White Fire (17 page)
She pushed back the covers, got out of bed, and—heedless of the cold—stood in her darkened bedroom, listening.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
At her feet, Jack whined.
She stepped out into the little hallway, turned on the light, opened the door into the mansion proper, and paused again to listen. The sound seemed to have stopped. No: there it was again. It seemed to be coming from the ravine side of the house, maybe the living room.
Corrie walked quickly down the corridor, shadow-striped and echoing, and ducked into the security room. The various devices were on, humming and clicking, but the central flat panel was off. She turned it on. An image swam into view: camera one, the default, showing the front drive, currently empty.
She pushed the button that toggled the screen into a checkerboard of smaller images, looking at the feeds from various cameras. Two, four, nine, sixteen…and there, in the window of camera nine, she saw it: a red
M
, with a circle around it.
M for “movement.”
Quickly she pressed the button dedicated to camera nine. Now its image filled the screen: it was the view out the back door, leading from the kitchen onto the vast deck overlooking the ravine. The
M
was much bigger now. But there was no movement, nothing she could see. She squinted at the pixelated image. Nothing.
What the hell had Fine said? When a camera registered movement, it recorded the video feed to hard disk: one minute prior to detecting the movement, and continuing for another minute after the movement ceased.
So what movement had triggered camera nine?
It couldn’t be the wind, shaking the tree limbs: there were no trees in view. Even as Corrie watched, the
M
disappeared from the screen. Now she saw only the back of the house, with the date and time stamps imprinted across the bottom of the feed.
She toggled it back to the checkerboard of cameras and looked at the computer, hoping to get a playback of camera nine. The machine was turned on, but when she moved the mouse a window popped open, demanding a password.
Shit
. Now she cursed herself for not asking more questions.
Something red flashed in her peripheral vision. Quickly she turned back to the screen. There it was, in camera eight: something large and dark, creeping around the side of the house. Black rectangles hovered around it, tracking its progress. The
M
was once again flashing on the screen.
Maybe she should call 911. But she’d left her mobile in her car, and the cheap bastard Fine had of course disconnected the house phones.
Corrie looked closer, heart starting to pound. That section of the back deck was in shadow, the moonlight obscured by the house, and she couldn’t make out exactly what she was seeing. Was it an animal? A coyote, maybe? No: it was too big to be a coyote. Something about the stealthy, deliberate way in which it moved sent a thrill of fear coursing through her.
Now it was off the screen. No alerts came up on the other images. But Corrie was not reassured. Whatever she’d seen, it had been coming around the side of the house. Her side of the house.
She turned suddenly. What was that noise? The squeaking of a mouse? Or—maybe, just maybe—the soft protesting squeal of a window, being gingerly tried?
Heart in her mouth, she ran out of the security room and across the corridor into the den. The tall windows yawned dark before her.
“Get the fuck away from here!” she yelled at them. “I’ve got a gun—and I’m not afraid to use it! Any closer, and I’m calling the cops!”
Nothing. Utter silence.
Corrie stood in the darkness, breathing hard. Still nothing.
At length she returned to the security room. The video feeds were quiet; no movement registered on any of them.
She stayed before the monitor, eyes glued to the various feeds, for fifteen minutes. Then she went through the entire house, dog at her heels, checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. Finally she returned to her bedroom, lay down in the dark, and gathered the covers around her. But she did not fall asleep.
T
he following morning was, if possible, even colder than it had been the day before. But for the time being, as she bustled around the ski shed, Corrie barely noticed. After a breakfast spent convincing herself she’d been imagining things the night before, she bundled up and went outside—only to find out there were very real, very human footprints in the snow all around the house. Someone apparently had been wandering around out there for a long time, perhaps hours.
It scared the hell out of her, but she couldn’t follow the confused welter of tracks or figure out where they’d come from.
Getting into her car and checking her cell phone, she played back a message from Pendergast announcing that he’d arranged the necessary permissions for her to examine three more skeletons from among the coffins in the shed. She drove down to the Hotel Sebastian to collect the necessary paperwork and thank Pendergast—only to learn that he was out, but had left everything for her at the front desk.
She almost forgot the cold as she tracked down the first of the three skeletons—Asa Cobb—carefully removed the remains from the rude coffin, and placed them on the examination table. Arranging her tools, she took a deep breath, then began a methodical analysis of the bones.
It was as she suspected. Many of the bones displayed damage from a tool: scrapes, gouges, cuts. Again, there were tooth marks: clearly human, not bear. And again, there was no sign of pot polishing, burning, or cooking of any kind—this man, too, had been eaten raw. Nor were there signs of bullet or knife wounds—death had been caused by a massive blow to the head with a rock, followed by the same brutal beating and dismemberment evidenced by the bones of Bowdree. The old brown bones told a graphic, violent tale of a man who was set upon, torn to pieces, and consumed raw.
She straightened up. There was no longer any doubt: these miners had fallen victim to a gang of serial killers.
“Is it as you expected?” came the honeyed drawl from behind her.
Corrie whirled around, heart suddenly pounding like mad in her chest. There was Pendergast, dressed in a black overcoat, a silk scarf around his neck. His face and hair were almost as white as the snow that clung to his shoes. The guy had the damnedest ability to sneak up on a person.
“I see you got my message,” Pendergast said. “I had tried calling you last night, as well, but you didn’t pick up your phone.”
“Sorry.” As her heart returned to normal, she felt herself flushing. “I was on a date.”
One eyebrow went up. “Indeed? May I inquire as to whom with?”
“Ted Roman. A librarian here in Roaring Fork. Grew up in town. Nice guy, ex–ski bum, snowmobile addict. Good researcher, too. He’s helped me quite a bit.”
Pendergast nodded, then turned—significantly—toward the examination table.
“I’ve only had a chance to examine one of the skeletons,” she said, “but it seems to have all the earmarks of the Bowdree killing.”
“So it’s your opinion we’re dealing with, how shall we call it, a
group
engaged in serial killing.”
“Exactly. I would think at least three or four, possibly more.”
“Interesting.” Pendergast picked up one of the bones and turned it over in his hands, giving it a perfunctory examination. “Two murderers working together is uncommon, but not unheard of. Three or more, however, acting in concert, is a
rara avis
indeed.” He put the bone back on the table. “Technically, three separate killings are necessary to establish a serial killer.”
“Eleven miners died. Isn’t that enough to qualify?”
“Almost assuredly. I shall look forward to receiving your detailed reports on the other two miners, as well.”
Corrie nodded.
Hands in his pockets, Pendergast looked around the equipment shed before finally returning his pale gaze to her. “When was the last time you read
The Hound of the Baskervilles
?”
This question was so unexpected, Corrie was certain she’d misheard. “What?”
“
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. When did you last read it?”
“The Sherlock Holmes story? Ninth grade. Maybe eighth. Why?”
“Do you recall the initial letter you sent me regarding your thesis? In a postscript, you made reference to a meeting between Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde. During that meeting, Wilde told Conan Doyle a rather dreadful story he’d heard on his American lecture tour.”
“Right.” Corrie stole a glance at the table. She was eager to get back to work.
“Would you find it interesting to know that one of the stops Oscar Wilde made on his lecture tour was right here in Roaring Fork?”
“I know all about that. It was in Doyle’s diary. One of the Roaring Fork miners told Wilde the story of the man-eating grizzly, and Wilde passed on the story to Doyle. That’s what gave me the idea for my thesis in the first place.”
“Excellent. My question to you is this: Do you believe Wilde’s story might have inspired Doyle to write
The Hound of the Baskervilles
?”
Corrie hopped from one cold foot to the other. “It’s possible. Likely, even. But I’m not sure I see the relevance.”
“Just this: if you were to take a look through
The Hound
, there’s a chance you might come across some clues as to what actually happened.”
“What actually happened? But…I’m sure Wilde heard the false story and told it to Doyle. Neither one could possibly have known the truth—that these miners weren’t killed by a bear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Doyle wrote about the ‘grizzled bear’ in his diary. He didn’t mention a cannibalistic gang.”
“Consider for a moment: what if Wilde heard the
real
story and told it to Doyle? And what if Doyle found it too disturbing to put in his diary? What if Doyle instead concealed some of that information in
The Hound
?”
Corrie had to stop herself from scoffing. Was it possible Pendergast was serious? “I’m sorry, but that’s pretty far-fetched. Are you really suggesting that a Sherlock Holmes story could possibly shed light on my project?”
Pendergast did not reply. He simply stood there in his black overcoat, returning her gaze.
She shivered. “Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I’d really like to get back to my examination, if it’s okay with you.”
Still Pendergast said nothing; he merely regarded her with those pale eyes of his. For some reason, Corrie got the distinct feeling that she had just failed some kind of test. But she couldn’t help that; the answer lay not in fictional stories but right here, in the bones themselves.
After a long moment, Pendergast gave the slightest of bows. “Of course, Miss Swanson,” he said coolly. Then he turned and left the equipment shed as silently as he had come.
Corrie watched until she heard the faint clunk of the door shutting. Then—with a mixture of eagerness and relief—she returned to the earthly remains of Asa Cobb.
C
hief Stanley Morris had shut his office door and given his secretary orders not to disturb him for any reason whatsoever while he updated his corkboard case-line. It was how the chief managed complex cases: reducing everything to color-coded three-by-five cards, each with a single fact, a piece of evidence, a photograph, or a witness. These he would organize chronologically, pin to a corkboard, and then—with string—connect the cards, looking for patterns, clues, and relationships.
It was a standard approach and it had worked well for him before. But as he surveyed the chaos on his desk, the corkboard overflowing with a rainbow of cards, the strings going in every direction, he began to wonder if he needed a different system. He felt himself growing more frustrated by the minute.
The phone buzzed and he picked it up. “For heaven’s sake, Shirley, I asked not to be disturbed!”
“Sorry, Chief,” said the voice, “but there’s someone here you really must see—”
“I don’t care if it’s the pope. I’m busy!”
“It’s Captain Stacy Bowdree.”
It took a minute for the ramifications of this to sink in. Then he felt himself go cold.
This is all I need.
“Oh. Jesus…All right, send her in.”
Before he could even prepare himself, the door opened and a striking woman strode in. Captain Bowdree had short auburn hair, a handsome face, and a pair of intense, dark brown eyes. She was all of six feet tall and somewhere in her midthirties.
He rose and held out his hand. “Chief Stanley Morris. This is quite a surprise.”
“Stacy Bowdree.” She gave his hand a firm shake. Even though she was dressed in casual clothes—jeans, a white shirt, and a leather vest—her bearing was unmistakably military. He offered her a seat, and she took it.
“First,” said the chief, “I want to apologize for the problems with the exhumation of your, ah, ancestor. I know how upsetting it must be. We here at the Roaring Fork PD believed the developers had done a thorough search, and I was dismayed,
truly
dismayed, when your letter was brought to my attention—”
Bowdree flashed the chief a warm smile and waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not upset. Truly.”
“Well, thank you for your understanding. I…We’ll make it right, I promise you.” The chief realized he was almost babbling.
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “Here’s the thing. I’ve decided to take the remains back for reburial in our old family plot in Kentucky once the research is complete. That’s why I’m here. So you see, given the circumstances there’s no longer any reason to rebury Emmett in the original location, as I originally requested.”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. It makes things simpler.”
“Say…is that coffee I smell?”
“Would you like a cup?”
“Thank you. Black, no sugar.”
The chief buzzed Shirley and put in the order, with a second for himself. There was a brief, awkward silence. “So…” he said. “How long have you been in town?”
“Not long, a few days. I wanted to get the lay of the land, so to speak, before making my presence known. I realize my letter made quite a stir, and I didn’t want to freak everyone out by storming into town like the Lone Ranger. You’re the first person, in fact, that I’ve introduced myself to.”