the earth. Inside the cruiser a trooper sat, reading a paperback.

Pendergast approached and rapped on the window. The man gave a start, then quickly recovered. Hastily putting the paperback aside, he got out and faced Pendergast, squinting in the hot sun, hooking his arms into his belt loops. A river of cool air flowed out.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. The trooper’s arms were covered with fine red hair and the leather of his boots creaked as he moved.

Pendergast displayed his shield.

“Oh. FBI. Sorry.” The trooper looked around. “Where’s your car?”

“I’d like to take a look at the scene,” Pendergast replied.

“Be my guest. There’s nothing left, though. It’s all been carted away.”

“No matter. Please don’t allow me to disturb you further.”

“Quite all right, sir.” The trooper, with no little relief, climbed back into his cruiser and closed the door.

Pendergast moved past the car and gingerly ducked beneath the yellow tape. He advanced the last twenty yards to the original clearing. Here he paused, surveying the site. As the trooper had said, it was empty: nothing but dirt, crushed corn stubble, and thousands of footprints. There was a stain in the very center of the clearing, not particularly large.

For several minutes, Pendergast remained motionless beneath the merciless sun. Only his eyes moved as they took in the clearing. Then he reached into his suit jacket and removed a photograph of the body in situ, from close up. Another photograph showed the overall site, the spitted birds and the forest of sticks. Pendergast rapidly reconstructed the original scene in his mind and held it there, examining it.

He remained motionless for a quarter of an hour. Then at last he returned the photographs to his jacket and took a step forward, examining the stub of a cornstalk that lay at his feet. It had been broken, not cut. Moving forward, he picked up a second stub, then a third and a fourth. All broken. Pendergast returned to the edge of the clearing, selected a cornstalk that still stood. He knelt down and grasped it at the bottom, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not break it.

He ventured farther into the clearing itself. It hardly mattered where he put his feet—it could not be more disturbed. He moved slowly, crouching now and then to examine something in the riot of corn and dust. Once in a while he would pick up something with a pair of tweezers he’d removed from a suit pocket, look at it, and release it. For almost an hour he moved across the clearing in this fashion, bent over in the baking sun.

He kept nothing.

At last, he reached the far end of the clearing and moved into the dense corn rows themselves. There had been a few pieces of torn fabric found clinging to some of the cornstalks, and it wasn’t difficult to find the tags marking their locations.

Pendergast moved down the row, but there were so many footprints and dog prints that it was hopeless to try to follow anything. The report said that two different sets of bloodhounds had been put on the track but had refused to follow it.

He paused in the forest of corn to slip a tube of glossy paper from his pocket and unroll it. It was a photograph, taken at some unidentified point before the crime, showing the field from the air. The corn rows did not go in straight lines, as it seemed at ground level, but rather curved to follow the topography of the landscape, creating elliptical, mazelike paths. He located the row in which he stood and carefully traced its curve. Then, with difficulty, he forced his way into the next corn row, then the next. Once again he examined the aerial photograph, tracing the path of the current row. Much better: it went for a long distance across flat ground and then dropped down toward the bottomland near Medicine Creek, at a point where the creek looped back toward the town.

It was, in fact, the only row that actually opened onto the creek.

Pendergast walked down the row, heading away from the murder site. The heat had settled into the corn and, in the absence of wind, was baking everything into place. As the land gradually declined toward the creek, a monotonous landscape of corn revealed itself, stretching to an ever more remote horizon, oppressive in its landlocked vastness. The distant creek, with its clumps of scraggly, half-dead cottonwoods, only added to the sense of desolation. As Pendergast walked he would stop occasionally to examine a cornstalk or a piece of ground. Once in a while his tweezers would pluck something up, only to drop it again.

At long last, the corn row opened onto the bottomland along the creek. Where the cornstalks and field dirt gave way to sandy embankments, Pendergast stopped and glanced downward.

There were footprints, here in the firm sand: they were bare, and deeply impressed. Pendergast knelt, touched one print. It was from a size eleven foot. The killer had been carrying a heavy body.

Pendergast rose and followed the tracks to where they entered the creek. There were no corresponding tracks exiting on the far side. He walked up and down the creek, looking for a point of emergence, and found nothing.

The killer had walked for a long distance in the creek bed itself.

Pendergast returned to the corn row and began making his way back to the clearing. The town of Medicine Creek was like an island in a sea: it would be difficult to come or go without being seen. Everyone knew everybody and a hundred pairs of keen old eyes, staring from porches and windows, watched the comings and goings of cars. The only way an outsider could arrive at the town unseen was through this sea of corn—twenty miles from the next town.

His first instincts had been confirmed: the killer was probably among them, here, in Medicine Creek.

Seven

Harry Hoch, the second-best-performing farm equipment salesman in Cry County, rarely picked up hitchhikers anymore, but in this case he thought he’d make an exception. After all, the gentleman dressed in mourning was standing so sadly by the side of the road. Hoch’s own mother had been taken just the year before and he knew what it was like.

He pulled his Ford Taurus into the gravel just beyond the man and gave a little toot. He lowered his window as the man strolled up.

“Where you headed, friend?” Hoch asked.

“To the hospital in Garden City, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Harry winced. The poor guy. The county morgue was in the basement. Must’ve just happened. “No trouble at all. Get on in.”

He cast a furtive glance as his passenger stepped into the car. With that pale skin, he was going to catch a wicked sunburn if he wasn’t careful. And he sure wasn’t from around these parts; not with that accent, he wasn’t.

“My name’s Hoch. Harry Hoch.” He held out his hand.

A cool, dry hand slipped into his. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. My name is Pendergast.”

Hoch waited for the first name, but it never came. He released the hand and reached over to crank up the AC. A frigid blast came from the vents. It was like hell out there. He put his car into gear and pressed the accelerator, shooting back onto the road and picking up speed.

“Hot enough for you, Pendergast?” said Hoch after a moment.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Hoch, I find the heat agrees with me.”

“Yeah, okay, but a hundred degrees with one hundred percent humidity?” Hoch laughed. “You could fry an egg right there on the hood of my car.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

There was a silence. Strange fellow,Hoch thought.

His passenger didn’t seem inclined toward small talk, so Hoch just shut up and drove. The silver Taurus flew along the arrow-straight road at ninety, leaving a wake of swaying, trembling corn behind. One mile looked pretty much like the next and there were never any cops in this area. Harry liked to move fast on these lonely secondary roads. Besides, he felt good: he had just sold a Case 2388 Combine with a six-row corn head and chaff-spreader bin extension for $120,000. That was his third for the season and it had earned him a trip to San Diego for a weekend of booze and bumping uglies at the Del Mar Blu. Hot damn.

At one point the road widened briefly, and the car shot past a group of shabby ruined houses; a row of two-story brick buildings, gaunt and roofless; and a grain silo, its upper half listing over a weed-choked railroad siding.

“What is this?” Pendergast asked.

“Crater, Kansas. Or I should say, wasCrater, Kansas. Used to be a regular town thirty years back. But it just dried up, like so many others. Always happens the same way, too. First, the school goes. Then the grocer’s. Then you lose the farmers’ supply. Last thing you lose is your zip code. No, that’s not quite right; last to go is the saloon. It’s happening all over Cry County. Yesterday, Crater. Tomorrow, DePew. The day after that, who knows? Maybe Medicine Creek.”

“The sociology of a dying town must be rather complex,” said Pendergast.

Hoch wasn’t sure what Pendergast was getting at and didn’t risk a reply.

In less than an hour, the grain elevators of Garden City began rising over the horizon like bulbous skyscrapers, the town itself low and flat and invisible.

“I’ll drop you right off at the hospital, Mr. Pendergast,” said Hoch. “And hey, I’m sorry about whoever it was that passed. I hope it wasn’t an untimely death.”

As the orange-brick hospital appeared, surrounded by a sea of shimmering cars, Pendergast replied, “Time is a storm in which we are all lost, Mr. Hoch.”

It took Hoch another half an hour of fast driving, with the windows down, to get the creeps out of his system.

Sheriff Hazen, wearing a surgical smock that was two sizes too big and a paper hat that made him feel ridiculous, stood and looked down at the gurney. A toe tag was dangling from the right foot, but he didn’t need to read it. Mrs. Sheila Swegg, twice divorced, no children, thirty-two years of age, of number 40A Whispering Meadows Trailer Estate, Bromide, Oklahoma.

White fucking trash.

There she was lying on the steel table, butterflied like a pork chop, organs neatly stacked beside her. The top of her head was off and her brain sat in a nearby pan. The smell of putrefaction was overwhelming; she’d been lying in that hot cornfield for a good twenty-four hours before he’d gotten there. The M.E., a bright, bushy-tailed young fellow named McHyde, was bent over her, cheerfully slicing and dicing away and talking up a storm of medical jargon into an overhanging mike. Give him five more years, thought Hazen, and the biting acids of reality will strip off some of that cheerful polish.

McHyde had moved from her torso up to her throat and was cutting away with little zipping motions of his right hand. Some of the cuts made a crackling sound that Hazen did not like at all. He fished in his pocket for a cigarette, remembered the no smoking sign, grabbed a nearby jar of Mentholatum instead and dabbed some beneath each nostril, and focused his mind elsewhere: Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can’t Help It,polka night at the Deeper Elks Lodge, Sundays with a six-pack fishing at Hamilton Lake State Park. Anything but the remains of Sheila Swegg.