White Fire p-13 Read online

  Relentlessly, Pendergast pursued his quarry. But as hard as he pushed, Roman stayed well ahead. The young man was in peak physical condition and had the advantage of knowing the tunnels, their fantastic complexity only adding to his edge. Pendergast was doing little more than moving blind, following the sound, the light, and — occasionally — the tracks.

  Now Pendergast entered an area of large tunnels, cracks, and yawning, vertical chimneys. Still he pursued with monomaniacal intensity. Roman, Pendergast knew, had lost his weapon and was in a state of panic; Pendergast retained his weapon and his wits. To heighten Roman’s terror and keep him off balance, now and then Pendergast would fire a round in the direction of the fleeing man, the bullet cracking and zinging as it tore through the tunnels ahead. There was little chance he would hit Roman, but that was not his intention: the deafening roar of the gun, and the terrifying ricochet of the rounds, was having the desired psychological effect.

  Roman seemed to be going somewhere, and it soon became clear — as the air in the tunnels grew steadily fresher and colder — that he was heading outside. Into the storm…where Pendergast, having jettisoned his outerwear, would be at an additional disadvantage. Ted Roman might be beside himself with fear — but he was still able to think ahead and strategize.

  A few minutes later, Pendergast’s suspicions were confirmed: he rounded a corner and saw, directly ahead, a rusty steel wall with a door in it, open, swinging in the wind, the sound of the storm filling the entranceway. Rushing to the door, Pendergast shone his flashlight out into the murk. All was black; night had settled. The dim light disclosed a mine entrance, broken trestle, and the plunging slope of the cirque, falling away at a fifty-degree angle. The beam did not penetrate far, but nevertheless he could make out Roman’s footprints in the deep snow, floundering off into the storm. Farther below, through the murk, he could see a cluster of glowing pinpoints — the smoldering remains of the pump building — and the lights of the idling snowcat nearby.

  He turned off his light. He could just see the faint, bobbing glow of Roman’s flashlight, descending the steep slope, about a hundred yards to one side. The man was moving slowly. Pendergast raised his weapon. It would be an exceptionally difficult shot, due to the high winds and the added complication of altitude. Nevertheless, Pendergast took a careful bead on the wavering light, mentally compensating for windage and drop. Very slowly, he squeezed the trigger. The firearm kicked with the shot, the report loud against the mountainside, the rolling echoes coming back from several directions.

  A miss.

  The figure kept moving, faster now, floundering downhill, getting ever farther out of range. Pendergast, without winter clothing, had no hope of catching him.

  Ignoring the snow that stung his face and the vicious wind that penetrated his suit, Pendergast took another bead and fired, missing again. The chance for a hit was becoming nil. But then — as he took aim a third time — he heard something: a muffled crack, followed by a low-frequency rumble.

  Above and ahead of Pendergast, the heavy snow surface was fracturing into large plates, the plates detaching and sliding downward, slowly at first, then faster and faster, breaking up and tumbling into chaos. It was an avalanche, triggered by the noise of his shots and, no doubt, Roman’s own floundering about. With a growing roar the churning front of snow blasted past the mine entrance. The air was suddenly opaque, full of roiling, violent snow, and the gust of its passing knocked Pendergast backward as it thundered by him.

  Within thirty seconds the roar had subsided. It had been a small slide. The slope before Pendergast was now swept clean of deep snow, the residual, trickling streams of it sliding down the mountain in rills. All was silent save for the cry of the wind.

  Pendergast glanced downward to where Roman’s bobbing flashlight had been. There was nothing now but a deep expanse of snow rubble. There were no signs of movement; no calls for help — nothing.

  For a moment, Pendergast just stared down into the darkness. For the briefest of moments — as the blood rage that had taken possession of him still pulsed through his veins — he grimly contemplated the justice of the situation. But even as he stared, his fury ebbed. It was as if the avalanche had scoured his mind clear. He paused to consider what, subconsciously, he’d already understood until the sight of Corrie’s burnt corpse swept all logic from his mind: that Ted Roman was as much a victim as Corrie herself. The true evil lay elsewhere.

  With a muffled cry, he sprang from the mine entrance into the snow and struggled down the slope, coatless, sliding and floundering to where the avalanche had piled up along the top of the cirque. It took a few minutes to get there, and by the time he reached the spot he was half frozen.

  “Roman!” he cried. “Ted Roman!”

  No reply but the wind.

  Now Pendergast jammed one ear into the snow to listen. Just barely, he could hear a strange, muffled, horrifying sound, almost like a cow bawling: Muuuuuuuuu muuuuuu, muuuu muuuu.

  It seemed to be coming from the edge of the snow rubble. Moving toward it in the bitter cold, Pendergast began to dig frantically, with his bare hands. But the snow was compacted by the pressure of the avalanche, his hands inadequate to the task. Without jacket or hat, the cold had penetrated to his skin, and he weakened, his hands numbing to uselessness.

  Where was Roman? He listened again, placing his ear against the hard-packed snow, trying to warm his hands.

  Muuu…muuu…

  It was rapidly growing fainter. The man was suffocating.

  He dug and dug, and then paused to listen again. Nothing. And now he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a light coming up the slope. Ignoring it, he kept digging. A moment later a pair of strong hands grasped him and gently pulled him away. It was Kloster, the snowcat operator, with a shovel and a long rod in his hands.

  “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.