Douglas Preston - White Fire

She pulled against the cuff, but it was tight around her wrist, securely fastened to the pipe. “You won’t get in trouble. I won’t tell anyone. We’ll forget all about this.”

Ted did not reply. He pulled the burning brand away, inspected it closely, as one would a tool prior to putting it to use.

“We had good times, Ted, and we can have more. You don’t have to do this. I’m not like those others, I’m just a poor student, I have to wash dishes at the Hotel Sebastian just to pay for my room!” She sobbed, caught herself. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“You need to calm down, Corrie, and accept your fate. It will be by fire — purifying fire. It will cleanse you of your sins. You should thank me, Corrie. I’m giving you a chance to atone for what you did. You’ll suffer, and for that I’m sorry — but it’s for the best.”

The horror of it, the certainty that Ted was telling the truth, closed her throat.

He stepped back, looked around. “I used to play in all these tunnels as a kid.” His voice was different now — it was sorrowful, like one about to perform a necessary but distasteful service. “I knew every inch of these mine buildings up here. I know all this like the back of my hand. This is my childhood, right here. This is where it began, and this is where it will end. That door you came out of? That was the entrance to my playground. Those mines — they were a magical playground.”

His tone became freighted with nostalgia, and Corrie had a momentary hope. But then, with terrible rapidity, his demeanor changed utterly. “And look what they did! ” This came out as a scream. “Look! This was a nice town once. Friendly. Everyone mingled. Now it’s a fucking tourist trap for billionaires…billionaires and all their toadies, bootlickers, lackeys. People like you! You…! ” His voice echoed in the dim space, temporarily drowning out the sound of the storm, the wind, the groaning timbers.

Corrie began to realize, with a kind of awful finality, that nothing she could say would have any effect.

As quickly as it had come, the fit passed again. Ted fell abruptly silent. A tear welled up in one eye, trickled slowly down his cheek. He picked up the gun from the table and snugged it into his waistband. Without looking at her, he turned sharply on his heel and strode away, out of her vision, into a dark area behind the pump engine. Now all she could see was the burning end of his stick, dancing and floating in the darkness, slowly dwindling, until it, too, disappeared.

She waited. All was silent. Had he left? She could hardly believe it. Hope came rushing back. Where had he gone? She looked around, straining to see in the darkness. Nothing.

But no — it was too good to be true. He hadn’t really left. He had to be around somewhere.

And then she smelled a faint whiff of smoke. From the woodstove? No. She strained, peering this way and that into the darkness, the pain in her hand, ribs, and ankle suddenly forgotten. There was more smoke — and then, abruptly, a whole lot more. And now she could see a reddish glow from the far side of the pump engine.

“Ted!”

A gout of flame suddenly appeared out of the blackness, and then another, snaking up the far wall, spreading wildly.

Ted had set the old building on fire.

Corrie cried out, struggled afresh with the handcuffs. The flames mounted upward with terrible speed, great clouds of acrid smoke roiling up. A roar grew in intensity, until it was so ferocious it was a vibration in the air itself. She felt the sudden heat on her face.

It had all happened in mere seconds.

“No! No! ” she screamed. And then, through her wild cries, she saw Ted’s tall figure framed in the doorway to the dingy room from which she’d first emerged. She could see the open door to the Sally Goodin Mine, the dewatering tunnel running away into darkness. He was standing absolutely still, staring at the fire, waiting; and as it grew brighter and stronger she could see the expression on his face: one of pure, unmitigated excitement.

Corrie squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, prayed — prayed for the first time in her life — for a quick and merciful end.

And then, as the flames began to lick up all around, consuming the wooden building on all sides, bringing with them unbearable heat, Ted turned and vanished into the mountain.

The flames roared all around Corrie, so loudly that she couldn’t even hear her own screams.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Mike Kloster had pulled his VMC 1500 snowcat with its eight-way hydraulic grooming blade out of the equipment shed, getting it ready for the night ahead. Twenty inches of snow had fallen over the last forty-eight hours, and at least another eight were on the way. This was going to be a long night — and it was Christmas Eve, no less.

Turning up the heat in the cab, he let the machine warm up while he pulled over the tow frame and began bolting it on to the rear. As he bent over the hitch, he sensed a presence behind him. Straightening up again, he turned to see a bizarre figure approaching, bundled up in a black coat and trilby hat, wearing heavy boots. He looked almost clown-like.

He was about to make a wisecrack when his gaze fell on the man’s face. It was as cold and pale as the surrounding landscape, with eyes like chips of ice, and the words died in Kloster’s throat.

“Um, this is a restricted area—” he began, but the man was already removing something from his coat, a worn alligator wallet, which fell open to reveal a badge.

“Agent Pendergast. FBI.”

Kloster stared at the badge. FBI? For real? But before he could even answer, the man went on.

“Your name, if you please?”

“Kloster. Mike Kloster.”

“Mr. Kloster, unbolt that device immediately and get in the cab. You are going to take me up the mountain.”

“Well, I’ve got to, you know, get some kind of authorization before—”

“You will do as I instruct, or you will be charged with impeding a federal officer.”

The tone of voice was so absolute, and so convincing, that Mike Kloster decided he would do exactly as this man said. “Yes, sir.” He unhitched the tow frame and climbed into the cab, sliding behind the wheel. The man got into the passenger side, his movements remarkably agile given the ungainly dress.

“Um, where are we going?”

“To the Christmas Mine.”

“Where’s that?”

“It is above the old Smuggler’s Cirque mine complex where the Ireland Pump building is situated.”

“Oh. Sure. I know where that is.”

“Then proceed, if you please. Quickly.”

Kloster engaged the gears, raised the front groomer blade, and started up the slopes. He thought of radioing his boss to tell him what was going on, but decided against it. The guy was a pain in the ass and he might just put up a fuss. Better to tell him after the fact. His passenger was FBI, after all, and what better excuse was there?

As they climbed, curiosity began to get the better of Kloster. “So, what’s this all about?” he asked in a friendly way.

The pale-faced man did not answer. He didn’t appear to have heard.

The VMC had an awesome sound system, and Kloster had his iPod all docked and ready to go. He reached out to turn it on.

“No,” said the man.

Kloster snatched back his hand as if it had been bitten.

“Make this machine go faster, please.”

“Well, we’re not supposed to take it over three thousand rpms—”

“I’ll thank you to do as I say.”

“Yes, sir.”

He throttled up, the groomer crawling a little faster up the mountain. The snow had started again and now the wind was blowing as well. The flakes were of the tiny, BB-pellet variety — from long experience, Kloster knew every variety of snowflake there was — and they bounced and ticked noisily off the windscreen. Kloster put on the wipers and flicked the lights to high. The cluster of beams stabbed into the grayness, the pellets of snow flashing through. At three thirty it was already starting to get dark.