Douglas Preston - White Fire

“Gladly.” The pale man slipped through the gate separating the public area from the official one and strolled down the aisle with a sort of insolent casualness. He arrived in front of the mayor and laid the shield down on the podium. The man examined it, his face reflecting growing consternation.

With a sudden, lithe movement, Agent Pendergast plucked the mayor’s microphone out of its mount. Only then did Jenny realize that inviting the stranger to the front had probably not been the best idea. She could see the reporter from the Roaring Fork Times scribbling madly, a look of pure joy on his face.

Now the mayor spoke, raising his voice on account of having lost his amplification. “Agent Pendergast, are you here in an official capacity?”

“Not yet,” came the answer.

“Then I move we adjourn this meeting so that our attorneys, the attorneys from The Heights, and you can address these issues in private.” A bang of the gavel sealed this statement.

Agent Pendergast’s black-clad arm snaked out, took the gavel, and moved it out of reach of the mayor’s hand. “Enough of that uncivilized pounding.”

This brought a laugh from the public section.

“I am not yet finished.” Pendergast’s voice, now amplified by the sound system, filled the hall. “Captain Bowdree wrote me that, since her great-great-grandfather’s remains have been so rudely disinterred, and nothing can remedy the insult to his memory, she believes that they should at least be examined for cause of death — for historical purposes, of course. Therefore, she has given permission for a certain Ms. Corrine Swanson to examine those remains before they are reburied. In their original resting place, by the way.”

“What?” Kermode rose in a fury. “Did that girl send you? Is she behind this?”

“She has no idea I’m even here,” the man said smoothly. “However, it would seem that the most serious charge against her is now moot — but has instead redounded to the four of you. You are now the ones facing thirty years in prison — not on one count, but on one hundred and thirty.” He paused. “Imagine if your sentences were to be served sequentially.”

“These accusations are outrageous!” the mayor cried. “I hereby adjourn this meeting. Will security immediately clear the room!”

Chaos ensued. But Pendergast did nothing to prevent it, and the meeting room was finally cleared, leaving him alone with the town fathers, The Heights attorneys, Kermode, Montebello, Chief Morris, and a few other officials. Jenny waited in her seat beside the chief, breathless. What would happen now? For the first time, Kermode looked defeated — haggard, her platinum hair undone. The chief was bathed in sweat, the mayor pale.

“It looks like there’s going to be quite a story in the Roaring Fork Times tomorrow,” said Pendergast.

Everyone seemed to stagger at the thought. The mayor wiped his brow.

“In addition to that story,” said Pendergast, “I’d like to see another one appear.”

There was a long silence. Montebello was the first to speak. “And what might that be?”

“A story stating that you—” Agent Pendergast turned to Chief Morris— “have dropped all charges against Corrine Swanson and released her from jail.”

He let that sink in.

“As I said before, the most serious charge is now moot. Ms. Swanson has permission to examine the remains of Emmett Bowdree. The other charges — trespassing and B and E — are less grave and could be dismissed with relative ease. Everything can, in fact, be chalked up to an unfortunate miscommunication between Chief Morris here and Ms. Swanson.”

“This is blackmail,” said Kermode.

Pendergast turned to her. “I might point out it wasn’t actually a miscommunication. My understanding is that Chief Morris indicated she would have access to the remains. He then withdrew that assurance, due to your own gross interference. It was unfair. I am merely rectifying a wrong.”

There was a pause while the others digested this. “And what,” asked Kermode, “will you do for us in return? That is, if the chief releases this lady friend of yours.”

“I’ll persuade Captain Bowdree not to take her complaint officially to the FBI,” Pendergast said smoothly.

“I see,” said Kermode. “It all depends on this Captain Bowdree. Provided, of course, this person even exists.”

“How unfortunate for you that Bowdree was an unusual name. It made my task so much easier. A phone call established that she was well aware of her Colorado roots and, in fact, quite proud of them. Mrs. Kermode, you claimed The Heights made a good-faith effort to locate descendants. That is clearly a falsehood. Naturally, this is something the FBI would have to look into.”

Jenny noticed that under her makeup, Mrs. Kermode’s face was very pale. “Let’s get this straight. This Swanson girl — she’s what, your girlfriend? A relative?”

“She’s no relation to me.” Agent Pendergast narrowed his silvery eyes and looked at Kermode in a most unsettling way. “I will, however, be remaining in Roaring Fork to take in the Christmas season — and to make sure you don’t interfere with her again.”

As Jenny watched, Pendergast turned to the chief. “I suggest you call the newspaper right away — I imagine their deadline is looming. I’ve already booked a room for Ms. Swanson at the Hotel Sebastian, and I hope that — for your sake — she does not spend another night in your jail.”

It was a few minutes before midnight when the silver Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet pulled up to the elegant front door of 3 Quaking Aspen Drive. It did not stop there, however, but continued on into the shadow of the four-car garage beyond.

The young man at the wheel put the vehicle into park. “Home,” he said. “As you requested.” He leaned over the gear lever to nuzzle the girl in the passenger seat.

“Stop it,” she said, pushing him away.

The young man pretended to look hurt. “I’m a friend, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Then bring on the benefits.” Another attempt at nuzzling.

“What a dork.” The girl got out of the car with a laugh. “Thanks for dinner.”

“ And the movie.”

“And the movie.” Jenny Baker slammed the door, then watched the car move off down the long, curving driveway until it reached the road leading to the gatehouse of The Heights, down in the valley half a mile away. For a lot of her girlfriends back at Hollywood High, losing one’s virginity seemed like a badge of honor: the sooner the better. But Jenny didn’t feel that way. Not on a first date, and certainly not with a dweeb like Kevin Traherne. Like so many of the male youth in Roaring Fork, he seemed to think that his father’s dough was the only excuse he needed to get into a girl’s pants.

She stepped up to the closest garage door, punched a code into the panel, and waited for the door to ascend. Then she walked past the row of gleaming, expensive cars, pressed the button to close the garage, and opened the door to the house. The security alarm was, as usual, off — there were few burglaries in Roaring Fork, and never a one in The Heights…unless you counted Corrie Swanson’s breaking into the warehouse, of course. Her thoughts returned to the town meeting earlier in the day, and to the intimidating FBI agent in the black suit who’d descended on it like an avenging angel. She felt sorry for the chief: he was a decent guy, but he had a real problem with letting other people — like that witch Kermode — walk all over him. Nevertheless, she was glad the agent — Pendergast was his name, she remembered — had gotten Corrie out of jail. She hoped to run into her again, ask her about John Jay, maybe…as long as the chief wasn’t around.