Still Life With Crows (44 page)

The agent halted. His black suit was almost invisible in the stormy half-light, and his face seemed to float, pale and ghostlike. “What are you doing here, Sheriff?” He spoke quietly, but his voice carried an edge that Hazen hadn’t heard before.

“It’s my recollection you were served with a C-and-D this morning. You are in violation. I could have you arrested.”

“You’re going in after the killer,” said Pendergast. “You’ve deduced he’s in the cave.”

Hazen shifted uneasily. Pendergast must be guessing. There’s no way he could have heard; not yet.

The agent went on. “You have absolutely no idea of what you’re getting into, Sheriff—neither in terms of the adversary you’re facing, nor the setting.”

This was too much. “Pendergast, that’s it.”

“You’re at the edge of the abyss, Sheriff.”

“You’re the one on the edge.”

“The killer’s got a hostage.”

“Pendergast, you’re just blowing smoke out your ass.”

“If you blunder in there, Sheriff, you’re going to cause the death of that hostage.”

Despite himself, Hazen felt a chill. It was every cop’s nightmare. “Yeah? And just who is this hostage?”

“Corrie Swanson.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s been missing all day. And I just found her car, hidden in the corn a hundred yards to the west.”

There was a moment of uneasy silence, and then Hazen shook his head in disgust. “Right from the beginning, Pendergast, you’ve done nothing but throw the investigation off track with your theories. We would already have this man in the bag if it weren’t for you. So Swanson’s car is parked in the corn. She’s probably out in the cornfield with some guy.”

“She went into the cave.”

“Now there’s a brilliant deduction for you. The cave door is solid iron. How did she get in? Pick the lock?”

“Take a look for yourself.”

Hazen looked in the direction Pendergast was indicating, down along the cut in the ground. The iron door wasn’t locked after all: a padlock lay at the bottom of the doorframe, half concealed in the dust and leaves.

“If you think Corrie Swanson sprung that lock, Pendergast, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought. That’s not the work of a kid; it’s the work of a hardened felon. The man we’re after, in fact. And that’s more than you need to know about it.”

“As I recall, Sheriff, you were the one to accuse Miss Swanson of—”

Hazen shook his head. “I’ve listened enough. Pendergast, turn over your piece. You’re under arrest. Cole, cuff him.”

Cole stepped forward. “Sheriff?”

“He’s willfully disobeyed a standing cease-and-desist. He’s hindering a police investigation. He’s trespassing on private property. I’ll take full responsibility. Just get him the hell
out
of my
face.
”

Cole advanced toward Pendergast. In the next instant, Cole was lying on the ground, desperately trying to breathe, and Pendergast had vanished.

Hazen stared.

“Uff,”
Cole said, rolling into a sitting position and cradling his gut. “The son of a bitch sucker-punched me.”

“Christ,” Hazen muttered, shining his light around. But Pendergast was gone. Moments later he heard the roar of a big engine, the sound of tires pulling rapidly away from gravel.

Cole got up, his face red, and dusted himself off. “We’ll tag him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”

“Forget it, Cole. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let’s take care of business here and deal with that tomorrow.”

“The son of a bitch,” Cole muttered again.

Hazen slapped him on the back and grinned. “Next time you make an arrest, keep your eyes on the perp, hey, Cole?”

There was the distant slamming of a door and Hazen could hear a shrill voice rising and falling on the wind. A moment later, the pallid form of Winifred Kraus came running down the path from the old mansion. The fierce gusts whipped and tugged at her white nightgown, and to Hazen it almost seemed as if a ghost was flying through the night. Rheinbeck was following in her tracks, protesting loudly.

“What are you doing?” shrieked the old woman as she came up, her hair haggard in the rain, drops running down her face. “What’s this? What are you doing on my property?”

Hazen turned to Rheinbeck. “For chrissakes, you were supposed to—”

“I’ve been trying to explain to her, Sheriff. She’s hysterical.”

Winifred was looking around at the troopers, her eyes rolling wildly. “Sheriff Hazen! I demand an explanation!”

“Rheinbeck, get her out of—”

“This is a
respectable
tourist attraction!”

Hazen heaved a sigh and turned to her. “Look. Winifred, we believe the killer’s holed up in your cave.”

“Impossible!” the woman shrieked. “I check it twice a week!”

“We’re going in there to bring him out. I want you to stay in your house with Officer Rheinbeck here, nice and peaceable. He’ll take care of you—”

“I will
not.
Don’t you
dare
go into my cave! You have no right. There’s no killer in there!”

“Miss Kraus, I’m sorry. We’ve got a warrant. Rheinbeck?”

“I already showed her the warrant, Sheriff—”

“Show it to her again and get her the hell out of here.”

“But she won’t listen—”

“Pick her
up
if you have to. Can’t you see we’re wasting time?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, ma’am—”

“Don’t you
dare
touch me!” Winifred took a swipe at Rheinbeck, who fell back.

She turned and advanced on Hazen, her fists balled up. “You get off my property! You’ve always been a bully! Get out of here!”

He grabbed her wrists and she writhed and spat at him. Hazen was amazed at the old lady’s strength and ferocity.

“Miss Kraus,” he began again, trying to be patient, to make his voice more soothing. “Just calm down, please. This is important law enforcement business.”

“Get off my land!”

Hazen struggled to hold her, and felt a sharp kick to his shin. The others were all standing around, gawking like civilian spectators. “How about a little help here?” he roared.

Rheinbeck grabbed her by the waist while Cole waded in and managed to snag one of her flailing arms.

“Easy now,” Hazen said. “Easy. She’s still a little old lady.”

Her shrieks became hysterical. The three men held her immobile for a moment, struggling, and then Hazen finally extricated himself. Rheinbeck, with Cole’s help, picked her up off the ground. Her legs kicked and flailed.

“Devils!” she shrieked. “You have no right!”

Her shrieks died as Rheinbeck disappeared into the storm, carrying his thrashing burden.

“Jesus, what’s with her?” Cole asked, panting.

Hazen dusted off his pants. “She’s always been a loopy old bitch, but I never expected
this.
” He gave one final slap. She had kicked him pretty good in the shin and it still smarted. He straightened up. “Let’s get into the cave before someone else pops up to spoil our party.” He turned to Shurte and Williams. “If that son of a bitch Pendergast comes back, you’re authorized to use all means to keep him out of the cave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hazen leading, the others moved down the dark slot in the ground. As they descended, the sounds of the storm became muffled, far away. They opened the unlocked door, switched on their infrared lights and night-vision goggles, and began descending the stairs. Within moments the silence became complete, broken only by the sound of dripping water. They were entering another world.

Fifty-Seven

T
he Rolls scraped and bumped up the dirt track, the headlights barely penetrating the screaming murk, hail hammering on the metal. When the vehicle could go no farther, Pendergast stopped, turned off the engine, tucked the rolled map inside his suit jacket, and stepped out into the storm.

Here, at the highest point of land in Cry County, the mesocyclone had reached its highest pitch of intensity. The ground looked like a battlefield, littered with jetsam scattered by the ruinous winds: twigs, plant debris, clods of dirt picked up from fields many miles away. Up ahead, the still-invisible trees fringing the Mounds thrashed and groaned, leaves and limbs tearing at each other with a sound like the crashing of surf on rocks. The world of the Ghost Mounds had been reduced to sound and fury.

Turning his head and leaning into the wind, Pendergast made his way along the track toward the Mounds. As he approached, the roar of the storm became more intense, occasionally punctuated by the earsplitting sound of cracking wood and the crash of a branch hitting the ground.

Once in the relative shelter of the trees, Pendergast was able to see a little more clearly. Wind and rain boiled through, scouring everything with pebbles and fat pelting drops. The great cottonwoods around him groaned and creaked. The greatest danger now, Pendergast knew, came not from rain and hail, but from the possibility of high-F-scale tornadoes that could form at any time along the flanks of the storm.

And yet there was no time for caution. This was neither the time, nor the manner, in which he’d intended to confront the killer. But there was no longer any choice.

Pendergast switched on his flashlight and arrowed it into the gloom beyond the copse of trees. As he did so, there came a terrific splitting noise; he leapt to one side as a giant cottonwood came tumbling out of the darkness, hurtling down with a grinding crash that shook the ground and sent up a maelstrom of leaves, splintered branches, and wet dirt.

Pendergast left the trees and stepped back into the teeth of the storm. He moved forward as quickly as he could, eyes averted, until he reached the base of the first mound. Placing his back to the wind, he played his light carefully around its flanks until he had fully established a point of reference. And then—in the pitch of night, in the howling storm—he straightened, folded his arms across his chest, and paused. Sound and sensation alike faded from his consciousness as, from a marbled vault within the Gothic mansion of his memory, he took up the image of the Ghost Warriors. Once, twice, three times he ran through the reconstructed sequence from his memory crossing—where they had first emerged from the dust, where once again they had vanished—carefully superimposing this pattern upon the actual landscape around him.

Then he opened his eyes, let his hands fall to his sides. Now—walking slowly, taking precise steps—he moved across the central clearing to the far side of the second mound. Soon he stopped before a large limestone outcrop. He moved slowly around it, back to the storm, oblivious to the wind and pelting rain, inspecting rocks with great care, touching first one, then another, until he found what he was looking for: a half dozen small, loose boulders, casually lying caught in a crack of the rock. After examining them for a moment, Pendergast rolled the smaller boulders aside, one by one, exposing an opening. He rapidly shifted more rocks. The ragged opening exhaled cool, damp air.

The route through which the Ghost Warriors had first appeared, then vanished. And—unless he was sadly mistaken—the back door to Kraus’s Kaverns.

Pendergast slipped through the hole, flicking his beam back around to the inside face of rockfall, behind and above him. It was as he suspected: the smaller opening was inside what had once been a much larger natural opening.

He turned away, raking his light into the passageway that sloped downward. Pebbles rattled away into the listening dark. As he started descending, the appalling fury of the storm faded away with remarkable quickness. Soon it was nothing more than a memory. Time, the storm, and the outside world all ceased to exist in the changeless environment of the cave. He had to reach Corrie before the sheriff and his impromptu little SWAT team did.

The passageway broadened as it descended, leveled out, then turned abruptly. Pendergast moved carefully up to the turn and waited, listening, gun drawn. Total silence. Quick as a ferret, he spun around the corner, illuminating the space ahead with his powerful flashlight.

It was a giant cavern at least a hundred feet across. An astonishing but not unexpected sight met his view. The only moving things in the cavern were his pale eyes and the beam of his flashlight, passing back and forth over the bizarre spectacle that lay before him.

Thirty dead horses, in full Indian battle dress, were arranged in a kneeling position in a ring at the center of the cavern. They had shriveled and mummified in the air of the cave: their bones stuck out of their hides, their dried lips were drawn back from their yellow teeth. Each was decorated in the Southern Cheyenne style, with streaks of brilliant red ochre on their faces, white and red handprints along their necks and withers, and eagle feathers tied into their manes and tails. Some carried beaded, high-cantled Cheyenne rawhide saddles on their backs; others had a blanket merely, or nothing at all. Most had been sacrificed by a massive blow to the head with a studded club, leaving a neat hole punched directly between each pair of eyes.

Arranged in a second circle, inside the first, were thirty Cheyenne braves.

The Ghost Warriors.

They had laid themselves out like the spokes of a wheel—the sacred wheel of the sun—each one touching his dead horse with his left hand, weapon in his right. They were all there: those who were killed in the raid as well as those who had survived. These latter had been sacrificed like the horses: a single blow to the forehead with a spiked club. The last one to die—the one who had sacrificed the rest—lay on his back, one mummified hand still clutching the stone knife that stuck from his heart. The knife was identical to the broken knife found with Chauncy’s body. And each brave had a quiver of arrows exactly like the arrows found near the body of Sheila Swegg.

They had been here, bearing witness beneath the earth of Medicine Creek, since the evening of August 14, 1865. Those warriors who survived the raid had sacrificed themselves and their horses here, in the darkness of the cave, choosing to die with dignity on their own land. Never would the white men herd them off to a reservation. Never would they be forced to sign a treaty, board railroad cars, send their children to distant schools to be beaten for speaking their own language, to be robbed of their dignity and culture.