Текст книги "White Fire"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

26

Corrie heard the clang of the ski shed door and paused in her work, wondering if Pendergast had returned. But instead of a dark-suited figure, a tall woman strode into view wearing fleece winter warm-ups and a big knitted woolen hat with dangling pom-poms.

“Corrie Swanson?” she said as she approached.

“That’s me.”

“Stacy Bowdree. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got these coffees.” She handed Corrie a tall Starbucks cup. “Venti skinny latte with four shots, extra sugar. I had to guess.”

“Wow. You guessed right.” Corrie accepted the cup gratefully. “I had no idea you were coming to Roaring Fork. This is quite a surprise.”

“Well, here I am.”

“God, Stacy – can I call you that? – do I oweyou. You saved my butt with that letter. I was looking at ten years in prison, I can’t thank you enough—”

“Don’t embarrass me!” Bowdree laughed, uncovered her own coffee, and took a generous swig. “If you want to thank someone, you can thank your friend Pendergast. He explained the whole situation to me, and what they’d done to you. I was only too happy to help.” She looked around. “Look at all these coffins. Which one’s Great-Great-Granddad Emmett?”

“Right over here.” Corrie led her to the man’s remains, spread out on an adjacent table. If she’d known the woman was coming, she could have tried to put them in some modicum of order. She hoped Emmett’s descendant would understand.

Corrie sipped her coffee a little nervously as Bowdree walked over, reached out, and gently picked up a piece of skull. “Jeez, that bear really did a number on him.”

Corrie started to say something, then stopped herself. Pendergast, with excellent reason, had advised her against telling anyone – anyone – of the real cause of death until she had finished her work.

“I think this work is fascinating,” said Bowdree, gently putting down the piece of skull. “So you really want to be a cop?”

Corrie laughed. She liked Bowdree immediately. “Well, I think I’d like to become an FBI agent, actually, with a specialty in forensic anthropology. Not a lab rat, but a field agent with special skills.”

“That’s great. I’ve sort of been thinking about law enforcement myself…I mean, it’s logical after a career in the military.”

“Are you out, then? No longer a captain?”

She smiled. “I’ll always be a captain, but yes, I’ve been discharged.” She paused. “Well, I’d better get a move on. I’ve got to find a cheaper place to stay if I’m going to hang around here much longer – the hotel I’m in now is bankrupting me.”

Corrie smiled. “I know the feeling.”

“I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you that I think what you’re doing here is great.” Bowdree turned to go.

“Just a minute.”

Bowdree turned back.

“Want to grab a coffee at Starbucks later?” She gestured with her cup. “I’d like to return the favor – if you don’t mind it being on the late side. I plan to make a long day of it – assuming I don’t freeze first.”

Bowdree’s face brightened. “That would be great. How does nine o’clock sound?”

“See you then.”

27

Mrs. Betty B. Kermode sipped a cup of Earl Grey tea and looked from the picture window of her living room over the Silver Queen Valley. Her house on the top of the ridge – the best lot in the entire development of The Heights – commanded a spectacular view, with the surrounding mountains rising up and up toward the Continental Divide and the towering peaks of Mount Elbert and Mount Massive, the highest and second highest peaks in Colorado, which were mere shadows at this hour of the night. The house itself was quite modest – despite what people assumed, she was not by nature a showy woman – one of the smallest in the development, in fact. It was more traditional than the others, as well, built in stone and cedar on a relatively intimate scale: none of this ultra-contemporary, postmodern style for her.

The window also afforded an excellent view of the equipment shed. It had been from this same window that, not quite two weeks before, Mrs. Kermode had seen the telltale light go on in the shed, very late at night. She immediately knew who was inside and had taken action.

The cup rattled in its saucer as she put it down and she poured herself another. It was difficult to make a decent cup of tea at eight thousand five hundred feet, where water boiled at one hundred ninety-six degrees, and she could never get used to the insipid flavor, no matter what kind of mineral water she used, how long she steeped it, or how many bags she put in. She pursed her lips tightly as she added milk and a touch of honey, stirred, and sipped. Mrs. Kermode was a lifelong teetotaler – not for religious reasons, but because her father had been an abusive alcoholic and she associated drinking with ugliness and, even worse, a lack of control. Mrs. Kermode had made control the centerpiece of her life.

And now she was angry, quietly but furiously angry, at the humiliating disruption of her control by that girl and her FBI friend. Nothing like that had ever happened to her, and she would never forget, let alone forgive, it.

She took another swallow of tea. The Heights was the most sought-after enclave in Roaring Fork. In a town filled with vulgar new money, it was one of the oldest developments. It represented taste, Brahmin stability, and a whiff of aristocratic superiority. She and her partners had never allowed it to grow shabby, as other 1970s-era ski developments tended to do. The new spa and clubhouse would be a vital part of keeping the development fresh, and the opening of Phase III – thirty-five two-acre lots, priced at $7.3 million and up – promised to bring a stupendous financial windfall to the original investors. If only this cemetery business could be resolved. The New York Timesarticle had been an annoyance, but it was nothing compared with the bull-in-a-china-shop antics of Corrie Swanson.

That bitch. It was her fault. And she would pay.

Kermode finished her cup, put it down, took a deep breath, then picked up the phone. It was late in New York City, but Daniel Stafford was a night owl and this was usually the best time to reach him.

He picked up on the second ring, his smooth patrician voice coming down the line. “Hello, Betty. How’s the skiing?”

A wave of irritation. He knew perfectly well she didn’t ski. “They tell me it’s excellent, Daniel. But I’m not calling to bandy civilities.”

“Pity.”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“The fire? It’s only a problem if they don’t catch the fellow – which they will. Trust me, by the time Phase Three comes online he’ll be heading to the electric chair.”

“The fire isn’t what I’m calling about. It’s that girl. And the meddling FBI agent. I hear he’s managed to dig up three more descendants who’ve given permission to look at their ancestors’ bones.”

“And the problem?”

“What do you mean, and the problem? It’s bad enough that this Captain Bowdree has shown up in person – at least she wants to bury her ancestor’s bones somewhere else. Daniel, what if those other descendants demand reburial in the original cemetery? We’re five million dollars into construction!”

“Now, now, Betty, calm down. Please. That’s never going to happen. If any so-called descendants take legal action – which they haven’t yet – our attorneys will tie them up in knots for years. We’ve got the money and legal power to keep a case like this going forever.”

“It’s not just that. I’m worried about where it could lead – if you know what I mean.”

“That girl’s just looking at the bones, and when she’s done, it ends. It isn’t going to lead where you’re worried it might lead. How could it? And if it does, trust me, we’ll take care of it. Your problem, Betty, is that you’re like your mother: you worry too much and you cherish your anger. Mix yourself a martini and let it go.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you.” A chuckle. “I’ll tell you what. To ease your mind, I’ll get my people to dig into their background, find some dirt. The girl, the FBI agent…anyone else?”

“Captain Bowdree. Just in case.”

“Fine. Remember, I’m only doing this to keep our powder dry. We probably won’t have to use it.”

“Thank you, Daniel.”

“Anything for you, my dear cousin Betty.”

28

They sat in comfortable chairs in the all-but-empty Starbucks. Corrie cradled her cup, grateful for the warmth. Across the small table, Stacy Bowdree stared into her own coffee. She seemed quieter, less effusive, than she had that morning.

“So why did you leave the air force?” Corrie asked.

“At first I wanted to make a career of it. After 9/11. I was in college, both my parents were dead, and I was looking for direction, so I transferred to the academy. I was really gung-ho, totally idealistic. But two tours in Iraq, and then two more in Afghanistan, cured me of that. I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a lifer. It’s still a man’s game, no matter what they say, especially in the air force.”

“Four tours? Wow.”

Bowdree shrugged. “Not uncommon. They need a lot of people on the ground over there.”

“What did you do?”

“On the last tour, I was the commanding officer of the 382nd Expeditionary EOD Bunker. Explosive Ordnance Disposal. We were stationed at FOB Gardez, Paktia Province.”

“You defused bombs?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time, we’d clear areas of the base or take munitions to the range and get rid of them. Basically, any time they wanted to put a shovel in the ground, we had to clear the area first. Once in a while, we had to go beyond the wire and clear IEDs.”

“You mean, with those big bomb suits?”

“Yeah, like in that film The Hurt Locker.Although mostly we used robots. Anyway, that’s all in the past. I got my discharge a few months ago. I’ve sort of been drifting, wondering what to do with my life – and then Pendergast’s bit of news came along.”

“And so you’re here in Roaring Fork.”

“Yes, and you’re probably wondering why.”

“Well, I am, a little.” Corrie laughed, still a little nervous. She had been afraid to ask the question.

“When you’re done with him, I’m taking Great-Great-Granddad back to Kentucky and I’m going to bury him in the family plot.”

Corrie nodded. “That’s cool.”

“My parents are gone, I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I’ve been getting interested in my family’s past. The Bowdrees go back a long way. We’ve got Colorado pioneers like Emmett, we’ve got military officers going back to the Revolution, and then there’s my favorite, Captain Thomas Bowdree Hicks, who fought for the South in the Army of Northern Virginia – a real war hero and a captain, just like me.” Her face glowed with pride.

“I think it’s great.”

“I’m glad you think so. Because I’m not here to rush your work along. I don’t have any burning agenda – I just want to reconnect with my past, with my roots, to make a personal journey of sorts, and in the end bring my ancestor back to Kentucky. Maybe by then I’ll have a better idea of what to do next.”

Corrie simply nodded.

Bowdree finished her coffee. “What a bizarre thing, getting eaten by a bear.”

Corrie hesitated. She’d been thinking about it all afternoon, and had decided she really couldn’t in good conscience keep back the truth. “Um, I think there’s something you should know about your ancestor.”

Bowdree looked up.

“This has to remain confidential – at least until I’ve finished my work.”

“It will.”

“Emmett Bowdree wasn’t killed and eaten by a grizzly bear.”

“No?”

“Nor were the other remains – at least the ones I’ve looked at.” She took a deep breath. “They were murdered. By a gang of serial killers, it seems. Murdered and…” She couldn’t quite say it.

“Murdered and…?”

“Eaten.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Corrie shook her head.

“And nobody knows this?”

“Only Pendergast.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Corrie paused. “Well, I’d like to stay here and solve the crime.”

Bowdree whistled. “Good God. Any idea of who? Or why?”

“Not yet.”

A long silence ensued. “You need any help?”

“No. Well, maybe. I’ve got a whole lot of old newspapers to comb through – I guess I could use a hand with that. But I need to do all the forensic analysis on my own. It’s my first real thesis and…well, I want it to be my own work. Pendergast thinks I’m crazy and wants me to finish up and go back to New York with what I’ve got, but I’m not ready for that yet.”

Bowdree gave a big smile. “I get it totally. You’re just like me. I like doing things on my own.”

Corrie sipped her drink. “Any luck finding a place to stay?”

“Nada. I’ve never seen such a gold-plated town.”

“Why don’t you stay with me? I’m house-sitting an empty mansion on Ravens Ravine Road, just me and a stray dog, and to be honest the place is creeping me out. I’d love to have someone keep me company.” Especially ex-military.She’d been thinking about those footprints all afternoon, thinking how much better she’d feel with a roommate. “All you’ll have to do is avoid a few security cameras – the nonresident owner is a bit of a busybody. But I’d love to have you.”

“Are you serious? Really?” Bowdree’s smile widened. “That would be fantastic! Thank you so much.”

Corrie drained her drink and stood up. “If you’re ready, you can follow me up there now.”

“I was born ready.” And with that, Bowdree grabbed her gear and followed Corrie out into the freezing night.

29

At five minutes to four in the morning, London time, Roger Kleefisch stepped into the large sitting room of his town house on Marylebone High Street and surveyed the dim surroundings with satisfaction. Everything was in its precise position: the velvet-lined easy chairs on each side of the fireplace; the bearskin hearth rug on the floor; the long row of reference works on the polished mantelpiece, a letter jammed into the wood directly below them by a jackknife; the scientific charts on the wall; the bench of chemicals heavily scarred with acid; the letters V.R.tattooed into the far wall with bullet holes – simulated bullet holes, of course. There was even a worn violin sitting in a corner – Kleefisch had been trying to learn how to play, but of course even discordant scrapings would have been sufficient. As he looked around, a smile formed on his face. Perfect – as close as he could possibly make it to the descriptions in the stories themselves. The only thing he’d left out had been the solution of cocaine hydrochloride and hypodermic needle.

He pressed a button beside the door, and the lights came up – gas, of course, specially installed at great expense. He walked thoughtfully over to a large mahogany bookcase and peered through the glass doors. Everything within was devoted to a single subject– thesubject. The top three shelves were taken up with various copies of The Canon – of course he wasn’t able to purchase the very first editions, even on his barrister’s salary, but he nevertheless had some extremely choice copies, especially the 1917 George Bell edition of His Last Bow, with dust wrapper intact, and the 1894 George Newnes printing of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, the spine still quite bright, with just the smallest amount of wear and foxing. The lower shelves of the bookcase were taken up by various volumes of scholarship and back issues of the Baker Street Journal. This last was a periodical issued by the Baker Street Irregulars, a group devoted to the study and perpetuation of Sherlockiana. Kleefisch had himself published several articles in the Journal, one of which – an exceedingly detailed work devoted to Holmes’s study of poisons – had prompted the Irregulars to offer him a membership in the organization and present him with an “Irregular Shilling.” One did not apply for membership in the Irregulars; one had to be asked. And becoming an Investiture was, without doubt, the proudest achievement of Kleefisch’s life.

Opening the cabinet doors, he hunted around the lower shelves for a periodical he wanted to re-read, located it, closed the doors again, then walked over to the closest armchair and sat down with a sigh of contentment. The gaslights threw a warm, mellow light over everything. Even this town house, in the Lisson Grove section, had been chosen for its proximity to Baker Street. If it had not been for the infrequent sound of traffic from beyond the bow window, Kleefisch could almost have imagined himself back in 1880s London.

The phone rang, an antique “Coffin” dating to 1879, of wood and hard rubber with a receiver shaped like an oversize drawer handle. The smile fading from his face, he glanced at his watch and picked up the receiver. “Hallo.”

“Roger Kleefisch?” The voice was American – southern, Kleefisch noticed – coming in from a long distance, it seemed. He vaguely recognized it.

“Speaking.”

“This is Pendergast. Aloysius Pendergast.”

“Pendergast.” Kleefisch repeated the name, as if tasting it.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He had known Pendergast at Oxford, when he had been studying law and Pendergast had been reading philosophy at the Graduate Centre of Balliol College. Pendergast had been a rather strange fellow – reserved and exceedingly private – and yet a kind of intellectual bond had formed between them that Kleefisch still remembered with fondness. Pendergast, he recalled, had seemed to be nursing some private sorrow, but Kleefisch’s tactful attempts to draw him out on the subject had met with no success.

“I apologize for the lateness of the call. But I remembered your keeping, shall we say, unusual hours and hoped that the habit had not deserted you.”

Kleefisch laughed. “True, I rarely go to bed before five in the morning. When I’m not in court, I prefer to sleep while the rabble are out and about. To what do I owe this call?”

“I understand you are a member of the Baker Street Irregulars.”

“I have that honor, yes.”

“In that case, perhaps you can assist me.”

Kleefisch settled back in the chair. “Why? Are you working on some academic project regarding Sherlock Holmes?”

“No. I am a special agent with the FBI, and I’m investigating a series of murders.”

There was a brief silence while Kleefisch digested this. “In that case, I can’t imagine what possible service I could be to you.”

“Let me summarize as briefly as I can. An arsonist has burned down a house and its inhabitants at the ski resort of Roaring Fork, Colorado. Do you know of Roaring Fork?”

Naturally, Kleefisch had heard of Roaring Fork.

“In the late nineteenth century, Roaring Fork was a mining community. Interestingly, it is one of the places where Oscar Wilde stopped on his lecture tour of America. While he was there, he was told a rather colorful tale by one of the miners. The tale centered on a man-eating grizzly bear.”

“Please continue,” Kleefisch said, wondering just where this strange story was going.

“Wilde told this story, in turn, to Conan Doyle during their 1889 dinner at the Langham Hotel. It seemed to have had a powerful effect on Conan Doyle – powerful, unpleasant, and lasting.”

Kleefisch said nothing. He knew, of course, about the legendary dinner. He would have to take another look at the Conan Doyle diary entry about that.

“I believe that what Conan Doyle heard so affected him that he wove it – suitably fictionalized, of course – into his work, as an attempt at catharsis. I’m speaking in particular about The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Interesting,” Kleefisch said. To the best of his knowledge, this was a new line of critical thinking. If it proved promising, it might even lead to a scholarly monograph for the Irregulars. To be written by himself, of course: of late he had been searching for a new subject on which to focus. “But I confess I still don’t see how I can be of help. And I certainly don’t understand what all this has to do with the arson case you’re investigating.”

“On the latter point, I’d prefer to keep my own counsel. On the former point, I am becoming increasingly convinced that Conan Doyle knew more than he let on.”

“You mean, more than he alluded to in The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

“Precisely.”

Kleefisch sat up. This was more than interesting – this was downright exciting. His mind began to race. “How do you mean?”

“Just that Conan Doyle might have written more about this man-eating bear, somewhere else – perhaps in his letters or unpublished works. Which is why I’m consulting you.”

“You know, Pendergast, there might actually be something in your speculations.”

“Pray explain.”

“Late in life, Conan Doyle supposedly wrote one last Holmes story. Nothing about it is known – not its subject, not even its name. The story goes that Conan Doyle submitted it for publication, but it was returned to him because its subject was too strong for the general public. What happened to it then is unknown. Most suspect it was destroyed. Ever since, this lost Holmes story has been the stuff of legends, endlessly speculated upon by members of the Irregulars.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“To tell you the truth, Pendergast, I’d rather suspected it of being just another Holmesian tall tale. They are legion, you know. Or, perhaps, a shaggy dog story perpetuated by Ellery Queen. But given what you’ve said, I find myself wondering if the story might actually exist, after all. And if it does, that it might…” His voice trailed off.

“That it might tell the rest of the story that always haunted Conan Doyle,” Pendergast finished for him.

“Exactly.”

“Do you have any idea how one might go about searching for such a story?”

“Not off the top of my head. But as an Irregular, and a Holmes scholar, there are various resources at my disposal. This could be an extraordinary new avenue of research.” Kleefisch’s brain was working even faster now. To uncover a lost Sherlock Holmes story, after all these years…

“What’s your address in London?” Pendergast asked.

“Five-Seventy-Two, Marylebone High Street.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I call on you in the near future?”

“How near?”

“Two days, perhaps. As soon as I can break away from this arson investigation. I’ll be staying at the Connaught Hotel.”

“Excellent. It will be a pleasure to see you again. In the meantime, I’ll make some initial inquiries, and we’ll be able to—”

“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. His voice had changed abruptly; a sudden urgency had come into it. “Yes, thank you, I’ll do my best to see you then. But now, Kleefisch, I have to go; you’ll excuse me, please.”

“Is something wrong?”

“There appears to be another house on fire.” And with that, Pendergast abruptly hung up and the line went dead.