The man made another notation on his clipboard. Then he closed the second drawer and made his way back through several chambers, separated from each other by heavy cloth tapestries, to a vault full of glass cabinets. In the center, upon a stone table, a laptop computer glowed. The man approached it, set down the clipboard, and began to type.
For several minutes, the only sound was the tapping of the keys, the occasional distant drip of water. And then a strident buzzing suddenly erupted from the breast of his lab coat.
The man stopped typing, reached into his pocket, and removed the ringing cell phone.
Only two people in the world knew he had a cell phone, and only one person had the number. The man lifted the phone, spoke into it: “Special Agent Pendergast, I believe.”
“Precisely,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “And how are you, Wren?”
“Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.”
“That I sincerely doubt. Have you completed your catalogue raisonnéof the first-floor library?”
“No. I’m saving thatfor last.” There was an undisguised shudder of relish in the voice. “I’m still assembling a list of the basement artifacts.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, indeed, hypocrite lecteur.And I expect to be at it several more days, at least. The collections of your great-grand-uncle were, shall we say, extensive? Besides, I can only be here during the days. My nights are reserved for the library. Nothing interferes with my work there.”
“Naturally. And you’ve heeded my warning notto proceed into the final chambers beyond the abandoned laboratory?”
“I have.”
“Good. Any surprises of particular interest?”
“Oh, many, many. But those can wait. I think.”
“You think? Please explain.”
Wren hesitated briefly in a way that his friends—had he any—would have called uncharacteristic. “I’m not sure, exactly.” He paused again, looked briefly over his shoulder. “You know that I’m no stranger to darkness and decay. But on several occasions, during my work down here, I’ve had an unusual feeling. A most disagreeable feeling. A feeling as if”—he lowered his voice—“as if I’m being watched.”
“I’m not particularly surprised to hear it,” Pendergast said after a moment. “I fear even the least imaginative person on earth would find that particular cabinet of curiosities an unsettling place. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to take on this assignment.”
“Oh, no!” Wren said excitedly. “No, no, no! I would never forgo such a chance. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it. Imagination, imagination, as you say. ‘One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; such tricks hath strong imagination.’ No doubt it’s simply my knowledge of the, ahem, thingsthese walls have borne witness to.”
“No doubt. The events of last fall have yet to release their hold on my own thoughts. I’d hoped that this trip would in some measure drive them away.”
“Without success?” Now Wren chuckled. “Not surprising, given your notion of getting away from it alclass="underline" investigating serial murders. And from what I understand, such a strange set of murders, too. In fact, they’re so unusual as to seem almost familiar. Your brother isn’t vacationing in Kansas, by any chance?”
For a moment there was no answer. When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was chill, distant. “I have told you, Wren, neverto speak of my family.”
“Of course, of course,” Wren replied quickly.
“I’m calling with a request.” Pendergast’s tone became brisk and businesslike. “I need you to locate an article for me, Wren.”
Wren sighed.
“It’s a handwritten journal by one Isaiah Draper, entitled An Account of the Dodge Forty-Fives.My research indicates that this journal became part of Thomas Van Dyke Selden’s collection, acquired on his tour through Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas in 1933. I understand this collection is now held by the New York Public Library.”
Wren scowled. “The Selden Collection is the most riotous, disorganized aggregation of ephemera ever assembled. Sixty packing cases, occupying two storage rooms, and all utterly worthless.”
“Not all. I need details that only this journal can provide.”
“What for? What light could an old journal shed on these murders?”
There was no answer, and Wren sighed again.
“What does this journal look like?”
“Alas, I can’t say.”
“Any identifying marks?”
“Unknown.”
“Just how quickly do you need it?”
“The day after tomorrow, if possible. Monday.”
“Surely you jest, hypocrite lecteur.My days are taken up here, and my nights . . . well, you know my work. So many damaged books, so little time. Finding a specific item in that hurricane of—”
“There would be a special remuneration for your efforts, of course.”
Wren fell quickly silent. He licked his lips. “Pray tell.”
“An Indian ledger book in need of conservation.”
“Indeed.”
“It appears to be a particularly important one.”
Wren pressed the phone close to his ear. “Tell me.”
“At first, I thought it to be the work of the Sioux chief Buffalo Hump. But further examination convinces me it is the work of Sitting Bull himself, most likely composed in his cabin at Standing Rock, perhaps during the Moon of Falling Leaves in the final months before his death.”
“Sitting Bull.” Wren said the words carefully, lovingly, like poetry.
“It will be in your hands by Monday. For conservation only. You may enjoy it for two weeks.”
“And the journal—if indeed it exists—will be in yours.”
“It exists. But let me not disturb your work any further. Good afternoon, Wren. Be careful.”
“Fare thee well.” Replacing the phone in his pocket, Wren returned to his laptop, going over the physical layout of the Selden Collection in his mind, his veined hands almost trembling at the thought of holding, a day or two hence, Sitting Bull’s ledger book.
From the pool of darkness behind the glass-fronted cabinets, a pair of small, serious eyes watched intently as, once again, Wren began to type.
Twenty-Eight
Smit Ludwig rarely attended church anymore, but he had the gut sense, as he rose that brutally hot Sunday morning, that it might be worth going. He couldn’t say why, exactly, except that tensions had risen to a fever pitch in the town. The killings were all that people could talk about. Neighbors were glancing sidelong at each other. People were scared, uncertain. They were looking for reassurance. His reporter’s nose told him that Calvary Lutheran was where they would seek it.
As he approached the neat brick church with its white spire, he knew he’d been right. The parking lot was overflowing with cars, which also spilled out along both sides of the street. He parked at the far end and had to walk almost a quarter mile. It was hard to believe so many people still lived in Medicine Creek, Kansas.
The doors were open and the greeters pushed the usual program into his hand as he entered. He eased his way through the crowd in the back and moved off to one side, where he had a decent view. This was more than a church service; this was a story. There were people in church who had never been inside the building their entire lives. He patted his pocket and was glad to see he’d brought his notebook and pencil. He removed them and surreptitiously began jotting notes. There were the Bender Langs, Klick and Melton Rasmussen, Art Ridder and his wife, the Cahills, Maisie, and Dale Estrem with his usual buddies from the Farmer’s Co-op. Sheriff Hazen stood to one side, looking grumpy—hadn’t seen himin church since his mother died. His son was beside him, an irritable look on his puffy face. And there, off in a shadowy corner, stood the FBI man, Pendergast, and Corrie Swanson, all spiked purple hair and black lipstick and dangly silver things. Now therewas an odd couple.