White Fire p-13 Page 20

  “This is of such importance to me,” said the man, “that I will go to unreasonable lengths to achieve it.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, but my mind is made up,” she said with absolute firmness.

  “I greatly fear that your recalcitrance leaves me no choice.” And, reaching into his pocket, the FBI agent pulled out a quire of papers and held them up.

  “What is this?” she demanded.

  “I have information here that might prove of interest to you.” The man’s tone of voice had changed, as well. “I understand your family used to reside at Chiddingham Place?”

  “Not that it can be of any interest to you, but they still do.”

  “Yes. On the fourth floor. The material I think you’ll find to be particularly interesting concerns your grandfather.” He placed the papers on her desk with a courtly motion. “I have here information—incontrovertible information — that during the final months of his business, just before he went bankrupt, he borrowed against the value of the stocks of his own shareholders in a desperate attempt to keep the company alive. To do so, he not only committed serious financial fraud, but he also lied to the bank, claiming the securities as his own.” He paused. “His criminal actions left many of his shareholders penniless, among whom were a number of widows and pensioners who, subsequently, died in abject penury. I fear the story makes highly unpleasant reading.”

  He paused.

  “I’m sure, Ms. Pembroke, you would not wish the good name of your grandfather — and of the Pembroke family by extension — to be sullied.” The man paused to display his white teeth. “So wouldn’t it be in your best interests to give me temporary access to Covington Grange? A small thing. I think it would work out best for everyone — don’t you?”

  It was that final, cold smile — those small, even, perfect teeth — that did it. Miss Dorothea Pembroke went rigid. Then, slowly, she rose from her chair. Just as slowly, she picked up the papers the man Pendergast had left on her desk. And then, with a disdainful motion, she tossed them at his feet.

  “You have the effrontery to come into my office and attempt to blackmail me?” Her voice remained remarkably calm, surprising her. “I have never in my life been subjected to such appalling behavior. You, sir, are nothing more than a confidence man. I wouldn’t be surprised if that story you told me was as false as I suspect that badge is.”

  “True or false, the information I have on your grandfather is rock-solid. Give me what I want or I hand it over to the police. Think of your family.”

  “My duty is to my office and the truth. No less, no more. If you wish to destroy my family’s name, if you wish to drag us through the muck, if you wish to take what little financial security we have — so be it. I shall live with that. What I shall not live with is a breach of my responsibility. And so I say to you, Mr. Pendergast—” she extended her arm, pointing a steady finger at the exit, her voice quiet yet unyielding— “leave this building at once, or I shall have you bodily ejected. Good day.”

  Standing on the front steps of the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty, Agent Pendergast glanced around for a moment, the look of exasperation slowly giving away to a very different expression: admiration. True courage sometimes revealed itself in the most unlikely places. Few could have resisted such a thorough assault; Miss Pembroke, who was, after all, just doing her job, was one in a thousand. His thin lips twitched in a smile. Then he tossed the papers into a nearby trash can. And — as he descended the steps, heading for the station and the train back to London — he quoted under his breath: “‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex…’”

  40

  Mockey Jones was smashed again and glad of it. Jones often thought of himself in the third person, and the little voice in his head was telling him that here was Mockey Jones, titubating down East Main Street, feeling no pain (or cold), with five expensive martinis and an eighty-dollar steak in his gut, his loins recently exercised, with a wallet full of cash and credit cards, no job, no work, and no worries.

  Mockey Jones was one of the one percenters — actually one of the one-tenth of one-tenth of one percenters — and, while he hadn’t actually earned a dime of his money, it didn’t matter because money was money and it was better to have it than not have it, and better to have a lot of it than only some. And Mockey Jones had a lot of it.

  Mockey Jones was forty-nine and had left three wives and as many children scattered in his wake — he gave a little bow as he proceeded down the street in homage to them — but now he was unattached and totally irresponsible, with nothing to do but ski, eat, drink, screw, and yell at his investment advisors. Mockey Jones was very happy to live in Roaring Fork. It was his kind of town. People didn’t mind who you were or what you did as long as you were rich. And not just millionaire rich — that was bullshit. The country was lousy with cheap middle-class millionaires. Such people were despised in Roaring Fork. No — you had to be a billionaire, or at least a centimillionaire, to fit into the right circle of people. Jones was himself in the centi category, but while that was an embarrassment he had gotten used to, the two hundred million he had inherited from his jerk-off father — another bow to the memory — was adequate for his needs.

  He stopped, looked around. Christ, he should have pissed back at the restaurant. This damn town had no public restrooms. And where the hell had he left his car? Didn’t matter — he wasn’t stupid enough to get behind the wheel in his condition. No way would there ever be the headline in the Roaring Fork Times: MOCKEY JONES ARRESTED FOR DUI. He would call one of the late-night drunk limo services, of which there were several, kept busy squiring home those like Mockey who had “dined too well.” He pulled out his cell phone, but it slipped out of his gloved hands and landed in a snowbank; with an extravagant curse he bent down, picked it up, brushed it off, and hit the appropriate speed dial. In a moment he had arranged for the ride. Those martinis back at Brierly’s Steak House had sure tasted good, and he was looking forward to another when he got home.

  Standing at the curb, swaying slightly, waiting for the limo, Mockey Jones became vaguely aware of something rapidly intruding on his right field of vision. Something yellowish — and glowing unnaturally. He turned and saw, in the Mountain Laurel neighborhood on the eastern hillside just at the end of town, not even a quarter mile away, a large house literally exploding in flames. Even as he watched, he could feel the heat of it on his cheek, see the flames leaping ever higher into the air, the sparks rising like stars into the dark sky…And — oh, dear God — was that someone in an upstairs window, silhouetted by fire? Even as he watched, the window exploded and the body came tumbling out like a flaming comet, writhing, with a hideous scream that cut like a knife through the midnight air, echoing and re-echoing off the mountains as if it would never end, even after the burning body had disappeared below the fir trees. Almost immediately, within seconds it seemed, sirens were going off; there were police cars and fire trucks and bystanders in the streets; and — moments later — television vans with dishes on their roofs careening about. Last of all came the choppers, plastered with call signs, sweeping in low over the trees.

  And then, with that hideous scream still echoing in his confused and petrified brain, Mockey Jones felt something first warm, then cool, between his legs. A moment later he realized he’d pissed his pants.

  41

  Corrie Swanson eased the rented Explorer into the driveway, and looked up at the cold, dark house. Not a light was on, even though Stacy’s car was in the driveway. Where was she? For some reason, Corrie found herself worrying about Stacy, feeling oddly protective toward her, when in fact she had hoped the opposite would happen — that Stacy would make her feel safe.

  Stacy had probably gone to bed, even though she seemed to be a late-to-bed, later-to-rise person. Or maybe a date had picked her up in his car and they were still
out.

  Corrie got out of the car, locked it, and went into the house. The kitchen light had been turned off. That settled it: Stacy was asleep.

  A helicopter flew low overhead, then another. During her drive up the canyon, there had been a lot of chopper activity, accompanied by the faint sound of sirens coming from the town. She hoped it wasn’t another house burning down.

  Her date with Ted hadn’t quite ended as she’d hoped. She wasn’t sure why, but at the last minute she’d turned down his request to come back with her and warm her cold bed. She’d been tempted, exceedingly tempted, and she could still feel her lips tingling from his long kisses. Jesus, why had she said no?

  It had been a wonderful evening. They’d eaten at a fancy restaurant in an old stone building that had been beautifully renovated, cozy and romantic, with candles and low lighting. The food had been excellent. Corrie, feeling famished, had consumed a gigantic porterhouse steak, rare, accompanied by a pint of ale, scalloped potatoes (her favorite), a romaine salad, and finished off with a brownie sundae that was positively obscene. They had talked and talked, especially about that jackass, Marple, and about Kermode. Ted had been fascinated — and shocked — to learn that Kermode was related to the infamous Stafford family. Having grown up in The Heights, he had known Kermode a long time and come to loathe her, but to learn she was part of the heartless family that had exploited and squeezed the town during the mining days really set him off. In turn, he told her an interesting fact: the Stafford family had originally owned the land The Heights had been built on — and their holding company still owned the development rights to the Phase III portion, slated to launch as soon as the new spa and clubhouse opened.

  Putting away these thoughts, Corrie stepped out of the kitchen and into the central corridor. Something made her uneasy — there was a foreign feeling she couldn’t quite pinpoint, a strange smell. She walked through the house and headed to their rooms to check on Stacy.

  Her bed was empty.

  “Stacy?”

  No answer.

  Suddenly she remembered the dog. “Jack?”

  There hadn’t been any barking, leaping, crazy little mutt to greet her. Now she was starting to freak out. She went down the little hall, calling the dog’s name.

  Still nothing.

  She headed back into the main portion of the house. Maybe he was hiding somewhere, or had gotten lost. “Jack?”

  Pausing to listen, she heard a muffled whine and a scratching sound. It came from the grand living room — a room that had been shut up and which she’d been strictly forbidden to enter. She went to the closed set of pocket doors. “Jack?”

  Another whine and bark, accompanied by more scratching.

  She felt her heart pounding. Something was very, very wrong.

  She placed her hand on the doors, found them unlocked, and slowly pulled them apart. Immediately, Jack rushed out from the darkness beyond, crouching and whining and licking her, tail clamped between his legs.

  “Who put you in here, Jack?”

  She looked about the dark room. It seemed quiet, empty — and then she saw a dark outline of a figure on the sofa.

  “Hey!” she cried in surprise.

  Jack cowered behind her, whining.

  The figure moved a little, very slowly.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” Corrie demanded. This was stupid. She should get out, now.

  “Oh,” came a thick voice out of the blackness. “It’s you.”

  “Stacy?”

  No answer.

  “Good God, are you all right?”

  “Fine, no problem,” came the slurred voice again.

  Corrie turned on the lights. And there was Stacy, slumped on the sofa, a fifth of Jim Beam half empty in front of her. She was still bundled up in her winter clothes — scarf, hat, and all. A small puddle of water lay at her feet, and watery tracks led to the sofa.

  “Oh, no. Stacy!”

  Stacy waved her arm, before letting it fall to the sofa. “Sorry.”

  “What have you been doing? Were you outside?”

  “Out for a walk. Looking for that mother who shot up your car.”

  “But I told you not to do that. You could have frozen to death out there!” Corrie noticed that Stacy was packing, a .45 holstered to her hip. Jesus, she would have to get that gun away.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I do worry about you. I’m totally worried about you!”

  “Come on, siddown, have a drink. Relax.”

  Corrie sat but ignored the offer of a drink. “Stacy, what’s going on?”

  At this Stacy hung her head. “I dunno. Nothing. My life sucks.”

  Corrie took her hand. No wonder the dog had been freaked out. “I’m sorry. I feel the same way myself sometimes. You want to talk about it?”

  “My military career — shot. No family. No friends. Nothing. There’s nothing in my life but a box of old bones to haul back to Kentucky. And for what purpose? What a fucked-up idea that was.”

  “But your military career. You’re a captain. All those medals and citations — you can do anything…”

  “My life’s fucked. I was discharged.”

  “You mean…you didn’t resign?”

  Stacy shook her head. “Medical discharge.”

  “Wounded?”

  “PTSD.”

  A silence. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry, I really am.”

  There was a long pause. Then Stacy spoke again. “You have no idea. I get these rages — no reason. Screaming like a fucking maniac. Or hyperventilation: total panic attack. Christ, it’s awful. And there’s no warning. I feel so down sometimes, I can’t get out of bed, sleep fourteen hours a day. And then I start doing this shit — drinking. Can’t get a job. The medical discharge…they see that on a job application, it’s like, oh, we can’t hire her, she’s fucking mental. They’ve all got yellow ribbons on their cars, but when it comes to hiring a vet with posttraumatic stress disorder? Outta here, bitch.”

  She reached out to take up the bottle. Corrie intercepted her and gently grasped it at the same time. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  Stacy jerked the bottle out of her hand, went to take a swig, and then, all of a sudden, threw it across the room, shattering it against the far wall. “Fuck, yeah. Enough.”

  “Let me help you get to bed.” She took Stacy’s arm. Stacy rose unsteadily to her feet while Corrie supported her. God, she stank of bourbon. Corrie felt so sorry for her. She wondered if she could slip the .45 out of its holster unnoticed, but decided that might not be a good idea, might set Stacy off. Just get her into bed and then deal with the gun.

  “They catch the fuck shot your car?” Stacy slurred.

  “No. They think it might have been a poacher.”

  “Poacher, my ass.” She stumbled and Corrie helped right her. “Couldn’t find the bastard’s tracks. Too much fresh snow.”

  “Let’s not worry about that now.”

  “I am worrying!” She clapped her hand to the sidearm and yanked it out, waving it about. “I’m gonna smoke that fucker!”

  “You know you shouldn’t handle a firearm when you’ve been drinking,” Corrie said quietly and firmly, controlling her disquiet.

  “Yeah. Right. Sorry.” Stacy ejected the magazine, which she fumbled and dropped to the floor, scattering bullets. “You’d better take it.”

  She held it out, butt-first, and Corrie took it.

  “Careful, there’s still one in the chamber. Lemme eject it for you.”

  “I’ll do it.” Corrie racked the round out of the chamber, letting it fall to the floor.

  “Hey. You know what you’re doing, girl!”

  “I’d better, since I’m studying law enforcement.”

  “Fuck, yeah, you’re gonna make a good cop someday. You will. I like you, Corrie.”

  “Thanks.” She helped Stacy along the hallway toward their rooms. Corrie could hear more choppers overhead, and, through a window, a s
potlight from one of them trained on the ground, moving this way and that. Something was happening.

  She finally got Stacy tucked under the covers, putting a plastic wastebasket next to the bed in case she puked. Stacy fell asleep instantly.

  Corrie went back to the living room and started cleaning up, Jack trailing her. Stacy’s drunkenness had freaked out the poor dog. It had freaked her out, as well. As she was straightening up she heard yet another chopper flying overhead. She went to the plate-glass windows and peered into the darkness. She could just see, over the ridge in the direction of town, an intense yellow glow.

  42

  Just when things couldn’t possibly get worse, they did, thought Chief Morris as he looked at the two wrecked cars blocking Highway 82 and the furious, desperate traffic jam piling up behind. The medevac chopper was just lifting off, rotor wash blowing snow everywhere, as if there weren’t enough of it in the air already, carrying away the two victims to the advanced trauma unit at Grand Junction, where at least one of them, shot through the head, was probably going to die. What really infuriated the chief was that no one had been hurt in the accident; instead, it had generated a road-rage incident in which the driver of a BMW X5 had pulled a gun and shot the two occupants of the Geländewagen that had rear-ended him. He could hear the perp now, handcuffed in the back of his cruiser while waiting for the snowcat to arrive, yelling at the top of his lungs about “self-defense” and “standing my ground.” So if the victim died — and most people with a .38 round through the skull did — that would mean nine murders in little more than a week. All in a town that hadn’t seen a murder in years.

  What a nightmare — with no end in sight.

  Four days before Christmas, and the snow was now falling heavily, with a prediction of twenty-four to thirty inches over the next three days, with accompanying high winds toward the tail end of the storm. Highway 82—the only way out of town — was gridlocked because of the accident; the snowplows couldn’t operate; the blizzard was quickly getting ahead of them; and in an hour or less the road would have to be closed and all these people sitting furiously in their cars, yelling and honking and screeching like maniacs, would have to be rescued.