Текст книги "White Fire"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, easy. You’re going to kill yourself.”

“There’s a man down there,” Pendergast gasped. “Buried.”

“I saw it. You go down to the cat before you freeze to death. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll take care of it.” The man began probing with the rod across the rubble of the avalanche, sliding it into the snow, working fast and expertly. He had done this kind of thing before. Pendergast did not go to the cat but stood nearby, watching and shivering. After a few moments Kloster paused, probing more gingerly in a tighter area, and then he began to dig with the shovel. He worked with energy and efficiency, and within minutes had exposed part of Roman’s body. A few more minutes of extremely rapid work uncovered the face.

Pendergast approached as the man’s light played over it. The snow was soaked with blood all around the head, the skull partly depressed, the mouth open as if in a scream but completely stoppered with snow, the eyes wide open and crazy.

“He’s gone,” said Kloster. He put an arm on Pendergast to steady him. “Listen, I’m going to take you back to the cat now so you can warm yourself up – otherwise, you’re going to be following him.”

Pendergast nodded wordlessly and allowed himself to be helped through the deep snow to the cab of the idling machine.

64

Half a mile away, on the lower, eastern slope of the cirque, a metal door opened at the entrance to a mine tunnel. Moments later a figure came staggering out, dragging one leg, leaning on a stick and coughing violently. The figure paused in the mine opening, swayed, leaned against a bracing timber, then doubled over with another coughing fit. Slowly, the figure slid down, unable to support itself, and ended up in the snow, propped against the vertical timber.

It was her. Just as he’d expected. He knew she had to come out sometime – and what a perfect target she made. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he had all the time in the world to set up his shot.

The sniper, crouched in the doorway of an old mining shack, unshouldered his Winchester 94, worked the lever to insert a round into the chamber, then braced the weapon against his shoulder, sighting through the scope. While it was dark, there was still just enough ambient light in the sky to place the crosshairs on her dark, slumped form. The girl looked like she was in pretty bad shape already: hair singed, face and clothes black with smoke. He believed at least one of his earlier shots had hit home. As he’d pursued her through the tunnels, he had seen copious drops of blood. He wasn’t sure where she’d been hit, but a .30–30 expanding round was no joke, wherever it connected.

The sniper did not understand why she was up here, why the snowcat had raced by on its way up the mountain, or why the pump building had burned. He didn’t need to know. Whatever crazy shit she was involved in was none of his business. Montebello had given him an assignment and paid him well to do it – extremely well, in fact. His instructions had been simple: scare the girl named Corrie Swanson out of town. If she didn’t leave, kill her. The architect hadn’t told him anything more, and he didn’t want to know anything more.

The shot through the car window hadn’t done it. Decapitating the mutt hadn’t done it – although he recalled the scene with a certain fondness. He was proud of the tableau he’d arranged, the note in the dead dog’s mouth – and he was disappointed and surprised it hadn’t scared her off. She had proven to be one feisty bitch. But she didn’t look so feisty now, slumped against the timber, half dead.

The moment had come. He’d been following her almost continuously now for thirty-six hours, waiting for an opportunity. As an expert hunter, he knew the value of patience. He had not had a good shot either in town or at the hotel. But when she had gone to The Heights, stolen a snowmobile, and taken it up the mountain on whatever insane errand she was on, the opportunity was placed in his hands, like a gift. He had borrowed another snowmobile and followed her. True, she had proven unusually resourceful – that business with the rattlesnakes back in the tunnel had seriously put him out. But he had found another way out of the mine and – when he discovered her snowmobile was still there – decided to stick around: He positioned himself a little way down the mountain, in the darkness of a mining shack, a blind that commanded an excellent view of most of the old adits and tunnel entrances up on the cirque. If she was still inside the mountain, he’d reasoned, she would eventually come out one of those. Or, perhaps, from the Christmas Mine, where she’d left her snowmobile. In any case, she’d have to pass by him on the way down.

And now, here she was. And in a good location, away from the activity around and above, where the pump building had burned and where the snowcat was parked. Someone had fired shots, which, it seemed, had in turn triggered an avalanche. From his hiding place, through the magnification of the scope, he watched the frantic digging and the discovery of the body. Something crazy-big was going down – drugs, he figured. But it had nothing to do with him, and the sooner he killed the target and got his ass out of there, the better.

Easing out his breath, finger on the trigger, he aimed at the slumped girl. The crosshairs steadied, his finger tightened. Finally, the time had come. He’d take her out, climb on his snowmobile parked behind the shack, and go collect his pay. One shot, one kill…

Suddenly the rifle was knocked brutally from behind, and it went off, discharging the round into the snow.

“What the—?” The sniper grasped the rifle, tried to rise, and as he did so felt something cold and hard pressed against his temple. The muzzle of a pistol.

“So much as blink, motherfucker, and I’ll make a snow angel with your brains.”

A woman’s voice – full of authority and seriousness.

A hand reached out, seized his rifle by the barrel. “Let go.”

He let go the rifle and she flung it out into the deep snow.

“All your other weapons – toss them into the snow. Now.”

He hesitated. He still had a handgun and knife, and if he forced her to search him there might be an opportunity…

The blow against the side of his head was so hard it knocked him to the ground. He lay dazed on the wooden floor for a moment, wondering why the heck he was lying here and who this woman was standing over him. Then it all started to come back as she bent over him, searched him roughly, removed the knife and pistol, and threw them far out into the snow as well.

“Who…who the fuck are you?” he asked.

The answer came with another stunning blow to his face from the butt of her gun, leaving the inside of his lips torn and bloody and his mouth full of broken fragments of teeth.

“My name,” she said crisply, “is Captain Stacy Bowdree, USAF, and I am the very worst thing that’s happened to you in your entire shitty life.”

65

Corrie Swanson saw the tall, handsome figure of Stacy Bowdree emerge out of the swirling snow, leading a man with his hands tied together and his shaggy head bowed. She dimly wondered if it was all a dream. Of course it was a dream. Stacy would never be up here.

As Stacy stopped before her, Corrie managed to say, “Hello, dream.”

Stacy looked aghast. “My God. What happened to you?”

Corrie tried to think back on all that had happened, and couldn’t quite bring it into focus. The more she tried to remember, the stranger everything became. “Are you for real?”

“You’re damn right!” Stacy bent forward, examined Corrie closely, her blue eyes full of concern. “What are you doing with these handcuffs fastened to your wrist? And your hair is burned. Jesus, were you in that fire?”

Corrie tried to form the words. “A man…tried to kill me in the tunnels…but the rattlesnakes…”

“Yeah. This is him.” Stacy shoved the man facedown into the snow before Corrie and put her booted foot on his neck. Corrie noticed the .45 in Stacy’s hand. She tried to focus on the man lying on the ground but her eyes were swimming.

“This is the guy hired to kill you,” Stacy went on. “I caught him just as he was about to pull the trigger. He won’t tell me his name, so I’m calling him Dirtbag.”

“How? How…?” It all seemed so confusing.

“Listen. We’ve got to get you to a hospital and Dirtbag to the police chief. There’s a snowcat about half a mile away, near the burnt pump building.”

Pump building. “Burn…He tried to burn me alive.”

“Who? Dirtbag here?”

“No…Ted. I had my bump key…picked the cuffs…just in time…”

“You’re not making much sense,” Stacy said. “Let me help you up. Can you walk?”

“Ankle’s broken. Lost…a finger.”

“Shit. Let’s take a look at you.”

She could feel Stacy examining her, gently touching her ankle, asking questions and probing for injuries. She felt comforted. A few minutes later Stacy’s face came back in focus, close to her own. “Okay, you’ve got a few second-degree burns. And you’re right: your ankle’s broken and a little finger’s gone. That’s bad enough, but luckily it seems to be all. Thank God you were bundled up in winter clothes, otherwise you’d be a lot more burned than you are.”

Corrie nodded. She couldn’t quite understand what Stacy was saying. But was it really Stacy, and not some vision? “You disappeared…”

“Sorry about that. When I cooled off I realized those assholes had hired some thug to drive you out of town, and so I shadowed you for a while and pretty soon saw Dirtbag, here, skulking after you like a dog sniffing for shit. So I followed him. In the end, I stole a snowmobile back there in the equipment shed – just as the two of you did – followed your tracks up here just in time to see Dirtbag vanish into the mine entrance. I lost you in the mines but figured he had, as well, and I managed to backtrack in time.”

Corrie nodded. Nothing was making any sense to her. People had been trying to kill her – that much she knew. But Stacy had saved her. That’s all she needed to know. Her head was spinning and she couldn’t even seem to hold it up. Black clouds gathered in front of her eyes.

“Okay,” Stacy continued, “you stay here, I’ll take Dirtbag to the cat and then we’ll drive back to get you.” She felt Stacy’s hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Hang in there just a minute more, girl. You’re dinged up, but you’re going to be okay. Trust me, I know. I’ve seen…” She paused. “Much worse.” She turned away.

“No.” Corrie sobbed, reaching out for Stacy. “Don’t go.”

“Have to.” She gently put Corrie’s hand to her side. “I can’t keep Dirtbag under control and help you, too. It’s better if you don’t walk. Give me ten minutes, tops.”

It seemed a lot shorter than ten minutes. Corrie heard the roar of a diesel, then saw a cluster of moving headlamps stabbing through the murk, approaching fast, pulling up to the mine entrance in a swirling cloud of snow. A strange, pale figure emerged – Pendergast? – and she felt herself suddenly in his arms, lifted bodily as if she were a child again, her head cradled against his chest. She felt his shoulders began to convulse, faintly, regularly, almost as if he was weeping. But that was, of course, impossible, as Pendergast would never cry.

Epilogue

The brilliant winter sun streamed in the window and lay in stripes across Corrie’s bed at the Roaring Fork Hospital. She had been given the best room in the hospital, a corner single on a high floor, the large window overlooking most of the town and the mountains beyond, everything wreathed in a magical blanket of white. This was the view Corrie had awoken to after the operation on her hand, and the sight had cheered her considerably. That was three days ago, and she was set to be discharged in two more. The break in her foot had not been serious, but she had lost her little finger. Some of the burns she’d suffered might scar, but only slightly, and only, they had told her, on her chin.

Pendergast sat in a chair on one side of the bed and Stacy sat in another. The foot of the bed was covered in presents. Chief Morris had been in to pay his respects – he’d been a regular visitor since her operation – and after inquiring about how Corrie was feeling and thanking Pendergast profusely for his help in the investigation, he’d added his own gift (a CD of John Denver’s greatest hits) to the pile.

“Well,” said Stacy, “are we going to open them, or what?”

“Corrie shall go first,” said Pendergast, handing her a slim envelope. “To mark the completion of her research.”

Corrie tore it open, puzzled. A computer printout emerged, covered with columns of crabbed figures, graphs, and tables. She unfolded it. It was a report from an FBI forensic lab in Quantico – an analysis of mercury contamination in twelve samples of human remains – the crazed miners she’d found in the tunnels.

“My God,” Corrie said. “The numbers are off the charts.”

“The final detail you require for your thesis. I have little doubt you will be the first junior in the history of John Jay to win the Rosewell Prize.”

“Thank you,” Corrie said, and then hesitated. “Um, I owe you an apology. Anotherapology. A really big one this time. I messed up, well and truly. You’ve helped me so much, and I just never really appreciated it the way I should have. I was an ungrateful—” she almost said a bad word but amended it on the fly– “girl. I should have listened to you and never gone up there alone. What a stupid thing to do.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “We can go into that some other time.”

Corrie turned to Stacy. “I owe a big apology to you, too. I’m really ashamed that I suspected you and Ted. You saved my life. I really don’t have the words to thank you…” She felt her throat close up with emotion.

Stacy smiled, squeezed her hand. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Corrie. You’re a true pal. And Ted…Jesus, I can hardly believe he was the arsonist. It gives me nightmares.”

“On one level,” Pendergast said, “Roman wasn’t responsible for what he did. It was the mercury in his brain, which had been poisoning his neurons since he was in his mother’s womb. He was no more a criminal than were those miners who went mad working in the smelter and ultimately became cannibals. They are all victims. The true criminals are certain others, a family whose malevolent deeds go back a century and a half. And now that the FBI is on it, that family will pay. Perhaps not as brutally as Mrs. Kermode did, but they will pay nonetheless.”

Corrie shuddered. Until Pendergast had told her, she hadn’t any idea that, the whole time she’d been shackled to the pump, Mrs. Kermode had been in the building as well, out of sight, handcuffed to the far side of the engine – probably unconscious after being beaten up by Ted. Oh, God, will I take care of that bitch, he’d said…

“I was in such a hurry to escape the flames, I never even saw her,” Corrie said. “I’m not sure anyone deserves to be burned alive like that.”

The expression on Pendergast’s face indicated he might disagree.

“But there’s no way Ted could have known that Kermode and the Staffords were responsible for his own madness – was there?” Corrie asked.

Pendergast shook his head. “No. Her end at his hands was poetic justice, nothing more.”

“I hope the rest of them rot in prison,” said Stacy.

After a silence, Corrie asked, “And you really thought Kermode’s burnt body was mine?”

“There was no question in my mind,” Pendergast replied. “If I’d been thinking more clearly, I might have realized that Kermode was potentially Ted’s next victim. She represented everything he despised. That entire auto-da-féup on the mountain was arranged for her, not for you. You just fell into his lap, so to speak. But I do have a question, Corrie: how did you undo the handcuffs?”

“Aw, they were crappy old handcuffs. And I’d tucked my picks into the space between the inner and outer glove when I was trying to pick the lock into the mine – because, as you of all people know, you have to use several tools simultaneously.”

Pendergast nodded. “Impressive.”

“It took me a while to remember I even had the tools, I was so terrified. Ted was…I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. The way he shifted from screaming rage to cold, calculated precision…God, it was almost more frightening than the fire itself.”

“A common effect of mercury-induced madness. And that perhaps explains the mystery of the bent pipes in the second fire—”

Stacy said hastily, “Um, let’s open the rest of the presents and stop talking about this.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for anyone,” said Corrie.

“You were otherwise engaged,” said Pendergast. “And while I’m on the subject, given what also happened to you in Kraus’s Kaverns back in Medicine Creek, in the future I would advise you to avoid underground labyrinths, especially when they are tenanted by homicidal maniacs.” He paused. “Incidentally, I’m very sorry about your finger.”

“I suppose I’ll get used to it. It’s almost colorful, like wearing an eye patch or something.”

Pendergast took up a small package and examined it. There was no card, just his name written on it. “This is from you, Captain?”

“Sure is.”

Pendergast removed the paper, revealing a velvet box. He opened it. Inside, a Purple Heart rested on satin.

He stared at it for a long time. Finally he said: “How can I accept this?”

“Because I’ve got three more and I want you to have it. You deserve a medal – you saved my life.”

“Captain Bowdree—”

“I mean it. I was lost, confused, drinking myself into oblivion every evening, until you called out of the blue. You got me here, explained about my ancestor, gave me purpose. And most of all…you respected me.”

Pendergast hesitated. He held up the medal. “I will treasure this.”

“Merry Christmas – three days late.”

“And now you must open yours.”

Stacy took up a small envelope. She opened it and extracted an official-looking document. She read it, her brow furrowing. “Oh, my God.”

“It’s nothing, really,” said Pendergast. “Just an appointment for an interview. The rest is up to you. But with my recommendation, and your military record, I feel confident you will pass muster. The FBI needs agents like you, Captain. I’ve rarely seen a finer candidate. Corrie here may rival you, one day – all she lacks is a certain seasoning of judgment.”

“Thank you.” It looked for a moment like Bowdree might hug Pendergast, but then she seemed to decide the gesture might not be welcome. Corrie smiled inwardly; this entire ceremony, with its attendant displays of affection and emotion, seemed to be making him a little uncomfortable.

There were two more presents for Corrie. She opened the first, to find within the wrapping a well-worn textbook: Techniques for Crime Scene Analysis and Investigation: Third Edition.

“I know this book,” she said. “But I already have a copy – a much later edition, which we use at John Jay.”

“I’m aware of that,” Pendergast said.

She opened it, suddenly understanding. Inside, the text was heavily annotated with marginalia: comments, glosses, questions, insights into the topic being discussed. The handwriting was precise, and she recognized it immediately.

“This…this was your copy?”

Pendergast nodded.

“My God.” She touched the cover, caressing it almost reverentially. “What a treasure trove. Maybe by reading this I’ll be able to think like you someday.”

“I had considered other, more frivolous gifts, but this one seemed – given your evident interest in a law enforcement career – perhaps the most useful.”

There was one gift left. Corrie reached for it, carefully removed the expensive-looking wrapping paper.

“It’s from Constance,” Pendergast explained. “She just returned from India a few days ago, and asked me to give you this.”

Inside was an antique Waterman fountain pen with a filigreed overlay of gold, and a small volume in ribbed leather, with cream-colored, deckle-edged pages. It was beautifully handmade. A small note fell out, which she picked up and read.

Dear Miss Swanson,

I have read with interest some of your online “blogs” (hateful word). I thought that perhaps you might find indulging in a more permanent and private expression of your observations to be a useful occupation. I myself have kept a diary for many years. It has always been a source to me of interest, consolation, and personal insight. It is my hope this slight volume will help confer those same benefits on you.

Constance Greene

Corrie looked at the presents scattered around her. Then she glanced at Stacy, seated on the edge of the bed, and Pendergast, relaxing in his chair, one leg thrown lightly over the other. All of a sudden, to her great surprise, she burst into tears.

“Corrie!” Stacy said, leaping to her feet. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“No,” Corrie said through her tears. “I’m not in pain. I’m just happy – so happy. I’ve never had a happier Christmas.”

“Three days late,” Pendergast murmured, with a twitch of his facial features that might have indicated a smile.

“And there’s nobody on earth I’d rather share it with than you two.” Corrie furiously brushed away the tears and, embarrassed, turned to look out the window, where the morning sun was gilding Roaring Fork, the low flanks of the mountains, and – farther up – the bowl-like shape of Smuggler’s Cirque and the small, dark smudge against the snow where a fire had almost ended her life.

She tapped the journal. “I already know what my first entry will be,” she said.