Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

As Corrie looked at the darkening expression on Sheriff Hazen’s face, she wondered if this so-called Special Agent Pendergast really knew what he was doing. It was no joke making an enemy like Hazen in a town like Medicine Creek. She’d been stupid enough to do it herself.

“Thank you for your concern, Sheriff.” Pendergast turned to her. “Shall we go, Miss Swanson?”

She hesitated a moment, looking at Sheriff Hazen. Then she shrugged. What the hell,she thought, as she accelerated from the curb with a little screech and a fresh cloud of black smoke.

Twelve

 

The sun was settling into a bloody patch of cloud along the horizon as Special Agent Pendergast exited Maisie’s Diner, accompanied by a slender man in a Federal Express uniform.

“They told me I’d find you in there,” the man said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

“Quite all right,” Pendergast replied. “I wasn’t especially hungry.”

“If you’ll sign for it now, I’ll leave everything by the back door.”

Pendergast signed the proffered form. “Miss Kraus will show you where to put it all. Would you mind if I take a look?”

“Help yourself. Takes up half the truck.”

The shiny FedEx truck was parked outside the diner, looking out of place on the dusty, monochromatic street. Pendergast peered into its interior. Along one wall were perhaps a dozen large boxes. Some had labels readingPERISHABLE—CONTENTS PACKED IN ICE .

“They’re all from New York,” the driver said. “Starting a restaurant or something?”

“It’s my deliverance from Maisie.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Everything seems to be in order, thank you.”

Pendergast stepped back and watched the truck glide off into the soupy evening. Then he began strolling east, away from the dying glow of the horizon. Within five minutes, he had left the town of Medicine Creek behind. The road stretched ahead like a dark faultline in the corn.

He quickened his pace. His errand was a vague one, an intuition more than a certainty. Intuition, Pendergast knew, was the end result of the most sophisticated kind of reasoning.

Twilight and crows rose from the fields, and the smell of cornstalks and earth drifted on the air. Headlights appeared, grew larger, and then a huge semi-trailer came shuddering past, leaving dust and diesel in its wake.

Two miles out of town, Pendergast stopped. A dirt track ran away from the road here, angling off to the left between walls of corn. Pendergast followed it, moving with long silent strides. The track began to rise more sharply, heading for a dark cluster of trees on the horizon, surrounding three dark low outlines framed against the dusky sky: the Mounds. Leaving the corn behind, the track turned into a trail. Ahead were the trees, giant cottonwoods with massive trunks, bark as rough as fractured stone. Broken limbs lay scattered on the ground, clawlike branches upturned.

As he entered the shadowy confines of the grove, Pendergast paused to look back. The land fell away in a long, gentle declivity toward the town. The distant streetlights formed a glowing cross in the sea of dark corn. The Gro-Bain plant lay south of town, a low cluster of lights all by itself. The creek lay between them, a meandering line of cottonwoods that snaked through the landscape of corn. As flat as the land looked at first sight, it had its gentle undulations, its rises and its bottomlands. The point on which he stood was the highest for many miles.

The summer darkness had fallen heavily on the land. If anything, the air had grown muggier. A few bright planets glowed in the dying sky.

Pendergast turned and walked deeper into the darkness of the grove, becoming virtually invisible in his black suit. He followed a trail that wandered uncertainly through rabbitbrush and oak scrub. After another quarter mile, Pendergast stopped again.

The Mounds were just ahead.

There were three of them, low and broad, arranged in a triangle, rising twenty feet above the surrounding land. The flanks of two of the mounds had worn away, exposing limestone ledges and heavy boulders underneath. The cottonwood trees were thicker here and the shadows were very deep.

Pendergast listened to the sounds of the August night. A chorus of insects trilled furiously. Blinking fireflies drifted among the silent trunks, their streaked lights mingling with the distant heat lightning that flickered to the north. A crescent moon hung just above the horizon, both horns pointed upward.

Pendergast remained motionless. The night sky was now blossoming with stars. He began to hear other sounds: the rustlings and scratchings of small animals, the flutterings of birds. A pair of close-set eyes glowed briefly in the dark. Down by the creek a coyote howled, and at the very edge of hearing, from the direction of the town, a dog barked a reply. The sliver of moon cast just enough light to see by. Night crickets began to chirrup, first one, then others, the sounds rising from the tall grass.

At last, Pendergast moved forward, toward the three dark mounds. He walked slowly and silently, his foot crackling a single leaf. The crickets fell silent. Pendergast waited until, one by one, they resumed their calls. Then he moved on until he reached the base of the first mound. Here he knelt silently, brushed aside the dead leaves, and dug his hand into the soil. He removed a fistful, rolled it between his hands, and inhaled.

Different soils had distinctive smells. This, he confirmed, was the same soil as that found on the tools in the back of Swegg’s car. The sheriff had been right: she had been digging for relics in the Mounds. He pinched some earth into a small glass test tube, stoppered it, and slid it into the pocket of his suit jacket.

Pendergast rose again. The moon had disappeared below the horizon. The fireflies had stopped blinking; the heat lightning grew less frequent, then ceased altogether. A profound darkness slowly enveloped the Mounds.

Pendergast moved past the first mound, then the second, until he stood at their center, three dark swellings growing gradually indistinguishable. Now the darkness was complete.

Still, Pendergast waited. A half hour passed. An hour.

And then, suddenly, the crickets fell silent.

Pendergast waited for them to start their chorus again. His muscles gathered, tensing. He could feel a presence in the dark to his right: a presence of great stealth. It was moving very silently—too silently even for his highly sensitive ears. But the crickets could feel vibrations in the ground that humans could not. The crickets knew.

He waited, tensed, until the presence was no more than five feet away. It had stopped. It, too, was waiting.

One by one the crickets resumed their chirruping. But Pendergast wasn’t fooled. The presence was still there. Waiting.

And now, the presence moved again. Ever so slowly, it was coming closer. One step, two steps, until it was close enough to touch.

In a single movement, Pendergast dropped to one side while pulling his flashlight and gun and aiming both toward the figure. The beam of the light illuminated a wild-looking man crouching in the dirt, a double-barreled shotgun pointing to the spot where Pendergast had been standing a moment before. The gun went off with a great roar and the man staggered back, shrieking unintelligibly, and in that instant Pendergast was on top of him. Another moment and the shotgun was on the ground and the man was doubled over, held in a hammerlock, Pendergast’s gun pressed against his temple. He struggled a moment, then went limp.

Pendergast loosened his grip and the man fell to the ground. He lay there, an extraordinary figure dressed in buckskin rags, a string of bloody squirrels slung around his shoulder. A giant handmade knife was tucked into his belt. His feet were bare, the soles broad and dirty. Two very small eyes were pushed like raisins into a face so wrinkled it seemed to belong to a man beyond time itself. And yet his physique, his glossy and extraordinarily long black hair and beard, told of a robust individual no more than fifty years of age.

“It is inadvisable to fire a gun in haste,” said Pendergast, standing over the man. “You could have hurt someone.”

“Who the hell are you?” the man shrilled from the ground.

“The very question I was going to ask you.”

The man swallowed, recovering slightly, and sat up. “Get your goddamned light out of my face.”

Pendergast lowered the light.

“Now who the deuce do you think you are, scaring decent people half to death?”

“We have yet to establish decency,” said Pendergast. “Pray rise and identify yourself.”

“Mister, you can pray all you like and it don’t mean shit.” He rose to his feet anyway, brushing the leaves and twigs out of his beard and hair. Then he hawked up an enormous gob of phlegm and shot it into the darkness. He wiped his beard and mouth with a filthy hand, front and back, and spat again.

Pendergast removed his shield and passed it before the man’s face.

The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed again. He laughed. “FBI? Never would’ve guessed it.”

“Special Agent Pendergast.” He closed the leather case with a snap and it disappeared into his jacket.

“I don’t talk to FBI.”

“Before you make any more rash declarations which will cause you to lose face later, you should know you have a choice. You can have an informal chat with me here . . .” He paused.

“Or?”

Pendergast smiled suddenly, his thin lips stretching to expose a row of perfect white teeth. But the effect, in the glow of the flashlight, was anything but friendly.

The man removed a twisted chaw from his pocket, screwed a piece off, and packed it into his cheek. “Shit,” he said, and spat.

“May I ask your name?” Pendergast asked.

The silence stretched on for a minute, then two.

“Hell,” the man said at last. “I guess having a name’s no crime, is it? Gasparilla. Lonny Gasparilla. Can I have my gun back now?”

“We shall see.” Pendergast bobbed the beam of his light toward the bloody squirrels. “Is that what you were doing up here? Hunting?”

“I ain’t hanging around the Mounds for the view.”

“Do you have a residence nearby, Mr. Gasparilla?”

The man barked a laugh. “That’s a funny one.” Again, when there was no reply from Pendergast, he jerked his head to one side. “I’m camped over yonder.”

Pendergast picked up the shotgun, broke it open, ejected the spent shells, and handed it empty to Gasparilla. “Show me, if you please.”

Five minutes of walking brought them to the edge of the trees and into the sea of corn. Gasparilla ducked into a row and they followed it down a dusty, beaten path. A few more minutes brought them to a cottonwood grove that lined the banks of Medicine Creek. The air here smelled of moisture, and there was the faint sound of water purling over a bed of sand. Ahead was the reddish glow of a campfire, built against a clay bank. A big iron pot sat atop the fire, bubbling, smelling of onions, potatoes, and peppers.

Gasparilla picked some pieces of wood off a pile and banked them beside the coals. Flames rose, illuminating the little campsite. There was a greasy-looking tent, a log for a seat, an abandoned wooden door set on more logs to make a table.

Gasparilla plucked the bundle of squirrels off his shoulder and dropped them on the makeshift table. Then he took out his knife and went to work, slicing one open, pulling out the guts and tossing them aside. And then, with one sharp tug, he tore off the skin. A series of swift chops took off the head, paws, and tail; a few more hacks quartered the animal, and it went into the simmering pot. The process for each squirrel took less than twenty seconds.

“What are you doing here?” Pendergast asked.

“On tour,” said the man.

“Tour?”

“Tool sharpening. Make two rounds of my territory in the warm months. Go south to Brownsville for the winter. You got it, I sharpen it, from chainsaws to combine rotors.”

“How do you get around?”

“Pickup.”

“Where’s it parked?”

Gasparilla gave a final savage chop, tossed the last squirrel into the pot. Then he jerked his head toward the road. “Over there, if you want to check it out.”

“I plan to.”

“They know me in town. I ain’t never been on the wrong side of the law, you can ask the sheriff. I work for a living, same as you. Only I don’t go sneaking around in the dark, shining lights in people’s faces and scaring them half to death.” He threw some parched lima beans into the pot.

“If, as you say, they know you in town, why do you camp out here?”

“I like a little elbow room.”

“And the bare feet?”

“Huh?”

Pendergast shone his light at the man’s filthy toes.

“Shoes are expensive.” He rummaged in a pocket, pulled out the chaw of tobacco, screwed off another piece, and shoved it in his cheek. “What’s an FBI man doing out here?” he asked, poking his cheek with a finger, adjusting the chaw to his satisfaction.

“I imagine you could guess the answer to that question, Mr. Gasparilla.”

The man gave him a sidelong glance but did not reply.

“She was digging up in the Mounds, wasn’t she?” Pendergast asked at last.

Gasparilla spat. “Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did she find anything?”

He shrugged. “It ain’t the first time there’s been digging in the Mounds. I don’t pay much attention to it. When I’m here I only go up there to hunt. I don’t mess around with the dead.”

“Are there burials in the Mounds?”

“So they say. There was also a massacre up there once. That’s all I know and all I want to know. The place gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t go up there except that’s where all the squirrels are.”

“I’ve heard talk of some legend associated with the place. The ‘curse of the Forty-Fives,’ I believe.”

Gasparilla said nothing, and for a long time the camp was quiet. He stirred the pot with a stick, occasionally darting glances at Pendergast.

“The murder occurred three nights ago, during the new moon. Did you see or hear anything?”

Gasparilla spat again. “Nothing.”

“What were your movements that evening, Mr. Gasparilla?”

Gasparilla kept stirring. “If you’re hinting that I killed that woman, then I just about figure this conversation’s over, mister.”

“I’d say it’s just begun.”

“Don’t get snippy with me. I never killed nobody in my life.”

“Then you should have no objection to detailing your movements that day.”

“That was my second day here at Medicine Creek. I hunted up at the Mounds late that afternoon. She was there, digging. I came back here at sunset, spent the night in camp.”

“Did she see you?”

“Did yousee me?”

“Where was she digging, exactly?”

“All over. I gave her a wide berth. I know trouble when I see it.” Gasparilla gave the stewpot a brisk stir, brought out an enameled tin bowl and a battered spoon, ladled some stew into it. He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, took a bite, dug the spoon in again. Then he stopped.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a bowl.”

“I would not object.”

Wordlessly, he brought out a second bowl, held it up before Pendergast.

“Thank you.” Pendergast helped himself to the pot, took a taste of the stew. “Burgoo, I believe?”

Gasparilla nodded and stuffed a goodly amount in his mouth, juice dribbling down into his tangled black beard. He chewed loudly, spat out a few bones, swallowed. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then wiped his hand on his beard.

They finished their stew in silence. Gasparilla stacked the bowls, leaned back, took out the plug of tobacco. “And now, mister, if you got what you’re looking for, I hope you’ll be about your business. I like a quiet evening.”

Pendergast rose. “Mr. Gasparilla, I will leave you in peace. But first, if there’s anything you’d care to add, I would advise you to tell it to me now, rather than waiting for me to discover it myself.”

Gasparilla spat a brown rope of saliva in the direction of the creek. “I don’t particularly care to get involved.”

“You’re already involved. Either you are the murderer, Mr. Gasparilla, or your continued presence here puts you in grave danger. One or the other.”

Gasparilla grunted, bit off another plug, spat again. Then he asked, “Do you believe in the devil?”

Pendergast regarded the man, his pale eyes glinting in the firelight. “Why do you ask, Mr. Gasparilla?”

“Because I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, the devil’s a lot of preacher bullshit. But there isevil on this earth, Mr. FBI Agent. You asked about the curse of the Forty-Fives. Well, you might as well get on home right now, because you ain’t never going to get to the bottom of that.The evil I’m talking about, most of the time it’s got an explanation. But some of the time”—Gasparilla spat more tobacco juice, then leaned forward as if to impart a secret—“some of the time, it just don’t.”

Thirteen

 

Smit Ludwig pulled his AMC Pacer into the parking lot of Calvary Lutheran, which was wall to wall with hot cars glittering in the August sun. A big placard, already curling in the intense heat, was affixed to the front of the neat, redbrick church. It announced, 33RD ANNUAL BAKED TURKEY SUPPER SOCIABLE. Another, even bigger placard beside it burbled,MEDICINE CREEK WELCOMES PROFESSOR STANTON CHAUNCY !!! There was a touch of desperation, Ludwig thought, to the three exclamation marks. He parked his car at the far end of the lot, got out, dabbed the back of his neck with a handkerchief, and walked up to the entrance.

Then he paused, hand on the door. Over the years, the town had gotten used to his nice human interest stories; to his uncontroversial coverage of church and school, 4-H and Boy Scouts and Future Farmers of America. They had gotten used to the Courierglossing over and even ignoring the petty crimes of their children—the occasional joyrides, the drunken parties. They had taken for granted his downplaying of the inspection problems at Gro-Bain, the rising injury rate at the plant, the union troubles. They had forgotten that the Courierwas a newspaper, not the town PR organ. Yesterday, all that had changed. The Courierhad become a real paper, reporting real news.

Smit Ludwig wondered just what the reaction would be.

With his free hand, he nervously fingered his bow tie. He’d covered the Baked Turkey Sociable for every one of its thirty-three years, but never had he approached it with such trepidation. It was times like this that he most missed his wife, Sarah. It would have been easier with her on his arm.

Buck up, Smitty,he told himself, pushing open the doors.

The Fellowship Hall of the church was jammed. Practically the entire town was there. Some were already seated, eating, while others had formed long lines to load up on mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. Some were even eating the turkey, although Smitty noticed, as usual, that the Gro-Bain plant workers were nowhere to be seen in the turkey lines. It was one of those things that nobody ever mentioned: how little turkey was actually consumed at the Turkey Sociable.

A huge plastic banner on one wall thanked Gro-Bain and its general manager, Art Ridder, for their generosity in providing the turkeys. Another banner on the opposite wall thanked Buswell Agricon for their ongoing donations for the upkeep of the church. And yet another banner, the biggest of all, trumpeted the arrival of Stanton Chauncy, the year’s guest of honor. Ludwig looked around. Familiar faces all. One of the joys of living in small-town America.

From across the room, Art Ridder caught his eye. Ridder was wearing a maroon-and-white polyester suit, and the usual smile was plastered on his unnaturally smooth face. His body was as solid as a chunk of suet, and he moved through the crowd slowly, without deviating from his path. People moved for Art Ridder, thought Ludwig, not the other way around. Maybe it was the faint smell of slaughtered turkey that seemed to hang around him, despite heavy doses of Old Spice; or maybe it was that he was the town’s richest man. Ridder had sold the turkey plant to Gro-Bain Agricultural Products and had stayed on as its manager, though they’d written him a nice fat check. He said he “liked the work.” Ludwig thought it was more probable Ridder liked the Town Father status that being plant boss conveyed.

Ridder was still approaching, eye on the reporter, the smile stamped on his face. Of all people, he was probably the least likely to appreciate yesterday’s article on the murder. Ludwig braced himself.

Out of nowhere, salvation—Mrs. Bender Lang darted up, whispered something in Ridder’s ear. Abruptly, the two veered off. This fellow Chauncy must be about to arrive,Ludwig thought. Nothing else would have made Ridder move that fast.

In all thirty-three years of the Sociable’s history, this was the first year that the guest of honor had not been selected from among the town’s own. That in itself demonstrated the importance that Medicine Creek placed in impressing Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University. It was Chauncy who’d decide, by next Monday, whether or not Medicine Creek would become the test site for several acres of genetically modified corn, or . . .

A high, shrill voice intruded on his thoughts. “Smit Ludwig, how dare you!” He turned to find Klick Rasmussen at his elbow, her beehive hairdo bobbing at about the level of his shoulder. “How couldit be one of us?”

He turned to face her. “Now, Klick, I didn’t say I believed—”

“If you didn’t believe it,” cried Klick Rasmussen, “then why did you printit?”

“Because it’s my duty to report all the theories—”

“What happened to all the nicearticles you used to print? The Courierused to be such a lovelypaper.”

“Not all news is nice, Klick—”

But Klick wouldn’t let him finish. “If you want to write trash, why don’t you write about that FBI agent wandering about town, asking questions, poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, filling your head with darn-fool ideas? Let’s see how helikes it. And on top of that, raising the whole business of the Ghost Warriors, the curse of the Forty-Fives—”

“There wasn’t anything in the paper about that.”

“Not exactly in so many words,but with that business about the old Indian arrows, what elseare people going to think? That’s all we need, a resurrection of that old story.”

“Please, let’s be reasonable—” Ludwig took a step back. In the distance, he could see Swede Cahill’s wife, Gladys, approaching them, preparing to wade in. This was worse than he’d imagined.

Suddenly Maisie appeared from nowhere, her bulk covered by a white apron. “Klick, leave Smitty alone,” she said. “We’re lucky to have him. Most counties our size don’t even have a newspaper, let alone a daily.”

Klick took a step backward. Ludwig felt doubly grateful to Maisie, because of the awkwardness he knew existed between the two women. Maisie was perhaps the only person in the room who could have called Klick Rasmussen off so quickly. Klick shot one dark glance at Ludwig, then turned toward the approaching Gladys Cahill, and the two drifted off toward the turkey tables, talking in low voices.

Ludwig turned to Maisie. “Thanks a lot. You saved me.”

“I always take care of you, Smit.” She winked and went back toward the carving station.

As Ludwig turned to follow, he noticed that a hush was falling over the room. All eyes had swiveled in the direction of the door. Instinctively, Ludwig followed suit. There, framed against the golden sky, was a figure in black.

Pendergast.

There was something distinctly creepy in the way the FBI agent paused in the doorway, the bright sunlight silhouetting his severe form, like some gunslinger entering a saloon. Then he strode coolly forward, eyes roving the crowd before locking on Ludwig himself. Pendergast changed course immediately, gliding through the crowd toward him.

“I’m relieved to see you, Mr. Ludwig,” he said. “I know no one here but you and the sheriff, and I can’t very well expect the busy sheriff to take time for introductions. Come, lead the way, if you please.”

“Lead the way?” Ludwig echoed.

“I need introductions, Mr. Ludwig. Where I come from, it’s a social error to introduce oneself rather than have a proper introduction from a third party. And as publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the Cry County Courier,you know everyone in town.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Excellent. Shall we begin with Mrs. Melton Rasmussen? I understand she is one of the leading ladies.”

Ludwig paused in mid-breath. Klick Rasmussen, of all people, who he’d just gotten free of. A profound sinking feeling settled on Ludwig as he looked around the room. There was Klick at one of the turkey tables, holding forth with Gladys Cahill and the rest of the usual gang.

“Over there,” he said, leading the way with a heavy tread.

As they approached, the gaggle of ladies fell silent. Ludwig saw Klick glance at Pendergast, her features pinching with displeasure.

“I’d like to introduce—” began Ludwig.

“I know very wellwho this man is. I have only one thing to say—”

She stopped abruptly as Pendergast bowed, took her hand, and lifted it to within an inch of his lips, in the French manner. “A great pleasure, Mrs. Rasmussen. My name is Pendergast.”

“My,” said Klick. Her hand went limp within his.

“I understand, Mrs. Rasmussen, that you are responsible for the decorations.”

Ludwig wondered where Pendergast had learned this little tidbit. The man’s southern accent seemed to have deepened to the consistency of molasses as he gazed at Klick intently with his strange eyes. To Ludwig’s private amusement, Klick Rasmussen blushed. “Yes, I am,” she said.

“They are enchanting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pendergast.”

Pendergast bowed again, still holding her hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and now I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Klick blushed again, even more deeply. As she did so, Melton Rasmussen, having seen the exchange from afar, abruptly arrived. “Well, well,” he said heartily, sticking his hand out and interposing himself between his plump, blushing wife and Pendergast, “welcome to Medicine Creek. I’m Mel. Melton Rasmussen. I realize the circumstances could be a little happier, but I think you’ll find the Kansas hospitality of Medicine Creek to be just as warm as it always was.”

“I have already found it so, Mr. Rasmussen,” said Pendergast, shaking his hand.

“Where’re you from, Pendergast? Can’t quite place the accent.”

“New Orleans.”

“Ah, the great city of New Orleans. Is it true they eat alligator? I hear it tastes like chicken.”

“In my view the taste is more like iguana or snake than chicken.”

“Right. Well, I’ll stick to turkey,” said Rasmussen with a laugh. “You come by my store sometime and have a look-see. You’re welcome anytime.”

“You’re very kind.”

“So,” said Rasmussen, moving a little closer, “what’s the news? Any more leads?”

“Justice never sleeps, Mr. Rasmussen.”

“Well, I’ve got a theory of my own. Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“It’s that fellow camped down by the creek. Gasparilla. He’s worth looking into. He’s a strange one, always has been.”

“Now, Mel,” scolded Klick. “You know he’s been coming around for years and he’s never been in any kind of trouble.”

“You never know when somebody’s gonna go queer on you. Why does he camp way out there on the creek? Isn’t the town good enough for him?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Klick was staring past her husband, her mouth forming a small, perfect O. Ludwig heard a hushed murmur ripple through the assembly. There was a brief clapping of hands. He turned to see Art Ridder and the sheriff escorting a man he didn’t recognize through the crowd. The man was small and thin, with a closely trimmed beard, and he wore a light blue seersucker suit. In his wake came Mrs. Bender Lang and a few of the town’s other leading ladies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Medicine Creek!” Art Ridder boomed to the assembly. “It is my great privilege to introduce this year’s guest of honor, Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University!”

This was followed by thunderous applause and a few piercing whistles. The man named Chauncy stood, nodded once at the crowd, then turned his back on them and began to converse with Ridder. Slowly, the applause faltered into silence.

“Mr. Ludwig,” Pendergast said. “There’s a group of gentlemen in the far corner—?”

Ludwig looked in the indicated direction. Four or five men in bib overalls were drinking lemonade and talking amongst themselves in low voices. Rather than joining in the applause, they were looking in the direction of Chauncy with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, that’s Dale Estrem and the rest of the Farmer’s Co-operative,” Ludwig replied. “The last of the die-hard holdouts. They’re the only ones who haven’t sold out to the big farming conglomerates. Still own their own farms around Medicine Creek.”

“And why don’t they share in the town’s good feeling?”

“The Farmer’s Co-op holds no truck with genetically modified corn. They fear it’ll cross-pollinate and ruin their own crops.”

Ridder was now introducing the man from Kansas State to select knots of people.

“There are several other introductions I’d like you to make, if you would,” Pendergast said. “The minister, for example.”

“Of course.” Ludwig scanned the crowd for Pastor Wilbur, finally spotting him standing alone, in line for turkey. “This way.”

“Tell me about him first, if you please.”

Ludwig hesitated, not wishing to speak ill of anybody. “Pastor Wilbur’s been here for forty years, at least. He means well. It’s just that . . .” He faltered.

“Yes?” said Pendergast. Ludwig found the man’s gray eyes focused on him in a most unsettling way.

“I guess you’d have to say he’s a little set in his ways. He’s not really in touch with what’s happening, or nothappening, in Medicine Creek these days.” He struggled a moment. “There are some who feel a younger, more vibrant ministry would help revive the town, keep the youngsters from leaving. Fill the spiritual void that’s opened up here.”

“I see.”

The minister raised his head as they approached. As usual, a pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose, whether or not he was reading anything. Ludwig figured he did it to look scholarly. “Pastor Wilbur?” Ludwig said. “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

Wilbur took the proffered hand.

“I envy you, Pastor,” Pendergast said. “Ministering to the souls of a community such as Medicine Creek.”

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