Douglas Preston - White Fire

It was an effective presentation. Even Jenny found herself agreeing with Mrs. Kermode. The grumbling was no longer audible when she returned to her seat.

Next to stand was Henry Montebello, who had married into Kermode’s family and, as a result, gained instant power and respectability in the town. He was an older man, gaunt, reserved, and weathered looking. Jenny did not like him and was, in fact, afraid of him. He had a laconic mid-Atlantic accent that somehow caused every observation he made to sound cynical. Although he had been the master architect for The Heights way back when, unlike Kermode he did not live within the development, but rather had his home and office in a large mansion on the other side of town.

He cleared his throat. No expense had been spared, he told the gathered crowd, in developing The Heights — and not that alone, but also in ensuring that it conformed, not only with the spirit and aesthetic of Roaring Fork, but to the local ecology and environment, as well. He could say this, Montebello continued, because he had personally supervised the preparation of the site, the design of the mansions and clubhouse, and the construction of the development. He would, he said, oversee the creation of the new cemetery with the same close, hands-on attention he had given to The Heights. The implication seemed to be that the long-dead occupants of Boot Hill should be grateful to Montebello for his personal ministrations on their behalf. Montebello spoke with quiet dignity, and with aristocratic gravitas — and yet there was a steely undertone to his words, subtle but unmistakable, that seemed to dare anyone to challenge a single syllable of what he’d uttered. No one did, and he once again took his seat.

And now the mayor rose, thanked Mrs. Kermode and Mr. Montebello, and called for public comment. A number of hands went up, and the mayor pointed at someone. But as that person rose to speak, the man in the black suit — who had somehow slipped all the way to the front — held up his hand for silence.

“You are out of turn, sir,” said the mayor, sternly, rapping his gavel.

“That remains to be seen,” came the reply. The voice was as smooth as honey, an unusual Deep South accent Jenny could not place, but something about it gave the mayor just enough pause to allow the man to continue.

“Mrs. Kermode,” the man said, turning to her, “as you well know, permission from a qualified descendant is required to exhume human remains. In the case of historic burials, both Colorado and federal law state that a ‘good-faith effort’ must be made to locate such descendants before any remains can be exhumed. I assume that The Heights made such an effort?”

The mayor rapped his gavel. “I repeat, you are out of turn, sir!”

“I’m happy to answer the question,” Mrs. Kermode said smoothly. “We did indeed make a diligent search for descendants. None could be found. These miners were mostly transients without families, who died a century and a half ago, leaving no issue. It’s all in the public documentation.”

“Very good,” said the mayor. “Thank you, sir, for your opinion. We have many other people who wish to speak. Mr. Jackson?”

But the man went on. “That is strange,” he said. “Because in just fifteen minutes of idle, ah, surfing on the Internet, I was able to locate a direct descendant of one of the miners.”

A silence, and then the mayor spoke. “Just who are you, sir?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment.” The man raised a piece of paper. “I have here a letter from Captain Stacy Bowdree, USAF, just back from a tour in Afghanistan. When Captain Bowdree heard that you people had dug up her great-great-grandfather Emmett Bowdree, dumped his remains in a box, and stored them in a filthy equipment shed on a ski slope, she was exceedingly upset. In fact, she plans to press charges.”

This was greeted by silence.

The man held up another piece of paper. “Colorado statute is very strict on the desecration of cemeteries and human remains. Allow me to read from Section Ninety-Seven of the Colorado Criminal Codes and Statutes: Desecration of a Cemetery .” And he began to quote aloud.

(2) (a) Every person who shall knowingly and willfully dig up, except as otherwise provided by law with the permission of an authorized descendant, any corpse or remains of any human being, or cause through word, deed or action the same to happen, shall upon conviction be guilty of a Class A felony and shall be imprisoned for not more than thirty (30) years or fined not more than Fifty Thousand Dollars ($50,000.00), or both, in the discretion of the court.

Now the mayor rose in a fury, hammering his gavel. “This is not a court of law!” Bang! “I will not have these proceedings co-opted. If you, sir, have legal questions, take them up with the town attorney instead of wasting our time in a public meeting!”

But the man in the black suit would not be silenced. “Mayor, may I direct your attention to the language? Or cause through word, deed or action the same to happen . That seems to apply to you quite specifically, as well as to Mrs. Kermode and the chief of police. All three of you were responsible in word, deed or action for the illegal exhumation of Emmett Bowdree — were you not?”

“Enough! Security, remove this man from the premises!”

Even as two cops struggled to make their way to the man, he spoke again, his voice cutting the air like a razor. “ And are you not about to sentence someone to ten years in prison for violating this very statute that you, yourselves, have already so clearly violated? ”

Now the public was aroused, both pro and con. There were some murmurings and scattered shouts: “Is it true?” and “What goes?” along with “Get rid of him!” and “Who the hell is this guy?”

The two cops, pushing their way through the now-standing public crowd, reached the man. One took his arm.

“Don’t give us any trouble, sir.”

The man freed himself from the cop’s grasp. “I would advise you not to touch me.”

“Arrest him for disturbing the peace!” the mayor cried.

“ Let him speak! ” someone shouted.

“Sir,” Jenny heard the cop say, “if you won’t cooperate, we’ll have to arrest you.”

The man’s response was drowned out by the hubbub. The mayor rapped his gavel repeatedly, calling for order.

“You’re under arrest,” said the cop. “Place your hands behind your back.”

Instead of obeying the order, Jenny saw the man remove his wallet with a single, smooth motion and flip it open. There was a flash of gold, and the two officers froze.

The hubbub began to die down.

“In response to your earlier question,” the man told the mayor in his dulcet southern voice, “I am Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Now the entire room went deathly silent. Jenny had never before seen the look she now saw on Mrs. Kermode’s face: shock and fury. Henry Montebello’s face betrayed nothing at all. Chief Morris, for his part, looked paralyzed. Paralyzed wasn’t the word — he looked wilted. Slumped. As if he wanted to melt into his chair and disappear. The mayor looked merely undone.

“Emmett Bowdree,” the man named Pendergast continued, “is just one of a hundred and thirty human remains that the four of you — Mrs. Kermode, the mayor, Mr. Montebello, and the chief of police who signed the actual order — are responsible for desecrating, according to Colorado statute. The criminal and civil liability is staggering.”

Mrs. Kermode recovered first. “Is this how the FBI operates? You come in here, interrupt our public meeting, and make threats? Are you even a real agent? Come down here and present your credentials to the mayor in the proper fashion!”