Still Life With Crows (58 page)

Corrie lowered her eyes for a moment. She could make no answer. Nobody her whole life long had ever given her anything. It felt strange to be cared about—especially by someone as remote, as aloof, as unlike her as Pendergast was. And yet the passbook was there, in her hand, as physical proof.

She looked at the passbook again. Then she slid it back into its envelope.

“What does it mean, educational trust?” she asked.

“You have another year of high school to get through.”

She nodded.

A twinkle appeared in Pendergast’s eye. “Have you ever heard of Phillips Exeter Academy?”

“No.”

“It’s a private boarding school in New Hampshire. They’re holding a place at my request.”

Corrie stared at him. “You mean the money isn’t for college?”

“The important thing is to get you out of here now. This town is killing you.”

“But a
boarding
school? In New England? I won’t fit in.”

“My dear Corrie, what’s so important about fitting in?
I
never did. I’m certain you’ll do well there. You’ll find other misfits like yourself—intelligent, curious, creative, skeptical misfits. I’ll be passing through in early November, on my way to Maine; I’ll drop in to see how you’re getting on.” He coughed delicately into his hand.

To her own surprise, Corrie took an impulsive step forward and hugged him. She felt him stiffen and, after a moment, relax and then gently disentangle himself from her embrace. She looked curiously at him: he seemed distinctly embarrassed.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for being unused to physical displays of affection,” he said. “I was not raised in a family that . . .” His voice stopped and he colored faintly.

She stepped back, feeling a confusing welter of emotions, embarrassment foremost among them. For a moment he continued looking at her, a faint, cryptic smile slowly gathering once again on his face. Then he bowed, took her hand, brought her fingers close to his lips, and quickly turned and got into his car. In another moment the Rolls had turned onto the road and was accelerating toward the rising sun, the light winking briefly off its curved surface before it vanished down the long, level stretch of macadam.

Corrie waited a moment and then got into her own car. She looked around—at the suitcase, the tapes, the small pile of books—making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She put the envelope with the passbook into her glove compartment, wired it closed. Then she started the Gremlin, let the engine rev a bit, giving it gas until she was sure it wouldn’t stall. As she eased out of Maisie’s parking lot, her eye fell on Ernie’s Exxon across the street. There was Brad Hazen. The sheriff’s son was filling the tank of Art Ridder’s powder-blue Caprice, one hand on the gas nozzle, the other on the trunk. His jeans had slipped down and she could see faded, grayish underwear, the line of a butt crack beginning just above the belt. Brad was staring, gape-jawed, in the direction Pendergast’s Rolls-Royce had vanished. After a minute, he turned away, shaking his head wonderingly and reaching for the squeegee.

She felt a sudden pity for the sheriff. Strange what a decent man he’d turned out to be. She’d never forget him lying in his hospital bed, his bulletlike head resting against the crisp pillow, his face looking ten years older, tears coursing down his cheeks as he talked about Tad Franklin. She looked back at Brad, wondering if perhaps, deep down, there was a spark of decency buried within him, too.

Then she shook her head and accelerated. She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

As the road rose up to meet her, she wondered where she would be next year, in five years, in thirty years. It was the first time in her life that such a thought had ever occurred to her. She had no idea of the answer. It was both a wonderful and a scary feeling.

The town dwindled in her rearview mirror until all she could see were stubbled fields and blue sky. She realized that she could no longer hate Brad Hazen any more than she could hate Medicine Creek. Both had moved from her present into her past, where they would gradually dwindle into nothingness. For better or worse she was off into the wide, wide world, never to return to Medicine Creek again.

3

Sheriff Dent Hazen, head still heavily bandaged and one arm in a cast, was standing at the end of the short corridor, talking to two policemen, when Pendergast arrived. He broke away and came over to the FBI agent, offering his left hand to shake.

“How’s the arm mending, Sheriff?” Pendergast asked.

“Won’t be able to fish again until after the season ends.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“You heading out now?”

“Yes. I wanted to stop by one last time. I was hoping I’d find you here. I wanted to thank you, Sheriff, for helping to make this a most, ah, interesting vacation.”

Hazen nodded abstractedly. His face was deeply lined and full of bitterness and anguish. “You’re just in time to see the old lady say goodbye to her bundle of joy.”

Pendergast nodded. He had come to see that, as well. Although he did not expect anything from the visit, he hated to leave a loose end,
any
loose end, behind him. And this case still had one remarkably large unanswered question.

“You can view the tender parting through the one-way glass. All the shrinks are there already, clustered like flies. It’s this way.” Hazen led Pendergast through an unmarked door and into a darkened room. A lone window, a long rectangle of white, was set into the far wall. It looked down into the “quiet room” of the locked unit of Garden City Lutheran Hospital’s psychiatric wing. A group of psychiatrists and medical students were standing before the one-way glass, talking in low voices, notebooks at the ready. The room beyond was empty, its lighting dim. Just as Pendergast and Hazen stepped up to the window a set of double doors opened and two uniformed policemen wheeled Job in. He was heavily bandaged over his face and chest, and one arm and shoulder was in a cast. Despite the dimness of the room, Job blinked his one good eye against the light. An oversized leather belt was snugged tight around his haunches, and the handcuff for his wrists ran through a ring in its front. Both legs were shackled to the wheelchair with leg irons.

“Look at him, the bastard,” said Hazen, more to himself than to Pendergast.

Pendergast watched intently as the policemen parked Job in the middle of the room, then took up positions on either side.

“I wish to hell I knew why the guy did what he did,” Hazen went on in a quiet, dull voice. “What was he doing in those clearings out there in the corn? The crows arranged like that, Stott cooked like a pig, the tail sewed up in Chauncy . . .” He swallowed hard. “And Tad. Killing Tad. What the hell was going through that fucking head of his?”

Pendergast said nothing.

The doors opened again and Winifred Kraus came in, leaning on the arm of a third policeman. She was in a hospital gown and moved very slowly. A tattered book was tucked beneath one arm. Her face was pale and sunken, but as soon as she saw Job it brightened and her whole appearance seemed to transform.

“Jobie, dearest? It’s Mommy.”

Her voice came into the darkened observation room through a loudspeaker above the window, sounding harsh and electronic in the sudden silence.

Job raised his head, his face grimacing into a smile.

“Momma!”

“I brought you a present, Jobie. Look, it’s
your
book.”

Job let out an inarticulate sound of joy.

She came over and pulled up a chair next to her son. The policemen tensed, but neither Winifred nor Job took any notice. She seated herself beside him, put one frail arm around his bulk, pulled him close. She began to hum softly while Job beamed, leaning against her, his calflike face illuminated with joy and happiness.

“Christ,” Hazen muttered. “Look. She’s rocking him like a baby.”

Winifred Kraus placed the book in his lap and opened to the first page. It was a book of nursery rhymes. “I’ll start at the beginning, shall I, Jobie?” she crooned. “Just the way you like it.”

Slowly, with a singsong, infantile voice, she began to read.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Wasn’t that a dainty dish,

To set before the king?

Job’s big head nodded to the rhythm of her voice, his mouth making an
ooooooo
sound that rose and fell with the cadence of her words.

“Jesus Christ,” said Hazen. “The freak and his mother. It gives me the creeps just watching.”

Winifred Kraus finished the rhyme, then slowly turned the page. Job beamed, laughed. And she began again.

Davy Davy Dumpling,

Boil him in a pot;

Sugar him and butter him,

And eat him while he’s hot.

Hazen turned and grasped Pendergast’s hand. “I’m out of here. See you in purgatory.”

Pendergast took the hand without responding, without noticing. His eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him, the mother reading nursery rhymes to her child.

“Look at the pretty picture, Jobie. Look!”

As Winifred Kraus held the book up, Pendergast got a glimpse of the illustration. It was an old book, and the page was torn and stained, but the picture was still discernible.

He recognized the image instantly. The revelation hit Pendergast so suddenly that it was like a physical blow, staggering him. He backed away from the glass.

Job beamed and went
ooooooooo,
his head rolling back and forth.

Winifred Kraus smiled, face serene, and turned another page. The unnatural, electronically amplified voice of the mother continued to crackle through the loudspeaker.

What are little boys made of, made of?

What are little boys made of?

Snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails,

That’s what little boys are made of . . .

But Pendergast had not remained to hear any more. The cluster of psychiatrists and students at the glass did not even notice the dark, slender presence slip away, they were so busy discussing just where the diagnosis would be found in the
DSM-IV
manual—or if, indeed, it would ever be found there at all.