White Fire

“You should learn. It is one of the true and ancient pleasures that make human existence tolerable.”

“Um, I know this may not be the time…But I just have to ask you…” She found herself coloring. “Why did you rescue me like this? And why do you go to all this trouble for me? I mean, you got me out of Medicine Creek, you paid for my boarding school, you’re helping pay my tuition at John Jay — why? I’m just a screwup.”

He looked at her with an inscrutable gaze. “The Colorado rack of lamb for two would go well with the wine. I understand it’s excellent.”

She glanced at the menu. She was, it had to be admitted, starving. “Sounds good to me.”

Pendergast waved over the waiter and placed the order.

“Anyway, getting back to what I was talking about…I would really like to know, once and for all, why you’ve helped me all these years. Especially when I keep, you know, effing up.”

Again that impenetrable gaze met hers. “Effing? I see your penchant for charming euphemisms has not abated.”

“You know what I mean.”

The gaze seemed to go on forever, and then Pendergast said: “Someday, perhaps, you may make a good law enforcement officer or criminalist. That is why. No other reason.”

She felt herself coloring again. She wasn’t quite sure she liked the answer. Now she wished she hadn’t asked the question.

Pendergast picked up the wine list again. “Remarkable how many bottles of excellent French wine in rare vintages have found their way into this small town in the middle of the mountains. I certainly hope they are drunk soon; the altitude here is most unhealthy for Bordeaux.” He laid down the list. “And now, Corrie, please tell me in detail what you noticed about the bones of Mr. Emmett Bowdree.”

She swallowed. Pendergast was so damn…closed. “I only had a few minutes to examine the bones. But I’m sure the guy was not killed by a grizzly bear.”

“Your evidence?”

“I took some photographs, but they confiscated the memory chip. I can tell you what I saw — or at least think I saw.”

“Excellent.”

“First of all, the skull showed signs of having been bashed in by a rock. And the right femur had scrape marks made by some blunt tool, with no signs that I could see of an osseous reaction or infectious response.”

A slow nod.

She went on with growing confidence. “It looked to me like there were faint human tooth marks in some of the cancellous bone. They were pretty feeble and blunt, not sharp like a bear’s. I think the corpse was cannibalized.”

In her zeal she’d raised her voice, and now she realized it had carried farther than she’d intended. The diners closest to them were staring at her.

“Oops,” she said, looking down at her place setting.

“Have you told anyone of this?” Pendergast asked.

“Not yet.”

“Very good. Keep it quiet. It will only create trouble.”

“But I need access to more remains.”

“I’m working on that. Of the other miners in question, I’m hoping we might find descendants in at least a few cases. And then, naturally, we’d have to get permission.”

“Oh. Thanks, but, you know, I could really do those things myself.” She paused. “Um, how long do you plan to stay? A few days?”

“Such a lovely, self-indulgent, rich little town. I don’t believe I’ve seen anything quite like it. And so charming at Christmastime.”

“So you’re going to stay…a long time?”

“Ah, here’s the wine.”

It had arrived, along with two big glasses. Corrie watched as Pendergast went through the whole routine of swirling the wine around in the glass, smelling it, tasting it, tasting it again.

“Corked, I’m afraid,” he told the waiter. “Please bring another bottle. Make it an ’01, to be on the safe side.”

With profuse apologies, the waiter hurried off with the bottle and glass.

“Corked?” Corrie asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s a contaminant of wine, giving it a taste redolent of, some say, a wet dog.”

The new bottle came out and Pendergast went through the routine again, this time nodding his approval. The waiter filled his glass, motioned the bottle toward Corrie. She shrugged and the man filled her glass as well.

Corrie sipped it. It tasted like wine to her — no more, no less. She said, “This is almost as good as the Mateus we all used to drink back in Medicine Creek.”

“I see you still enjoy provoking me.”

She took another sip. It was amazing, how quickly the memory of jail was fading. “Getting back to my release,” she said. “How did you do it?”

“As it happens, I was already on my way back to New York when I received your second letter.”

“You finally got sick of traveling the world?”

“It was your first letter, in part, that prompted my return.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Instead of answering, Pendergast peered into the dark ruby of his wineglass. “I was fortunate in locating Captain Bowdree so quickly. I explained everything to her frankly — how her ancestor had been rudely exhumed from his historic resting place to make way for a spa. I explained who you were, what your background was, how the chief promised you access and then withdrew it. I told her about your foolish break-in, how you got caught. And then I mentioned you were facing a ten-year prison sentence.”

He sipped his wine. “The captain understood the situation immediately. She was most unwilling for you to be, as she put it, fucked over like that. She repeated that phrase several times with remarkable emphasis, and it led me to believe she may have had some experience in that line — perhaps in the military. At any rate, together we composed a rather effective letter, which on the one hand threatened to complain to the FBI and, on the other, gave you permission to study the remains of her ancestor.”

“Oh,” said Corrie. “And that’s how you got me out?”

“There was a rather boisterous town meeting this afternoon, at which I discussed the captain’s letter.” Pendergast allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “My presentation was singularly effective. You’ll read all about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Well, you saved my butt. I can’t thank you enough. And please thank Captain Bowdree for me.”

“I shall.”

There was a sharp murmur in the dining room; a stir. Several patrons had begun looking toward the wall of windows, and some had stood up from their tables and were pointing. Corrie followed their gaze and saw a small, flickering yellow light on the side of a nearby ridge. As she watched, it rapidly grew in brightness and size. Now more restaurant patrons were standing, and some were walking toward the windows. The hubbub increased.

“Oh, my God, that’s a house on fire!” Corrie said, standing up herself to get a better view.

“So it would seem.”

The fire blossomed with shocking rapidity. It appeared to be a huge house and the flames engulfed it with increasing violence, leaping into the night air, sending up columns of sparks and smoke. A fire siren began to go off in the town somewhere, followed by another. And now the entire dining room was on its feet, eyes glued to the mountain. A sense of horror had fallen on the diners, a hush — and then a voice rang out.

“That’s the Baker house, up in The Heights!”

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