Douglas Preston - White Fire

And there it was.

Thank God. A break, at last. According to the map, she was now in the Sally Goodin Mine, not far from a lower exit. A dewatering tunnel, containing a large pipe, lay a few hundred yards from where she was, and it led directly to the Ireland Pump Engine, in the cirque below the Christmas Mine. Folding up the map, she tucked it away and took the indicated tunnel.

Sure enough: after a few more minutes of excruciating travel she finally came to a low stream of water that covered the rock floor, and then to the opening of an ancient pipe, nearly three feet in diameter, that ran along one side of the tunnel. She stooped and crawled into its mouth, grateful to be off her feet, and began making her way down its length.

It was dark and close, and her bulky suit kept catching and tearing on rusted areas of the pipe. But the going was relatively clear, with no cave-ins or narrowings. Within ten minutes she could feel the flow of air growing colder and fresher, and she fancied she could smell snow. In another few minutes she made out the dimmest of lights ahead, and soon she emerged, first through a shunt, and then a partially open wooden door, into a dark, dingy space, thick with rusted pipes and giant valves. It was now very cold, and a dim gray light filtered in through gaps and cracks in the wooden ceiling. She figured she must be somewhere in the depths of the old Ireland Pump building.

Giving a sob of relief, she looked around and saw an old staircase leading upward. As she limped toward it, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a dark, moving shape. A human shape — coming at her fast.

He’s gotten through the snakes. Somehow he’s gotten through the snakes and flanked me…

One arm wrapped around her waist; another around her neck, covering her mouth, stifling her scream and pulling her head back. Then a face appeared, in the dimness — a face that was just recognizable.

…Ted.

“You!” Ted cried, suddenly loosening his grip and uncovering her mouth. “It’s you ! What on earth are you doing here—?”

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, “Ted! There’s a man. Back there…he tried to kill me…” She gasped, unable to continue, as he held her.

“You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed.

She started to sob. “Thank God, Ted, thank God you’re here. He’s got a gun…”

Ted’s grip tightened again as he held her up. “He’s fucked if he comes here,” he said quietly, in a dark voice.

She sobbed, gasped. “I’m so glad to see you…My finger’s been shot off…I need to get to a hospital…”

He continued to hold her. “I’m going to take care of you.”

At half past two o’clock in the afternoon, a man wearing an enormous greatcoat, bundled up in gloves, silk scarf, and a trilby hat, carrying a bottle of champagne, rang the doorbell of the large Italianate mansion at 16 Mountain Trail Road. A maid, dressed in a starched black uniform with a white apron and cap, answered the door.

“May I help—?” she began, but the man came striding in with a cheery Christmas greeting, overriding her voice. He handed her his hat, scarf, and coat, revealing himself to be dressed in a severe black suit.

“The storm seems to be letting up!” he said to no one in particular, his voice loud in the echoing marble foyer. “My goodness, it’s cold out there!”

“The family is at Christmas Eve dinner—” the maid began again, but the man in black didn’t seem to hear as he strode across the foyer and past the great curving staircase into the long hall leading to the dining room, the maid hurrying after him, burdened with his outerwear. “Your name, please, sir?”

But the man paid no attention.

“I’m supposed to announce you—”

She could hardly keep up with him. He arrived at the great double doors to the dining room, grasped the handles, and threw them open, to reveal the entire family, a dozen or more, seated around an elegant table gleaming with silver and crystal, the remains of a suckling pig on a giant platter in the center. The pig had been reduced to a rib cage surrounded by greasy gobbets and bones, the only thing remaining intact being its head, with its crispy curled ears and the requisite baked apple in its mouth.

Everyone at the table stared at the man in surprise.

“I tried to—” the maid began, but the gentleman in black interrupted her as he held up the bottle of champagne.

“A bottle of Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne and a Merry Christmas to each and every one of you!” he announced.

A shocked silence. And then Henry Montebello, sitting at the head of the table, rose. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” His eyes narrowed. “You — you’re that FBI agent.”

“Indeed I am. Aloysius Pendergast, at your service! I’m making the rounds of all my friends, bringing season’s greetings and gifts of cheer!” He sat down in the only empty chair at the table.

“Excuse me,” Montebello said coldly. “That chair is reserved for Mrs. Kermode, who should be here momentarily.”

“Well, Mrs. Kermode’s not here yet, and I am.” The man plunked the champagne down on the table. “Shall we open it?”

Montebello’s patrician features hardened. “I don’t know who you think you are, sir, bursting into a private family dinner like this. But I must ask you to leave this house at once.”

The agent paused, swaying slightly in the chair, a hurt expression gathering on his face. “If you’re not going to open the champagne, fine, but don’t send me away without a little glass of something .” He reached over the table and picked up a half-full bottle of wine, examining the label. “Hmmm. A 200 °Castle’s Leap Cabernet.”

“What are you doing?” Montebello snapped. “Put that down and leave at once, or I shall call the police!”

Ignoring this, the man plucked a nearby glass off the table, poured a measure of the wine, and made a huge production of swirling it about, sticking his nose in the glass, sipping, noisily drawing in air, puffing his cheeks, sipping again. He put the glass down. “Some good berry notes, but no body and a short finish. Dull, I’m afraid; very dull. What sort of wine is this to serve at a Christmas Eve dinner? Are we but barbarians, Squire Montebello? Philistines?”

“Lottie, call nine-one-one. Report a home invasion.”

“Ah, but I was invited in,” said Pendergast. He turned to the maid. “Wasn’t I, dear?”

“But I just opened the door—”

“And what is more,” Montebello said, his voice crackling with fury as the rest of the family looked on with blank consternation, “you are drunk !”

In that moment, as if on cue, a cook entered from the kitchen, flanked by attendants, carrying a huge flambé, the flames leaping up from the silver server.

“Cherries jubilee!” Pendergast cried, jumping to his feet. “How marvelous!” He surged forward. “It’s too heavy for you — let me help. That fire could be dangerous — especially here, in Roaring Fork!”

The cook, alarmed at the drunken man coming at her, took a step backward, but she was too slow. The FBI agent seized the great flaming platter; there was a sudden moment of imbalance; and then it overturned, the platter, cherries, ice cream, and burning brandy all crashing to the table and splattering over the remains of the pig.

“Fire! Fire!” Pendergast cried, aghast as the flames leapt up, his face a mixture of dismay and panic. “This is dreadful! Run! Everyone outside!”

A chorus of cries and shrieks went up around the table as everyone scrambled backward, knocking over chairs, spilling wine.

“Out, quickly!” shouted Pendergast. “Pull the alarm! The house is burning down! We’ll be burned alive just like the others !”