Douglas Preston - White Fire

“How near?”

“Two days, perhaps. As soon as I can break away from this arson investigation. I’ll be staying at the Connaught Hotel.”

“Excellent. It will be a pleasure to see you again. In the meantime, I’ll make some initial inquiries, and we’ll be able to—”

“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. His voice had changed abruptly; a sudden urgency had come into it. “Yes, thank you, I’ll do my best to see you then. But now, Kleefisch, I have to go; you’ll excuse me, please.”

“Is something wrong?”

“There appears to be another house on fire.” And with that, Pendergast abruptly hung up and the line went dead.

Even with liberal goosing of the siren and repeated yelling through the squad car’s external megaphone, Chief Morris couldn’t get closer than a block to the station, so thick was the press of cars, media, and people. And it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. With this second arson, the story had gone national — no surprise, given the identity of the victims — and the crime feeders were all there, along with the network news shows, CNN, and God only knew who else.

The chief now regretted he’d driven himself; he had no one to run interference, and his only option was to get out of the car and scrimmage his way through these jokers. They had surrounded his squad car, cameras rolling, microphones waving at him like clubs. He’d spent all night at the scene of the fire, which had started at eight in the evening, and he was now filthy, stinking of smoke, exhausted, coughing, and hardly able to think. What a state to face the cameras.

The chief’s car was jostled and rocked by the unruly crowd of reporters. They were calling out questions, hollering at him, jockeying with each other for position. He realized he’d better think of something to say.

He took a deep breath, collected himself, and forced open the door. The reaction was instant, the crowd pushing forward, the cameras and mikes swinging dangerously, one even knocking his hat off. He stood up, dusted off his hat, replaced it, and held up his hands. “All right. All right! Please. I can’t make a statement if you keep this up. Give me some room, please !”

The crowd backed off a little. The chief looked around, acutely aware that his image was going to be broadcast on every nightly news show in the country.

“I will make a brief statement. There will be no questions afterward.” He took a breath. “I’ve just come from the crime scene. I can assure you we are doing everything humanly possible to solve these vicious crimes and bring the perpetrators to justice. We have the finest forensic and crime-scene investigators in the state on this case. All our resources and those of the surrounding communities have been brought to bear. On top of that, we have brought in as a consultant one of the FBI’s top agents specializing in serial killings and deviant psychology, as it appears we may be dealing with a serial arsonist.”

He cleared his throat. “Now to the crime itself. The scene is of course still being analyzed. Two bodies have been recovered. They have been tentatively identified as the actress Sonja Dutoit and her child. Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims, their families, and all of you who have been touched by this horrible event. This is a huge tragedy for our town and, truthfully, I can’t find the words to express the depth of my shock and sorrow…” He found himself temporarily unable to continue, but quickly mastered the constriction in his throat and wrapped things up. “We will have more information for you at a press conference later today. That is all I have to say for the moment. Thank you.”

He barreled forward, ignoring the shouted questions and the forest of microphones, and within five minutes managed to stagger into his office. There was Pendergast, sitting in the outer office, dressed in his usual impeccable style, sipping tea. The television was on.

Pendergast rose. “Allow me to congratulate you on a most effective appearance.”

“What?” Morris turned to Shirley. “I was on the tube already?”

“It was live, Chief,” she said. “And you handled it very well. You looked like a hero, with that determined voice…and those streaks of soot on your face.”

“Soot? On my face?” Damn, he should have washed up.

“A Hollywood makeup artist couldn’t have done a finer job,” said Pendergast. “That, combined with the disheveled uniform, the windswept hair, and the evident emotion, made for a singular impression.”

The chief threw himself down in a chair. “I couldn’t care less what they think. My God, I’ve never seen anything like this. Agent Pendergast, if you heard what I said on television, then you know I just elevated you to official consulting status.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

“So I hope to God in heaven you will accept. I need your help more than ever. How about it?”

The man responded by removing a slim envelope from his suit and dangling it in front of Morris by his fingertips. “I’m afraid I beat you to it. I’m not just consulting — now I’m official.”

As Corrie entered the empty library, it seemed less cheerful than before, more foreboding. Maybe it was because an atmosphere of doom seemed to have descended on the town — or perhaps it was simply due to the dark storm clouds that were gathering over the mountains, promising snow.

Stacy Bowdree, following her into the history section, whistled softly. “Does this town have money, or what?”

“Yeah, but nobody ever comes in here.”

“Too busy shopping.”

She saw Ted, at his desk across the room, rising from his book to greet them. He was wearing a tight T-shirt and looking exceptionally good, and Corrie felt her heart flutter unexpectedly. She took a breath and introduced Stacy.

“What’s on the program today, ladies?” Ted asked, giving Stacy an appreciative once-over. Corrie had to admit Stacy was striking and that any man would enjoy looking at her, but his attentive eye still concerned her.

“Murder and mayhem,” Corrie said. “We want all the articles you’ve got on murders, hangings, robberies, vigilantism, shootings, feuds — in short, everything bad — for the period of the grizzly killings.”

At this Ted laughed. “Just about every issue of the old Roaring Fork Courier is going to have some kind of crime story. It was a hot town in those days — a real place, unlike now. What issues do you want to start with?”

“The first grizzly killing was in May 1876, so let’s start with, say, April first, 1876, and go six months out from that.”

“Very good,” Ted replied.

Corrie noticed that his eyes were still straying regularly to Stacy — and not just to her face. But the captain seemed oblivious — or perhaps she was just used to it from her years in the military.

“The old newspapers are all digitized. I’ll set you up at some terminals and show you what to do.” He paused. “Sure is crazy in town today.”

“Yeah,” said Corrie. The truth was, aside from all the traffic she hadn’t paid much attention.

“It’s like Jaws .”

“What do you mean?”

“What was the name of that town — Amity? You know, the tourists leaving in droves. Well, that’s what’s happening here. Haven’t you noticed? All of a sudden the ski slopes are deserted, the hotels are emptying out. Even the second-homers are making preparations to leave. In a day or two, the only people who’ll still be here are the press. It’s nuts.” He typed away at two side-by-side terminals, then straightened. “Okay, they’re all set up for you.” He showed them how to work the equipment. He paused. “So, Stacy, when did you get here?”