Текст книги "White Fire"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

49

A. X. L. Pendergast surveyed the town of Leadville with tightly pursed lips. A sign announced its altitude, 10,150 feet, and stated it was the HIGHEST INCORPORATED TOWN IN THE UNITED STATES. It stood in stark contrast with Roaring Fork, across the Continental Divide. Its downtown strip was a single street bordered by Victorian buildings in various states of shabbiness and disrepair, with frozen heaps of snow along the verges. Beyond, forests of fir trees swept up to immense mountain peaks in almost all directions. The excessive Christmas decorations draped over every cornice, lamppost, streetlight, and parapet lent a sort of desperate air to the forlornness of the town, especially two days before Christmas. And yet despite the early-morning hour and the bitter cold, Pendergast was aware of a certain relief simply to be away from the oppressive wealth, entitlement, and smugness that hung like a miasma over Roaring Fork. Leadville, while impoverished, was a real place with real people – although it was nevertheless inconceivable why anyone would want to live in this white Gehenna, this algid Siberian wasteland, this desert of frost buried in the mountains, far from the delights of civilization.

He had had the devil of a time tracking down any progeny of the aged Swinton, first name unknown, who had buttonholed Oscar Wilde after the Roaring Fork lecture and told him the fateful story. With the help of Mime, he had finally identified one remaining descendant: a certain Kyle Swinton, born in Leadville thirty-one years previously. He was an only child whose parents had been killed in a car accident around the time he dropped out of Leadville High. After that, his digital trail had vanished. Even Mime, Pendergast’s shadowy and reclusive computer genius and information gatherer, had been unable to track the man beyond establishing the crucial fact that there was no record of his death. Kyle Swinton, it seemed, was still alive, somewhere within the borders of the United States; that was all Pendergast knew.

As soon as the snow had stopped in Roaring Fork – or rather paused, as the main event was still to come – the road had been cleared and Pendergast had made his way to Leadville to see if he could pick up a trace of the man. Weighed down by a sweater vest, heavy black suit, down vest, overcoat, two scarves, thick gloves and boots, and a woolen hat under his trilby, he exited his vehicle and made his way into what appeared to be the only five-and-dime drugstore in the town. He glanced around the store and selected the oldest employee: the pharmacist manning the prescription counter.

Unwrapping his scarves so he could speak, Pendergast said, “I am trying to trace the whereabouts of a man named Kyle Swinton, who attended Leadville High School in the late ’90s.”

The pharmacist looked Pendergast up and down. “Kyle Swinton? What do you want with him?”

“I’m an attorney, and it’s about an inheritance.”

“Inheritance? His family didn’t have two nickels to rub together.”

“There was a great-uncle.”

“Oh. Well, good for him, I suppose. Kyle, he doesn’t come into town very often. Maybe not till spring.”

This was excellent. “If you could direct me to his house, I should be grateful.”

“Sure, but he’s snowed in. Lives off the grid. You won’t get up there except on a snowmobile. And…” The man hesitated.

“Yes?”

“He’s one of those survivalist types. He’s holed up in Elbert Canyon waiting for, I don’t know, the end of civilization maybe.”

“Indeed?”

“He’s got a bunker up there, stockpiles of food – and a big-time arsenal, or so they say. So if you go up there, you’d better be damn careful or he’s liable to blow a hole in you.”

Pendergast was silent for a moment. “Where, pray tell, may I rent a snowmobile?”

“There’s a couple of places, it’s a big sport in these parts.” He gave Pendergast another once-over, doubtfully. “You know how to operate one?”

“Naturally.”

The druggist gave Pendergast the information and drew a map, showing him how to get to Kyle Swinton’s place up in Elbert Canyon.

Pendergast exited the pharmacy and strolled down Harrison Avenue, as if shopping, despite the five-degree weather, the piles of snow, and the sidewalks so icy that even the salt froze to them. Finally he went into a gun-and-ammo store that also doubled as a pawnshop.

A man with a tattoo of an octopus on the shaved dome of his head strolled over. “What can I do for you?”

“I would like to buy a small box of the Cor-Bon .45 ACP.”

The man placed the box on the counter.

“Does a Mr. Kyle Swinton shop here?”

“Sure does, good customer. Crazy fucker, though.”

Pendergast considered for a moment the kind of person a man like this might think of as crazy.

“I understand he has quite a collection of firearms.”

“Spends every last penny on guns and ammo.”

“In that case, there must be quite a variety of ammo he buys from you.”

“Hell, yes. That’s why we got all these rounds here. He’s got a collection of heavy-caliber handguns you wouldn’t believe.”

“Revolvers?”

“Oh, yeah. Revolvers, pistols, all loads. Probably got a hundred K worth of firearms up there.”

Pendergast pursed his lips. “Come to think of it, I’d like to also purchase a box of the .44 S&W Special, one of the .44 Remington Magnum, and another of .357 S&W Magnum.”

The man placed the boxes on the counter. “Else?”

“That will suffice, thank you very much.”

The man rang the purchase up.

“No bag, I’ll put them in my pockets.” Everything disappeared into his coat.

Business had not been good at the nearest snowmobile rental place. Pendergast was able to overcome their initial difficulty about renting him a machine for the day, despite his wildly inappropriate dress, southern accent, and lack of even minimal familiarity with its operation. They put a helmet and visor on his head and gave him a quick lesson in how to ride it, took him out for a five-minute practice spin, had him sign multiple disclaimers, and wished him luck. In so doing, Pendergast learned more about Kyle Swinton. He appeared to be known to all Leadville as a “crazy fucker.” His parents had been alcoholics who finally went through the guardrail at Stockton Creek, drunk as skunks, and rolled a thousand feet down the ravine. Kyle had lived off the land ever since, hunting, fishing, and panning for gold when he needed ready cash to buy ammunition.

As Pendergast was leaving, the rental shop manager added: “Don’t go rushing up to the cabin, now, Kyle’s liable to get excited. Approach real nice and slow, and keep your hands in sight and a friendly smile on your face.”

50

The ride to Swinton’s cabin was exceedingly unpleasant. The snowmobile was a coarse, deafening, stinking contraption, prone to jackrabbit starts and sudden stops, with none of the refinement of a high-performance motorcycle, and as Pendergast maneuvered it up the winding white road it threw up a steady wake of snow that plastered his expensive coat, building up layers. Pendergast soon looked like a helmeted snowman.

He followed the advice he’d been given and slowed down as soon as he saw the cabin, half buried in snow, with a trickle of smoke curling from a stovepipe on top. Sure enough, as he came within a hundred yards a man appeared on the porch, small and ferret-like, with a gap between his two front teeth visible even at this distance. He was holding a pump-action shotgun.

Pendergast halted the snowmobile, which jerked to a stop. Plates of snow broke off and fell from his coat. He fumbled awkwardly with the helmet and finally managed to raise the visor with his bulky gloves.

“Greetings, Kyle!”

The response was a conspicuous racking of the pump. “State your business, sir.”

“I’m here to see you. I’ve heard a lot about your outfit up here. I’m a fellow survivalist and I’m touring the country looking at what other people are doing, for an article in Survivalistmagazine.”

“Where’d you hear about me?”

“Word gets around. You know how it is.”

A hesitation. “So you’re a journalist?”

“I’m a survivalist first, journalist second.” A cold gust of wind swirled the snow about Pendergast’s legs. “Mr. Swinton, do you think you might extend me the courtesy of your hospitality so that we could continue this conversation in the confines of your home?”

Swinton wavered. The word hospitalityhad not gone unnoticed. Pendergast pressed his advantage. “I wonder if keeping a man freezing in the cold at gunpoint is the kind of hospitality one should accord a kindred spirit.”

Swinton squinted at him. “At least you’re a white man,” he said, putting down the gun. “All right, come on in. But see that you broom yourself off at the door; I don’t want no snow tracked in my house.” He waited as Pendergast struggled through the deep snow to the porch. A broken broom stood next to the door and Pendergast swept himself as clean as he could while Swinton watched, frowning.

He followed Swinton in the cabin. It was surprisingly large, extending into a warren of rooms in the back. The gleam of gunmetal could be seen everywhere: racks of assault rifles, AK-47s and M16s illegally altered to fire on full-auto; a set of Uzis and TAR-21 bullpup assault rifles; another set of Chinese Norinco QBZ-97 rifles and carbines, again altered for fully automatic action. A nearby case contained a huge array of revolvers and pistols, just as the man in Leadville had said. Beyond, in one of the rooms, Pendergast glimpsed a collection of RPGs, including a pair of Russian RPG-29s – all quite illegal.

Other than the walls being completely covered with weaponry, the cabin was surprisingly cozy, with a fire burning in a woodstove with an open door. All the furniture was handmade of peeled logs and branches, draped with cowhides. And everything was neat as a pin.

“Shed that coat and seat yourself, I’ll get the coffee.”

Pendergast removed the coat and draped it over a chair, straightened his suit, and sat down. Swinton fetched some mugs and a coffeepot off the woodstove and poured two cups. Without asking he heaped in a tablespoon of Cremora and two of sugar before handing it to Pendergast.

The agent took the mug and made a show of drinking. It tasted as if it had been boiling on the stove for days.

He found Swinton looking at him curiously. “What’s with the black suit? Somebody die? You come up here by snowmobile in that getup?”

“It was functional.”

“You sure as hell don’t look like a survivalist to me.”

“What do I look like?”

“Some pussy professor from Jew York City. Or with that accent, maybe Jew Orleans. So what’re you packing?”

Pendergast removed his .45 Colt and laid it on the table. Swinton picked it up, immediately impressed. “Les Baer, huh? Nice. You know how to fire that?”

“I try,” said Pendergast. “This is quite a collection you have. Do youknow how to fire all those weapons?”

Swinton took offense, as Pendergast knew he would. “You think I hang shit like that on my wall if I don’t know how to fire it?”

“Anyone can pull the trigger on a weapon,” Pendergast said, sipping his coffee.

“I fire almost every weapon I own at least once a week.”

Pendergast pointed to the handgun cabinet. “What about that Super Blackhawk?”

“That’s a fine weapon. Updated Old West.” He got up, took it down from the rack.

“May I see it?”

He handed it to Pendergast. He hefted it, sighted, then opened the barrel and dumped out the ammo.

“What you doing?”

Pendergast picked up one of the rounds, inserted it back in the barrel, gave it a spin, then laid the revolver down.

“You think you’re tough, right? Let’s play a little game.”

“What the hell? What game?”

“Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. And I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

Swinton stared at him. “Are you stupid or something? I can see the fucking round isn’t even in firing position.”

“Then you’ve just won a thousand dollars. If you pick the gun up and pull the trigger.”

Swinton picked the gun up, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger. There was a click. He laid it down.

Without a word, Pendergast reached into his suit-coat pocket, pulled out a brick of one-hundred-dollar bills, and peeled off ten of them. Swinton took the money. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Yes, I am crazy.”

“Now it’s your own damn turn.” Swinton picked up the revolver, spun the barrel, laid it down.

“What will you give me?”

“I don’t got no money, and I ain’t giving you back the thousand.”

“Then perhaps you’ll answer a question instead. Any question I choose to ask. Absolute truth.”

Swinton shrugged. “Sure.”

Pendergast removed another thousand and put it on the table. Then he picked up the gun, placed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. Another click.

“And now for the question.”

“Shoot.”

“Your great-great-grandfather was a miner in Roaring Fork during the silver boom days. He knew quite a bit about a series of killings, allegedly done by a man-eating grizzly bear, but in actuality done by a group of crazy miners.”

He paused. Swinton had risen from his chair. “You’re no damn magazine writer! Who are you?”

“I am the one who is asking you a question. Presuming that you’re a man of honor, I will receive an answer. If you wish to know who I really am, that must await the next round of the game. Provided, of course, you have the fortitude to continue.”

Swinton said nothing.

“Your ancestor knew more than most people about those killings. In fact, I think he knew the truth – the entire truth.” Pendergast paused. “My question is: What isthe truth?”

Swinton shifted in his chair. The expression on his face went through several rapid changes. He exposed his ferrety teeth several times, his lips twitching. This went on for a while, then at last he cleared his throat. “Why do you want to know?”

“Private curiosity.”

“Who are you gonna tell?”

“Nobody.”

Swinton stared hungrily at the thousand dollars sitting on the table. “You swear to that? It’s been a secret in my family for a long, long time.”

Pendergast nodded.

Another pause. “It started with the Committee of Seven,” Swinton said at last. “My great-great-granddaddy, August Swinton, was one of them. At least, that’s what was passed down.” A tinge of pride edged into his voice. “As you said, those were no grizzly killings. They was done by four crazy bastards, former smelter workers, who were living wild in the mountains and had turned cannibal. A man named Shadrach Cropsey went up to track the bear and discovered it wasn’t a bear at all, but these fellers living in an abandoned mine. He figured out where they were holed up and then pulled together this Committee of Seven.”

“And then what happened?”

“That’s a second question.”

“So it is.” Pendergast smiled. “Time for another round?” He picked up the revolver, spun the cylinder, and laid it down.

Swinton shook his head. “I can still see the round, and it ain’t in the firing chamber. Another thousand bucks?”

Pendergast nodded.

Swinton picked up the gun and pulled the trigger again, put it down, held out his hand. “This is the dumbest damn game I ever saw.”

Pendergast handed him a thousand dollars. Then he picked up the gun, spun the barrel, and without looking at it put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Click.

“You really are one crazy motherfucker.”

“There appear to be a great many like me in this area,” Pendergast replied. “And now for my question: What did Shadrach Cropsey and this Committee of Seven do then?”

“Back in those days, they handled problems the right way – they did it themselves. Fuck the law and all its bullshit. They went up there and smoked those cannibals. The way I heard it, old Shadrach got his ass killed in the fight. After that, there weren’t no more ‘grizzly’ killings.”

“And the place where they killed the miners?”

“Another question, friend.”

Pendergast spun the barrel, placed it on the table. Swinton eyed it nervously. “I can’t see the round.”

“Then it is either in the firing chamber or in the opposite chamber, hidden by the frame. Which means there is a fifty – fifty chance you will live.”

“I ain’t playing.”

“You just said you would. I didn’t imagine you were a coward, Mr. Swinton.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the brick of hundreds. This time he peeled off twenty. “We’ll double the stakes. You will receive two thousand – if you pull the trigger.”

Swinton was sweating heavily. “I ain’t gonna play.”

“You mean, you pass on your turn? I won’t insist.”

“That’s what I mean. I pass.”

“But I do not pass on my turn.”

“Go ahead. Be my fucking guest.”

Pendergast spun the barrel, held the revolver up, pulled the trigger. Click.He put it down.

“My final question: Where did they kill the miners?”

“I don’t know. But I do have the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one that got passed down to me. It sort of explains things.” He rose from his creaking chair and shuffled off into the dim recesses of the cabin. He returned a moment later with a dusty old piece of yellow paper sandwiched in Mylar. He eased himself back down and handed the letter to Pendergast.

It was a handwritten note, undated, with no salutation or signature. It read:

mete at the Ideal 11 oclock Sharp to Night they are Holt Up in the closed Christmas Mine up on smugglers wall there are 4 of them bring your best Guns and lantern burn this Letter afore you set out

Pendergast lowered the letter. Swinton held out his hand, and Pendergast returned it. Swinton’s brow was still beaded with sweat, but the look on his face was pure relief. “I can’t believe you played that game without ever looking at the cylinder. That’s just crazy-ass dangerous.”

Pendergast dressed again in his coat, scarves, and hat, and then took up the revolver. He opened the cylinder and let the .44 magnum round drop into his hand. “There was never any danger. I brought this round with me and substituted it for one of yours after I unloaded the gun.” He held it up. “It’s been doctored.”

Swinton rose. “Mother fucker!” He came at Pendergast, drawing his carry, but in a flash Pendergast had shoved the round back in and rotated it into firing position, pointing the Blackhawk at Swinton.

“Or maybe I didn’tdoctor it.”

Swinton froze.

“You’ll never know.” Pendergast picked up his own Les Baer, and – while covering Swinton with it – removed the round from the Blackhawk and put it in his coat pocket. “And now I will answer your earlier question: I’m not a magazine writer. I’m a federal agent. And there’s one thing I promise you: if you lied to me, I’ll know it, sooner rather than later – and in that case, none of your weapons will save you.”

51

That same day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Corrie lounged in the room she had acquired at the Hotel Sebastian, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe supplied by the hotel, first admiring the view, and then checking out the mini-bar (which she couldn’t afford, but enjoyed rummaging through anyway) before moving into the marble bathroom. She turned on the shower, adjusted the water, and slipped out of the bathrobe, stepping in.

As she luxuriated in the hot shower, she considered that things were looking up. She felt badly about what happened at breakfast the day before, but even that paled in comparison with Pendergast’s revelations. The Doyle story, the mercury-crazed miners – and the Stafford family connection – it was truly remarkable. Andtruly frightening. Pendergast was right: she had placed herself in grave danger.

Roaring Fork had now pretty much resumed the ghost-town status it once held, except it was all dressed up for Christmas with nowhere to go. Totally surreal. Even the press seemed to have packed up their cameras and microphones. The Hotel Sebastian had lost most of its guests and staff, but the restaurant was still going strong – stronger than ever, as those remaining in town, it seemed, all wanted to eat out. Corrie had managed to drive a hard bargain with the hotel manager, snagging room and breakfast free of charge in return for six hours of kitchen work every day. And although her arrangement with the hotel came with only one meal a day, Corrie had plenty of experience with all-you-can-eat deals and was confident she could scarf down enough food in one sitting to last twenty-four hours.

She got out of the shower, toweled off, and combed her hair. As she was drying it, she heard a knock at the door. Quickly donning the bathrobe again, she went to the door and peeked through the eyehole.

Pendergast.

She opened the door, but the agent hesitated. “I’d be glad to return later—”

“Don’t be silly. Sit down, I’ll only be a moment.” She went back into the bathroom, finished blowing out her hair, wrapped the bathrobe a little tighter, and came back out, seating herself on the sofa.

Pendergast did not look well. His usual alabaster face was mottled with red and his hair looked like it had been in a wind tunnel.

“How did it go?” Corrie asked. She knew he had gone to Leadville to see if he could trace a Swinton descendant.

Instead of answering the question, he said, “I am delighted to find you safely ensconced in the hotel. As for the cost, I’d be happy to help—”

“Not necessary, thank you,” Corrie said quickly. “I managed to finagle free room and board in return for a few hours of kitchen work.”

“How enterprising of you.” He paused, his face growing more serious. “I regret that you felt it necessary to deceive me. I understand from the chief that your car was shot at and your dog killed.”

Corrie colored deeply. “I didn’t want you to worry. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you eventually.”

“You didn’t want me to take you away from Roaring Fork.”

“That, too. And I wanted to find the bastard who killed my dog.”

“You must not attempt to find out who killed your dog. I hope you now understand you’re dealing with dangerous and highly motivated people. This is far bigger than a dead dog – and you’re intelligent enough to realize that.”

“Of course. I understand that clearly.”

“There’s a development worth two hundred million dollars at stake – but this isn’t just about money. It will lead to heavy criminal indictments against those involved, some of whom happen to belong to one of the wealthiest and most powerful clans in this country, beginning with your Mrs. Kermode and quite likely ending with members of the Stafford family as well. Perhaps now you can understand why they will not hesitate to kill you.”

“But I want them brought to justice—”

“And they will be. But not by you, and not while you’re here. When you’re safely back in New York, I will bring in the Bureau and all will be exposed. So you see, there’s nothing left for you to do here except pack your bags and return to New York – as soon as the weather permits.”

Corrie thought about the coming storm. It would close the road again. She supposed she could start writing things up, get an outline of her thesis nailed down, before she had to leave.

“All right,” she said.

“In the meantime, I want you to stay within the confines of the hotel. I’ve spoken to the chief of security here, an excellent woman, and you’ll be safe. You may be stuck here for a few days, however. The weather forecast is dire.”

“Fine with me. So…are you going to tell me about your trip to Leadville?”

“I am not.”

“Why?”

“Because the knowledge would only put you in more unnecessary danger. Please allow me to handle this from now on.”

Despite his kindly tone, Corrie felt irritated. She’d agreed to what he asked. She was going back to New York as soon as the weather cleared. Why couldn’t he take her into his confidence? “If you insist,” she said.

Pendergast rose. “I would invite you to dine with me, but I have to confer with the chief. They have made little progress on the arsonist case.”

He left. Corrie thought for a moment, and then went over to the mini-bar. She was starving and had no money for food. Her breakfast deal didn’t begin until the next morning. The can of Pringles was eight dollars.

Screw it, she thought as she tore off the lid.