White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  There, in the shadow of the side of the garage, was a shape. At first, Corrie couldn’t make out what it was. But as the light from the garage door motor provided a faint illumination, she made out a small dog, shivering in the darkness.

  “Well!” Corrie said, kneeling beside it. “What are you doing out here?”

  The dog came over, whining, and licked her hand. It was a mutt, looking like a cross between a small hound dog and a spaniel, with droopy ears, big sad brown eyes, and brown and white splotches of fur. It was not wearing a collar.

  “You can’t stay out here,” she said. “Come on in.”

  The dog followed her eagerly into the garage. Walking up to a bank of buttons, she pressed the one for the bay she’d entered. The garage was empty — a ludicrous expanse of concrete. Outside, she could hear the moaning of the wind as it shook the trees. Why on earth couldn’t she park in here?

  She glanced down at the dog, which was looking up at her and wagging its tail, a desperately hopeful look in its eyes. Screw Mr. Fine — the pooch would stay.

  Corrie waited until the garage door had closed completely before unlocking the door and stepping into the house. Inside, it was almost as cold as outdoors. She walked through a laundry room with machines big enough to service a battalion, past a pantry larger than her father’s entire apartment, and then into the hallway that ran the length of the mansion. She continued on, dog at her heels, along the corridor as it bent once, then twice, following the contours of the ravine, past room after huge room filled with uncomfortable-looking avant-garde furniture. The corridor itself was filled with that African statuary, all big bellies and long angry faces and carven eyes that seemed to follow her as she passed by. The tall picture windows of the various rooms to her left had no curtains, and the bright moonlight threw skeletal shadows against the pallid walls.

  The night before — her first night in the place — Corrie had checked out both the second floor and the basement, familiarizing herself with the rest of the layout. The upstairs consisted of a huge master bedroom, with dual bathrooms and walk-in closets, six other unfurnished bedrooms, and numerous guest bathrooms. In the main basement was a gym, a two-lane bowling alley, a mechanical room, a swimming flume — empty — and several storage areas. It seemed obscene that any house should be this big — or this empty.

  She finally reached the end of the hallway and the door leading into her own small suite of rooms. She entered, closed the door behind her, and switched on the small space heater in the room she’d chosen as her own. Pulling a couple of bowls from the cabinet, she set out water and an improvised dinner of crackers and cereal for the dog — tomorrow, if she couldn’t find the owner, she’d pick up some kibble.

  She watched the little brown-and-white animal as it ate ravenously. The poor thing was starving. While a mutt, it was an endearing one, with a big shock of unruly hair that fell over its eyes. It reminded her of Jack Corbett, a kid she’d known in seventh grade back in Medicine Creek. His hair had flopped down over his face in just the same way.

  “Your name is Jack,” she said to the dog, while it looked up at her, wagging its tail.

  She thought for a moment about fixing a cup of herbal tea for herself, but she felt too tired to make the effort and instead washed up, changed quickly into her nightwear, then slipped between the chilly sheets. She heard the tick of claws as the dog came in and settled down on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  Gradually, her body heat and the little space heater — cranked to maximum — blunted the worst of the cold. She decided against doing any reading, preferring to use the electricity for heat instead of light. She’d gradually increase the amount of juice she used, and see if Fine complained.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the date she’d had with Ted. He was earnest, and funny, and nice, if a bit goofy — but then, ski bums were supposed to be goofy. Handsome and goofy and carefree. He was no lightweight, though — he had principles. Idealistic, too. She admired his independence in leaving his parents’ grand house for a small apartment downtown.

  She turned in the bed, slowly becoming drowsy. He was hot, and on top of it a nice guy, but she wanted to get to know him just a little better before…

  …Somewhere, from the distant spaces of the house overhead, came a loud bump.

  She sat up in bed, instantly wide awake. What the hell was that?

  She remained motionless. The only light in the room came from the bright orange coils of the space heater. As she sat, listening intently, she could hear, faintly, the mournful call of the wind as it coursed through the narrow valley.

  There was nothing else. It must have been a dead branch, broken loose by the wind and knocked against the roof.

  Slowly, she settled back down into the bed. Now that she was aware of the wind, she listened to its faint muttering and groaning as she lay in the darkness. As the minutes passed, drowsiness began to return. Her thoughts drifted toward her plans for the next day. Her analysis of the Bowdree skeleton was just about complete, and if she was going to make any progress on her theory she’d need to get permission to examine some of the other remains. Of course, Pendergast had offered to do just that, and she knew enough of his meddling ways to believe that he would—

  Meddling. Now, why had she used that word?

  And come to think of it, why did the mere thought of Pendergast — for the first time ever, since she’d known him — cause an upwelling of annoyance? After all, the man had rescued her from a ten-year prison sentence. He’d saved her career. He’d paid for her education, basically put her life on track.

  If she was honest with herself, she had to admit it had nothing to do with Pendergast — and everything with herself. This cache of skeletons was a big project, and an incredible opportunity. She was wary at the thought of anyone else stepping in and stealing some of the limelight. And Pendergast — unintentionally — was capable of doing just that. If even a whiff got out that he’d helped her, everyone would assume that he’d done the real work and discount her own contribution.

  Her mother had taken great relish in pointing out, again and again, what a loser she was. Her classmates back in Medicine Creek had called her a freak, a waste of space. She’d never realized, until now, just how much it meant to her to accomplish something important…

  There it was: another sound. But this was no bump of a tree branch hitting the roof. This was a low scratching sound, coming from some spot not all that far away from her own bedroom: soft, even stealthy.

  Corrie listened. Maybe it was the wind again, rubbing a pine branch back and forth against the house. But if it was the wind, it sounded awfully regular.

  She pushed back the covers, got out of bed, and — heedless of the cold — stood in her darkened bedroom, listening.

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  At her feet, Jack whined.

  She stepped out into the little hallway, turned on the light, opened the door into the mansion proper, and paused again to listen. The sound seemed to have stopped. No: there it was again. It seemed to be coming from the ravine side of the house, maybe the living room.

  Corrie walked quickly down the corridor, shadow-striped and echoing, and ducked into the security room. The various devices were on, humming and clicking, but the central flat panel was off. She turned it on. An image swam into view: camera one, the default, showing the front drive, currently empty.

  She pushed the button that toggled the screen into a checkerboard of smaller images, looking at the feeds from various cameras. Two, four, nine, sixteen…and there, in the window of camera nine, she saw it: a red M, with a circle around it.

  M for “movement.”

  Quickly she pressed the button dedicated to camera nine. Now its image filled the screen: it was the view out the back door, leading from the kitchen onto the vast deck overlooking the ravine. The M was much bigger now. But there was no movement, nothing she could see. She squinted at the pixelated image. Nothing.

  What t
he hell had Fine said? When a camera registered movement, it recorded the video feed to hard disk: one minute prior to detecting the movement, and continuing for another minute after the movement ceased.

  So what movement had triggered camera nine?

  It couldn’t be the wind, shaking the tree limbs: there were no trees in view. Even as Corrie watched, the M disappeared from the screen. Now she saw only the back of the house, with the date and time stamps imprinted across the bottom of the feed.

  She toggled it back to the checkerboard of cameras and looked at the computer, hoping to get a playback of camera nine. The machine was turned on, but when she moved the mouse a window popped open, demanding a password.

  Shit. Now she cursed herself for not asking more questions.

  Something red flashed in her peripheral vision. Quickly she turned back to the screen. There it was, in camera eight: something large and dark, creeping around the side of the house. Black rectangles hovered around it, tracking its progress. The M was once again flashing on the screen.

  Maybe she should call 911. But she’d left her mobile in her car, and the cheap bastard Fine had of course disconnected the house phones.

  Corrie looked closer, heart starting to pound. That section of the back deck was in shadow, the moonlight obscured by the house, and she couldn’t make out exactly what she was seeing. Was it an animal? A coyote, maybe? No: it was too big to be a coyote. Something about the stealthy, deliberate way in which it moved sent a thrill of fear coursing through her.

  Now it was off the screen. No alerts came up on the other images. But Corrie was not reassured. Whatever she’d seen, it had been coming around the side of the house. Her side of the house.

  She turned suddenly. What was that noise? The squeaking of a mouse? Or — maybe, just maybe — the soft protesting squeal of a window, being gingerly tried?

  Heart in her mouth, she ran out of the security room and across the corridor into the den. The tall windows yawned dark before her.

  “Get the fuck away from here!” she yelled at them. “I’ve got a gun — and I’m not afraid to use it! Any closer, and I’m calling the cops!”

  Nothing. Utter silence.

  Corrie stood in the darkness, breathing hard. Still nothing.

  At length she returned to the security room. The video feeds were quiet; no movement registered on any of them.

  She stayed before the monitor, eyes glued to the various feeds, for fifteen minutes. Then she went through the entire house, dog at her heels, checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. Finally she returned to her bedroom, lay down in the dark, and gathered the covers around her. But she did not fall asleep.

  24

  The following morning was, if possible, even colder than it had been the day before. But for the time being, as she bustled around the ski shed, Corrie barely noticed. After a breakfast spent convincing herself she’d been imagining things the night before, she bundled up and went outside — only to find out there were very real, very human footprints in the snow all around the house. Someone apparently had been wandering around out there for a long time, perhaps hours.

  It scared the hell out of her, but she couldn’t follow the confused welter of tracks or figure out where they’d come from.

  Getting into her car and checking her cell phone, she played back a message from Pendergast announcing that he’d arranged the necessary permissions for her to examine three more skeletons from among the coffins in the shed. She drove down to the Hotel Sebastian to collect the necessary paperwork and thank Pendergast — only to learn that he was out, but had left everything for her at the front desk.

  She almost forgot the cold as she tracked down the first of the three skeletons — Asa Cobb — carefully removed the remains from the rude coffin, and placed them on the examination table. Arranging her tools, she took a deep breath, then began a methodical analysis of the bones.

  It was as she suspected. Many of the bones displayed damage from a tool: scrapes, gouges, cuts. Again, there were tooth marks: clearly human, not bear. And again, there was no sign of pot polishing, burning, or cooking of any kind — this man, too, had been eaten raw. Nor were there signs of bullet or knife wounds — death had been caused by a massive blow to the head with a rock, followed by the same brutal beating and dismemberment evidenced by the bones of Bowdree. The old brown bones told a graphic, violent tale of a man who was set upon, torn to pieces, and consumed raw.

  She straightened up. There was no longer any doubt: these miners had fallen victim to a gang of serial killers.

  “Is it as you expected?” came the honeyed drawl from behind her.

  Corrie whirled around, heart suddenly pounding like mad in her chest. There was Pendergast, dressed in a black overcoat, a silk scarf around his neck. His face and hair were almost as white as the snow that clung to his shoes. The guy had the damnedest ability to sneak up on a person.

  “I see you got my message,” Pendergast said. “I had tried calling you last night, as well, but you didn’t pick up your phone.”

  “Sorry.” As her heart returned to normal, she felt herself flushing. “I was on a date.”

  One eyebrow went up. “Indeed? May I inquire as to whom with?”

  “Ted Roman. A librarian here in Roaring Fork. Grew up in town. Nice guy, ex — ski bum, snowmobile addict. Good researcher, too. He’s helped me quite a bit.”

  Pendergast nodded, then turned — significantly — toward the examination table.

  “I’ve only had a chance to examine one of the skeletons,” she said, “but it seems to have all the earmarks of the Bowdree killing.”

  “So it’s your opinion we’re dealing with, how shall we call it, a group engaged in serial killing.”

  “Exactly. I would think at least three or four, possibly more.”

  “Interesting.” Pendergast picked up one of the bones and turned it over in his hands, giving it a perfunctory examination. “Two murderers working together is uncommon, but not unheard of. Three or more, however, acting in concert, is a rara avis indeed.” He put the bone back on the table. “Technically, three separate killings are necessary to establish a serial killer.”

  “Eleven miners died. Isn’t that enough to qualify?”

  “Almost assuredly. I shall look forward to receiving your detailed reports on the other two miners, as well.”

  Corrie nodded.

  Hands in his pockets, Pendergast looked around the equipment shed before finally returning his pale gaze to her. “When was the last time you read The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

  This question was so unexpected, Corrie was certain she’d misheard. “What?”

  “The Hound of the Baskervilles. When did you last read it?”

  “The Sherlock Holmes story? Ninth grade. Maybe eighth. Why?”

  “Do you recall the initial letter you sent me regarding your thesis? In a postscript, you made reference to a meeting between Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde. During that meeting, Wilde told Conan Doyle a rather dreadful story he’d heard on his American lecture tour.”

  “Right.” Corrie stole a glance at the table. She was eager to get back to work.

  “Would you find it interesting to know that one of the stops Oscar Wilde made on his lecture tour was right here in Roaring Fork?”

  “I know all about that. It was in Doyle’s diary. One of the Roaring Fork miners told Wilde the story of the man-eating grizzly, and Wilde passed on the story to Doyle. That’s what gave me the idea for my thesis in the first place.”

  “Excellent. My question to you is this: Do you believe Wilde’s story might have inspired Doyle to write The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

  Corrie hopped from one cold foot to the other. “It’s possible. Likely, even. But I’m not sure I see the relevance.”

  “Just this: if you were to take a look through The Hound, there’s a chance you might come across some clues as to what actually happened.”

  “What actually happened? Bu
t…I’m sure Wilde heard the false story and told it to Doyle. Neither one could possibly have known the truth — that these miners weren’t killed by a bear.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Doyle wrote about the ‘grizzled bear’ in his diary. He didn’t mention a cannibalistic gang.”

  “Consider for a moment: what if Wilde heard the real story and told it to Doyle? And what if Doyle found it too disturbing to put in his diary? What if Doyle instead concealed some of that information in The Hound?”

  Corrie had to stop herself from scoffing. Was it possible Pendergast was serious? “I’m sorry, but that’s pretty far-fetched. Are you really suggesting that a Sherlock Holmes story could possibly shed light on my project?”

  Pendergast did not reply. He simply stood there in his black overcoat, returning her gaze.

  She shivered. “Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I’d really like to get back to my examination, if it’s okay with you.”

  Still Pendergast said nothing; he merely regarded her with those pale eyes of his. For some reason, Corrie got the distinct feeling that she had just failed some kind of test. But she couldn’t help that; the answer lay not in fictional stories but right here, in the bones themselves.

  After a long moment, Pendergast gave the slightest of bows. “Of course, Miss Swanson,” he said coolly. Then he turned and left the equipment shed as silently as he had come.