White Fire

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.

25

Chief 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.”