Douglas Preston - White Fire

So what now? She had at most a day or two more of work on the skeletons — crossing the T’s forensically, so to speak. Then that would be that. Even though it seemed unlikely, she would see if Ted had any more ideas about where she might find clues to the identity of the killers — tactfully, since of course he didn’t know the truth about how the miners had really died. He’d asked her out again, for dinner tomorrow; she made a mental note to talk to him about it then.

Six days before Christmas. Her father had been begging her to come to Pennsylvania and spend it with him. He would even send her the money for airfare. Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps…

A loud noise, a shuddering BANG! , caused her to jam on the brakes and scream involuntarily. The car screeched and slid, but didn’t quite go off the road, instead coming to a stop sideways.

“What the hell ?” Corrie gripped the steering wheel. What had happened? Something had shattered her windshield, turning it into an opaque web of cracks.

And then she saw the small, perfectly round hole at their center.

With another scream she ducked down, scrunching herself below the door frame. All was silent as her mind raced a mile a minute. That was a bullet hole. Someone had tried to shoot her. Kill her.

Shit, shit, shit…

She had to get out of there. Taking a deep breath and tensing, she swung herself back up, punched at the sagging window with her gloved hand, ripped a hole big enough to see through, then grabbed the wheel again and jammed on the gas. The Focus skidded around and she managed to get it under control, expecting more shots at any moment. In her panic she accelerated too fast; the car hit a patch of ice and slid again, heading for the guardrail above the ravine. The car ricocheted off it, slid back onto the road with a screech of rubber, and turned around another hundred eighty degrees. Corrie was shaken but — after a brief, panicked moment — realized she was unhurt.

“ Shit! ” she screamed again. The shooter was still out there, might even be coming down the road after her. The car had stalled and the passenger side was all bashed up, but it didn’t seem to be a total wreck; she turned the key and the engine came to life. She eased the Focus back around, forcing herself to do a careful three-point turn, and drove down the road. The car still ran, but it made a nasty noise — a fender seemed to be scraping one of the tires.

Slowly, carefully, hands trembling on the steering wheel, she guided the vehicle down the mountain and into town, heading straight for the police department.

After Corrie had filled out an incident report, the sergeant behind the desk promptly showed her into the chief’s office. Apparently, she was now a person of importance. She found Chief Morris behind his desk, which was heaped with three-by-five cards, photographs, string, pins, and glue. On the wall behind him was an incomprehensible chart that was no doubt related to the arson killings.

The chief looked like death warmed over. His cheeks hung like slabs of suet on his face, his eyes were sunken coals, his hair was unkempt. At the same time, there was a severe cast to his eye that hadn’t been there before. That, at least, was an improvement.

He took the report and gestured for her to sit. A few minutes went by while he read it, then read it again. And then he laid it on the table. “Is there any reason you can think of that someone might be unhappy with you?” he asked.

At this Corrie, shaken as she was, had to laugh. “Yeah. Like just about everyone in The Heights. The mayor. Kermode. Montebello. Not to mention you.”

The chief managed a wan smile. “We’re going to open an investigation, of course. But…listen, I hope you won’t think I’m trying to brush this off if I tell you we’ve been looking for a poacher up in that area for several weeks now. He’s been killing and butchering deer, no doubt selling the meat. One of his wild shots went through the window of a house just last week. So what happened to you might— might —have been a stray shot from his poaching activity. This happened early in the morning, which is when the deer — and our poacher — are active. Again, I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just mentioning it as a possibility…to ease your mind more than anything.”

“Thanks,” said Corrie.

They rose, and the chief held out his hand. “I’m afraid I’ll have to impound your car as evidence — do a ballistics analysis and see if we can recover the round.”

“You’re welcome to it.”

“I’ll have one of my officers drive you where you need to go.”

“No, thanks, I’m just going around the corner for a Starbucks.”

As Corrie sat sipping her coffee, she wondered if it really had been a poacher. It was true she had annoyed a lot of people early on, but that had blown over, especially with the start of the arson killings. Shooting at her car — that would be attempted murder. What kind of threat was she to merit that? Problem was, the chief was so overwhelmed — as was everyone else in the police department — that she had little faith he would be able to conduct an effective investigation. If the shooting was meant to intimidate her, it wasn’t going to work. She might be frightened — but there was no way she’d be frightened out of town. If anything, it would make her want to stay longer.

Then again…it might be the poacher. Or it could be some other random crazy. It could even be the serial arsonist, switching M.O.’s. Her thoughts turned to Stacy up in the ravine, probably still asleep. She was eventually going to come into town, and she might also be in danger, get shot at, too.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Stacy. A sleepy voice answered. As soon as Corrie started telling her the story, she woke up fast.

“Somebody shot up your car? I’m going looking for the mother.”

“Wait. Don’t do that. That’s crazy. Let the police handle it.”

“His tracks will be out there, in the snow. I’ll follow the fucker back to whatever spider hole he crawled out of.”

“No, please .” It took Corrie ten minutes to persuade Stacy not to do it. As Corrie was about to hang up, Stacy said: “I hope he shoots at my car. I’ve got a couple of Black Talon rounds just itching to explore his inner psyche.”

Next, she called Rent-a-Junker. The agent went on and on about how the chief of police himself had just called, how awful being shot at must’ve been, was she all right, did she need a doctor…And would an upgrade — a Ford Explorer? — be acceptable, at no extra charge, of course?

Corrie smiled as she hung up. The chief seemed to be acquiring, at long last, a bit of backbone.

Roger Kleefisch sprawled in one of the two velvet-lined armchairs in the sitting room of his London town house, feet on the bearskin rug, his entire frame drinking in the welcome warmth from the crackling fire on the grate. Agent Pendergast sat in the other chair, motionless, his eyes gazing into the flames. When Kleefisch had let him in, the FBI agent had glanced around at the room, raising his eyebrows but making no other comment. And yet, somehow, Kleefisch felt that he approved.

He rarely let anyone into his sitting room, and he couldn’t help but feel a little like Sherlock Holmes himself, here at home, partner in detection at his side. The thought managed to lift his spirits a little. Although, were he to be honest with himself, he should probably be assuming the role of Watson. After all, Pendergast was the professional detective here.

At last, Pendergast shifted, placed his whisky-and-soda on a side table. “So, Kleefisch. What have you uncovered so far?”