The cornfields, dark and still, stretched out beyond the copse of trees. A star had appeared. From his place of concealment, the watcher looked for another star, found it. Then another, and another.
His eyes turned back to the figure on the ground. What in the world was Pendergast doing? Lying there, silently, like a corpse. Two hours had passed—two hours, wasted. It was well after seven o’clock. And now that Globereporter, Joe Rickey, was soon going to be coming up against his deadline. Not to mention Ludwig’s own deadline for the next edition of the Courier.Was this some kind of psychic crap? New Age communication with the spirits? Perhaps there wasa story here after all, only it wasn’t the story he was after. Still, it was the only story around, and he wasn’t going to move until he saw it through.
Smit Ludwig shifted his cramped limbs, yawned. The night crickets stopped chirping at the movement, then resumed: a peaceful, familiar sound. The whole landscape was familiar to him. He had spent his boyhood up at these mounds, playing Cowboys and Indians with his brother or swimming down in the creek. They’d even camped up here a couple of times. The tale of Harry Beaumont and the Forty-Fives, the fact that the Mounds had a sinister reputation, only added to the boyish sense of adventure. He could remember one night in August, camped here, watching the shooting stars. They’d counted to a hundred and then quit. His brother had left Medicine Creek, was now a retired grandfather in Leisure, Arizona. That was a different era back then. Mothers never thought twice about letting their kids run off and play all day long out of sight. Today it was different. The ugly modern world had come to Medicine Creek, bit by bit. And now, these killings. A part of him was glad Sarah hadn’t lived to see this. Even if they found the killer, the town would never be the same.
Ludwig peered again through the gloaming. Pendergast was still lying on the ground, totally motionless. Even a sleeping person shifted once in a while. And nobody slept like that, perfectly straight, legs together, hands folded on the chest. Christ, he was still wearing his shoes. It was very bizarre.
He cursed under his breath. Should he just stand up and interrupt them, ask them what was going on? But somehow he couldn’t do that. He’d waited this long, he’d wait to see what happened when—
Abruptly, he saw Pendergast rise and dust himself off. Ludwig quickly shrank back into the deepest shadows. There was a murmuring of voices, then without further ado the two started walking back toward their car.
Ludwig swore again bitterly. It had been utter folly to follow Corrie: a self-delusion, born of an attempt to help a cub reporter and to find his own new angle on the story. Now the story was gone, the kid would be in trouble, and next day’s Courierwould be left high and dry.
He waited for them to leave, bitterness continuing to rise. What was the hurry? There was no story to write up, nobody to go home to. He might as well just sit here all night. Nobody would miss him or his paper . . .
But Ludwig’s tolerance for self-pity was limited, and before long he, too, had risen. He’d hidden his car well behind Corrie’s, down the road and in the corn, where he knew they would not see it on their way out. He dusted himself off and looked around. The light was now completely gone and the wind had started to pick up—wind at dusk was a sure sign of a coming storm. The leaves started to rustle above his head, then thrashed under a sudden gust. It was very dark, the moon now covered by quick-moving clouds.
He saw a flash of lightning and waited, counting. A faint rumble reached him after almost half a minute.
The storm had a ways to come still.
Hunching forward against the rising wind, he walked toward the spot where Pendergast had lain. There might be something there, some clue as to what he was doing. But there was nothing, not even a faint impression. Ludwig drew out his notebook to jot down a few notes, but then stopped himself. Who was he kidding? There was no story here.
Suddenly, the air seemed full of sound: rustling grass and leaves, sighing branches, swaying trees. The smell of humidity and ozone came to him, mingled with the scent of flowers. Another faint rumble of thunder.
He’d better hurry back and break the bad news to the kid.
It was so dark now that he wondered briefly if he could follow the old track. But he’d been down it a thousand times as a child, and childhood memories never died. He walked down the path, huddled against the wind. Leaves blew past him and a flying twig got caught in his hair. The rush of wind was almost pleasant after the weeks of heat and stillness.
He paused, aware of a new sound to his right. The rustle of an animal, perhaps.
He waited, took a step, another—and then he heard the distinct crackle of dry leaves underfoot.
But not under hisfoot.
He waited, hearing nothing but the whisper of leaves, the rising wind. After a minute or so, he turned and continued walking quickly.
Immediately he could hear footsteps to his right again.
He stopped. “Who is it?”
The wind blew, the cottonwoods creaked.
“Pendergast?”
He resumed walking, and almost immediately he could hear, he could feel,that he was being paced. A chill hit him.
“Whoever it is, I know you’re there!” he said, walking faster. He tried to sound loud, angry, but he was unable to keep the quaver from his voice. His heart was pounding in his chest.
The unknown thing kept pace.
Unbidden, the words old Whit had quoted in church that Sunday came back to Ludwig, here in the darkness: . . . the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking who he may devour . . .
He felt breath come snorting through his nose, and he fought hard against a rising panic. Soon, he told himself, he’d be out of the trees, back between two walls of corn. From there it was only two hundred yards to the road, and only another two hundred to the car. The road, at least, would be safe.
But, oh God, those horrible, plodding, crunching footfalls . . . !
“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled over his shoulder.
He hadn’t meant to yelclass="underline" it had burst out from some instinctual place within him. Just as instinctual was the dead run that he now broke into. He was too old to run, especially all-out, and his heart felt like it would break loose in his chest. But even if he’d tried he could not have stopped his feet.
In the darkness beside him, the thing kept pace. Now Ludwig could hear the breathing—short rhythmic grunts in time to each thudding footfall.
I could run into the corn, lose him,Ludwig thought as he dashed out of the trees. Before him, the dark sea of corn was being tossed by the wind, roaring and rattling. Dust stung his eyes. There was a brief flash of lightning.
Muh!The sudden bark, alarmingly near, sent terror breaking in waves over him: it seemed human, and yet at the same time so very inhuman.
“Get away from me!”he screamed, running even faster now, faster than he dreamed possible.
Muh, muh, muh,the thing grunted as it ran alongside.
Another flicker of lightning, and in the pale flash he could see the shape pacing him through the corn. He saw it very briefly, but with brutal distinctness. For a moment, he almost stumbled in shock. It was mind-warping, impossible. Oh, dear Jesus, that face, that face—!!
Ludwig ran. And as he ran, he heard the figure keeping pace effortlessly.
Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh. Muh.
The road! The flash of headlights, a car just passing—!
Ludwig rushed out into the road with a banshee wail of terror, screaming and running down the center line, waving his arms at the receding taillights. His cries were swallowed by another rumble of thunder. He stopped, sagging forward, palms on his knees, feeling as if his lungs would rupture. Completely spent now, he waited, limp and defeated, for the sudden blow, the white-hot lance of pain . . .