White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  He paused. In the silence, Corrie thought of the shot at her car, the dead dog, the note. She should tell him — clearly he would find out sooner or later. What if she confided in Pendergast? But that would only result in him putting more pressure on her to leave Roaring Fork.

  “My first instinct,” Pendergast went on, almost as if reading her thoughts, “was to spirit you away from town immediately, even if it meant commandeering one of the chief’s snowcats. But I know you well enough to realize that would be futile.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The next best thing, therefore, is to get you thinking properly about this case — what it means, why you are in extreme danger, and from where. This is not, as you put it, a teachable moment.”

  The seriousness of his tone hit her hard. She swallowed. “Okay. Sorry. You’ve got my attention.”

  “Let’s return to the question you just asked, which I will rephrase in more precise terms: what does nineteenth-century English hat making have in common with nineteenth-century silver refining?”

  It came to her in a flash. It was obvious. “Both processes use mercury.”

  “Precisely.”

  All of a sudden, everything started to fall into place. “According to the story, mercury nitrate was used to soften fur for the making of felt for hats. Carroting, they called it.”

  “Go on.”

  “And mercury was also used in smelting, to separate silver and gold from crushed ore.”

  “Excellent.”

  Now Corrie’s mind was racing. “So the gang of killers was a group of miners who must’ve worked in the smelter. And gone crazy, in turn, from mercury poisoning.”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “The smelter fired the crazy workers and hired fresh ones. Perhaps a few of those who were fired banded together. Without work, totally nuts, unemployable, they took to the hills, angry and vengeful, where they went progressively crazier. And, of course…they needed to eat.”

  Another slow nod from Pendergast.

  “So they preyed on isolated miners up at their claims, killing and eating them. And like the man-eating lions of Tsavo — and Sir Percival — they began to develop a taste for it.”

  This was followed by a long silence. What else? Corrie asked herself. Where did the present danger come from? “All this happened a hundred and fifty years ago,” she finally said. “I don’t see how this affects us now. Why am I in danger?”

  “You have not put the last, crucial piece into place. Think of the ‘accidental’ information you told me you’d recently uncovered.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Very well, then: who owned the smelter?”

  “The Stafford family.”

  “Go on.”

  “But the history of labor abuses and the use of mercury at the smelter are already well known. It’s a matter of historical record. It would be stupid for them to take steps to cover that up now.”

  “Corrie.” Pendergast shook his head. “Where was the smelter?”

  “Um, well, it was somewhere in the area where The Heights is now. I mean, that’s how the family came to own all that land to turn into the development.”

  “And…?”

  “And what? The smelter’s long gone. It was shut in the 1890s and they tore down the ruins decades ago. There’s nothing left of…Oh, my God.” She clasped one hand to her mouth.

  Pendergast remained silent, waiting.

  Corrie stared at him. Now she understood. “Mercury. That’s what’s left of it. The ground beneath the development is contaminated with mercury.”

  Pendergast folded his hands and sat back in his chair. “Now you are starting to think like a true detective. And I hope you will live long enough to become that detective. I fear for you: you have always been, and still remain, far too rash. But despite that shortcoming, even you must see what is at stake here — and the grave danger you have placed yourself in by continuing this most unwise investigation. I would not have revealed any of this to you — not the lost Holmes story, not the Stafford family connection, not the poisonous groundwater — were it not, given your, ah, impetuous nature, necessary to convince you to leave this ugly place, as directly as I can make arrangements.”

  49

  A. X. L. Pendergast surveyed the town of Leadville with tightly pursed lips. A sign announced its altitude, 10,150 feet, and stated it was the HIGHEST INCORPORATED TOWN IN THE UNITED STATES. It stood in stark contrast with Roaring Fork, across the Continental Divide. Its downtown strip was a single street bordered by Victorian buildings in various states of shabbiness and disrepair, with frozen heaps of snow along the verges. Beyond, forests of fir trees swept up to immense mountain peaks in almost all directions. The excessive Christmas decorations draped over every cornice, lamppost, streetlight, and parapet lent a sort of desperate air to the forlornness of the town, especially two days before Christmas. And yet despite the early-morning hour and the bitter cold, Pendergast was aware of a certain relief simply to be away from the oppressive wealth, entitlement, and smugness that hung like a miasma over Roaring Fork. Leadville, while impoverished, was a real place with real people — although it was nevertheless inconceivable why anyone would want to live in this white Gehenna, this algid Siberian wasteland, this desert of frost buried in the mountains, far from the delights of civilization.

  He had had the devil of a time tracking down any progeny of the aged Swinton, first name unknown, who had buttonholed Oscar Wilde after the Roaring Fork lecture and told him the fateful story. With the help of Mime, he had finally identified one remaining descendant: a certain Kyle Swinton, born in Leadville thirty-one years previously. He was an only child whose parents had been killed in a car accident around the time he dropped out of Leadville High. After that, his digital trail had vanished. Even Mime, Pendergast’s shadowy and reclusive computer genius and information gatherer, had been unable to track the man beyond establishing the crucial fact that there was no record of his death. Kyle Swinton, it seemed, was still alive, somewhere within the borders of the United States; that was all Pendergast knew.

  As soon as the snow had stopped in Roaring Fork — or rather paused, as the main event was still to come — the road had been cleared and Pendergast had made his way to Leadville to see if he could pick up a trace of the man. Weighed down by a sweater vest, heavy black suit, down vest, overcoat, two scarves, thick gloves and boots, and a woolen hat under his trilby, he exited his vehicle and made his way into what appeared to be the only five-and-dime drugstore in the town. He glanced around the store and selected the oldest employee: the pharmacist manning the prescription counter.

  Unwrapping his scarves so he could speak, Pendergast said, “I am trying to trace the whereabouts of a man named Kyle Swinton, who attended Leadville High School in the late ’90s.”

  The pharmacist looked Pendergast up and down. “Kyle Swinton? What do you want with him?”

  “I’m an attorney, and it’s about an inheritance.”

  “Inheritance? His family didn’t have two nickels to rub together.”

  “There was a great-uncle.”

  “Oh. Well, good for him, I suppose. Kyle, he doesn’t come into town very often. Maybe not till spring.”

  This was excellent. “If you could direct me to his house, I should be grateful.”

  “Sure, but he’s snowed in. Lives off the grid. You won’t get up there except on a snowmobile. And…” The man hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s one of those survivalist types. He’s holed up in Elbert Canyon waiting for, I don’t know, the end of civilization maybe.”

  “Indeed?”

  “He’s got a bunker up there, stockpiles of food — and a big-time arsenal, or so they say. So if you go up there, you’d better be damn careful or he’s liable to blow a hole in you.”

  Pendergast was silent for a moment. “Where, pray tell, may I rent a snowmobile?”

  “There’s a couple of places, it’s a big sport in these parts.
” He gave Pendergast another once-over, doubtfully. “You know how to operate one?”

  “Naturally.”

  The druggist gave Pendergast the information and drew a map, showing him how to get to Kyle Swinton’s place up in Elbert Canyon.

  Pendergast exited the pharmacy and strolled down Harrison Avenue, as if shopping, despite the five-degree weather, the piles of snow, and the sidewalks so icy that even the salt froze to them. Finally he went into a gun-and-ammo store that also doubled as a pawnshop.

  A man with a tattoo of an octopus on the shaved dome of his head strolled over. “What can I do for you?”

  “I would like to buy a small box of the Cor-Bon .45 ACP.”

  The man placed the box on the counter.

  “Does a Mr. Kyle Swinton shop here?”

  “Sure does, good customer. Crazy fucker, though.”

  Pendergast considered for a moment the kind of person a man like this might think of as crazy.

  “I understand he has quite a collection of firearms.”

  “Spends every last penny on guns and ammo.”

  “In that case, there must be quite a variety of ammo he buys from you.”

  “Hell, yes. That’s why we got all these rounds here. He’s got a collection of heavy-caliber handguns you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Revolvers?”

  “Oh, yeah. Revolvers, pistols, all loads. Probably got a hundred K worth of firearms up there.”

  Pendergast pursed his lips. “Come to think of it, I’d like to also purchase a box of the .44 S&W Special, one of the .44 Remington Magnum, and another of .357 S&W Magnum.”

  The man placed the boxes on the counter. “Else?”

  “That will suffice, thank you very much.”

  The man rang the purchase up.

  “No bag, I’ll put them in my pockets.” Everything disappeared into his coat.

  Business had not been good at the nearest snowmobile rental place. Pendergast was able to overcome their initial difficulty about renting him a machine for the day, despite his wildly inappropriate dress, southern accent, and lack of even minimal familiarity with its operation. They put a helmet and visor on his head and gave him a quick lesson in how to ride it, took him out for a five-minute practice spin, had him sign multiple disclaimers, and wished him luck. In so doing, Pendergast learned more about Kyle Swinton. He appeared to be known to all Leadville as a “crazy fucker.” His parents had been alcoholics who finally went through the guardrail at Stockton Creek, drunk as skunks, and rolled a thousand feet down the ravine. Kyle had lived off the land ever since, hunting, fishing, and panning for gold when he needed ready cash to buy ammunition.

  As Pendergast was leaving, the rental shop manager added: “Don’t go rushing up to the cabin, now, Kyle’s liable to get excited. Approach real nice and slow, and keep your hands in sight and a friendly smile on your face.”

  50

  The ride to Swinton’s cabin was exceedingly unpleasant. The snowmobile was a coarse, deafening, stinking contraption, prone to jackrabbit starts and sudden stops, with none of the refinement of a high-performance motorcycle, and as Pendergast maneuvered it up the winding white road it threw up a steady wake of snow that plastered his expensive coat, building up layers. Pendergast soon looked like a helmeted snowman.

  He followed the advice he’d been given and slowed down as soon as he saw the cabin, half buried in snow, with a trickle of smoke curling from a stovepipe on top. Sure enough, as he came within a hundred yards a man appeared on the porch, small and ferret-like, with a gap between his two front teeth visible even at this distance. He was holding a pump-action shotgun.

  Pendergast halted the snowmobile, which jerked to a stop. Plates of snow broke off and fell from his coat. He fumbled awkwardly with the helmet and finally managed to raise the visor with his bulky gloves.

  “Greetings, Kyle!”

  The response was a conspicuous racking of the pump. “State your business, sir.”

  “I’m here to see you. I’ve heard a lot about your outfit up here. I’m a fellow survivalist and I’m touring the country looking at what other people are doing, for an article in Survivalist magazine.”

  “Where’d you hear about me?”

  “Word gets around. You know how it is.”

  A hesitation. “So you’re a journalist?”

  “I’m a survivalist first, journalist second.” A cold gust of wind swirled the snow about Pendergast’s legs. “Mr. Swinton, do you think you might extend me the courtesy of your hospitality so that we could continue this conversation in the confines of your home?”

  Swinton wavered. The word hospitality had not gone unnoticed. Pendergast pressed his advantage. “I wonder if keeping a man freezing in the cold at gunpoint is the kind of hospitality one should accord a kindred spirit.”

  Swinton squinted at him. “At least you’re a white man,” he said, putting down the gun. “All right, come on in. But see that you broom yourself off at the door; I don’t want no snow tracked in my house.” He waited as Pendergast struggled through the deep snow to the porch. A broken broom stood next to the door and Pendergast swept himself as clean as he could while Swinton watched, frowning.

  He followed Swinton in the cabin. It was surprisingly large, extending into a warren of rooms in the back. The gleam of gunmetal could be seen everywhere: racks of assault rifles, AK-47s and M16s illegally altered to fire on full-auto; a set of Uzis and TAR-21 bullpup assault rifles; another set of Chinese Norinco QBZ-97 rifles and carbines, again altered for fully automatic action. A nearby case contained a huge array of revolvers and pistols, just as the man in Leadville had said. Beyond, in one of the rooms, Pendergast glimpsed a collection of RPGs, including a pair of Russian RPG-29s — all quite illegal.

  Other than the walls being completely covered with weaponry, the cabin was surprisingly cozy, with a fire burning in a woodstove with an open door. All the furniture was handmade of peeled logs and branches, draped with cowhides. And everything was neat as a pin.

  “Shed that coat and seat yourself, I’ll get the coffee.”

  Pendergast removed the coat and draped it over a chair, straightened his suit, and sat down. Swinton fetched some mugs and a coffeepot off the woodstove and poured two cups. Without asking he heaped in a tablespoon of Cremora and two of sugar before handing it to Pendergast.

  The agent took the mug and made a show of drinking. It tasted as if it had been boiling on the stove for days.

  He found Swinton looking at him curiously. “What’s with the black suit? Somebody die? You come up here by snowmobile in that getup?”

  “It was functional.”

  “You sure as hell don’t look like a survivalist to me.”

  “What do I look like?”

  “Some pussy professor from Jew York City. Or with that accent, maybe Jew Orleans. So what’re you packing?”

  Pendergast removed his .45 Colt and laid it on the table. Swinton picked it up, immediately impressed. “Les Baer, huh? Nice. You know how to fire that?”

  “I try,” said Pendergast. “This is quite a collection you have. Do you know how to fire all those weapons?”

  Swinton took offense, as Pendergast knew he would. “You think I hang shit like that on my wall if I don’t know how to fire it?”

  “Anyone can pull the trigger on a weapon,” Pendergast said, sipping his coffee.

  “I fire almost every weapon I own at least once a week.”

  Pendergast pointed to the handgun cabinet. “What about that Super Blackhawk?”

  “That’s a fine weapon. Updated Old West.” He got up, took it down from the rack.

  “May I see it?”

  He handed it to Pendergast. He hefted it, sighted, then opened the barrel and dumped out the ammo.

  “What you doing?”

  Pendergast picked up one of the rounds, inserted it back in the barrel, gave it a spin, then laid the revolver down.

  “You think you’re tough, right? Let’s play a little game.�
�

  “What the hell? What game?”

  “Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. And I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

  Swinton stared at him. “Are you stupid or something? I can see the fucking round isn’t even in firing position.”

  “Then you’ve just won a thousand dollars. If you pick the gun up and pull the trigger.”

  Swinton picked the gun up, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger. There was a click. He laid it down.

  Without a word, Pendergast reached into his suit-coat pocket, pulled out a brick of one-hundred-dollar bills, and peeled off ten of them. Swinton took the money. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “Yes, I am crazy.”

  “Now it’s your own damn turn.” Swinton picked up the revolver, spun the barrel, laid it down.

  “What will you give me?”

  “I don’t got no money, and I ain’t giving you back the thousand.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll answer a question instead. Any question I choose to ask. Absolute truth.”

  Swinton shrugged. “Sure.”

  Pendergast removed another thousand and put it on the table. Then he picked up the gun, placed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. Another click.

  “And now for the question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Your great-great-grandfather was a miner in Roaring Fork during the silver boom days. He knew quite a bit about a series of killings, allegedly done by a man-eating grizzly bear, but in actuality done by a group of crazy miners.”

  He paused. Swinton had risen from his chair. “You’re no damn magazine writer! Who are you?”

  “I am the one who is asking you a question. Presuming that you’re a man of honor, I will receive an answer. If you wish to know who I really am, that must await the next round of the game. Provided, of course, you have the fortitude to continue.”

  Swinton said nothing.

  “Your ancestor knew more than most people about those killings. In fact, I think he knew the truth — the entire truth.” Pendergast paused. “My question is: What is the truth?”