Douglas Preston - White Fire

This was excellent. “If you could direct me to his house, I should be grateful.”

“Sure, but he’s snowed in. Lives off the grid. You won’t get up there except on a snowmobile. And…” The man hesitated.

“Yes?”

“He’s one of those survivalist types. He’s holed up in Elbert Canyon waiting for, I don’t know, the end of civilization maybe.”

“Indeed?”

“He’s got a bunker up there, stockpiles of food — and a big-time arsenal, or so they say. So if you go up there, you’d better be damn careful or he’s liable to blow a hole in you.”

Pendergast was silent for a moment. “Where, pray tell, may I rent a snowmobile?”

“There’s a couple of places, it’s a big sport in these parts.” He gave Pendergast another once-over, doubtfully. “You know how to operate one?”

“Naturally.”

The druggist gave Pendergast the information and drew a map, showing him how to get to Kyle Swinton’s place up in Elbert Canyon.

Pendergast exited the pharmacy and strolled down Harrison Avenue, as if shopping, despite the five-degree weather, the piles of snow, and the sidewalks so icy that even the salt froze to them. Finally he went into a gun-and-ammo store that also doubled as a pawnshop.

A man with a tattoo of an octopus on the shaved dome of his head strolled over. “What can I do for you?”

“I would like to buy a small box of the Cor-Bon .45 ACP.”

The man placed the box on the counter.

“Does a Mr. Kyle Swinton shop here?”

“Sure does, good customer. Crazy fucker, though.”

Pendergast considered for a moment the kind of person a man like this might think of as crazy.

“I understand he has quite a collection of firearms.”

“Spends every last penny on guns and ammo.”

“In that case, there must be quite a variety of ammo he buys from you.”

“Hell, yes. That’s why we got all these rounds here. He’s got a collection of heavy-caliber handguns you wouldn’t believe.”

“Revolvers?”

“Oh, yeah. Revolvers, pistols, all loads. Probably got a hundred K worth of firearms up there.”

Pendergast pursed his lips. “Come to think of it, I’d like to also purchase a box of the .44 S&W Special, one of the .44 Remington Magnum, and another of .357 S&W Magnum.”

The man placed the boxes on the counter. “Else?”

“That will suffice, thank you very much.”

The man rang the purchase up.

“No bag, I’ll put them in my pockets.” Everything disappeared into his coat.

Business had not been good at the nearest snowmobile rental place. Pendergast was able to overcome their initial difficulty about renting him a machine for the day, despite his wildly inappropriate dress, southern accent, and lack of even minimal familiarity with its operation. They put a helmet and visor on his head and gave him a quick lesson in how to ride it, took him out for a five-minute practice spin, had him sign multiple disclaimers, and wished him luck. In so doing, Pendergast learned more about Kyle Swinton. He appeared to be known to all Leadville as a “crazy fucker.” His parents had been alcoholics who finally went through the guardrail at Stockton Creek, drunk as skunks, and rolled a thousand feet down the ravine. Kyle had lived off the land ever since, hunting, fishing, and panning for gold when he needed ready cash to buy ammunition.

As Pendergast was leaving, the rental shop manager added: “Don’t go rushing up to the cabin, now, Kyle’s liable to get excited. Approach real nice and slow, and keep your hands in sight and a friendly smile on your face.”

The ride to Swinton’s cabin was exceedingly unpleasant. The snowmobile was a coarse, deafening, stinking contraption, prone to jackrabbit starts and sudden stops, with none of the refinement of a high-performance motorcycle, and as Pendergast maneuvered it up the winding white road it threw up a steady wake of snow that plastered his expensive coat, building up layers. Pendergast soon looked like a helmeted snowman.

He followed the advice he’d been given and slowed down as soon as he saw the cabin, half buried in snow, with a trickle of smoke curling from a stovepipe on top. Sure enough, as he came within a hundred yards a man appeared on the porch, small and ferret-like, with a gap between his two front teeth visible even at this distance. He was holding a pump-action shotgun.

Pendergast halted the snowmobile, which jerked to a stop. Plates of snow broke off and fell from his coat. He fumbled awkwardly with the helmet and finally managed to raise the visor with his bulky gloves.

“Greetings, Kyle!”

The response was a conspicuous racking of the pump. “State your business, sir.”

“I’m here to see you. I’ve heard a lot about your outfit up here. I’m a fellow survivalist and I’m touring the country looking at what other people are doing, for an article in Survivalist magazine.”

“Where’d you hear about me?”

“Word gets around. You know how it is.”

A hesitation. “So you’re a journalist?”

“I’m a survivalist first, journalist second.” A cold gust of wind swirled the snow about Pendergast’s legs. “Mr. Swinton, do you think you might extend me the courtesy of your hospitality so that we could continue this conversation in the confines of your home?”

Swinton wavered. The word hospitality had not gone unnoticed. Pendergast pressed his advantage. “I wonder if keeping a man freezing in the cold at gunpoint is the kind of hospitality one should accord a kindred spirit.”

Swinton squinted at him. “At least you’re a white man,” he said, putting down the gun. “All right, come on in. But see that you broom yourself off at the door; I don’t want no snow tracked in my house.” He waited as Pendergast struggled through the deep snow to the porch. A broken broom stood next to the door and Pendergast swept himself as clean as he could while Swinton watched, frowning.

He followed Swinton in the cabin. It was surprisingly large, extending into a warren of rooms in the back. The gleam of gunmetal could be seen everywhere: racks of assault rifles, AK-47s and M16s illegally altered to fire on full-auto; a set of Uzis and TAR-21 bullpup assault rifles; another set of Chinese Norinco QBZ-97 rifles and carbines, again altered for fully automatic action. A nearby case contained a huge array of revolvers and pistols, just as the man in Leadville had said. Beyond, in one of the rooms, Pendergast glimpsed a collection of RPGs, including a pair of Russian RPG-29s — all quite illegal.

Other than the walls being completely covered with weaponry, the cabin was surprisingly cozy, with a fire burning in a woodstove with an open door. All the furniture was handmade of peeled logs and branches, draped with cowhides. And everything was neat as a pin.

“Shed that coat and seat yourself, I’ll get the coffee.”

Pendergast removed the coat and draped it over a chair, straightened his suit, and sat down. Swinton fetched some mugs and a coffeepot off the woodstove and poured two cups. Without asking he heaped in a tablespoon of Cremora and two of sugar before handing it to Pendergast.

The agent took the mug and made a show of drinking. It tasted as if it had been boiling on the stove for days.

He found Swinton looking at him curiously. “What’s with the black suit? Somebody die? You come up here by snowmobile in that getup?”

“It was functional.”

“You sure as hell don’t look like a survivalist to me.”

“What do I look like?”

“Some pussy professor from Jew York City. Or with that accent, maybe Jew Orleans. So what’re you packing?”

Pendergast removed his .45 Colt and laid it on the table. Swinton picked it up, immediately impressed. “Les Baer, huh? Nice. You know how to fire that?”