Douglas Preston - White Fire

The unfamiliar tread, faster now, went stomping down the steps.

Heart in her throat, Jenny listened as the sounds grew fainter. She heard her mother’s step, running toward the kitchen and the master alarm panel. There was a cry as she was apparently cut off. The thunk of an overturned chair; the sound of glassware and dishes crashing to the floor. Jenny, struggling against her bonds, could hear it all, could follow the chase with dreadful articulation. She heard her mother’s footsteps, running through the den, the living room, the library. A moment of silence. And then came a low, cautious sliding sound: it was her mother, quietly opening the door to the indoor pool. She’s going out the back , Jenny thought. Out the back, so she can get to the MacArthurs’ house…

All of a sudden there was a series of brutal crashes — her mother gave out a single, sharp scream — and then silence.

No…not quite silence. As Jenny listened, wide-eyed, whimpering, the blood rushing in her ears, she could make out the unfamiliar tread again. It was moving slowly now, deliberately. And it was getting closer. It was crossing the front hall. Now it was coming back up the stairs: she heard the squeak of the tread her father kept saying he’d get fixed.

Closer. Closer. The steps were coming down the hall. They were in her bedroom. And now a dark figure appeared in the doorway of her bath. It was silent, save for labored breathing. The clown mask leered down at her. There was no longer a baseball bat in one of the hands. It had been replaced by a plastic squeeze bottle, glowing pale gold in the faint light.

The figure stepped into the bathroom.

As it came closer, Jenny writhed in the tub, heedless of the pain in her knees. Now the invader was hovering over her. The hand holding the squeeze bottle came forward in her direction. As the figure began silently squeezing the liquid over her in long, arc-like jets, a powerful stench rose up: gasoline.

Jenny’s struggles became frantic.

Painstakingly, Clown Mask sent the looping squirts of gasoline over and around her, missing nothing, dousing her clothes; her hair; the surrounding porcelain. Then — as her struggles grew ever more violent — the invader put down the bottle and took a step back. A hand reached into the pocket of the leather jacket, withdrew a safety match. Holding the match carefully by its end, the figure struck it against the rough surface of the bathroom wall. The head of the match flared into yellow life. It hovered over her, dangling, for an endless, agonizing second.

And then, with the parting of a thumb and index finger, it dropped.

…And Jenny’s world dissolved into a roar of flame.

Corrie Swanson entered the dining room of the Hotel Sebastian and found herself dazzled by its elegance. It was done up in Gay Nineties style, with red velvet flocked wallpaper, polished-brass and cut-glass fixtures, a pressed-tin ceiling, and Victorian-era mahogany tables and chairs trimmed in silk and gold. A wall of windowpanes looked across the glittering Christmas lights of Main Street to the spruce-clad foothills, ski slopes, and mountain peaks beyond.

Even though it was close to midnight, the dining room was crowded, the convivial murmur of voices mingling with the clink of glassware and the bustle of waiters. The light was dim, and it took her a moment to spy the solitary figure of Pendergast, seated at an unobtrusive table by one of the windows.

She brushed off the maître d’s pointed inquiries as to how he could help her — she was still dressed from jail — and made her way to Pendergast’s table. He rose, extending his hand. She was startled by his appearance: he seemed to be even paler, leaner, more ascetic — the word purified seemed somehow to apply.

“Corrie, I am glad to see you.” He took her hand in his, cool as marble, then held out her seat for her. She sat down.

She’d been rehearsing what she would say, but now it all came out in a confused rush. “I can’t believe I’m free — how can I ever thank you? I was toast, I mean, I was up shit creek, you know they’d already forced me to accept ten years — I really thought my life was over — thank you, thank you for everything, for saving my ass, for rescuing me from my incredible, unbelievable stupidity , and I’m so sorry, really, really sorry—!”

A raised hand stopped the flow of words. “Will you have a drink? Wine, perhaps?”

“Um, I’m only twenty.”

“Ah. Of course. I shall order a bottle for myself, then.” He picked up a leather-bound wine list that was so massive, it could have been a murder weapon.

“This sure beats jail,” said Corrie, looking around, drinking in the ambience, the aroma of food. It was hard to believe that, just a few hours ago, she’d been behind bars, her life utterly ruined. But once again Agent Pendergast had swooped in, like a guardian angel, and changed everything.

“It took them rather longer than I’d hoped to complete the paperwork,” said Pendergast, perusing the list. “Fortunately, the Sebastian’s dining room is open late. I think the Château Pichon-Longueville 2000 will do nicely — don’t you?”

“I don’t know jack about wine, sorry.”

“You should learn. It is one of the true and ancient pleasures that make human existence tolerable.”

“Um, I know this may not be the time…But I just have to ask you…” She found herself coloring. “ Why did you rescue me like this? And why do you go to all this trouble for me? I mean, you got me out of Medicine Creek, you paid for my boarding school, you’re helping pay my tuition at John Jay — why? I’m just a screwup.”

He looked at her with an inscrutable gaze. “The Colorado rack of lamb for two would go well with the wine. I understand it’s excellent.”

She glanced at the menu. She was, it had to be admitted, starving. “Sounds good to me.”

Pendergast waved over the waiter and placed the order.

“Anyway, getting back to what I was talking about…I would really like to know, once and for all, why you’ve helped me all these years. Especially when I keep, you know, effing up.”

Again that impenetrable gaze met hers. “ Effing ? I see your penchant for charming euphemisms has not abated.”

“You know what I mean.”

The gaze seemed to go on forever, and then Pendergast said: “Someday, perhaps, you may make a good law enforcement officer or criminalist. That is why. No other reason.”

She felt herself coloring again. She wasn’t quite sure she liked the answer. Now she wished she hadn’t asked the question.

Pendergast picked up the wine list again. “Remarkable how many bottles of excellent French wine in rare vintages have found their way into this small town in the middle of the mountains. I certainly hope they are drunk soon; the altitude here is most unhealthy for Bordeaux.” He laid down the list. “And now, Corrie, please tell me in detail what you noticed about the bones of Mr. Emmett Bowdree.”

She swallowed. Pendergast was so damn… closed . “I only had a few minutes to examine the bones. But I’m sure the guy was not killed by a grizzly bear.”

“Your evidence?”

“I took some photographs, but they confiscated the memory chip. I can tell you what I saw — or at least think I saw.”

“Excellent.”

“First of all, the skull showed signs of having been bashed in by a rock. And the right femur had scrape marks made by some blunt tool, with no signs that I could see of an osseous reaction or infectious response.”

A slow nod.

She went on with growing confidence. “It looked to me like there were faint human tooth marks in some of the cancellous bone. They were pretty feeble and blunt, not sharp like a bear’s. I think the corpse was cannibalized.”