Still Life With Crows (57 page)

Corrie sighed. None of it would make the slightest difference to her. One more year and then, for better or worse, Medicine Creek would become ancient history for her.

She lay in bed, thinking, while the sun set and night fell. Then she got up and went to her bureau. She slid open the drawer, felt along the bottom, and carefully peeled off the bills. One thousand five hundred dollars. Her mother still hadn’t found the money, and after what had happened she’d stopped harping about it. She had even been nice to Corrie for the first day after she’d come back from the hospital. But Corrie knew that would not last long. Her mother was now back at work and Corrie had little doubt she’d return with her purse rattling with its usual quota of vodka minis. Give it a day or two and she’d bring up the money and everything would start all over again.

She turned the bills over thoughtfully in her hands. Pendergast had stayed in town the last week, working with Hazen and the state police to wrap up the evidentiary phase of the case. He had called to say he was leaving tomorrow, early, and said he wanted to say goodbye before he left—and collect his cell phone. That was what he really wanted, she knew, the cell phone.

He’d already been by the hospital several times to see her. He had been very solicitous and kind; and yet, somehow, she’d hoped for more. She shook her head. What did she expect—that he’d take her with him, make her his permanent assistant? Ridiculous. Besides, he seemed increasingly eager to leave, citing some pressing matter waiting for him back in New York. He’d taken several calls on his cell phone from a man named Wren, but then he’d always left the room and she’d never caught what was said. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. He was going away, and in two more weeks high school would begin again. Senior year, her last in Medicine Creek. One last year of hell.

At least there wouldn’t be any more trouble from Sheriff Hazen. Funny, he’d saved her life and now he seemed to have taken some kind of almost paternal interest in her. She had to admit he had been pretty cool when she’d visited him that day she left the hospital. He’d even apologized—not in so many words, of course, but still it just about floored her. She had thanked him for saving her life. He’d shed a few tears at that, said he hadn’t done nearly enough, that he’d done nothing. The poor man. He was still really broken up about Tad.

She looked down at the money. Tomorrow, on her way out, she’d tell Pendergast what she planned to do with it.

The idea had formed slowly, over those days she’d spent in the hospital. In a way, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She had two weeks before school, she had money, and she was free: the sheriff had dropped all charges. Nothing was keeping her here: she had no friends to speak of, no job, and if she stuck around, her mother would wheedle the money out of her sooner or later.

Not that she had any illusions, not even when the idea first came to her. She knew that when she found him he’d probably turn out to be one of those guys who couldn’t seem to get it together: a loser. After all, he’d married her mother and then split, leaving both of them in the lurch. He’d never paid child support, never visited, never written—at least, that she could be sure of. He wouldn’t exactly be a Fred MacMurray.

It didn’t matter. He was her father. In her gut, this seemed like the right thing to do. And now she had the money and the time to do it.

It wouldn’t be hard to find him. Her mother’s endless complaints had the unintentional side effect of keeping her informed of his progress. After bouncing around the Midwest he had settled in Allentown, Pennsylvania, where he worked doing brake jobs for Pep Boys. How many Jesse Swansons could there be in Allentown? She could drive there in a couple of days. The money Pendergast had paid her would cover gas, tolls, motels, with a nice cushion in the very likely event that some unexpected car repairs came up.

Even if he turned out to be a loser, her memories of him were good memories. He wasn’t a jerk, at least. When he was there he’d been a good father, taking her out to the movies and miniature golf, always laughing, always having fun. What did it mean, anyway, to be a loser? The kids at school thought she was a loser, too. He
had
loved her, she felt sure . . . even if he did leave her alone with a horrible drunken witch.

Don’t get your hopes up, Corrie,
she reminded herself.

She folded the bills, stuffed them into her pants pocket. From beneath her bed she pulled out her plastic suitcase, plopped it on the bed, opened it up, and began throwing clothes in. She’d leave first thing in the morning, before her mother woke up, say goodbye to Pendergast, and be on her way.

The suitcase was soon packed. Corrie shoved it back under her bed, lay down, and in an instant was asleep.

She awoke in the stillness of night. All was dark. She sat up, looking around groggily. Something had awakened her. It couldn’t be her mother, she was working the night shift at the club, and—

From directly outside her window came a gurgle, a chattering noise, a soft thump. Instantly, the grogginess went away, replaced by terror.

And then there was a splutter and a hiss, and a patter of drops began falling lightly against the side of the trailer.

She glanced at the clock: 2
A.M.
She sank back on the bed, almost laughing out loud with relief. This time, it really
was
Mr. Dade’s sprinkler system.

She rose to shut the window. She paused for a moment, drinking in the cool flow of air, the fresh smell of wet grass. Then she went to slide the window shut.

A hand suddenly reached in from the darkness and caught the window’s edge, stopping it from closing. It was bloody, with broken nails.

Corrie dropped her hands from the window and backed away wordlessly.

A white, moonlike face now appeared in the window: bruised, cut, streaked with filth and blood, with a wispy beard and a strange, childlike puffiness. Slowly the terrible hand pulled the window open until it would go no more. A terrible stench—all the more terrible for the memories that it stirred—flowed in and filled her nostrils.

Corrie backed toward the door, numb fingers feeling in her pocket for the cell phone. She found it, hit the send button twice, directing the phone to call the most recently dialed number. Pendergast’s number.

With a jerk the huge hand ripped out the cheap aluminum window frame, shattering the glass.

Corrie turned and ran from her room, tearing down the hall in her bare feet, racing across the living room toward—

With a crash, the front door was flung open. And there stood Job: Job, still alive, one eye ruptured and weeping yellow liquid, his oversized child’s clothing torn and filthy, crusted with blood, hair matted, skin sallow. One arm hung, useless and broken, but the other was reaching toward her.

Muuuh!

The arm was reaching out, clawing at her, and
he
took a step forward, his face distorted with rage, filling the room with his stink.

“No!” she screamed. “No, no, get away—!”

He advanced, slashing and roaring incoherently.

She turned and raced back down the hall to her room. He was after her, blundering down the hall. She slammed the door and shot the bolt home, but he came through with a shuddering crash that flattened the flimsy plywood against the wall. Without pausing to think, she dove out the window headfirst, rolled over the broken glass and wet grass, stood up, and began sprinting toward town. Behind came a crash; a roar of frustration; another crash. Lights were going on in the trailers around her. She glanced back to see Job roaring, literally clawing his way out the window, smashing and tearing.

If she could get to the main road, she might have a chance. She raced through the trailer park. The gate was just a few hundred yards ahead.

She heard a roar and glanced sideways to see the bent and wounded figure running crablike across the grass with horrible speed, cutting off her route into town.

She strained, gulping air, but now he was angling back toward her, leaving her no choice but to veer toward the back of the trailer park, toward the darkness of the naked fields. She jammed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the phone, pressing it to her ear as she ran. There was the voice of Pendergast, speaking calmly.

“I’m coming, Corrie, I’m coming right now.”

“He’s going to kill me, please—”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible with the police. Run, Corrie.
Run.
”

She ran for all she was worth, jumping the back fence and flying into the field, the sharp corn stubble lacerating her bare feet.

Muh! Muh! Muuuuuh!

Job was behind her, closing in with a strange, brutal, apelike gait, loping ahead on the knuckles with his good arm. She kept going, hoping he might tire, might give up, might find the pain too much—but he kept on, roaring in agony as he went.

She redoubled her effort, her lungs burning in her chest. It was no good. He was gaining, steadily gaining. He was going to catch her. No matter how fast she ran, he was going to catch her.

No. . .

What could she do? There was no way she’d reach the creek. And even if she did, what then? She was running directly away from the town, into the heart of nowhere. Pendergast would never arrive in time.

Muuuh! Muuuh!

She heard a distant siren. It just confirmed that Pendergast was way too far away. She was on her own.
He
was going to catch her, grab her from behind and kill her.

Now she could hear feet pounding like a frenzied accompaniment to his agonized cries. He couldn’t be more than ten yards behind. She called up every ounce of energy but could already feel herself faltering, her legs weakening, her lungs almost bursting from the effort. And still he kept coming, closing the gap. In a second he would be on her. She had to do something. There had to be some way to reach him, to make him understand, to make him stop.

She turned back.
“Job!”
she yelled.

He came on, roaring, oblivious.

“Job, wait!”

In another instant she felt the blow, the terrible blow that threw her backwards into the soft dirt. And then he was on top of her, roaring, spittle spraying into her face, his great fist raised to smash in her skull.

“Friend!” she cried.

She closed her eyes, turning away from the anticipated blow, and said again: “Friend! I want to be your friend.” She choked, sobbed, repeating it over and over. “Your friend, your friend, your friend . . .”

Nothing happened. She waited, swallowed, and opened her eyes.

The fist was there, still raised, but the face looking down at her was completely different. Gone was the rage, the fury. The face was twisted into some new, powerful, and unfathomable emotion.

“You and me,” Corrie croaked. “Friends.”

The face remained horribly twisted, but she thought she could see hope, even eagerness, shine from his one good eye.

Slowly the great fist uncurled. “Fwiend?” Job asked in his high voice.

“Yes, friends,” she gasped.

“Pway wif Job?”

“Yes, I’ll play with you, Job. We’re friends. We’ll play together.” She was babbling, choking with fear, struggling to get a grip on herself.

The arm dropped. The mouth was stretched in a horrible grimace that Corrie realized must be a smile. A smile of hope.

Job lumbered off her awkwardly, managed to stand unsteadily, grimacing with pain but still smiling that grotesque smile. “Pway. Job pway.”

Corrie gasped and sat up, moving slowly, trying not to frighten him. “Yes. We’re friends now. Corrie and Job, friends.”

“Fwiends,” repeated Job, slowly, as if recalling a long-forgotten word.

The sirens were louder now. She heard the distant screech of brakes, the slamming of car doors.

Corrie tried to stand, found her legs collapsing underneath her. “That’s right. I won’t run away; you don’t need to hurt me. I’ll stay here and play with you.”

“We pway!”
And Job squealed with happiness in the dark of the empty field.

2

The Rolls-Royce stood in the parking lot beside Maisie’s Diner, covered with dust, its once-glossy surface sandblasted to dullness by the storm. Pendergast was leaning against it, dressed in a fresh black suit, his arms in his pockets, motionless in the crisp morning light.

Corrie turned off the road, eased her Gremlin to a stop beside him, and threw it into park. The engine died with a belch of black exhaust and she stepped out.

Pendergast straightened. “Miss Swanson, I’ll be driving through Allentown on my way back to New York. Are you sure you won’t accept a ride?”

Corrie shook her head. “This is something I’d like to do on my own.”

“I could run your father’s name through the database and give you advance notice of anything, shall we say,
unusual
in his current situation?”

“No. I’d rather not know in advance. I’m not expecting any miracles.”

He looked at her intently, not speaking.

“I’m going to be just fine,” she said.

After a moment he nodded. “I know you will. If you won’t accept a ride, however, you must at least accept this.”

He took a step closer, withdrew an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Consider it an early graduation present.”

Corrie opened it and a savings account passbook came sliding out. The sum of $25,000 had been deposited in an educational trust account in her name.

“No,” she said immediately. “No, I can’t.”

Pendergast smiled. “Not only can you, but you must.”

“Sorry. I just can’t accept it.”

Pendergast seemed to hesitate a moment. Then he spoke again. “Then let me explain why you must,” he said, his voice very low. “By chance, under circumstances I’d rather not go into, last fall I came into a considerable inheritance from a distant and wealthy relation. Suffice to say, he did not make his money via good works. I am trying to rectify, if only partially, the blot he left on the Pendergast family name by giving his money away to worthy causes. Quietly, you understand. You, Corrie, are just such a cause. A most excellent cause, in fact.”