“How did you learn about the murder so quick?”

Pendergast paused. “By arrangement, I have someone at the Bureau watching the cable and e-mail traffic of local law enforcement agencies. Whenever a crime within a certain category occurs, I’m notified of it immediately. But as I said, I’m here for personal reasons, having recently concluded a rather strenuous investigation back east. It’s simply that I’m intrigued by the rather, ah, interesting nature of this particular case.”

Something in the way the man said “interesting” raised the hairs on the back of Tad’s neck.

“And just what ‘certain category’ are we talking about here?” The sarcasm was creeping back into the sheriff’s voice.

“Serial homicide.”

“Funny, I’ve only seen one murder so far.”

The figure gradually turned back. His cool gray eyes settled on Sheriff Hazen. In a very low voice he said, “So far.”

Five

Winifred Kraus paused in her cross-stitch to gaze at the very strange sight out her parlor window. She felt vaguely frightened. A tall man in black was walking down the middle of the road, carrying a leather valise. He was several hundred yards away, but Winifred Kraus had sharp eyes and she could see that he was ghostly-looking, thin and insubstantial in the bright summer light. She was frightened because she remembered, as a child many years ago, her father telling her that this was the way death would arrive; that it would happen when she least expected it: just a man strolling down the road, coming up the steps and knocking on the door. A man dressed in black. And when you looked down at his feet, instead of shoes you’d see cloven hooves, and then you’d smell the brimstone and fire and that would be it and you’d be dragged screaming into hell.

The man was approaching with long, cool strides, his shadow eating up the road before him. Winifred Kraus told herself she was being silly, that it was just a story, and that death didn’t carry a valise anyway. But why would anyone be dressed in black at this time of year? Not even Pastor Wilbur wore black in this heat. And this man wasn’t just wearing black, but a black suit, jacket and all. Was he selling something? But then where was his car? Nobody walked on the Cry County Road—no one. At least not since she was a little girl, before the war, when the drifters used to come through in the early spring, heading for the fields of California.

The man had paused at the spot where her rutted and dusty drive met the macadam of the road. He looked up at the house, right at the parlor it seemed, and Winifred automatically laid aside her cross-stitch. Now he was stepping into her lane. He was coming to the house. He was actually coming to the house. And his hair was so white, his skin so pale, his suit so black . . .

There was the low rap of the doorknocker. Winifred’s hand flew to her mouth. Should she answer it? Should she wait for him to go away?Would he go away?

She waited.

The knock came again, more insistent.

Winifred frowned. She was being an old silly. Taking a deep breath, she rose from the chair, walked across the parlor into the foyer, unlocked the door, and opened it a crack.

“Miss Kraus?”

“Yes?”

The man actually bowed. “You aren’t by chance the Miss Winifred Kraus who offers lodging to travelers? And, I’m given to understand, some of the most excellent home cooking in Cry County, Kansas?”

“Why, yes.” Winifred Kraus opened the door a little wider, delighted to find a polite gentleman instead of Death.

“My name is Pendergast.” He offered his hand, and after a moment Winifred took it. It was surprisingly cool and dry.

“You gave me quite a start, walking up the road like that. Nobody walks anymore.”

“I came by bus.”

Abruptly remembering her manners, Winifred opened the door wider and stepped aside. “I’m sorry, do come in. Would you like some iced tea? You must be dreadfully hot in that suit. Oh, forgive me, there hasn’t been a death in your family—?”

“Iced tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Winifred, feeling a strangely pleasant confusion, bustled back into the pantry, poured a glass over ice, added a fresh sprig of mint from the planter in her windowsill, placed the glass on a silver tray, and returned.

“There you are, Mr. Pendergast.”

“You are too kind.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

They sat in the parlor. The polite man crossed his legs and sipped his tea. Close up, Winifred could see he was younger than she’d first thought: what she had taken to be white hair was instead remarkably blond. He was quite handsome and elegant, too, if one didn’t mind such pale eyes and skin.

“I rent three rooms upstairs,” she explained. “You have to share the bath, I’m afraid, but there’s nobody presently—”

“I’ll take the entire floor. Would five hundred dollars a week be acceptable?”

“Oh, my.”

“I will pay extra, naturally, for my board. I’ll only be requiring a light breakfast and the occasional afternoon tea and dinner.”

“That’s rather more money than I usually ask. I wouldn’t feel right—”

The man smiled. “I fear you may find me a difficult boarder.”

“Well, then—”

He sipped his tea, placed it on the coaster, and leaned forward. “I don’t want to shock you, Miss Kraus, but I do need to tell you who I am and why I’m here. You asked me if there has been a death. In fact, as you probably know, there has. I am a special agent for the FBI investigating the murder in Medicine Creek.” He flashed his badge, as a courtesy.

“A murder!”

“You haven’t heard? On the far side of town, discovered last night. You will no doubt read all about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

“Oh, dear me.” Winifred Kraus felt dazed. “A murder? In Medicine Creek?”

“I’m sorry. Does that change your mind about taking me in as a lodger? I’ll understand if it does.”

“Oh no, Mr. Pendergast. Not at all. I’d feel much safer, really, having you here. A murder, how very dreadful . . .” She shuddered. “Who on earth—?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you as a source of information on the case. And now, may I examine my rooms? There’s no need to show me upstairs.”

“Of course.” Winifred Kraus smiled a little breathlessly as she watched the man climb the stairs. Such a polite young gentleman, and so . . . Then she remembered the murder. She rose and went to the telephone. Perhaps Jenny Parker would know more. She picked up and dialed the number, shaking her head.

After a swift inspection, Pendergast chose the smallest room—the one in the rear—and laid his valise on its princess bed. On the bureau stood a swivel mirror, in front of which was set a china washbasin and pitcher. He pulled open the top drawer, releasing the faint scent of rosewater and oak. The drawer was lined with shellacked newspapers from the early 1900s, advertising farming equipment. In a corner stood a chamber pot, the lid placed upside down in the old-fashioned way. The walls were papered in a Victorian flowered print, much faded; the moldings were painted green and the ceiling was beadboard. The curtains were hand-embroidered lace.

He returned to the bed, laid one hand lightly upon the bedspread. It had been needlepointed in a pattern of roses and peonies. He examined the stitching closely. Hand done. It had taken someone—no doubt Miss Kraus herself—at least a year.

Pendergast remained motionless, staring at the needlepoint, breathing the antique air of the bedroom. Then, straightening, he walked across the creaking floorboards to the old rippled window and looked out.

To his right and down, set back from the house, Pendergast could see the shabby low metal roof of the gift shop. Behind, a cracked cement walkway ran down to a depression leading to a rupture in the earth, where it disappeared into darkness. Beside the gift shop, a peeling sign read: