Still Life With Crows (43 page)

A body lay beside her.

She stifled a cry. Horror and fear surged through her again. How could the mere relief of vision, of the lack of blackness, have allowed her to forget, even for a moment . . . ?

She shut her eyes. But the renewed dark was even worse. She
had
to know.

At first, there was so much blood on the face that she couldn’t make it out. And then, slowly, the outlines seemed to resolve themselves. It was the ruined face of Tad Franklin: staring back at her, open-mouthed.

She turned her head violently away; heard herself scream, then scream again.

There was a grunt and she now saw
him
for the first time, coming around the corner and advancing toward her, a long, bloody knife in one hand, something wet and red in the other.

He was smiling and singing to himself.

The scream died as her throat closed involuntarily at the sight.

That face—!

Fifty-Four

H
azen stood before the assembled law enforcement officers. What he had to say wouldn’t take long: it was a good crew, and they had a good plan. McFelty wouldn’t stand a chance.

There was only one problem. Tad hadn’t yet returned from the plant, and radio communications were down. Hazen would have preferred to hand off control directly before leaving, but he could wait no longer. Medicine Creek was well secured and properly hunkered down: Tad had clearly seen to that already. It was already a few minutes to ten. He didn’t want McFelty slipping away under cover of the storm. They had to go. Tad would know what to do.

“Where’s the dogs?” he asked.

Hank Larssen spoke up. “They’re bringing them straight to the Kraus place. Meeting us there.”

“I hope to hell they got us some real dogs this time. Did you ask for that special breed they’ve been training up in Dodge, those Spanish dogs, what are they called?”

“Presa canarios,” Larssen said. “I did. They said their training wasn’t complete, but I insisted.”

“Good. I’m through playing around with lap dogs. Who’s the handler?”

“Same as last time. Lefty Weeks. He’s their best.”

Hazen scowled, shucked out a cigarette, lit it.

Now he raked the group with his gaze. “You all know the drill, so I’ll be brief. The dogs go first, then the handler—Lefty—then me and Raskovich.” He pointed at the KSU security chief with his cigarette.

Raskovich nodded, his jaw tightening with the gravity of the situation.

“Raskovich, you know how to use a twelve-gauge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll issue you one. Behind us, as backup, there’ll be Cole, Brast, and Sheriff Larssen.” He nodded to two state troopers dressed in full raid wear: black BDU pants bloused over Hi-Tec boots, blacked-out bulletproof vests. No more Boy Scout hats—this was going to be the real thing. Then he turned back to Larssen. “That okay with you, Hank?”

The Deeper sheriff nodded.

Hazen knew it was important to play the political game, keep Hank in the loop, make sure he was part of the team. Hank clearly wasn’t happy about it, but there wasn’t much he could do: this was Hazen’s turf, and until the operation was finished and outside communication was restored, it was completely his show. In the end Hazen would make sure Larssen looked good. They’d all share credit—Raskovich, too—and there wouldn’t be any backstabbing when it came to trial.

“The rules of engagement are simple. You’ve all got riot guns, but don’t use them unless your life is
directly threatened.
Is that absolutely crystal clear?”

Everyone nodded.

“We’re taking our man out
alive
and
unhurt.
We’re going in nice and easy, disarm the guy, bring him out shackled and cuffed, but with kid gloves. He’s our star witness. If he panics and starts shooting, you
stay back
and let the dogs take care of him. And dogs like these can take a major round or two and still work.”

Silence, nods.

“If any of you’s thinking of coming out a hero, forget it. I’ll arrest you myself. We work together.”

He glared at each one in turn. It was Raskovich he was most worried about, but so far the man had been cool. It was worth taking the chance. Hell, he was willing to let Raskovich take all the damn credit if it meant the experimental field came to Medicine Creek.

“Shurte and Williams, you two will stake out the cave entrance. I want you to give yourself a good field of action, which means no lounging in the entrance where you could be surprised. If we flush McFelty and he tries to take off, you need to be ready to take him. You, Rheinbeck, you’re going into the Kraus mansion to serve the warrant and drink tea with Winifred. Be prepared to back up Shurte and Williams if they need it.”

Rheinbeck’s face betrayed nothing, just a faint twitching along the jawline.

“I know, Rheinbeck, it’s a tough assignment, but the old lady’s bound to be upset. We don’t want any heart attacks, right?”

Rheinbeck nodded.

“Remember, we’ll have no communication to the outside world down there. And if we get separated, there won’t be any communication between us, either. So we stay together. Got it?”

He looked around. They got it.

“All right, Cole’s going to tell us about the night-vision goggles.”

Cole stepped forward. He was Mr. State Police himself, tall, muscular, crew-cut, deadpan face. Funny how the Staties were never fat. Maybe it was a rule. He was carrying a gray helmet with a large set of goggles fastened beneath it.

“In a cave,” he said, “there’s no light at all. None. For that reason normal NVGs won’t work. So we’re going in with infrared illumination. The infrared light works just like a flashlight. This is the bulb, right here, on the front of the helmet. Here’s the switch. It’s got to be turned on to work, just like a regular flashlight. You can’t see the light with the naked eye, but when you put the NVGs on you’ll see a reddish illumination. If your infrared headlamp goes off, your goggles go black. Understand?”

Everyone nodded.

“The purpose of the NVGs is so we don’t make ourselves targets by carrying flashlights. He can’t see us. We’ll keep the overhead lights off and go in silent, and he won’t know how many we are.”

“Is there a map of the cave or something?” It was Raskovich.

“Good question,” said Hazen. “No, there isn’t. A wooden walkway’s been erected through most of it. There are a few rooms in the back, two or three at most, beyond. One of these rooms has the old still in it, and that’s probably where we’ll find our man. This isn’t Carlsbad Caverns we’re talking about. Just exercise common sense, stay close, and you’ll be all right.”

The security chief nodded.

Hazen went to the weapons locker, removed a shotgun, broke it open, loaded it, slapped it closed with a flick of his wrist, and handed it to Raskovich. “You’ve all checked your weapons?”

There was a general shuffling, a murmur of assent. Hazen did a final check of his service belt, counterclockwise: extra magazines, asp baton, cuffs, pepper spray, sidearm all in place. He took a breath, snugged his armored vest up tight beneath his chin.

At that moment the lights in the office flickered, brightened, and went out. A chorus of groans and murmurs went up.

Hazen glanced out the window. No lights on the main drag, or anywhere else for that matter. Medicine Creek was blacked out from front to back. No surprise, really.

“This doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He opened the door and they stepped out into the howling night.

Fifty-Five

A
s he pulled into Medicine Creek, Special Agent Pendergast slowed the big Rolls, then plucked his cell phone from his pocket and made another attempt to call Corrie Swanson.

The only reply was a steady beeping, no longer even a recorded message. The relay stations were down.

He replaced the phone. The police radio was also down and the lights of the town were out. Medicine Creek was effectively cut off from the outside world.

He drove along Main Street. The trees were lashing back and forth in a frenzy under the angry wind. Sheets of rain swept across the streets, forming muddy whirlpools in drains that a few hours before had been choked with dust. The town was locked down tight: shades drawn, shutters closed. The only activity seemed to be at the sheriff’s office. Several state police cars were parked outside, and the sheriff and state police were moving around outside, loading equipment into a state police van and getting into squad cars. It looked like some operation was afoot, something more than the usual storm detail.

He continued on, turning into the gates of Wyndham Parke Estates. Within, the windows of the mobile homes were heavily taped, and large rocks had been placed on many of the roofs. Everything was dark, except for the occasional glimmer of a candle or flashlight beam glimpsed through a taped window. The wind tore through the narrow dirt lanes, rocking the trailers, pulling pebbles from the ground and throwing them against the aluminum sidings. In a nearby yard the swings of a child’s playset were whipping crazily, as if propelled by manic ghosts.

Pendergast pulled into the Swanson driveway. Corrie’s car was gone. He got out of his car, moved quickly to the door, and knocked.

No answer. The house was dark.

He knocked again, louder.

There was a thump from inside, and the movement of a flashlight beam. A voice called out: “Corrie? Is that you? You’re in trouble, young lady.”

Pendergast pushed at the door; it opened two inches and was stopped by the chain.

“Corrie?” the voice shrieked. A woman’s face appeared.

“FBI,” Pendergast said, flashing his badge.

The woman peered out at him from beneath slitted lids. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from rouge-smeared lips. She poked the flashlight out the crack and shone it directly into his eyes.

“I’m looking for Miss Swanson,” said Pendergast.

The ravaged face continued to look out, and now a cloud of cigarette smoke issued from the chained crack.

“She’s out,” said the woman.

“I’m Special Agent Pendergast.”

“I know who you are,” the woman said. “You’re the FBI creep who needed an
assistant.
” She snorted more smoke. “I’m wise to you, mister, so don’t bullshit me. Even if I knew where Corrie was, I wouldn’t tell you. Assistant, yeah,
right.
”

“Do you know when Miss Swanson went out?”

“No idea.”

“Thank you.”

Pendergast turned and walked briskly back toward his car. As he did so, the door to the trailer opened wide and the woman stepped out onto the sagging stoop.

“She probably went out looking for
you.
Don’t think you can hide the truth from me, Mr. Slick-ass in your fancy black suit.”

Pendergast got into his car.

“Oh, and looky what we have here, a, what is that, a Rolls-Royce? Sheee-
it.
Some FBI agent.”

He shut the door and started the engine. The woman advanced across the little patch of lawn, into the lashing rain, clutching her nightgown, the storm tearing her shouted words and flinging them away.

“You make me sick, mister, you know that? I know your type and you make me
sick
—”

Pendergast swung out of the driveway, headed back toward Main Street.

Within five minutes, he pulled into the parking lot of the Kraus mansion. Again, Corrie’s car was nowhere to be seen.

Inside, Winifred sat in her usual chair, doing a cross-stitch by candlelight. She looked up as he came in and a wan smile creased her papery face. “I was worried about you, Mr. Pendergast, out in that storm. It’s a doozy, it really is. I’m glad you’re back safely.”

“Has Miss Swanson been by today?”

Winifred lowered her cross-stitch. “Why no, I don’t believe she has.”

“Thank you.” Pendergast bowed and turned back to the door.

“Don’t tell me you’re going out again!”

“I’m afraid so.”

Pendergast walked back across the parking lot, his face grave. If he was aware of the storm that lashed and tore the landscape on all sides, he gave no sign. He reached his car, grabbed the door handle. Then he stopped and turned, thinking. Beyond the house with its dimly lit windows, the dark sea of corn swayed violently. The signboard advertising Kraus’s Kaverns banged repeatedly in the wind.

Pendergast released the handle and walked quickly past the house, along the road. Within a hundred yards he came to a dirt road leading into the corn.

Two minutes later he was standing beside Corrie’s car.

Now he turned and strode briskly back toward the road. But even as he did so, a row of headlights appeared in the distance, approaching through the murk at high speed. As the cars blasted past and their brake lights went on as they turned into the Kaverns parking lot, growing concern became conviction, and he realized that the unthinkable had happened.

By a terrible, ironic twist of fate, it seemed that all of them—first he, then Corrie, and now Hazen—had come to the same conclusion: that the killer was hiding in the cave.

Pendergast quickly cut back through the corn, making directly for the opening to the cave. If he could manage to get inside before . . .

He was one minute too late. As he emerged from the corn, Hazen, standing before the cut leading down into the cave, saw him and turned back, a dark expression on his face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Special Agent Pendergast. And here I thought you’d left town.”

Fifty-Six

S
heriff Hazen stared at Pendergast. There was a moment of confused silence in which Hazen felt himself swell with rage. The guy had an amazing knack for appearing out of nowhere at exactly the wrong moment. Well, he was going to face down this son of a bitch, once and for all. This FBI prick wasn’t going to waste any more of his time.

He advanced toward the thin figure, managing a smile. “Pendergast, what a surprise.”