Still Life With Crows by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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if you got what you’re looking for, I hope you’ll be about your business. I like a quiet evening.”
Pendergast rose. “Mr. Gasparilla, I will leave you in peace. But first, if there’s anything you’d care to add, I would advise you to tell it to me now, rather than waiting for me to discover it myself.”
Gasparilla spat a brown rope of saliva in the direction of the creek. “I don’t particularly care to get involved.”
“You’re already involved. Either you are the murderer, Mr. Gasparilla, or your continued presence here puts you in grave danger. One or the other.”
Gasparilla grunted, bit off another plug, spat again. Then he asked, “Do you believe in the devil?”
Pendergast regarded the man, his pale eyes glinting in the firelight. “Why do you ask, Mr. Gasparilla?”
“Because I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, the devil’s a lot of preacher bullshit. But there is evil on this earth, Mr. FBI Agent. You asked about the curse of the Forty-Fives. Well, you might as well get on home right now, because you ain’t never going to get to the bottom of that. The evil I’m talking about, most of the time it’s got an explanation. But some of the time”—Gasparilla spat more tobacco juice, then leaned forward as if to impart a secret—“some of the time, it just don’t. ”
Thirteen
S mit Ludwig pulled his AMC Pacer into the parking lot of Calvary Lutheran, which was wall to wall with hot cars glittering in the August sun. A big placard, already curling in the intense heat, was affixed to the front of the neat, redbrick church. It announced, 33 RD ANNUAL BAKED TURKEY SUPPER SOCIABLE . Another, even bigger placard beside it burbled, MEDICINE CREEK WELCOMES PROFESSOR STANTON CHAUNCY !!! There was a touch of desperation, Ludwig thought, to the three exclamation marks. He parked his car at the far end of the lot, got out, dabbed the back of his neck with a handkerchief, and walked up to the entrance.
Then he paused, hand on the door. Over the years, the town had gotten used to his nice human interest stories; to his uncontroversial coverage of church and school, 4-H and Boy Scouts and Future Farmers of America. They had gotten used to the Courier glossing over and even ignoring the petty crimes of their children—the occasional joyrides, the drunken parties. They had taken for granted his downplaying of the inspection problems at Gro-Bain, the rising injury rate at the plant, the union troubles. They had forgotten that the Courier was a newspaper, not the town PR organ. Yesterday, all that had changed. The Courier had become a real paper, reporting real news.
Smit Ludwig wondered just what the reaction would be.
With his free hand, he nervously fingered his bow tie. He’d covered the Baked Turkey Sociable for every one of its thirty-three years, but never had he approached it with such trepidation. It was times like this that he most missed his wife, Sarah. It would have been easier with her on his arm.
Buck up, Smitty, he told himself, pushing open the doors.
The Fellowship Hall of the church was jammed. Practically the entire town was there. Some were already seated, eating, while others had formed long lines to load up on mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. Some were even eating the turkey, although Smitty noticed, as usual, that the Gro-Bain plant workers were nowhere to be seen in the turkey lines. It was one of those things that nobody ever mentioned: how little turkey was actually consumed at the Turkey Sociable.
A huge plastic banner on one wall thanked Gro-Bain and its general manager, Art Ridder, for their generosity in providing the turkeys. Another banner on the opposite wall thanked Buswell Agricon for their ongoing donations for the upkeep of the church. And yet another banner, the biggest of all, trumpeted the arrival of Stanton Chauncy, the year’s guest of honor. Ludwig looked around. Familiar faces all. One of the joys of living in small-town America.
From across
Pendergast rose. “Mr. Gasparilla, I will leave you in peace. But first, if there’s anything you’d care to add, I would advise you to tell it to me now, rather than waiting for me to discover it myself.”
Gasparilla spat a brown rope of saliva in the direction of the creek. “I don’t particularly care to get involved.”
“You’re already involved. Either you are the murderer, Mr. Gasparilla, or your continued presence here puts you in grave danger. One or the other.”
Gasparilla grunted, bit off another plug, spat again. Then he asked, “Do you believe in the devil?”
Pendergast regarded the man, his pale eyes glinting in the firelight. “Why do you ask, Mr. Gasparilla?”
“Because I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, the devil’s a lot of preacher bullshit. But there is evil on this earth, Mr. FBI Agent. You asked about the curse of the Forty-Fives. Well, you might as well get on home right now, because you ain’t never going to get to the bottom of that. The evil I’m talking about, most of the time it’s got an explanation. But some of the time”—Gasparilla spat more tobacco juice, then leaned forward as if to impart a secret—“some of the time, it just don’t. ”
Thirteen
S mit Ludwig pulled his AMC Pacer into the parking lot of Calvary Lutheran, which was wall to wall with hot cars glittering in the August sun. A big placard, already curling in the intense heat, was affixed to the front of the neat, redbrick church. It announced, 33 RD ANNUAL BAKED TURKEY SUPPER SOCIABLE . Another, even bigger placard beside it burbled, MEDICINE CREEK WELCOMES PROFESSOR STANTON CHAUNCY !!! There was a touch of desperation, Ludwig thought, to the three exclamation marks. He parked his car at the far end of the lot, got out, dabbed the back of his neck with a handkerchief, and walked up to the entrance.
Then he paused, hand on the door. Over the years, the town had gotten used to his nice human interest stories; to his uncontroversial coverage of church and school, 4-H and Boy Scouts and Future Farmers of America. They had gotten used to the Courier glossing over and even ignoring the petty crimes of their children—the occasional joyrides, the drunken parties. They had taken for granted his downplaying of the inspection problems at Gro-Bain, the rising injury rate at the plant, the union troubles. They had forgotten that the Courier was a newspaper, not the town PR organ. Yesterday, all that had changed. The Courier had become a real paper, reporting real news.
Smit Ludwig wondered just what the reaction would be.
With his free hand, he nervously fingered his bow tie. He’d covered the Baked Turkey Sociable for every one of its thirty-three years, but never had he approached it with such trepidation. It was times like this that he most missed his wife, Sarah. It would have been easier with her on his arm.
Buck up, Smitty, he told himself, pushing open the doors.
The Fellowship Hall of the church was jammed. Practically the entire town was there. Some were already seated, eating, while others had formed long lines to load up on mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. Some were even eating the turkey, although Smitty noticed, as usual, that the Gro-Bain plant workers were nowhere to be seen in the turkey lines. It was one of those things that nobody ever mentioned: how little turkey was actually consumed at the Turkey Sociable.
A huge plastic banner on one wall thanked Gro-Bain and its general manager, Art Ridder, for their generosity in providing the turkeys. Another banner on the opposite wall thanked Buswell Agricon for their ongoing donations for the upkeep of the church. And yet another banner, the biggest of all, trumpeted the arrival of Stanton Chauncy, the year’s guest of honor. Ludwig looked around. Familiar faces all. One of the joys of living in small-town America.
From across
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