White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  The four mercury-crazed miners. They’d been killed somewhere in this tunnel system, probably the Christmas Mine, and their bodies dragged down here and hidden.

  Near the corpses lay a long, heavy stick — a cudgel, really, perhaps carried by one of the killers. It would do for an improvised crutch.

  As quickly as she could without compromising the integrity of the evidence, Corrie took off her knapsack, removed the specimen bags, and laid them out. Removing the glove from her good hand and dropping to her knees, she crawled from body to body, taking from each a sample of hair, a fragment of papery dried flesh, and a small bone. She sealed them in the bags and put them back in her backpack. She photographed the bodies with her cell phone, then put the pack back on.

  With a gasp of pain, she managed to get to her feet, leaning on the cudgel. Now she had to figure out where she was and find her way out — without getting shot in the process.

  As if on cue, she could hear, way back near the cave-in, additional firing. She almost imagined she could hear the buzzing of the rattlers, a soft hiss in the distance: pleasant, like the ocean.

  She made her way farther down the tunnel, gasping with pain, trying to find some distinctive landmark that she could in turn locate on the map, and thus orient herself toward an exit. And to her great relief, ten minutes of slow wandering brought her to a junction of tunnels — three horizontal ones and a vertical shaft coming together. She collapsed, took out the map, and scrutinized it.

  And there it was.

  Thank God. A break, at last. According to the map, she was now in the Sally Goodin Mine, not far from a lower exit. A dewatering tunnel, containing a large pipe, lay a few hundred yards from where she was, and it led directly to the Ireland Pump Engine, in the cirque below the Christmas Mine. Folding up the map, she tucked it away and took the indicated tunnel.

  Sure enough: after a few more minutes of excruciating travel she finally came to a low stream of water that covered the rock floor, and then to the opening of an ancient pipe, nearly three feet in diameter, that ran along one side of the tunnel. She stooped and crawled into its mouth, grateful to be off her feet, and began making her way down its length.

  It was dark and close, and her bulky suit kept catching and tearing on rusted areas of the pipe. But the going was relatively clear, with no cave-ins or narrowings. Within ten minutes she could feel the flow of air growing colder and fresher, and she fancied she could smell snow. In another few minutes she made out the dimmest of lights ahead, and soon she emerged, first through a shunt, and then a partially open wooden door, into a dark, dingy space, thick with rusted pipes and giant valves. It was now very cold, and a dim gray light filtered in through gaps and cracks in the wooden ceiling. She figured she must be somewhere in the depths of the old Ireland Pump building.

  Giving a sob of relief, she looked around and saw an old staircase leading upward. As she limped toward it, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a dark, moving shape. A human shape — coming at her fast.

  He’s gotten through the snakes. Somehow he’s gotten through the snakes and flanked me…

  One arm wrapped around her waist; another around her neck, covering her mouth, stifling her scream and pulling her head back. Then a face appeared, in the dimness — a face that was just recognizable.

  …Ted.

  “You!” Ted cried, suddenly loosening his grip and uncovering her mouth. “It’s you! What on earth are you doing here—?”

  “Oh, my God,” she gasped, “Ted! There’s a man. Back there…he tried to kill me…” She gasped, unable to continue, as he held her.

  “You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed.

  She started to sob. “Thank God, Ted, thank God you’re here. He’s got a gun…”

  Ted’s grip tightened again as he held her up. “He’s fucked if he comes here,” he said quietly, in a dark voice.

  She sobbed, gasped. “I’m so glad to see you…My finger’s been shot off…I need to get to a hospital…”

  He continued to hold her. “I’m going to take care of you.”

  58

  At half past two o’clock in the afternoon, a man wearing an enormous greatcoat, bundled up in gloves, silk scarf, and a trilby hat, carrying a bottle of champagne, rang the doorbell of the large Italianate mansion at 16 Mountain Trail Road. A maid, dressed in a starched black uniform with a white apron and cap, answered the door.

  “May I help—?” she began, but the man came striding in with a cheery Christmas greeting, overriding her voice. He handed her his hat, scarf, and coat, revealing himself to be dressed in a severe black suit.

  “The storm seems to be letting up!” he said to no one in particular, his voice loud in the echoing marble foyer. “My goodness, it’s cold out there!”

  “The family is at Christmas Eve dinner—” the maid began again, but the man in black didn’t seem to hear as he strode across the foyer and past the great curving staircase into the long hall leading to the dining room, the maid hurrying after him, burdened with his outerwear. “Your name, please, sir?”

  But the man paid no attention.

  “I’m supposed to announce you—”

  She could hardly keep up with him. He arrived at the great double doors to the dining room, grasped the handles, and threw them open, to reveal the entire family, a dozen or more, seated around an elegant table gleaming with silver and crystal, the remains of a suckling pig on a giant platter in the center. The pig had been reduced to a rib cage surrounded by greasy gobbets and bones, the only thing remaining intact being its head, with its crispy curled ears and the requisite baked apple in its mouth.

  Everyone at the table stared at the man in surprise.

  “I tried to—” the maid began, but the gentleman in black interrupted her as he held up the bottle of champagne.

  “A bottle of Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne and a Merry Christmas to each and every one of you!” he announced.

  A shocked silence. And then Henry Montebello, sitting at the head of the table, rose. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” His eyes narrowed. “You — you’re that FBI agent.”

  “Indeed I am. Aloysius Pendergast, at your service! I’m making the rounds of all my friends, bringing season’s greetings and gifts of cheer!” He sat down in the only empty chair at the table.

  “Excuse me,” Montebello said coldly. “That chair is reserved for Mrs. Kermode, who should be here momentarily.”

  “Well, Mrs. Kermode’s not here yet, and I am.” The man plunked the champagne down on the table. “Shall we open it?”

  Montebello’s patrician features hardened. “I don’t know who you think you are, sir, bursting into a private family dinner like this. But I must ask you to leave this house at once.”

  The agent paused, swaying slightly in the chair, a hurt expression gathering on his face. “If you’re not going to open the champagne, fine, but don’t send me away without a little glass of something.” He reached over the table and picked up a half-full bottle of wine, examining the label. “Hmmm. A 200 °Castle’s Leap Cabernet.”

  “What are you doing?” Montebello snapped. “Put that down and leave at once, or I shall call the police!”

  Ignoring this, the man plucked a nearby glass off the table, poured a measure of the wine, and made a huge production of swirling it about, sticking his nose in the glass, sipping, noisily drawing in air, puffing his cheeks, sipping again. He put the glass down. “Some good berry notes, but no body and a short finish. Dull, I’m afraid; very dull. What sort of wine is this to serve at a Christmas Eve dinner? Are we but barbarians, Squire Montebello? Philistines?”

  “Lottie, call nine-one-one. Report a home invasion.”

  “Ah, but I was invited in,” said Pendergast. He turned to the maid. “Wasn’t I, dear?”

  “But I just opened the door—”

  “And what is more,” Montebello said, his voice crackling with fury as the rest of the family looked on with blank consternation, “you are drunk!”r />
  In that moment, as if on cue, a cook entered from the kitchen, flanked by attendants, carrying a huge flambé, the flames leaping up from the silver server.

  “Cherries jubilee!” Pendergast cried, jumping to his feet. “How marvelous!” He surged forward. “It’s too heavy for you — let me help. That fire could be dangerous — especially here, in Roaring Fork!”

  The cook, alarmed at the drunken man coming at her, took a step backward, but she was too slow. The FBI agent seized the great flaming platter; there was a sudden moment of imbalance; and then it overturned, the platter, cherries, ice cream, and burning brandy all crashing to the table and splattering over the remains of the pig.

  “Fire! Fire!” Pendergast cried, aghast as the flames leapt up, his face a mixture of dismay and panic. “This is dreadful! Run! Everyone outside!”

  A chorus of cries and shrieks went up around the table as everyone scrambled backward, knocking over chairs, spilling wine.

  “Out, quickly!” shouted Pendergast. “Pull the alarm! The house is burning down! We’ll be burned alive just like the others!”

  The sound of terror in his voice was infectious. There was instant pandemonium. A smoke alarm went off, which only increased the mindless panic to get out, to get away at all costs from the fire. In mere seconds the diners, cook, and wait staff had all cleared the room, some pushing others away in their panic, and stampeded down the hall and across the foyer. One after another, they burst out the front door and into the night. The man in black was left alone in the house.

  With sudden calm, he reached out, picked up an enormous gravy boat, and poured it over the alcohol flames, which were largely sputtering out anyway due to the melting ice cream and juices of the roasted carcass. A dash of wine from the bottle of inferior Cabernet completed the fire suppression. And then, with great aplomb and rapid efficiency of movement, he strode through the dining room, into the living room, and through it to a series of formally decorated rooms in the back, where Henry Montebello maintained his home legal office. There, Pendergast went straight to a cluster of filing cabinets. Perusing the labels on the front of each, he chose one, jimmied it open with a swift, sure motion, flipped through the papers, removed a fat accordion file, shut the cabinet, and carried the file back through the house to the front hall, plucking his bottle of champagne from the dining table in the process. In the front hall, he retrieved his greatcoat, scarf, hat, and gloves from where the maid had dumped them on the floor in her panic, secreted the file in the bulk of his coat, and stepped outside.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the fire is out. It’s safe to return now.”

  He strode off into the snowy afternoon, to his waiting car, and drove away.

  59

  Corrie felt Ted’s powerful arms around her, holding her tight. The tightness of it made her feel safe. Relief flooded through her. She relaxed and took the pressure off her broken ankle as he continued to hold her up. “I’m going to take care of you,” he said again, a little louder.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she sobbed. “That guy in the mine — he’s a goon, hired by Kermode to run me out of town. He’s the one who killed my dog, shot up my car…and now he’s trying to kill me.”

  “Kermode,” Ted said, his voice taking on an edge. “Figures. That bitch. I’m going to take care of her as well. Oh, God, will I take care of that bitch.”

  She was a little taken aback by his vehemence. “It’s okay,” she said. “God, I’m so light-headed. I think I need to lie down.”

  He didn’t seem to have heard. The arms tightened even more.

  “Ted, help me sit down…” She twisted a little because he was gripping her so hard it was beginning to hurt.

  “Fucking bitch,” he said, louder.

  “Forget Kermode…Please, Ted — you’re hurting me.”

  “Not talking about Kermode,” he said. “Talking about you.”

  Corrie was sure she hadn’t heard right. She was so dizzy. His arms tightened even more, to the point where she could hardly breathe. “Ted…That hurts. Please!”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself, bitch?”

  His voice was different now. Rough, hoarse.

  “Ted…what?”

  “What, Ted, what?” He mimicked her in a high, squeaky voice. “What a piece of work you are.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He squeezed so hard she cried out. “You like that? ’Cause you know what I’m talking about. Don’t play the innocent little girl.”

  She struggled, but had almost no strength left. It was like a nightmare. Maybe it was a nightmare — maybe all of this was. “What are you saying?”

  “What are you say-ing?” he mimicked.

  She twisted, trying to break free, and he roughly spun her around, his face almost touching hers. The red, sweaty, misshapen, furious look that disfigured his face frightened her terribly. Both his eyes were bloodshot and leaking water. “Look at you,” he said, lowering his voice, his lips warped with anger. “Leading me on, always teasing, first promising and then saying no, making a fool of me.”

  He gave her a sudden, violent squeeze with his powerful arms and she felt a rib crack under the pressure, pain lancing through her chest. She screamed, gasped, tried to speak, but he squeezed her again, forcing the air from her lungs. “The cocktease stops right here, right now.” Spittle splattered her face. His lips, covered with a white film, were now brushing hers, his strangely foul breath washing over her like fumes from a rotting carcass.

  She tried to breathe but couldn’t. The combined pain of her ankle, her hand, and now her ribs was so excruciating she was unable to think straight. Fear and shock sent her heart, already racing from the pursuit through the mines, into overdrive. She had never seen a face so twisted and so terrifying. He was completely mad.

  Mad. Mad…She didn’t want to think of the ramifications of that — she would not, could not, follow that thought to its natural conclusion.

  “Please—” she managed to gasp.

  “Isn’t this perfect? You just running into my arms like this. It’s karma. It saves me all the usual kinds of preparation. The universe wants to teach you a lesson, and I’ll be the teacher.”

  With that he threw her to the ground. She fell sprawling, with a cry of pain. He followed up with a kick to her injured ribs. The pain was unbearable and she cried out again, gasping for air. She felt the world swirling around, a strange ethereal floating sensation, pain and fright and disbelief overpowering all rational thought. A mist passed before her eyes, and consciousness shut down.

  A long, dark time seemed to pass before another searing lance of pain brought her back to herself. She was still in the dingy room. Mere moments must have ticked by. Ted stood over her, his face still grotesquely distorted, eyes watering, lips covered with a sticky bloom of white. He reached down, seized her leg, spun her around, and began dragging her over the rough floorboards. She tried to scream but couldn’t. Her head banged roughly against the floor and once again she felt herself on the verge of passing out.

  He dragged her from the back room into the main section of the structure. The vast pump rose above her, a monstrous juggernaut of giant pipes and cylinders. The tall building creaked in the wind. He pulled her alongside a horizontal pipe, yanked off her gloves, took notice of her damaged hand — lips curling into a malevolent smile at the sight — then lifted the other arm and roughly cuffed her wrist to the pipe.

  She lay there, gasping, swimming in and out of consciousness.

  “Look at you now,” he said, and spat on her.

  As she struggled weakly to sit up, gasping in pain, part of her mind seemed to sense that this was happening, not to her, but to somebody else, and that she was watching from someplace far, far away. But there was another part of her mind — cold and relentless — that kept telling her exactly the opposite. This was real. Not only that — Ted was going to kill her.

  Having shackled her to the pipe
, Ted stepped back, crossed his arms, and surveyed his handiwork. The dark mist that hovered around her seemed to clear slightly, and she grew more aware of her surroundings. Old pieces of lumber littered the floor. A couple of kerosene lanterns were hung nearby, casting a feeble yellow light. In one corner was a cot with a sleeping bag on it, a box of handcuffs, a couple of balaclavas, and several large cans of kerosene. A table held several hunting knives, coils of rope, duct tape, a glass-stoppered vial with some clear liquid within, wadded piles of wool socks and heavy sweaters, all black. There was a gun, too, that looked to Corrie like a 9mm Beretta. Why would Ted have a handgun? Pegs on the walls held a dark leather coat and — perversely — assorted clown masks.

  This seemed to be a hideout of some sort. A lair—Ted’s lair. But why should he need one? And what were all these things for?

  An old woodstove was burning to one side, the light shining between the cracks in the cast iron, throwing out heat. And now she noticed an odor in the air — a vile odor.

  Ted pulled up a chair, turned it around, and straddled it, balancing his arms on the chair back. “So here we are,” he said.

  Something was terribly wrong with him. And yet the furious, violent, half-demented Ted of the last few minutes had changed. Now he was calm, mocking. Corrie swallowed, unable to take all this in. Maybe if she talked to him, she could learn what was troubling him, bring him back from whatever dark place he was in. But when she tried, all that came out was a pathetic garble of sound.

  “When you first arrived in town, I thought maybe you were different from the others around here,” he said. His voice had changed again, as if his rage had buried itself deep in ice. It was remote, cold, detached, like someone speaking to himself — or, perhaps, to a corpse. “Roaring Fork. Back when I was young, it used to be a real town. Now the ultra-high-net-worth bastards have taken over, the assholes with their social-climbing bimbos, the movie stars and CEOs and Masters of the Universe. Raping the mountains, clear-cutting the forests. Oh, they talk a good line about the environment! About going organic, about reducing their carbon footprints by buying offsets for their Gulfstream jets, about how ‘green’ their ten-thousand-square-foot mansions are. Motherfuckers. That’s just sick. They’re parasites on our society. Roaring Fork is where they all gather, flattering each other, grooming each other of their lice like fucking chimpanzees. And they treat the rest of us — the real folk, the native-born residents — as scum fit only to sweep their palaces and stroke their egos. There’s only one cure for all that: fire. This place should burn. It needs to burn. And it is burning.” He grinned, another fleshy, demonic distortion, frighteningly close to the face he’d shown her before.