Still Life With Crows

3

Sheriff Dent Hazen, head still heavily bandaged and one arm in a cast, was standing at the end of the short corridor, talking to two policemen, when Pendergast arrived. He broke away and came over to the FBI agent, offering his left hand to shake.

“How’s the arm mending, Sheriff?” Pendergast asked.

“Won’t be able to fish again until after the season ends.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“You heading out now?”

“Yes. I wanted to stop by one last time. I was hoping I’d find you here. I wanted to thank you, Sheriff, for helping to make this a most, ah, interesting vacation.”

Hazen nodded abstractedly. His face was deeply lined and full of bitterness and anguish. “You’re just in time to see the old lady say goodbye to her bundle of joy.”

Pendergast nodded. He had come to see that, as well. Although he did not expect anything from the visit, he hated to leave a loose end,any loose end, behind him. And this case still had one remarkably large unanswered question.

“You can view the tender parting through the one-way glass. All the shrinks are there already, clustered like flies. It’s this way.” Hazen led Pendergast through an unmarked door and into a darkened room. A lone window, a long rectangle of white, was set into the far wall. It looked down into the “quiet room” of the locked unit of Garden City Lutheran Hospital’s psychiatric wing. A group of psychiatrists and medical students were standing before the one-way glass, talking in low voices, notebooks at the ready. The room beyond was empty, its lighting dim. Just as Pendergast and Hazen stepped up to the window a set of double doors opened and two uniformed policemen wheeled Job in. He was heavily bandaged over his face and chest, and one arm and shoulder was in a cast. Despite the dimness of the room, Job blinked his one good eye against the light. An oversized leather belt was snugged tight around his haunches, and the handcuff for his wrists ran through a ring in its front. Both legs were shackled to the wheelchair with leg irons.

“Look at him, the bastard,” said Hazen, more to himself than to Pendergast.

Pendergast watched intently as the policemen parked Job in the middle of the room, then took up positions on either side.

“I wish to hell I knew why the guy did what he did,” Hazen went on in a quiet, dull voice. “What was he doing in those clearings out there in the corn? The crows arranged like that, Stott cooked like a pig, the tail sewed up in Chauncy . . .” He swallowed hard. “And Tad. Killing Tad. What the hell was going through that fucking head of his?”

Pendergast said nothing.

The doors opened again and Winifred Kraus came in, leaning on the arm of a third policeman. She was in a hospital gown and moved very slowly. A tattered book was tucked beneath one arm. Her face was pale and sunken, but as soon as she saw Job it brightened and her whole appearance seemed to transform.

“Jobie, dearest? It’s Mommy.”

Her voice came into the darkened observation room through a loudspeaker above the window, sounding harsh and electronic in the sudden silence.

Job raised his head, his face grimacing into a smile.

“Momma!”

“I brought you a present, Jobie. Look, it’syour book.”

Job let out an inarticulate sound of joy.

She came over and pulled up a chair next to her son. The policemen tensed, but neither Winifred nor Job took any notice. She seated herself beside him, put one frail arm around his bulk, pulled him close. She began to hum softly while Job beamed, leaning against her, his calflike face illuminated with joy and happiness.

“Christ,” Hazen muttered. “Look. She’s rocking him like a baby.”

Winifred Kraus placed the book in his lap and opened to the first page. It was a book of nursery rhymes. “I’ll start at the begi

Slowly, with a singsong, infantile voice, she began to read.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Wasn’t that a dainty dish,

To set before the king?

Job’s big head nodded to the rhythm of her voice, his mouth making anooooooo sound that rose and fell with the cadence of her words.

“Jesus Christ,” said Hazen. “The freak and his mother. It gives me the creeps just watching.”

Winifred Kraus finished the rhyme, then slowly turned the page. Job beamed, laughed. And she began again.

Davy Davy Dumpling,

Boil him in a pot;

Sugar him and butter him,

And eat him while he’s hot.

Hazen turned and grasped Pendergast’s hand. “I’m out of here. See you in purgatory.”

Pendergast took the hand without responding, without noticing. His eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him, the mother reading nursery rhymes to her child.

“Look at the pretty picture, Jobie. Look!”

As Winifred Kraus held the book up, Pendergast got a glimpse of the illustration. It was an old book, and the page was torn and stained, but the picture was still discernible.

He recognized the image instantly. The revelation hit Pendergast so suddenly that it was like a physical blow, staggering him. He backed away from the glass.

Job beamed and wentooooooooo, his head rolling back and forth.

Winifred Kraus smiled, face serene, and turned another page. The u

What are little boys made of, made of?

What are little boys made of?

Snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails,

That’s what little boys are made of . . .

But Pendergast had not remained to hear any more. The cluster of psychiatrists and students at the glass did not even notice the dark, slender presence slip away, they were so busy discussing just where the diagnosis would be found in theDSM-IV manual—or if, indeed, it would ever be found there at all.