Douglas Preston - White Fire

“Good policy.”

“It’s the only policy in a town like this,” he said, not without a touch of pomposity, “where just about everyone is a celebrity, a billionaire, or both.”

“Must be a magnet for thieves,” Corrie said, still staring at the expensive stores.

“Oh, no. The crime rate here is almost nil. We’re so isolated, you see. There’s only one road in — Route 82, which can be an obstacle course in the winter and is frequently closed due to snow — and our airport is only used by private jets. Then there’s the cost of actually staying here — well beyond the means of any petty thief. We’re too expensive for thieves!” He laughed merrily.

Tell me about it , Corrie thought.

They were now passing a few blocks of what looked like a re-creation of a western boomtown: bars with swinging doors, assay offices, general goods stores, even a few apparent bordellos with gaudily painted windows. Everything was spotlessly neat and clean, from the gleaming cuspidors on the raised wooden sidewalks to the tall false fronts of the buildings.

“What’s all that?” Corrie asked, pointing at a family getting their picture taken in front of the Ideal Saloon.

“That’s Old Town,” the chief replied. “What remains of the earliest part of Roaring Fork. For years, those buildings just sat around, decaying. Then, when the resort business picked up, there was a move to clear it all away. But somebody had the idea to restore the old ghost town, make it into a kind of museum for Roaring Fork’s past.”

Disneyland meets ski resort , Corrie thought, marveling at the anachronism of this scattering of old relics amid such a hotbed of conspicuous consumption.

As she stared at the well-maintained structures, a brace of snowmobiles roared past, throwing up billows of powder in their wakes.

“What’s with all the snowmobiles?” she asked.

“Roaring Fork has an avid snowmobile culture,” the chief told her. “The town’s famous not only for its ski runs, but also for its snowmobile trails. There are miles and miles of them — mostly utilizing the maze of old mining roads that still exist in the mountains above the town.”

They finally cleared the shopping district and, after a few turns, passed a little park full of snow-covered boulders.

“Centennial State Park,” the chief explained. “Those rocks are part of the John Denver Sanctuary.”

“John Denver?” Corrie shuddered.

“Every year, fans gather on the anniversary of his death. It’s a really moving experience. What a genius he was — and what a loss.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Corrie said quickly. “I love his work. ‘Rocky Mountain High’—my favorite song of all time.”

“Still brings tears to my eyes.”

“Right. Me, too.”

They left the tight grid of downtown streets behind and continued up through a gorgeous stand of giant fir trees heavy with snow.

“Why was the cemetery dug up?” Corrie asked. She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to see what fresh light the chief could shed on things.

“There’s a very exclusive development up ahead called The Heights — ten-million-dollar homes, big acreages, private access to the mountain, exclusive club. It’s the most upscale development in town, and it carries a great deal of cachet. Old money and all that. Back in the late ’70s, during the initial stage of its development, The Heights acquired ‘Boot Hill’—the hill with the town’s original cemetery — and got a variance to move it. That was in the days when you could still do that sort of thing. Anyway, a couple of years ago, they exercised that right so they could build a private spa and new clubhouse on that hill. There was an uproar, of course, and the town took them to court. But they had some pretty slick lawyers, and also that 1978 agreement, signed and sworn, with ironclad provisions in perpetuity. So they won, the cemetery ultimately got dug up, and here we are. For now, the remains are being stored in a warehouse up on the mountain. There’s nothing left but buttons, boots, and bones.”

“So where are they being moved to?”

“The development plans to rebury them in a nearby site as soon as spring comes.”

“Is there still controversy?”

The chief waved his hand. “Once it was dug up, the furor died down. It wasn’t about the remains, anyway — it was about preserving the historic cemetery. Once that was gone, people lost interest.”

The fir trees gave way to a broad, attractive valley, glittering in the noontime light. At the near end stood a plain, hand-carved sign, of surprisingly modest dimensions, which read:

The Heights

Members Only

Please Check In at Guard Station

Behind was a massive wall of river stones set with wrought-iron gates, beside which stood a fairy-tale guard house with a pointed cedar-shake roof and shingled sides. The valley floor was dotted with gigantic mansions, hidden among the trees, and the walls of the valley rose up behind, rooflines peeking above the firs — many with stone chimneys trailing smoke. Beyond that rose the ski area, a braid of trails winding up to the peaks of several mountains, and a high ridge sporting yet more mansions, all framed against a brilliant blue Rocky Mountain sky sprinkled with clouds.

“We’re going in?” Corrie asked.

“The warehouse is to one side of the development, on the edge of the slopes.”

The chief was waved through by a security guard, and they headed along a winding, cobblestone drive, beautifully plowed and cleared. No, not cleared. The road was strangely free of ice and utterly dry, while the verges showed no signs of piled or plowed snow.

“Heated road?” asked Corrie as they passed what appeared to be the clubhouse.

“Not so uncommon around here. The ultimate in snow clearance — the flakes evaporate as soon as they touch down.”

Climbing now, the road crossed a stone bridge over a frozen stream — which the chief labeled Silver Queen Creek — then passed through a service gate. Beyond, screened by a tall fence, up hard against a ski run, stood several large equipment sheds built of Pro-Panel on a leveled area of ground. Ten-foot icicles hung down their sides, glittering in the light.

The chief pulled up into a plowed area before the largest shed, parked, and got out. Corrie followed. It was a cold day but not desperately so, twenty or twenty-five perhaps, and windless. The great door to the shed had a smaller one set to the side of it, which Chief Morris unlocked. Corrie followed him into the dark space, and the smell hit her right away. And yet it was not an unpleasant odor, no scent of rot. Just rich earth.

The chief palmed a bank of switches and sodium lamps in the roof turned on, casting a yellow glow over all. If anything, it was colder inside the shed than outside, and she drew her coat more closely around her, shivering. In the front section of the shed, practically in the shadow of the large door, sat a line of six snowmobiles, almost all of identical make. Beyond, a row of old snowcats, some nearly antique looking, with huge treads and rounded cabs, blocked their view toward the back. They threaded their way among the cats and came to an open area. Here was the makeshift cemetery, laid out on tarps: neat rows of baby-blue plastic coffins of the kind used by medical examiners to remove remains from a crime scene.

They walked over to the nearest row, and Corrie looked at the first box. Taped to the lid was a large card of printed information. Corrie knelt to read it. The card indicated where the remains had been found in the cemetery, with a photo of the grave in situ; there was space to record whether or not there had been a tombstone and, if so, room for the information printed on it, along with another photo. Everything was numbered, cataloged, and arranged. Corrie felt relief: there would be no problems with documentation here.