He continued on, turning into the gates of Wyndham Parke Estates. Within, the windows of the mobile homes were heavily taped, and large rocks had been placed on many of the roofs. Everything was dark, except for the occasional glimmer of a candle or flashlight beam glimpsed through a taped window. The wind tore through the narrow dirt lanes, rocking the trailers, pulling pebbles from the ground and throwing them against the aluminum sidings. In a nearby yard the swings of a child’s playset were whipping crazily, as if propelled by manic ghosts.
Pendergast pulled into the Swanson driveway. Corrie’s car was gone. He got out of his car, moved quickly to the door, and knocked.
No answer. The house was dark.
He knocked again, louder.
There was a thump from inside, and the movement of a flashlight beam. A voice called out: “Corrie? Is that you? You’re in trouble, young lady.”
Pendergast pushed at the door; it opened two inches and was stopped by the chain.
“Corrie?” the voice shrieked. A woman’s face appeared.
“FBI,” Pendergast said, flashing his badge.
The woman peered out at him from beneath slitted lids. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from rouge-smeared lips. She poked the flashlight out the crack and shone it directly into his eyes.
“I’m looking for Miss Swanson,” said Pendergast.
The ravaged face continued to look out, and now a cloud of cigarette smoke issued from the chained crack.
“She’s out,” said the woman.
“I’m Special Agent Pendergast.”
“I know who you are,” the woman said. “You’re the FBI creep who needed an assistant.” She snorted more smoke. “I’m wise to you, mister, so don’t bullshit me. Even if I knew where Corrie was, I wouldn’t tell you. Assistant, yeah, right.”
“Do you know when Miss Swanson went out?”
“No idea.”
“Thank you.”
Pendergast turned and walked briskly back toward his car. As he did so, the door to the trailer opened wide and the woman stepped out onto the sagging stoop.
“She probably went out looking for you.Don’t think you can hide the truth from me, Mr. Slick-ass in your fancy black suit.”
Pendergast got into his car.
“Oh, and looky what we have here, a, what is that, a Rolls-Royce? Sheee- it.Some FBI agent.”
He shut the door and started the engine. The woman advanced across the little patch of lawn, into the lashing rain, clutching her nightgown, the storm tearing her shouted words and flinging them away.
“You make me sick, mister, you know that? I know your type and you make me sick—”
Pendergast swung out of the driveway, headed back toward Main Street.
Within five minutes, he pulled into the parking lot of the Kraus mansion. Again, Corrie’s car was nowhere to be seen.
Inside, Winifred sat in her usual chair, doing a cross-stitch by candlelight. She looked up as he came in and a wan smile creased her papery face. “I was worried about you, Mr. Pendergast, out in that storm. It’s a doozy, it really is. I’m glad you’re back safely.”
“Has Miss Swanson been by today?”
Winifred lowered her cross-stitch. “Why no, I don’t believe she has.”
“Thank you.” Pendergast bowed and turned back to the door.
“Don’t tell me you’re going out again!”
“I’m afraid so.”
Pendergast walked back across the parking lot, his face grave. If he was aware of the storm that lashed and tore the landscape on all sides, he gave no sign. He reached his car, grabbed the door handle. Then he stopped and turned, thinking. Beyond the house with its dimly lit windows, the dark sea of corn swayed violently. The signboard advertising Kraus’s Kaverns banged repeatedly in the wind.
Pendergast released the handle and walked quickly past the house, along the road. Within a hundred yards he came to a dirt road leading into the corn.
Two minutes later he was standing beside Corrie’s car.
Now he turned and strode briskly back toward the road. But even as he did so, a row of headlights appeared in the distance, approaching through the murk at high speed. As the cars blasted past and their brake lights went on as they turned into the Kaverns parking lot, growing concern became conviction, and he realized that the unthinkable had happened.
By a terrible, ironic twist of fate, it seemed that all of them—first he, then Corrie, and now Hazen—had come to the same conclusion: that the killer was hiding in the cave.
Pendergast quickly cut back through the corn, making directly for the opening to the cave. If he could manage to get inside before . . .
He was one minute too late. As he emerged from the corn, Hazen, standing before the cut leading down into the cave, saw him and turned back, a dark expression on his face.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Special Agent Pendergast. And here I thought you’d left town.”
Fifty-Six
Sheriff Hazen stared at Pendergast. There was a moment of confused silence in which Hazen felt himself swell with rage. The guy had an amazing knack for appearing out of nowhere at exactly the wrong moment. Well, he was going to face down this son of a bitch, once and for all. This FBI prick wasn’t going to waste any more of his time.
He advanced toward the thin figure, managing a smile. “Pendergast, what a surprise.”
The agent halted. His black suit was almost invisible in the stormy half-light, and his face seemed to float, pale and ghostlike. “What are you doing here, Sheriff?” He spoke quietly, but his voice carried an edge that Hazen hadn’t heard before.
“It’s my recollection you were served with a C-and-D this morning. You are in violation. I could have you arrested.”
“You’re going in after the killer,” said Pendergast. “You’ve deduced he’s in the cave.”
Hazen shifted uneasily. Pendergast must be guessing. There’s no way he could have heard; not yet.
The agent went on. “You have absolutely no idea of what you’re getting into, Sheriff—neither in terms of the adversary you’re facing, nor the setting.”
This was too much. “Pendergast, that’s it.”
“You’re at the edge of the abyss, Sheriff.”
“You’re the one on the edge.”
“The killer’s got a hostage.”
“Pendergast, you’re just blowing smoke out your ass.”
“If you blunder in there, Sheriff, you’re going to cause the death of that hostage.”
Despite himself, Hazen felt a chill. It was every cop’s nightmare. “Yeah? And just who is this hostage?”
“Corrie Swanson.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s been missing all day. And I just found her car, hidden in the corn a hundred yards to the west.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence, and then Hazen shook his head in disgust. “Right from the beginning, Pendergast, you’ve done nothing but throw the investigation off track with your theories. We would already have this man in the bag if it weren’t for you. So Swanson’s car is parked in the corn. She’s probably out in the cornfield with some guy.”
“She went into the cave.”
“Now there’s a brilliant deduction for you. The cave door is solid iron. How did she get in? Pick the lock?”
“Take a look for yourself.”
Hazen looked in the direction Pendergast was indicating, down along the cut in the ground. The iron door wasn’t locked after alclass="underline" a padlock lay at the bottom of the doorframe, half concealed in the dust and leaves.
“If you think Corrie Swanson sprung that lock, Pendergast, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought. That’s not the work of a kid; it’s the work of a hardened felon. The man we’re after, in fact. And that’s more than you need to know about it.”