Still Life With Crows (17 page)

He pulled out his flask, opened it, tipped it up, drained the last fiery drop. He licked his lips, turning the bottle over in his hands, staring at it. He didn’t have any more at home.

He flung it out the window into the corn and checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the Wagon Wheel closed. It was about a mile. He could still make it on foot if he walked fast.

Then, hand on the door handle, he paused, thinking about the recent murder, about the unpleasant details the newspaper had hinted at.

Yeah, right. Five billion acres of corn and some nutcase is lying in wait, right between here and the Wagon Wheel.

Muggy night air flowed in as he opened the door. Christ, twenty minutes to eleven and it was still hot as bejesus. He could smell the corn, the moisture. Crickets chirped in the darkness. Heat lightning flickered on the distant horizon.

He turned back toward the car, wondering if he should put on the emergency blinkers. Then he decided against it. That would just add a dead battery to his problems. Besides, nobody would come along the road until the pre-shift, at seven.

If he was going to get to the Wagon Wheel in time, he’d better get moving.

He walked fast, lanky legs eating up the road. His job at the plant paid seven-fifty an hour. How the hell was he supposed to fix his car on seven-fifty an hour? Ernie would give him a break, but parts cost a fortune. A new starter might be three fifty, four hundred. Two weeks of work. He could hitch a ride to work with Rip. Like last time, he’d have to borrow Jimmy’s car to get home, and then come back at seven to pick him up. Problem was, Jimmy expected him to pay for all the gas during the arrangement, and gas cost a fucking fortune these days.

It wasn’t fair. He was a good worker. He should be paid more. Nine bucks an hour, eight-fifty, at least.

He walked even faster. The warm glow of yellow light in the Wagon Wheel, the long wooden bar, the plaintive jukebox, the bottles and glasses glistening on their shelves before the mirror—the images filled his heart and propelled his legs.

Suddenly he stopped. He thought he’d heard a rustling in the corn to his right.

He waited a moment, listening, but all was silent. The air was dead still. The heat lightning flickered, then flickered again.

He resumed walking, this time moving to the center of the road. All was silent. Some animal, coon probably. Or maybe his imagination.

Again his thoughts turned to the Wagon Wheel. He could see the big friendly form of Swede with his red cheeks and handlebar mustache moving behind the counter: good old Swede, who always had a friendly word for everyone. He imagined Swede setting the little shot glass down in front of him, the generously poured whiskey slopping over the side; he imagined raising it to his lips; he imagined the golden fire making its way down his gullet. Instead of a pint, he’d pay a little more and drink at the bar. Swede would give him a ride home, he was good to his customers. Or maybe he could just rack out in the back room, go on over to Ernie’s first thing in the morning. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept one off in the Wagon Wheel. Beat going home to the ball and chain, anyway. He could call her from the bar, make some excuse—

There was that sound in the corn again.

He hesitated only for a moment, then continued walking, his work shoes soft on the warm asphalt. And then he heard the sound again, closer now, close enough to be recognized.

It was the rustle of someone brushing through the dry corn.

He peered to his right, trying to see. But he could only see the tops of the corn against the faint sky. The rest was a wall of darkness.

Then, as he stared, he saw a single cornstalk tremble against the sky.

What was it? Deer? Coyote?

“Hah!” he cried, shooing his hands in the direction of the sound.

His blood froze at the reply. It was a grunt, human yet not human.

Muh,
came the sound.

“Who the hell is that?”

No sound now.

“Fuck you,” said Stott, quickening his pace and veering to the far side of the road. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but
fuck you.
”

There was a rustling sound, of someone moving through the corn, faster now, keeping pace with him.

Muh.

Stott began to jog along the far side of the road.

The rustling in the corn kept pace. The voice, the strange gasping voice, rose in volume and insistence.
Muh! Muh!

Now Stott broke into a run. There was a corresponding crashing in the corn to his right. He could see, against the faintest sky, the tops of the corn alongside the road thrashing and snapping. More crashing, and then he saw what he thought was a dark shape coming out of the corn, very fast, first moving parallel to him, then angling closer.

In a second, some atavistic instinct drove Willie Stott to jump the ditch on the left side of the road and crash headlong into the corn. As the tall ears swallowed him up, he glanced back for only a second. As he did so he saw a large, dark shape scuttling across the road behind him at a terrible speed.

Stott crashed through the next row, and the next, forcing himself as deeply as possible into the dark, suffocating corn, gasping out loud. But always he heard the crash of dry ears being trampled behind him.

He took a ninety-degree angle and ran down a row. Behind, the crashing stopped.

Stott ran. He had long legs and in high school he’d been on the track team. That had been years ago, but he still knew how to run. And so he ran, thinking of nothing else except planting one foot before the other, outrunning whatever it was behind him.

Despite the encircling corn, he was not yet fully disoriented. Medicine Creek lay ahead of him, just over a mile away. He could still make it. . .

Behind him now, he could hear the loud slapping of feet against earth. And with each step, a rhythmic grunt.

Muh. Muh. Muh.

The long row of corn made a slow curve along the topography of the land, and he flew along it, running with a speed born of sheer terror.

Muh. Muh. Muh.

Christ, it was getting closer. He swerved, desperately crashing through another row, still running.

He heard an echoing crash behind him as the pursuer broke through the row, following him, closing in.

Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” he screamed.

Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

It was getting closer, so close he almost imagined he could feel puffs of hot breath on his neck, keeping time with the thudding feet. A sudden wet warmth flooded his thighs as his bladder let go. He swerved, crashed through yet another row, swerved, veered back. The thing kept right behind him, closer, ever closer.

Muh! Muh! Muh! Muh!

Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.

It was still gaining, and gaining fast.

Stott felt something grab his hair, something horribly strong. He tried to jerk his head away, the sudden pain awful, but the grip held fast. His lungs were on fire. He could feel his legs slackening with terror.

“
Somebody, help me!
” he screamed, diving to one side, jerking and thrashing his head so violently he could feel his scalp begin to separate from his skull. The thing was now almost on top of him. And then he felt a sudden, viselike grip on the back of his neck, a brutal twist and snap, and suddenly it seemed as if he had left the ground and was flying, flying, up into the dark sky, while a triumphant voice screamed:

Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

Nineteen

S
mit Ludwig locked the door to the
Cry County Courier
and dropped the keys into his pocket. As he angled across the street he glanced up at the early morning sky. Big sterile thunderheads were piling up on the northern horizon, just as they had done every day for the past two weeks. They would spread across the sky by nightfall and be gone by morning. One of these days the heat would break and there would be one hell of a storm. But it looked as if the heat would grip the town for a while more, at least.

Ludwig had a pretty good idea what Art Ridder and the sheriff wanted to talk to him about. Well, tough: he’d already written the story about the dog, and it was going to run that very afternoon. He strode down the sidewalk, feeling the heat soaking through the soles of his shoes, feeling the pressure of the sun on his head. Magg’s Candlepin Castle was only a five minute walk, but two minutes into it Ludwig realized his mistake in not driving. He would arrive sweaty and disheveled: a tactical error. At least, he told himself, Magg’s was air-conditioned to tundra-like temperatures.

He pushed through the double doors into a blast of icy air, and was greeted by silence: at this time of the morning the alleys were dark, the pins like tall white teeth in the gloom, the racking machines mute. At the far end of the alley he could see the lights of the Castle Club, where every morning Art Ridder held court with his paper and his breakfast. Ludwig adjusted his collar, straightened his shoulders, and started forward.

The Castle Club was not so much a club as a glassed-in eating area with red fake-leather banquettes, Formica tables made to look like wood, and beveled mirrors shot through with faux gold marbling. Ludwig pushed through the door and approached the corner table, where Ridder and Sheriff Hazen were seated, talking in low tones. Ridder caught sight of Ludwig, rose with a big smile, held out his hand, and guided the reporter into a chair.

“Smitty! Real good of you to come.”

“Sure, Art.”

The sheriff had not risen, and now he simply nodded through a wash of cigarette smoke. “Smit.”

“Sheriff.”

There was a short silence. Ridder looked around, his polyester collar stretching this way and that. “Em! Coffee! And bring Mr. Ludwig some bacon and eggs.”

“I don’t eat much of a breakfast.”

“Nonsense. Today’s an important day.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Dr. Stanton Chauncy, the professor from KSU, will be joining us in fifteen minutes. I’m going to show him the town.”

There was a short pause. Art Ridder was wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt and light gray doubleknit trousers, his white blazer thrown over the back of the chair. He was rounded, but not especially soft. All those years wrestling turkeys had put muscles on his arms that, it seemed, would never wither. He glowed with ruddy good health.

“We don’t have much time, Smitty, so I’ll be direct. You know me: Mr. Direct.” Ridder gave a little chuckle.

“Sure, Art.” Ludwig leaned back to allow the waitress to slide a greasy plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He wondered what a real reporter would do at this point. Walk out? Politely decline?

“Okay, Smitty, here’s the deal. You know this guy, Chauncy, is looking for a place to put in an experimental cornfield for Kansas State. It’s either us or Deeper. Deeper’s got a motel, Deeper’s got two gas stations, Deeper’s twenty miles closer to the interstate. Okay? So you might ask, where’s the contest? Why us? You following me?”

Ludwig nodded.
You following me?
was Art Ridder’s signature phrase.

Ridder raised the coffee mug, flexed his hairy arm, took a sip.

“We’ve got something Deeper doesn’t. Now listen to me good, because this isn’t the official KSU line. We’ve got
isolation.
” He paused dramatically. “Why is isolation important? ’Cause this cornfield’s going to be used for testing
genetically—altered—corn.
” He hummed the
Twilight Zone
theme, then grinned. “You following me?”

“Not really.”

“We all know that genetically modified corn is harmless. But there are a bunch of ignorant city folks, liberals, enviros—you know who I’m talking about—who think there’s something
dangerous
about genetically altered corn.” He hummed
Twilight Zone
again. “The
real
reason Medicine Creek is in the running is because we’re isolated. No hotel. Long drive. No big mall. Closest radio and television station one hundred miles away. In short,
this is the world’s lousiest place to organize a protest.
Of course, Dale Estrem and the Farmer’s Co-op aren’t too pleased about it, either, but they’re just a few and I can handle them. You following me?”

Ludwig nodded.

“But now we’ve got a small problem. We’ve got a sonofabitch wacko running around. He’s killed a person, killed a
dog,
and God knows what the hell else he’s up to, maybe he’s fucking sheep, too. Right when Stanton Chauncy, project director for the Agricultural Extension Program of Kansas State University, is in town to see if Medicine Creek is the right place to site these fields. And we want to show him it
is
a good place. A calm, law-and-order town. No drugs, no hippies, no protests. Sure, he’s heard about the murder, but he figures it’s just some random, one-time thing. He’s not concerned, and I want him to stay that way. So I need your help with two things.”

Ludwig waited.

“First, take a break from these goddamn articles about the killing. Okay, it happened. Now take a breather. And whatever you do, for
chrissakes
don’t do a story on the dead dog.”

Ludwig swallowed. There was a silence. Ridder was staring at him with a pair of red eyes, dark circles under them. He was really taking this seriously.

“That story qualifies as news,” Ludwig said, but his voice cracked when he said it.

Ridder smiled, laid a big hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. He lowered his voice. “I’m
asking
you, Smitty, as a
favor,
to just take a few days off from the story. Just while the KSU guy is here. I’m not telling you to kill it, or anything like that.” He gave Ludwig’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Look, you and I both know the Gro-Bain plant isn’t exactly a sure thing. When they cut the night shift back in ’96, twenty families left town. Those were good jobs, Smitty. People got hurt, had to uproot themselves and leave homes their granddaddies built. I don’t want to live in a dying town.
You
don’t want to live in a dying town. This could make a real difference for our future. One or two fields is just a start, but genetic crop engineering is the coming wave, it’s where the big money’s going to be, and Medicine Creek could be part of it. There’s a lot riding on this, Smitty. A lot more than you might think. All I’m asking,
all
I’m asking, is a two-, three-day break. The guy’s announcing his decision on Monday. Just save it up and publish it when the guy leaves. Tuesday morning. You following me?”