White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

The Heights, she went on, had been taking care of these remains with the utmost attention, deeply aware of their sacred duty to see that these rough miners, these pioneers of Roaring Fork, were given a burial site suitable to their sacrifice, their spirit, and their contribution to the opening of the American West. They had, she said, found the perfect resting place: on the slopes of the Catamount, with heartbreaking views of the Continental Divide. Surrounding the graveyard, they had purchased over a hundred acres of open space, which would remain forever wild. This is what these Colorado pioneers deserved — not being jammed into some town lot, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of commerce, traffic, shopping, and sport.

  It was an effective presentation. Even Jenny found herself agreeing with Mrs. Kermode. The grumbling was no longer audible when she returned to her seat.

  Next to stand was Henry Montebello, who had married into Kermode’s family and, as a result, gained instant power and respectability in the town. He was an older man, gaunt, reserved, and weathered looking. Jenny did not like him and was, in fact, afraid of him. He had a laconic mid-Atlantic accent that somehow caused every observation he made to sound cynical. Although he had been the master architect for The Heights way back when, unlike Kermode he did not live within the development, but rather had his home and office in a large mansion on the other side of town.

  He cleared his throat. No expense had been spared, he told the gathered crowd, in developing The Heights — and not that alone, but also in ensuring that it conformed, not only with the spirit and aesthetic of Roaring Fork, but to the local ecology and environment, as well. He could say this, Montebello continued, because he had personally supervised the preparation of the site, the design of the mansions and clubhouse, and the construction of the development. He would, he said, oversee the creation of the new cemetery with the same close, hands-on attention he had given to The Heights. The implication seemed to be that the long-dead occupants of Boot Hill should be grateful to Montebello for his personal ministrations on their behalf. Montebello spoke with quiet dignity, and with aristocratic gravitas — and yet there was a steely undertone to his words, subtle but unmistakable, that seemed to dare anyone to challenge a single syllable of what he’d uttered. No one did, and he once again took his seat.

  And now the mayor rose, thanked Mrs. Kermode and Mr. Montebello, and called for public comment. A number of hands went up, and the mayor pointed at someone. But as that person rose to speak, the man in the black suit — who had somehow slipped all the way to the front — held up his hand for silence.

  “You are out of turn, sir,” said the mayor, sternly, rapping his gavel.

  “That remains to be seen,” came the reply. The voice was as smooth as honey, an unusual Deep South accent Jenny could not place, but something about it gave the mayor just enough pause to allow the man to continue.

  “Mrs. Kermode,” the man said, turning to her, “as you well know, permission from a qualified descendant is required to exhume human remains. In the case of historic burials, both Colorado and federal law state that a ‘good-faith effort’ must be made to locate such descendants before any remains can be exhumed. I assume that The Heights made such an effort?”

  The mayor rapped his gavel. “I repeat, you are out of turn, sir!”

  “I’m happy to answer the question,” Mrs. Kermode said smoothly. “We did indeed make a diligent search for descendants. None could be found. These miners were mostly transients without families, who died a century and a half ago, leaving no issue. It’s all in the public documentation.”

  “Very good,” said the mayor. “Thank you, sir, for your opinion. We have many other people who wish to speak. Mr. Jackson?”

  But the man went on. “That is strange,” he said. “Because in just fifteen minutes of idle, ah, surfing on the Internet, I was able to locate a direct descendant of one of the miners.”

  A silence, and then the mayor spoke. “Just who are you, sir?”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment.” The man raised a piece of paper. “I have here a letter from Captain Stacy Bowdree, USAF, just back from a tour in Afghanistan. When Captain Bowdree heard that you people had dug up her great-great-grandfather Emmett Bowdree, dumped his remains in a box, and stored them in a filthy equipment shed on a ski slope, she was exceedingly upset. In fact, she plans to press charges.”

  This was greeted by silence.

  The man held up another piece of paper. “Colorado statute is very strict on the desecration of cemeteries and human remains. Allow me to read from Section Ninety-Seven of the Colorado Criminal Codes and Statutes: Desecration of a Cemetery.” And he began to quote aloud.

  (2) (a) Every person who shall knowingly and willfully dig up, except as otherwise provided by law with the permission of an authorized descendant, any corpse or remains of any human being, or cause through word, deed or action the same to happen, shall upon conviction be guilty of a Class A felony and shall be imprisoned for not more than thirty (30) years or fined not more than Fifty Thousand Dollars ($50,000.00), or both, in the discretion of the court.

  Now the mayor rose in a fury, hammering his gavel. “This is not a court of law!” Bang! “I will not have these proceedings co-opted. If you, sir, have legal questions, take them up with the town attorney instead of wasting our time in a public meeting!”

  But the man in the black suit would not be silenced. “Mayor, may I direct your attention to the language? Or cause through word, deed or action the same to happen. That seems to apply to you quite specifically, as well as to Mrs. Kermode and the chief of police. All three of you were responsible in word, deed or action for the illegal exhumation of Emmett Bowdree — were you not?”

  “Enough! Security, remove this man from the premises!”

  Even as two cops struggled to make their way to the man, he spoke again, his voice cutting the air like a razor. “And are you not about to sentence someone to ten years in prison for violating this very statute that you, yourselves, have already so clearly violated?”

  Now the public was aroused, both pro and con. There were some murmurings and scattered shouts: “Is it true?” and “What goes?” along with “Get rid of him!” and “Who the hell is this guy?”

  The two cops, pushing their way through the now-standing public crowd, reached the man. One took his arm.

  “Don’t give us any trouble, sir.”

  The man freed himself from the cop’s grasp. “I would advise you not to touch me.”

  “Arrest him for disturbing the peace!” the mayor cried.

  “Let him speak!” someone shouted.

  “Sir,” Jenny heard the cop say, “if you won’t cooperate, we’ll have to arrest you.”

  The man’s response was drowned out by the hubbub. The mayor rapped his gavel repeatedly, calling for order.

  “You’re under arrest,” said the cop. “Place your hands behind your back.”

  Instead of obeying the order, Jenny saw the man remove his wallet with a single, smooth motion and flip it open. There was a flash of gold, and the two officers froze.

  The hubbub began to die down.

  “In response to your earlier question,” the man told the mayor in his dulcet southern voice, “I am Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Now the entire room went deathly silent. Jenny had never before seen the look she now saw on Mrs. Kermode’s face: shock and fury. Henry Montebello’s face betrayed nothing at all. Chief Morris, for his part, looked paralyzed. Paralyzed wasn’t the word — he looked wilted. Slumped. As if he wanted to melt into his chair and disappear. The mayor looked merely undone.

  “Emmett Bowdree,” the man named Pendergast continued, “is just one of a hundred and thirty human remains that the four of you — Mrs. Kermode, the mayor, Mr. Montebello, and the chief of police who signed the actual order — are responsible for desecrating, according to Colorado statute. The criminal and civil liability is staggering.”

  Mrs. Kermode recovered first. “Is thi
s how the FBI operates? You come in here, interrupt our public meeting, and make threats? Are you even a real agent? Come down here and present your credentials to the mayor in the proper fashion!”

  “Gladly.” The pale man slipped through the gate separating the public area from the official one and strolled down the aisle with a sort of insolent casualness. He arrived in front of the mayor and laid the shield down on the podium. The man examined it, his face reflecting growing consternation.

  With a sudden, lithe movement, Agent Pendergast plucked the mayor’s microphone out of its mount. Only then did Jenny realize that inviting the stranger to the front had probably not been the best idea. She could see the reporter from the Roaring Fork Times scribbling madly, a look of pure joy on his face.

  Now the mayor spoke, raising his voice on account of having lost his amplification. “Agent Pendergast, are you here in an official capacity?”

  “Not yet,” came the answer.

  “Then I move we adjourn this meeting so that our attorneys, the attorneys from The Heights, and you can address these issues in private.” A bang of the gavel sealed this statement.

  Agent Pendergast’s black-clad arm snaked out, took the gavel, and moved it out of reach of the mayor’s hand. “Enough of that uncivilized pounding.”

  This brought a laugh from the public section.

  “I am not yet finished.” Pendergast’s voice, now amplified by the sound system, filled the hall. “Captain Bowdree wrote me that, since her great-great-grandfather’s remains have been so rudely disinterred, and nothing can remedy the insult to his memory, she believes that they should at least be examined for cause of death — for historical purposes, of course. Therefore, she has given permission for a certain Ms. Corrine Swanson to examine those remains before they are reburied. In their original resting place, by the way.”

  “What?” Kermode rose in a fury. “Did that girl send you? Is she behind this?”

  “She has no idea I’m even here,” the man said smoothly. “However, it would seem that the most serious charge against her is now moot — but has instead redounded to the four of you. You are now the ones facing thirty years in prison — not on one count, but on one hundred and thirty.” He paused. “Imagine if your sentences were to be served sequentially.”

  “These accusations are outrageous!” the mayor cried. “I hereby adjourn this meeting. Will security immediately clear the room!”

  Chaos ensued. But Pendergast did nothing to prevent it, and the meeting room was finally cleared, leaving him alone with the town fathers, The Heights attorneys, Kermode, Montebello, Chief Morris, and a few other officials. Jenny waited in her seat beside the chief, breathless. What would happen now? For the first time, Kermode looked defeated — haggard, her platinum hair undone. The chief was bathed in sweat, the mayor pale.

  “It looks like there’s going to be quite a story in the Roaring Fork Times tomorrow,” said Pendergast.

  Everyone seemed to stagger at the thought. The mayor wiped his brow.

  “In addition to that story,” said Pendergast, “I’d like to see another one appear.”

  There was a long silence. Montebello was the first to speak. “And what might that be?”

  “A story stating that you—” Agent Pendergast turned to Chief Morris— “have dropped all charges against Corrine Swanson and released her from jail.”

  He let that sink in.

  “As I said before, the most serious charge is now moot. Ms. Swanson has permission to examine the remains of Emmett Bowdree. The other charges — trespassing and B and E — are less grave and could be dismissed with relative ease. Everything can, in fact, be chalked up to an unfortunate miscommunication between Chief Morris here and Ms. Swanson.”

  “This is blackmail,” said Kermode.

  Pendergast turned to her. “I might point out it wasn’t actually a miscommunication. My understanding is that Chief Morris indicated she would have access to the remains. He then withdrew that assurance, due to your own gross interference. It was unfair. I am merely rectifying a wrong.”

  There was a pause while the others digested this. “And what,” asked Kermode, “will you do for us in return? That is, if the chief releases this lady friend of yours.”

  “I’ll persuade Captain Bowdree not to take her complaint officially to the FBI,” Pendergast said smoothly.

  “I see,” said Kermode. “It all depends on this Captain Bowdree. Provided, of course, this person even exists.”

  “How unfortunate for you that Bowdree was an unusual name. It made my task so much easier. A phone call established that she was well aware of her Colorado roots and, in fact, quite proud of them. Mrs. Kermode, you claimed The Heights made a good-faith effort to locate descendants. That is clearly a falsehood. Naturally, this is something the FBI would have to look into.”

  Jenny noticed that under her makeup, Mrs. Kermode’s face was very pale. “Let’s get this straight. This Swanson girl — she’s what, your girlfriend? A relative?”

  “She’s no relation to me.” Agent Pendergast narrowed his silvery eyes and looked at Kermode in a most unsettling way. “I will, however, be remaining in Roaring Fork to take in the Christmas season — and to make sure you don’t interfere with her again.”

  As Jenny watched, Pendergast turned to the chief. “I suggest you call the newspaper right away — I imagine their deadline is looming. I’ve already booked a room for Ms. Swanson at the Hotel Sebastian, and I hope that — for your sake — she does not spend another night in your jail.”

  11

  It was a few minutes before midnight when the silver Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet pulled up to the elegant front door of 3 Quaking Aspen Drive. It did not stop there, however, but continued on into the shadow of the four-car garage beyond.

  The young man at the wheel put the vehicle into park. “Home,” he said. “As you requested.” He leaned over the gear lever to nuzzle the girl in the passenger seat.

  “Stop it,” she said, pushing him away.

  The young man pretended to look hurt. “I’m a friend, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then bring on the benefits.” Another attempt at nuzzling.

  “What a dork.” The girl got out of the car with a laugh. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “And the movie.”

  “And the movie.” Jenny Baker slammed the door, then watched the car move off down the long, curving driveway until it reached the road leading to the gatehouse of The Heights, down in the valley half a mile away. For a lot of her girlfriends back at Hollywood High, losing one’s virginity seemed like a badge of honor: the sooner the better. But Jenny didn’t feel that way. Not on a first date, and certainly not with a dweeb like Kevin Traherne. Like so many of the male youth in Roaring Fork, he seemed to think that his father’s dough was the only excuse he needed to get into a girl’s pants.

  She stepped up to the closest garage door, punched a code into the panel, and waited for the door to ascend. Then she walked past the row of gleaming, expensive cars, pressed the button to close the garage, and opened the door to the house. The security alarm was, as usual, off — there were few burglaries in Roaring Fork, and never a one in The Heights…unless you counted Corrie Swanson’s breaking into the warehouse, of course. Her thoughts returned to the town meeting earlier in the day, and to the intimidating FBI agent in the black suit who’d descended on it like an avenging angel. She felt sorry for the chief: he was a decent guy, but he had a real problem with letting other people — like that witch Kermode — walk all over him. Nevertheless, she was glad the agent — Pendergast was his name, she remembered — had gotten Corrie out of jail. She hoped to run into her again, ask her about John Jay, maybe…as long as the chief wasn’t around.

  Jenny walked through the mudroom, through the pantry, and into the expansive kitchen of the vacation home. Through glass doors she could see the Christmas tree, all decked out and blinking. Her parents and her younger sister, Sarah, would be upstairs
asleep.

  She snapped on a bank of lights. They illuminated the long granite countertops; the Wolf oven and dual Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer units; the three doors leading, respectively, into the laundry, the second kitchen, and the dining room.

  She suddenly realized there had been no patter of nails on the floor, no shaggy, friendly dog wagging his misshapen tail in greeting. “Rex?” she called out.

  Nothing.

  With a shrug, she got a glass from one of the cabinets, walked over to the fridge — decorated, as usual, with Sarah’s stupid Nicki Minaj photos — poured herself a glass of milk, then took a seat at the table in the breakfast nook. There was a stack of books and magazines in the window seat, and she pushed a few aside — noting as she did so that Sarah had finally taken her advice and begun reading Watership Down—and plucked out her copy of Schmalleger’s Criminal Justice Today. As she did so, she noticed that one of the chairs of the kitchen table had been knocked over.

  Sloppy.

  She found her page in the book and began to read, sipping her milk as she did so. It drove her father — a high-profile Hollywood lawyer — crazy that she wanted to go into law enforcement. He tended to look down on cops and prosecutors as lower forms of life. But in point of fact he was partly responsible for her interest. All the cop action movie premieres she’d attended — produced or directed by her father’s clients — had left her fascinated with the job from an early age. And starting next fall, she’d be studying the subject full-time, as a freshman at Northeastern University.

  Finishing her milk, she closed the book again, put her glass in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs up to her room. Her father had the connections to keep her from getting summer jobs with the California police, but there was nothing he could do to prevent her winter break internship here in Roaring Fork. The very idea of it made him nuts.

  Which, of course, was part of the fun.

  The huge, rambling house was very still. She ascended the curving staircase to the second floor, the landing above dark and silent. As she climbed, she thought once again about the mysterious FBI agent. FBI, she thought. Maybe I should look into an internship in Quantico next summer…