At the top of the stairs, she stopped. Something was wrong. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what it was. And then she realized: Sarah’s door was wide open, faint light streaming out into the dim hall.
At sixteen, Sarah had reached the age where adolescent privacy was all-important. These days her door was closed at all times. Jenny sniffed the air, but there was no smell of weed. She smiled: her sister must have fallen asleep over a magazine or something. She’d take the opportunity to sneak in and rearrange her sister’s stuff. That was sure to get a rise out of her.
Quietly, she crept down the hallway, approaching her sister’s room on silent feet. She came up to the door frame, placed one hand upon it, then slowly leaned her head in.
At first, she could not quite process what she saw. Sarah lay on her bed, tied fast with wound wire, a dirty rag stuffed into her mouth, a billiard ball at its center — Jenny noticed a number, seven, engraved into its yellow-and-white surface — and secured behind her head with a bungee cord. In the faint blue light, Jenny saw that her sister’s knees were bleeding profusely, staining the bedcovers black. As she gasped in horror and shock, Jenny saw Sarah’s eyes staring back at her: wide, terrified, pleading.
Then Jenny registered something in her peripheral vision. She turned in mid-gasp to see a fearful apparition in the hall beside her: wearing black jeans and a tight-fitting jacket of dark leather. The figure was silent and utterly motionless. Its hands were gloved and gripped a baseball bat. Worst of all was the clown mask — white, huge red lips smiling maniacally, bright red circles on each cheek. Jenny stumbled backward, her legs going weak beneath her. Through the eyeholes on each side of the long pointed nose, she could see two dark eyes staring back at her, dreadful in their lack of expression, in awful counterpoint to the leering mask.
Jenny opened her mouth to scream, but the figure — springing into sudden, violent motion — reached forward and quickly stuffed an awful-smelling cloth over her mouth and nose. As her senses went black and she sank to the floor, she could just hear — as the darkness rushed over her — a faint, high-pitched keening coming through Sarah’s gag…
* * *
Slowly, slowly, she regained her senses. Everything was fuzzy and vague. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She was lying on something hard and smooth and that seemed to encircle her. Then, looking around in the darkness, she understood: she was in the tub of her private bathroom. What was she doing here? It felt as if she’d been asleep for hours. But no — the wall clock above her sink read ten minutes to one. She’d only been out for a couple of minutes. She tried to move — and realized she had been bound, hand and foot.
That was when the memory of what had happened came rushing back, falling upon her like a dead weight.
Instantly her heart accelerated, pounding hard in her chest. The rag was still in her mouth. She tried to spit it out, found she could not. The tight rope chafed at her wrists and ankles. Crime-scene photos she’d seen came into her mind, flashing quickly by in a terrible parade.
I’m going to be raped, she thought, shuddering at the recollection of that leering clown mask. But no — if rape was what he was after, he wouldn’t have tied her up the way he did. This was a home invasion — and she’d walked right into the middle of it.
A home invasion.
Maybe he only wants money, she thought. Maybe he only wants jewelry. He’ll take what he can get, then leave, and then…
But it was all so horribly stealthy — so diabolically calculating. First Sarah, now her…
…What about Mom and Dad?
At this thought, stark panic bubbled to the surface.
She struggled violently, jaw working, tongue pushing against the cloth wedged into her mouth. She tried to rise up, and an agonizing pain that almost caused her to faint lanced through her legs. She saw that her kneecaps had been beaten like her sister’s, white edges of broken bone jutting up through torn, bloody flesh. She remembered the baseball bat clutched in one black-gloved hand, and she moaned in fresh panic, thrashing against the bottom of the tub despite the awful pain in her knees.
All of a sudden, sounds of fighting erupted from down the hall: her father yelling, her mother crying out in fear. Jenny listened in unspeakable horror. Furniture was overturned; there was the sound of breaking glass. Her mother’s screams spiked in volume. A heavy thud. Abruptly, her father’s shouts of anger and alarm changed to cries of pain. There was an ugly crack of what sounded like wood on bone, and his voice was abruptly cut off.
Jenny listened to the dreadful silence, whimpering under the gag, her heart beating even faster. And then, a moment later, came another sound: sobs, running feet. It was her mother, racing down the hall, trying to escape. Jenny heard her mother go into Sarah’s room; heard her scream. And now a heavier tread came down the hall. It was not her father’s.
Another cry of fear from her mother; the sound of feet pattering down the stairs. She’ll get away now, Jenny thought, hope suddenly rising within her like white light. She’ll hit the alarm, she’ll run out, call the neighbors, call the cops…
The unfamiliar tread, faster now, went stomping down the steps.
Heart in her throat, Jenny listened as the sounds grew fainter. She heard her mother’s step, running toward the kitchen and the master alarm panel. There was a cry as she was apparently cut off. The thunk of an overturned chair; the sound of glassware and dishes crashing to the floor. Jenny, struggling against her bonds, could hear it all, could follow the chase with dreadful articulation. She heard her mother’s footsteps, running through the den, the living room, the library. A moment of silence. And then came a low, cautious sliding sound: it was her mother, quietly opening the door to the indoor pool. She’s going out the back, Jenny thought. Out the back, so she can get to the MacArthurs’ house…
All of a sudden there was a series of brutal crashes — her mother gave out a single, sharp scream — and then silence.
No…not quite silence. As Jenny listened, wide-eyed, whimpering, the blood rushing in her ears, she could make out the unfamiliar tread again. It was moving slowly now, deliberately. And it was getting closer. It was crossing the front hall. Now it was coming back up the stairs: she heard the squeak of the tread her father kept saying he’d get fixed.
Closer. Closer. The steps were coming down the hall. They were in her bedroom. And now a dark figure appeared in the doorway of her bath. It was silent, save for labored breathing. The clown mask leered down at her. There was no longer a baseball bat in one of the hands. It had been replaced by a plastic squeeze bottle, glowing pale gold in the faint light.
The figure stepped into the bathroom.
As it came closer, Jenny writhed in the tub, heedless of the pain in her knees. Now the invader was hovering over her. The hand holding the squeeze bottle came forward in her direction. As the figure began silently squeezing the liquid over her in long, arc-like jets, a powerful stench rose up: gasoline.
Jenny’s struggles became frantic.
Painstakingly, Clown Mask sent the looping squirts of gasoline over and around her, missing nothing, dousing her clothes; her hair; the surrounding porcelain. Then — as her struggles grew ever more violent — the invader put down the bottle and took a step back. A hand reached into the pocket of the leather jacket, withdrew a safety match. Holding the match carefully by its end, the figure struck it against the rough surface of the bathroom wall. The head of the match flared into yellow life. It hovered over her, dangling, for an endless, agonizing second.
And then, with the parting of a thumb and index finger, it dropped.
…And Jenny’s world dissolved into a roar of flame.
12
Corrie Swanson entered the dining room of the Hotel Sebastian and found herself dazzled by its elegance. It was done up in Gay Nineties style, with red velvet flocked wallpaper, polished-brass and cut-glass fixtures, a pressed-tin ceiling, and Victorian-era mahogany tables and chairs trimmed in silk and gold. A wall of windowpanes look
ed across the glittering Christmas lights of Main Street to the spruce-clad foothills, ski slopes, and mountain peaks beyond.
Even though it was close to midnight, the dining room was crowded, the convivial murmur of voices mingling with the clink of glassware and the bustle of waiters. The light was dim, and it took her a moment to spy the solitary figure of Pendergast, seated at an unobtrusive table by one of the windows.
She brushed off the maître d’s pointed inquiries as to how he could help her — she was still dressed from jail — and made her way to Pendergast’s table. He rose, extending his hand. She was startled by his appearance: he seemed to be even paler, leaner, more ascetic — the word purified seemed somehow to apply.
“Corrie, I am glad to see you.” He took her hand in his, cool as marble, then held out her seat for her. She sat down.
She’d been rehearsing what she would say, but now it all came out in a confused rush. “I can’t believe I’m free — how can I ever thank you? I was toast, I mean, I was up shit creek, you know they’d already forced me to accept ten years — I really thought my life was over — thank you, thank you for everything, for saving my ass, for rescuing me from my incredible, unbelievable stupidity, and I’m so sorry, really, really sorry—!”
A raised hand stopped the flow of words. “Will you have a drink? Wine, perhaps?”
“Um, I’m only twenty.”
“Ah. Of course. I shall order a bottle for myself, then.” He picked up a leather-bound wine list that was so massive, it could have been a murder weapon.
“This sure beats jail,” said Corrie, looking around, drinking in the ambience, the aroma of food. It was hard to believe that, just a few hours ago, she’d been behind bars, her life utterly ruined. But once again Agent Pendergast had swooped in, like a guardian angel, and changed everything.
“It took them rather longer than I’d hoped to complete the paperwork,” said Pendergast, perusing the list. “Fortunately, the Sebastian’s dining room is open late. I think the Château Pichon-Longueville 2000 will do nicely — don’t you?”
“I don’t know jack about wine, sorry.”
“You should learn. It is one of the true and ancient pleasures that make human existence tolerable.”
“Um, I know this may not be the time…But I just have to ask you…” She found herself coloring. “Why did you rescue me like this? And why do you go to all this trouble for me? I mean, you got me out of Medicine Creek, you paid for my boarding school, you’re helping pay my tuition at John Jay — why? I’m just a screwup.”
He looked at her with an inscrutable gaze. “The Colorado rack of lamb for two would go well with the wine. I understand it’s excellent.”
She glanced at the menu. She was, it had to be admitted, starving. “Sounds good to me.”
Pendergast waved over the waiter and placed the order.
“Anyway, getting back to what I was talking about…I would really like to know, once and for all, why you’ve helped me all these years. Especially when I keep, you know, effing up.”
Again that impenetrable gaze met hers. “Effing? I see your penchant for charming euphemisms has not abated.”
“You know what I mean.”
The gaze seemed to go on forever, and then Pendergast said: “Someday, perhaps, you may make a good law enforcement officer or criminalist. That is why. No other reason.”
She felt herself coloring again. She wasn’t quite sure she liked the answer. Now she wished she hadn’t asked the question.
Pendergast picked up the wine list again. “Remarkable how many bottles of excellent French wine in rare vintages have found their way into this small town in the middle of the mountains. I certainly hope they are drunk soon; the altitude here is most unhealthy for Bordeaux.” He laid down the list. “And now, Corrie, please tell me in detail what you noticed about the bones of Mr. Emmett Bowdree.”
She swallowed. Pendergast was so damn…closed. “I only had a few minutes to examine the bones. But I’m sure the guy was not killed by a grizzly bear.”
“Your evidence?”
“I took some photographs, but they confiscated the memory chip. I can tell you what I saw — or at least think I saw.”
“Excellent.”
“First of all, the skull showed signs of having been bashed in by a rock. And the right femur had scrape marks made by some blunt tool, with no signs that I could see of an osseous reaction or infectious response.”
A slow nod.
She went on with growing confidence. “It looked to me like there were faint human tooth marks in some of the cancellous bone. They were pretty feeble and blunt, not sharp like a bear’s. I think the corpse was cannibalized.”
In her zeal she’d raised her voice, and now she realized it had carried farther than she’d intended. The diners closest to them were staring at her.
“Oops,” she said, looking down at her place setting.
“Have you told anyone of this?” Pendergast asked.
“Not yet.”
“Very good. Keep it quiet. It will only create trouble.”
“But I need access to more remains.”
“I’m working on that. Of the other miners in question, I’m hoping we might find descendants in at least a few cases. And then, naturally, we’d have to get permission.”
“Oh. Thanks, but, you know, I could really do those things myself.” She paused. “Um, how long do you plan to stay? A few days?”
“Such a lovely, self-indulgent, rich little town. I don’t believe I’ve seen anything quite like it. And so charming at Christmastime.”
“So you’re going to stay…a long time?”
“Ah, here’s the wine.”
It had arrived, along with two big glasses. Corrie watched as Pendergast went through the whole routine of swirling the wine around in the glass, smelling it, tasting it, tasting it again.
“Corked, I’m afraid,” he told the waiter. “Please bring another bottle. Make it an ’01, to be on the safe side.”
With profuse apologies, the waiter hurried off with the bottle and glass.
“Corked?” Corrie asked. “What’s that?”
“It’s a contaminant of wine, giving it a taste redolent of, some say, a wet dog.”
The new bottle came out and Pendergast went through the routine again, this time nodding his approval. The waiter filled his glass, motioned the bottle toward Corrie. She shrugged and the man filled her glass as well.
Corrie sipped it. It tasted like wine to her — no more, no less. She said, “This is almost as good as the Mateus we all used to drink back in Medicine Creek.”
“I see you still enjoy provoking me.”
She took another sip. It was amazing, how quickly the memory of jail was fading. “Getting back to my release,” she said. “How did you do it?”
“As it happens, I was already on my way back to New York when I received your second letter.”
“You finally got sick of traveling the world?”
“It was your first letter, in part, that prompted my return.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Instead of answering, Pendergast peered into the dark ruby of his wineglass. “I was fortunate in locating Captain Bowdree so quickly. I explained everything to her frankly — how her ancestor had been rudely exhumed from his historic resting place to make way for a spa. I explained who you were, what your background was, how the chief promised you access and then withdrew it. I told her about your foolish break-in, how you got caught. And then I mentioned you were facing a ten-year prison sentence.”
He sipped his wine. “The captain understood the situation immediately. She was most unwilling for you to be, as she put it, fucked over like that. She repeated that phrase several times with remarkable emphasis, and it led me to believe she may have had some experience in that line — perhaps in the military. At any rate, together we composed a rather effective letter, which on the one hand threatened to complain to the FBI and, on the other, gave you perm
ission to study the remains of her ancestor.”
“Oh,” said Corrie. “And that’s how you got me out?”
“There was a rather boisterous town meeting this afternoon, at which I discussed the captain’s letter.” Pendergast allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “My presentation was singularly effective. You’ll read all about it in tomorrow’s paper.”
“Well, you saved my butt. I can’t thank you enough. And please thank Captain Bowdree for me.”
“I shall.”
There was a sharp murmur in the dining room; a stir. Several patrons had begun looking toward the wall of windows, and some had stood up from their tables and were pointing. Corrie followed their gaze and saw a small, flickering yellow light on the side of a nearby ridge. As she watched, it rapidly grew in brightness and size. Now more restaurant patrons were standing, and some were walking toward the windows. The hubbub increased.
“Oh, my God, that’s a house on fire!” Corrie said, standing up herself to get a better view.
“So it would seem.”
The fire blossomed with shocking rapidity. It appeared to be a huge house and the flames engulfed it with increasing violence, leaping into the night air, sending up columns of sparks and smoke. A fire siren began to go off in the town somewhere, followed by another. And now the entire dining room was on its feet, eyes glued to the mountain. A sense of horror had fallen on the diners, a hush — and then a voice rang out.
“That’s the Baker house, up in The Heights!”
13
Larry Chivers had seen many scenes of destruction in his career as a fire investigator, but he had never seen anything like this. The house had been gigantic — fifteen-thousand-plus square feet — and built with massive timbers, beams, log walls, and soaring, cedar-shake roofs. It had burned with a ferocity that left puddles of glass where the windows had been and even warped the steel I-beam stringers. The snow had completely vanished from within a five-hundred-yard perimeter of the house, and the ruin still radiated heat and plumes of foul steam.
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