“As I recall, Sheriff, you were the one to accuse Miss Swanson of—”
Hazen shook his head. “I’ve listened enough. Pendergast, turn over your piece. You’re under arrest. Cole, cuff him.”
Cole stepped forward. “Sheriff?”
“He’s willfully disobeyed a standing cease-and-desist. He’s hindering a police investigation. He’s trespassing on private property. I’ll take full responsibility. Just get him the hell outof my face.”
Cole advanced toward Pendergast. In the next instant, Cole was lying on the ground, desperately trying to breathe, and Pendergast had vanished.
Hazen stared.
“Uff,”Cole said, rolling into a sitting position and cradling his gut. “The son of a bitch sucker-punched me.”
“Christ,” Hazen muttered, shining his light around. But Pendergast was gone. Moments later he heard the roar of a big engine, the sound of tires pulling rapidly away from gravel.
Cole got up, his face red, and dusted himself off. “We’ll tag him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
“Forget it, Cole. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let’s take care of business here and deal with that tomorrow.”
“The son of a bitch,” Cole muttered again.
Hazen slapped him on the back and grinned. “Next time you make an arrest, keep your eyes on the perp, hey, Cole?”
There was the distant slamming of a door and Hazen could hear a shrill voice rising and falling on the wind. A moment later, the pallid form of Winifred Kraus came running down the path from the old mansion. The fierce gusts whipped and tugged at her white nightgown, and to Hazen it almost seemed as if a ghost was flying through the night. Rheinbeck was following in her tracks, protesting loudly.
“What are you doing?” shrieked the old woman as she came up, her hair haggard in the rain, drops running down her face. “What’s this? What are you doing on my property?”
Hazen turned to Rheinbeck. “For chrissakes, you were supposed to—”
“I’ve been trying to explain to her, Sheriff. She’s hysterical.”
Winifred was looking around at the troopers, her eyes rolling wildly. “Sheriff Hazen! I demand an explanation!”
“Rheinbeck, get her out of—”
“This is a respectabletourist attraction!”
Hazen heaved a sigh and turned to her. “Look. Winifred, we believe the killer’s holed up in your cave.”
“Impossible!” the woman shrieked. “I check it twice a week!”
“We’re going in there to bring him out. I want you to stay in your house with Officer Rheinbeck here, nice and peaceable. He’ll take care of you—”
“I will not.Don’t you darego into my cave! You have no right. There’s no killer in there!”
“Miss Kraus, I’m sorry. We’ve got a warrant. Rheinbeck?”
“I already showed her the warrant, Sheriff—”
“Show it to her again and get her the hell out of here.”
“But she won’t listen—”
“Pick her upif you have to. Can’t you see we’re wasting time?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, ma’am—”
“Don’t you daretouch me!” Winifred took a swipe at Rheinbeck, who fell back.
She turned and advanced on Hazen, her fists balled up. “You get off my property! You’ve always been a bully! Get out of here!”
He grabbed her wrists and she writhed and spat at him. Hazen was amazed at the old lady’s strength and ferocity.
“Miss Kraus,” he began again, trying to be patient, to make his voice more soothing. “Just calm down, please. This is important law enforcement business.”
“Get off my land!”
Hazen struggled to hold her, and felt a sharp kick to his shin. The others were all standing around, gawking like civilian spectators. “How about a little help here?” he roared.
Rheinbeck grabbed her by the waist while Cole waded in and managed to snag one of her flailing arms.
“Easy now,” Hazen said. “Easy. She’s still a little old lady.”
Her shrieks became hysterical. The three men held her immobile for a moment, struggling, and then Hazen finally extricated himself. Rheinbeck, with Cole’s help, picked her up off the ground. Her legs kicked and flailed.
“Devils!” she shrieked. “You have no right!”
Her shrieks died as Rheinbeck disappeared into the storm, carrying his thrashing burden.
“Jesus, what’s with her?” Cole asked, panting.
Hazen dusted off his pants. “She’s always been a loopy old bitch, but I never expected this.” He gave one final slap. She had kicked him pretty good in the shin and it still smarted. He straightened up. “Let’s get into the cave before someone else pops up to spoil our party.” He turned to Shurte and Williams. “If that son of a bitch Pendergast comes back, you’re authorized to use all means to keep him out of the cave.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hazen leading, the others moved down the dark slot in the ground. As they descended, the sounds of the storm became muffled, far away. They opened the unlocked door, switched on their infrared lights and night-vision goggles, and began descending the stairs. Within moments the silence became complete, broken only by the sound of dripping water. They were entering another world.
Fifty-Seven
The Rolls scraped and bumped up the dirt track, the headlights barely penetrating the screaming murk, hail hammering on the metal. When the vehicle could go no farther, Pendergast stopped, turned off the engine, tucked the rolled map inside his suit jacket, and stepped out into the storm.
Here, at the highest point of land in Cry County, the mesocyclone had reached its highest pitch of intensity. The ground looked like a battlefield, littered with jetsam scattered by the ruinous winds: twigs, plant debris, clods of dirt picked up from fields many miles away. Up ahead, the still-invisible trees fringing the Mounds thrashed and groaned, leaves and limbs tearing at each other with a sound like the crashing of surf on rocks. The world of the Ghost Mounds had been reduced to sound and fury.
Turning his head and leaning into the wind, Pendergast made his way along the track toward the Mounds. As he approached, the roar of the storm became more intense, occasionally punctuated by the earsplitting sound of cracking wood and the crash of a branch hitting the ground.
Once in the relative shelter of the trees, Pendergast was able to see a little more clearly. Wind and rain boiled through, scouring everything with pebbles and fat pelting drops. The great cottonwoods around him groaned and creaked. The greatest danger now, Pendergast knew, came not from rain and hail, but from the possibility of high-F-scale tornadoes that could form at any time along the flanks of the storm.
And yet there was no time for caution. This was neither the time, nor the manner, in which he’d intended to confront the killer. But there was no longer any choice.
Pendergast switched on his flashlight and arrowed it into the gloom beyond the copse of trees. As he did so, there came a terrific splitting noise; he leapt to one side as a giant cottonwood came tumbling out of the darkness, hurtling down with a grinding crash that shook the ground and sent up a maelstrom of leaves, splintered branches, and wet dirt.
Pendergast left the trees and stepped back into the teeth of the storm. He moved forward as quickly as he could, eyes averted, until he reached the base of the first mound. Placing his back to the wind, he played his light carefully around its flanks until he had fully established a point of reference. And then—in the pitch of night, in the howling storm—he straightened, folded his arms across his chest, and paused. Sound and sensation alike faded from his consciousness as, from a marbled vault within the Gothic mansion of his memory, he took up the image of the Ghost Warriors. Once, twice, three times he ran through the reconstructed sequence from his memory crossing—where they had first emerged from the dust, where once again they had vanished—carefully superimposing this pattern upon the actual landscape around him.