Douglas Preston - White Fire

TO BE GIVEN AT THE GRAND GALLERY OF THE

SALLY GOODIN MINE

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, JUNE 2 d

AT HALF-PAST TWO O’CLOCK

TICKETS SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS

Corrie almost had to laugh at the odd quaintness of it. This had to be the lecture where Wilde heard the story of the grizzly killings. And clipped to the handbill was a sheaf of news items, letters, and notes about the lecture appearance. It seemed ludicrous that the rough miners of Roaring Fork would have had any interest whatsoever in the aesthetic theory, let alone personal adornment or house decoration. But by all accounts the lecture had been a great success, resulting in a standing ovation. Perhaps it was the figure Wilde cut, with his outré dress and foppish mannerisms, or his preternatural wit. The poor miners of Roaring Fork had precious little entertainment beyond whoring and drinking.

She quickly leafed through the attached documents and came across an amusing handwritten note, apparently a letter by a miner to his wife back east. It was entirely without punctuation.

My Deere Wife Sun Day there was a Lektior by Mister Oscor Wild of London After the Lektior which was veery well Reseeved Mister Wild enjoyt talking to the Miners and Roufh Necks he was veery gray sheous while I was wating to speek to him that old drunk cogger Swinton button holt him pulld him asite and told him a storey that turnt the pore Man as Pail as a Gost I thot he wud drop and fent…

Wynn, reading over her shoulder, made a snorting laugh. “Illiterate bastard.” He tapped the lecture handbill. “You know, I’ll bet this is worth money.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, hesitating, and then clipping it all back together. As charming as the miner’s letter was, it was too far afield to merit inclusion in her thesis.

She shuffled the papers aside and moved on to the next file. She noted that when Wynn carried the bundle back to the shelf, he slipped out the handbill and tucked it in another place. The guy was probably going to sell it on eBay or something.

She told herself what he did was none of her business. The next big bundle arrived, and then the next. Most of the papers dealt with milling and refining, and this time almost everything related to the Stafford family, which, by all indications, became more oppressive as their wealth and power increased. They seemed to have survived the silver panic of 1893 nicely, and even used the opportunity to pick up mines and claims at pennies on the dollar. There were plenty of faded maps of the mining districts, as well, with each mine, shaft, and tunnel carefully marked and identified. Strangely, though, there were precious few records of the smelting operations.

And then a document stopped her cold. It was a postcard dated 1933, from a family member named Howland Stafford to a woman named Dora Tiffany Kermode. It opened Dear Cousin .

Kermode. Cousin.

“Jesus!” Corrie blurted out. “That bitch Kermode is related to the family who squeezed this town dry.”

“Who are you talking about?” Wynn asked.

She slapped the document with the back of her hand. “Betty Kermode. That horrible woman who runs The Heights. She’s related to the Staffords — you know, the ones who owned the smelter back in Roaring Fork’s mining days. Unbelievable.”

It was only then that Corrie realized her mistake. Wynn Marple was drawing himself up. He spoke in a reproving, almost schoolmarmish tone. “Mrs. Kermode is one of the finest, most gracious people in this entire town.”

Corrie hastily backtracked. “I’m sorry. I was just…I mean, she’s responsible for putting me in jail…I didn’t realize she was a friend of yours.”

Her stammered apology seemed to work. “Well, I can appreciate how you might be upset with her for that, but I can vouch for her, I really can. She’s good people .” Another wink.

Bully for you . In five hours, Corrie hadn’t found anything, and now she was saddled with going on a date with this buffoon for nothing. She hoped it could be made short and in a place where Ted would never, ever see them. Or maybe she could beg off sick at the last moment. That’s what she’d do.

She glanced at her watch. There was no way she was going to find what she needed in this hellhole of paper. For the first time, she began to feel that maybe she was overreaching. Perhaps Pendergast was right. She had enough for an excellent thesis already.

She got up. “Look, this isn’t working. I’d better be going.”

Wynn followed her to the front parlor. “I’m sorry you weren’t more successful. But at least…” He winked again. “It resulted in our getting together.”

She would definitely have to call in sick.

She swallowed. “Thanks for your help, Wynn.”

He leaned toward her, way too close. “My pleasure.”

She suddenly paused. What was that she felt on her ass? His hand. She took a half step back and turned, but the hand followed like an octopus’s sucker, this time giving her butt cheek a little squeeze.

“Do you mind ?” she said acidly, brushing it away.

“Well…we do have a date coming up.”

“And that justifies you groping my ass ?”

Wynn looked confused. “But…I was just being friendly. I figured you’d like it. I mean, it isn’t every day you get to go out with an Olympic skier, and I figured…?”

It was the final leering wink that did it. Corrie rounded on him. “Olympic skier? When was the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror? Here’s what you’ll see — a balding, potbellied, mouth-breathing loser. I wouldn’t go on a date with you if you were the last man alive.”

With that she turned, grabbed her coat, and left, the cold air hitting her like a wall as she stepped outside.

Wynn Marple sat down at his desk. Both his hands were trembling and his breath was coming shallow and fast. He could hardly believe how that bitch had treated him, after all the help he’d given her. One of those feminazi types, objecting to a little innocent, friendly pat.

Wynn was so furious, so outraged, he felt the blood pounding in his head like a tom-tom. It took a few minutes, but then finally he was able to pick up the phone and dial.

Betty Brown Stafford Kermode, sitting in the living room of her house at the top of The Heights, a piñon fire roaring in the fireplace, hung up the princess phone. She sat very still for some minutes, staring out the picture window at the mountains, considering the problem. Her brother-in-law, Henry Montebello, sat in a wing chair on the opposite side of the fire. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, a hand-knotted bow tie of dark paisley setting off a crisp white shirt. He was examining his nails with an air of patrician boredom. A weak winter sun filtered in.

Kermode considered the problem for another minute. And then she picked up the phone again and dialed Daniel Stafford.

“Hello again, my dear,” came the dry, sardonic voice. Kermode did not particularly enjoy talking to her cousin Daniel, but “liking” and “caring” did not figure in the bonds that held the Stafford family together. Those bonds were made of money, and all family relationships were defined by it. As Daniel was not only the head of the Stafford Family Trusts, with assets of two billion dollars, but also one of two managing partners of the family investment company, with assets under management of sixteen billion dollars, she considered him close to her. Very close. It never occurred to her to wonder whether she actually liked the man or not.

“Am I on speakerphone?” Stafford asked.