White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  “Sorry about the traffic,” the chief said.

  “Are you kidding? This is amazing,” Corrie said, almost hanging out the window as she watched the parade of stores slide by: Ralph Lauren, Tiffany, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Rolex, Fendi, Bulgari, Burberry, Brioni, the windows stuffed with expensive merchandise. They never seemed to end.

  “The amount of money in this town is off the charts,” said the chief. “And frankly, from a law enforcement point of view, that can be a problem. A lot of these people think the rules don’t apply to them. But in the Roaring Fork Police Department, we treat everyone — and I mean everyone—the same.”

  “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.

  “The tombstones are over there,” said Chief Morris. He pointed to a far wall, against which was arrayed a motley collection of tombstones — a few fancy ones in slate or marble, but mostly boulders or slabs with lettering carved into them. They, too, had been cataloged and carded.

  “We’ve got about a hundred and thirty human remains,” said the chief. “And close to a hundred tombstones. The rest…we don’t know who they are. They may have had wooden markers, or perhaps some tombstones were lost or stolen.”

  “Did any identify bear victims?”

  “None. They’re traditional — names, dates, and sometimes a phrase from the Bible or a standard religious epitaph. The cause of death isn’t normally put on tombstones. And being eaten by a grizzly would not be something you’d want memorialized.”

  Corrie nodded. It didn’t really matter — she had already put together a list of the victims from researching old local newspaper reports.

  “Would it be possible to open one of these lids?” she asked.

  “I don’t see why not.” The chief grasped a handle on the nearest box.

  “Wait, I’ve got a list.” Corrie fumbled in her briefcase and withdrew the folder. “Let’s look for one of the victims.”

  “Fine.”

  They spent a few minutes wandering among the coffins, until Corrie found one that matched a name on her list: Emmett Bowdree. “This one, please,” she said.

  Morris grabbed the handle and eased the lid off.

  Inside were the remains of a rotten pine coffin that held a skeleton. The lid had disintegrated and was lying in pieces around and on top of the skeleton. Corrie stared at it eagerly. The bones of both arms and a leg lay to one side; the skull was crushed; the rib cage had been ripped open; and both femurs had been broken into pieces, crunched up by powerful jaws to obtain the marrow, no doubt. In her studies at John Jay, Corrie had examined many skeletons displaying perimortem violence, but nothing—nothing—quite like this.

  “Jesus, the bear really did a number on him,” murmured Morris.

  “You’re not kidding.”

  As she examined the bones, Corrie noticed something: some faint marks on the broken rib cage. She knelt, looking closer, trying to make them out. Christ, what she needed was a magnifying glass. Her eyes darted about, and — on the crushed femur — she noticed another, similar mark. She reached out to pick up the bone.

  “Whoa, there, no touching!”

  “I need to just examine this a little closer.”

  “No,” said the chief. “Really, that’s enough.”

  “Just give me a moment,” Corrie pleaded.

  “Sorry.” He slid the lid back on. “You’ll have plenty of time later.”

  Corrie rose, perplexed, not at all sure about what she’d seen. It might have been her imagination. Anyway, the marks surely must be antemortem: no mystery there. Roaring Fork was a rough place back in those days. Maybe the fellow had survived a knife fight. She shook her head.

  “We’d better get going,” the chief said.

  They emerged into the brilliant light, the blaze off the glittering blanket of snow almost blinding. But try as she might, Corrie couldn’t quite rid herself of the strangest feeling of disquiet.

  6

  The call came the following morning. Corrie was seated in the Roaring Fork Library, reading up on the history of the town. It was an excellent library, housed in a modern building designed in an updated Victorian style. The interior was gorgeous, with acres of polished oak, arched windows, thick carpeting, and an indirect lighting system that bathed everything in a warm glow.

  The library’s historical section was state of the art. The section librarian, Ted Roman, had been very helpful. He turned out to be a cute guy in his midtwenties, lithe and fit, who had recently graduated from the University of Utah and was taking a couple of years off to be a ski bum. She had told him about her research project and her meeting with Chief Morris. Ted had listened attentively, asked intelligent questions, and showed her how to use the history archives. To top it off, he had asked her out for a beer tomorrow night. And she’d accepted.

  The library’s albums of old newspapers, broadsheets, and public notices from the silver boom days had been beautifully digitized in searchable PDF form. She’d been able, in a matter of hours, to pull up dozens of articles on the history of Roaring Fork and on the grizzly killings, obituary notices, and all kinds of related memorabilia — far more than she’d obtained in New York.

  The town had a fascinating history. In the summer of 1873, a doughty band of prospectors from Leadville braved the threat of Ute Indians and crossed the Continental Divide, penetrating unexplored territory westward. There, they and others who followed made one of the biggest silver strikes in U.S. history. A silver rush ensued, with hordes of prospectors staking claims all through the mountains lining the Roaring Fork River. A town sprang up, along with stamp mills for crushing ore and a hastily built smelter for separating silver and gold from ore. Soon the hills were crawling with prospectors, dotted with mines and remote camps, while the town itself teemed with mining engineers, assayists, charcoal burners, sawmill workers, blacksmiths, saloonkeepers, merchants, teamsters, whores, laborers, piano players, faro dealers, con men, and thieves.

  The first killing took place in the spring of 1876. At a remote claim high on Smuggler Mountain, a lone miner was killed and eaten. It took weeks for the man to be missed, and as a consequence his body wasn’t discovered immediately, but the high mountain air kept it fresh enough to tell the gruesome tale. The body had been ripped open, obviously by a bear, then gutted, the limbs torn off. It appeared the bear had returned over the course of a week to continue feasting, with most of the bones stripped of their flesh, the tongue and liver eaten, the entrails and organs spread about and more or less consumed.

  It was a pattern that would be repeated ten more times over the course of the summer.

  From the beginning, Roaring Fork — and indeed much of Colorado Territory — had been plagued by aggressive grizzlies who were being driven to higher altitudes by settlements in the lower valleys. The grizzly bear — it was noted with relish in almost every newspaper report — was one of the few animals known to hunt and kill a human being for food.

  During the course of that long summer, eleven miners and prospectors were killed and eaten by the rogue grizzly at a variety of remote claims. The animal had a large territory that, unfortunately, encompassed much of the upper range of the silver district. The killings caused widespread panic. But federal law required miners to “work a claim” in order to maintain rights to it, so even at the height of the terror most miners refused to abandon their sites.

  Hunting posses were formed several times to chase the grizzly, but it was hard to track the animal in the absence of snow, amid the rocky upper reaches of the mountains above the tree line. Still, the real problem, it seemed to Corrie, was that the hunting posses were none too eager to find the bear. They seemed to spend more time organizing in the saloons and making speeches than actually out in the field tracking the bear.

  The killings stopped in the fall of 1876, just before the first snow. Over time, people began to think the bear had moved on, died, or perhaps gone into hibernation. There was some apprehension the following spring, but when the killings did not resume…

  Corrie felt her phone vibrate, plucked it out of her handbag, and saw it was a call from the police station. Glancing around and noting the library was empty — save for the ski bum librarian, sitting at his desk reading Jack Kerouac — she figured it was okay to answer.

  But it wasn’t the chief. It was his secretary. Before Corrie could even get thr
ough the usual niceties, the lady was talking fast and breathily. “The chief is so sorry, so very sorry, but it turns out he can’t give you permission to examine the remains.”

  Corrie’s mouth went dry. “What?” she croaked. “Wait a minute—”

  “He’s tied up all day in meetings so he asked me to call you. You see—”

  “But he said—”

  “It’s just not going to be possible. He feels very sorry he can’t help you.”

  “But why?” she managed to break in.

  “I don’t have the specifics, I’m sorry—”

  “Can’t I speak to him?”

  “He’s caught up in meetings all day and, um, for the rest of the week.”

  “For the rest of the week? But just yesterday he said—”

  “I’m sorry, I told you I’m not privy to his reasons.”

  “Look,” said Corrie, trying to control her voice without much success, “just a day ago he told me there wouldn’t be any problems. That he’d approve it. And now he changes his mind, refuses to say why, and…and then dumps on you the job of giving me the bum’s rush! It isn’t fair!”

  Corrie got a final, frosty I wish I could help you, but the decision is final, followed by a decisive click. The line went dead.

  Corrie sat down and, banging her palm on the table, cried: “Damn, damn, damn!”

  Then she looked up. Ted was looking over at her, his eyes wide.

  “Oh, no,” Corrie said, covering her mouth. “I’ve disturbed the whole library.”

  He held up his hand with a smile. “As you can see, there’s nobody here right now.” He hesitated, then came around his desk and walked over. He spoke again, his voice having dropped to a whisper. “I think I understand what’s going on here.”

  “You do? I’d wish you’d explain it to me, then.”

  Even though there was nobody around, he lowered his voice still further. “Mrs. Kermode.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Betty Brown Kermode got to the chief of police.”