Still Life With Crows by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

minutes. At last, Pendergast lowered his fork and spoke, in a voice even lower than Ludwig’s own.
    “In my opinion, the killer is local.”
    “What do you mean, local? From southwestern Kansas?”
    “No. From Medicine Creek.”
    Ludwig felt the blood drain out of his face. It was impossible. He knew everyone in town. The FBI agent was dead wrong.
    “What makes you say that?” he asked weakly.
    Pendergast finished his meal and leaned back. He pushed his coffee away and picked up a menu. “How is the ice cream?” he asked, with a faint but distinct tone of hope in his voice.
    Ludwig lowered his voice. “Niltona Brand Xtra-Creamy.”
    Pendergast shuddered. “The peach cobbler?”
    “Out of a can.”
    “The shoo-fly pie?”
    “Don’t go there.”
    Pendergast laid down the menu.
    Ludwig leaned forward. “Desserts are not Maisie’s strong point. She’s a meat and potatoes kind of gal.”
    “I see.” Pendergast regarded him once again with his pale eyes. Then he spoke. “Medicine Creek is as isolated as an island in the wide Pacific. Nobody can come or go on the roads without being noticed, and it’s a twenty-mile hike through the cornfields from Deeper, the nearest town with a motel.” He paused, smiled faintly, then glanced at the steno book. “I see you’re not taking notes.”
    Ludwig laughed nervously. “Give me something I can print. There’s one unshakable article of faith in this town: the killer and the victim are both ‘from away.’ We have our share of troublemakers, but believe me, no killers.”
    Pendergast looked at him with mild curiosity. “What, exactly, constitutes ‘trouble’ in Medicine Creek?”
    Ludwig realized that if he wanted information, he was going to have to give some in return. Only there wasn’t much to give. “Domestic violence, sometimes. Come Saturday night we get our share of drunken hooliganism, drag racing out on the Cry Road. Last year, a B-and-E down at the Gro-Bain plant, that sort of thing.”
    He paused. Pendergast seemed to be waiting for more.
    “Kids sniffing aerosols, the occasional drug overdose. Plus, unwanted pregnancies have always been a problem.”
    Pendergast arched an eyebrow.
    “Most of the time they settle it by getting married. In the old days the girl was sometimes sent away to have her baby and it was put up for adoption. You know how it is in a small town like this, not a lot for a young person to do except—” Ludwig smiled, remembering back to the days when he and his wife were in high school, Saturday night parking down by the creek, the windows all steamed up . . . It seemed so long ago, a world utterly gone. He shook off the memory. “Well,” he said, “that’s about all the trouble we ever get around here. Until now.”
    The FBI agent smiled and leaned forward, speaking so softly Ludwig could barely hear him. “The victim has been identified as Sheila Swegg, of Oklahoma. A petty criminal and con artist. They found her car hidden in the corn five miles out on the Cry Road. It seems she’d been digging up at some Indian mounds in the area.”
    Smit Ludwig looked at Pendergast. “Thank you,” he said. Now, this was much better. This was more than a crumb. It was practically a whole cake. He felt a surge of gratitude.
    “And another thing. Arranged with the body they found a number of antique Southern Cheyenne arrows in almost perfect condition.”
    It seemed to Ludwig as though Pendergast was looking at him intently. “That’s extraordinary,” he replied.
    “Yes.”
    They were interrupted by a sudden commotion outside, punctuated by a voice raised in shrill protest. Ludwig glanced across the street and saw Sheriff Hazen marching a teenage girl down the sidewalk, toward his office. The girl was protesting gamely, digging in her heels, lunging against her handcuffs, her black fingernails cutting the air. He knew immediately who she was; it was all too obvious from the black leather miniskirt, pale skin, spiked collar,