Douglas Preston - White Fire

Adding to her woes, the police had contacted the owner of the mansion, and he had then called Corrie on her cell, waking her up at six, screeching and hollering, saying it was all her fault, that she had broken every house rule, turning up the heat and letting in squatters. As he got more and more worked up, he called her a criminal, speculated that she might be a drug addict, and threatened to sue her and her dyke friend if they went back into the house.

Corrie had let the man vent, and then given the bastard a royal licking of her own, telling him what a despicable human being he was, that she hoped his wife took every penny he had, and concluding with a speculation on the relationship between the failure of his marriage and the inadequate size of his dick. The man had become inarticulate with rage, which gave Corrie a certain satisfaction as she hung up at the start of yet another foulmouthed rant. The satisfaction was short-lived once she considered the problem of where she was going to stay. She couldn’t even go back to Basalt, because of the closed road, and one more night in the Hotel Sebastian — or any hotel in town, for that matter — would bankrupt her. What was she going to do?

The one thing she did know was that she was not leaving Roaring Fork. Was she afraid of the bastards who’d shot at her, who’d killed her dog? Of course she was. But nobody was going to drive her out of town. How could she live with herself if she allowed that to happen? And what kind of law enforcement officer would she be if she backed down in the face of these threats? No: one way or another, she was going to stay right here and help catch the people responsible.

Stacy Bowdree was already seated with a big mug of coffee in front of her when Corrie entered the breakfast room. Stacy looked awful, with dark circles under her eyes, her auburn hair unkempt. Corrie took a seat and picked up the menu. Three dollars for an orange juice, ten for bacon and eggs, eighteen for eggs Benedict. She put the menu down: she couldn’t even afford a cup of coffee. When the waitress came over she ordered a glass of tap water. Stacy, on the other hand, ordered the Belgian waffles with a double side of bacon and a fried egg. And then pushed her coffee mug forward. “Go ahead,” she said.

With a grunt of thanks, Corrie took a sip, then a big drink. God, she needed caffeine. She drained the mug, pushed it back. She didn’t quite know where to start.

Luckily, Stacy started it for her. “We need to talk, Corrie. About this scumbag threatening your life.”

Okay. If you want to start there, fine . “It makes me sick what they did to Jack.”

Stacy laid a hand on hers. “Which is why this is no joke. The people who did this are bad, bad people, and they aren’t fooling around. They see you as a huge threat. Do you have any idea why?”

“I can only assume I dug up a hornet’s nest somewhere in my research. Came close to something somebody wants to keep hushed up. I wish I knew what.”

“Maybe it’s the Heights Association and that bitch Kermode,” said Stacy. “She looks like she’s capable of anything.”

“I don’t think so. All that’s been resolved, the new location of the cemetery has been approved, they’re busy tracking down various descendants and getting permission — and most important, you’re not insisting any more on having your ancestor reburied in the original Boot Hill.”

“Well then, do you think it might be the arsonist?”

“Not the same M.O. at all. The key is for me to figure out what information I have, or almost got, that spooked them so badly. Once I know that, maybe I’ll be able to identify them. But I don’t really think they’re going to kill me — or they would’ve done it already.”

“Corrie, don’t be naive. Anyone who would decapitate a dog is totally capable of killing a person. Which is why, from now on, I’m not leaving your side. Not me or…” Stacy patted the place where she carried her .45.

Corrie looked away.

“What’s wrong?” Stacy said, looking at her anxiously.

Now Corrie saw no reason to hold back. “I saw you with Ted last night. The least you could do was tell me you were going to date him. Friends don’t do that to friends.” She sat back.

Stacy sat back herself. An unreadable expression crossed her face. “Date him?”

“Well, yeah.”

“ Date him? Jesus Christ, how the hell could you even think such a thing?” Stacy had raised her voice.

“Well, what was I supposed to think, seeing you two go into that restaurant—”

“You know why we went into that restaurant? Because Ted asked me to dinner to talk about you .”

Corrie looked at her, astonished. “Me?”

“Yes, you! He’s totally smitten with you, says he might be in love with you, and he’s worried he’s doing something wrong, thinking that he rubbed you the wrong way. He wanted to ask me about it — we spent the whole damn evening talking about you and nothing else. Do you think I enjoyed getting out of bed and driving into town, with a pounding head, to listen to some man spend the night talking about another woman ?”

“I’m sorry, Stacy. I guess I was jumping to conclusions.”

“You’re goddamn right!” Suddenly, Stacy was on her feet, her face a mixture of reproach and betrayal. “It’s the same old bullshit! Here, I befriend you, protect you, look after your best interests at the expense of my own — and what’s my reward? Fucking accusations of two-timing with your boyfriend!”

Stacy’s sudden upwelling of anger was scaring Corrie. The few other diners in the room were turning their heads. “Look, Stacy,” Corrie said in a calming voice. “I’m really, really sorry. I guess I’m kind of insecure about my relationships with guys, and you being so attractive and all, I just—”

But Stacy didn’t let her finish. With a final, blazing glance, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the restaurant — leaving her breakfast unfinished and unpaid for.

The familiar, silken voice invited her in. Corrie took a deep breath. He’d agreed to see her; that was a good first step. She’d been telling herself that he hadn’t contacted her since leaving Roaring Fork only because he was too busy; she’d fervently hoped that was the case. The last thing she wanted to do, she now realized, was allow her relationship with Pendergast to be damaged by her own impetuousness and shortsightedness.

And now he was back just as abruptly as he had left.

That afternoon, the basement was, if possible, even stuffier than the last time Corrie had visited Pendergast’s temporary office. He sat behind the old metal desk, which was now swept clear of the chemistry apparatus that had cluttered it before. A thin manila file was the only thing that lay on the scarred surface. It must have been eighty-five degrees in the room, and yet the special agent still had his suit jacket on.

“Corrie. Please take a seat.”

Obediently, Corrie sat. “How did you get back into town? I thought the road was closed.”

“The chief kindly sent one of his men in a snowcat to pick me up in Basalt. He was, it seems, rather anxious to have me back. And in any case there is talk of the road being reopened — temporarily, at any rate.”

“How was your trip?”

“Fruitful.”

Corrie shifted uncomfortably at the small talk and decided to get to the point right away. “Look. I wanted to apologize for the way I acted the other day. It was immature, and I’m embarrassed. The fact is, I’m incredibly grateful for all you’ve done for me. It’s just that…you sort of overshadow everything you get involved in. I don’t want my professors at John Jay saying, Oh, her friend Pendergast did it all for her .” She paused. “No doubt I’m overreacting, this being my first big research project and all.”