the two victims to the advanced trauma unit at Grand Junction, where at least one of them, shot through the head, was probably going to die. What really infuriated the chief was that no one had been hurt in the accident; instead, it had generated a road-rage incident in which the driver of a BMW X5 had pulled a gun and shot the two occupants of the Gelandewagen that had rear-ended him. He could hear the perp now, handcuffed in the back of his cruiser while waiting for the snowcat to arrive, yelling at the top of his lungs about “self-defense” and “standing my ground.” So if the victim died — and most people with a .38 round through the skull did — that would mean nine murders in little more than a week. All in a town that hadn’t seen a murder in years.
What a nightmare — with no end in sight.
Four days before Christmas, and the snow was now falling heavily, with a prediction of twenty-four to thirty inches over the next three days, with accompanying high winds toward the tail end of the storm. Highway 82—the only way out of town — was gridlocked because of the accident; the snowplows couldn’t operate; the blizzard was quickly getting ahead of them; and in an hour or less the road would have to be closed and all these people sitting furiously in their cars, yelling and honking and screeching like maniacs, would have to be rescued.
McMaster Field had seen nonstop flights out as all the Gulfstreams and other private jets and planes fled the town, but it, too, would soon be closing. And when that happened, Roaring Fork would be bottled up, no way in or out except by snowcat.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, back in the direction of town. The third arson attack had been the worst of all. Not in terms of numbers of deaths, but in terms of the psychological effect it had on Roaring Fork. The burnt house stood just at the edge of town, on the first rise of the hill: a grand old Victorian belonging to Maurice Girault, the celebrity fund manager and New York socialite, number five on the Forbes list, a dashing older fellow with an ego as big as Mount Everest. The victims were himself and his fresh young wife, who looked as if she couldn’t be a day over eighteen — and who had precipitated herself out an upper-story window while afire.
The entire town had seen it — and been traumatized. And this snarl of traffic, this road-rage shooting, this classic example of a FUBAR situation, was the result.
His thoughts returned, unwillingly, to Pendergast’s now-prophetic words.
But what message?
He returned his gaze to the mess. His idling squad car, with the shooter in the back, had its lights and sirens going — all for show. Idiots fleeing town had blocked both sides of the highway as well as the breakdown lanes, and high banks of snow on either side prevented cars from turning around — creating total gridlock. Even the chief was locked in; despite all his efforts to prevent cars from coming up behind and blocking him, they had.
At least they had managed to temporarily block the way out of town, preventing any more vehicles from adding to the mess. And, thank God, the RFPD had three snowcats, all of which were on their way. Even as he sat in his car, the wipers ineffectually swiping the snow back and forth, he heard the first one approaching. Immediately he grabbed his radio, directing the officer in the cat to get the perp out of there first. An angry crowd had started to gather around his squad car, yelling at the shooter, cursing and threatening him, offering to string him up on the nearest tree, while the perp, for his part, was yelling back, taunting them. It was amazing, just like the days of the vigilantes. The veneer of civilization was thin indeed.
And on top of everything else, Pendergast had vanished, split, gone off to London at the worst possible moment. Chivers, the fire investigator, was now openly at war with the police department, and his own investigators were demoralized, angry, and disagreeing with each other.
Now the second snowcat had arrived, delivering a CSI team and a couple of detectives to document the accident and crime scene and to interview witnesses. The snow was beginning to fall more heavily, big fat flakes coming down fast. Getting out of his squad car, the chief walked back to the cat and climbed aboard, along with some of his other men who needed to get back to town and work the new arson attack. A number of desperate motorists wanted a ride back to town as well, and the chief allowed a few of them — a couple with a baby — to get on board, causing a ruckus among those left behind.
As the vehicle headed back to town through the deep snow on the side of the highway, the chief turned his thoughts again, for the thousandth time, to the central mystery of the arson attacks: what was the message? Was he completely insane? But if that was the case, how could the crimes be so carefully planned and executed?
As they entered the town, the chief was struck — after the chaos down on the highway — by the eerie emptiness of it. It had practically returned to ghost-town status, the streets hung with Christmas decorations and the shop windows stuffed with glittering, expensive merchandise adding a Twilight Zone element. It felt like the day after Armageddon.
The chief wondered if Roaring Fork would ever be the same.
43
Later that afternoon, on her way back from the ski warehouse, Corrie decided to stop in town and warm up with a cup of hot chocolate while catching up on email. It was dark, the snow was falling, and she knew she should be getting home, but she did not want to face that horrible, cold mansion after spending most of the day freezing in the warehouse, which she had begun to refer to in her head as the “Siberian torture chamber.”
The snow had lightened a bit as she parked her new Ford Explorer on the street. Since the arson attack of last evening, there was parking everywhere, when before you practically had to give up your firstborn to find a space. Despite the closing of the highway and the airport earlier in the day, an awful lot of people had managed to get out of town. She strolled into Ozymandias, one of the few ordinary, unpretentious cafes in town, with free Wi-Fi and a relaxed wait staff who didn’t look down their noses at her.
The place was almost empty, but a friendly waitress came over and added a bit of cheer to Corrie’s dreary mood. She ordered a hot chocolate and took out her iPad. There were quite a few emails, including one from her advisor asking for another update on her work, fishing for inside details on what was really going on in Roaring Fork, and complaining that she wasn’t keeping him informed. It was true, she had been cagey in her reports; she didn’t want him interfering or trying to shut her down, and she figured the less information he had to latch on to, the better. Once her thesis was completed and turned in, it would blow the committee away; her advisor would have no choice but to join in the general accolade; it would win the Rosewell Prize…or, at least, she hoped that’s how it would happen. So to satisfy Carbone she composed a vague, ambiguous reply to his email, dressing it up as a report but saying essentially nothing, implying her work was getting off to a slow start and that she had little real information as yet. She hit the SEND button, hoping that would hold him for another few days.
Her hot chocolate arrived and she sipped it as she browsed through the last of the emails. Nothing from Pendergast — not that she’d expected it; he wasn’t, apparently, an emailer. Email complete, she checked the
Chocolate finished, she figured she really had better get home. Pulling her scarf tight, she exited the cafe and was surprised to see, walking down the far side of the street, just passing under a streetlamp, a couple she recognized as Stacy and Ted. She stared. While they weren’t exactly walking hand in hand, they seemed pretty friendly, talking and chatting together. As she watched, they disappeared into a restaurant.
Corrie experienced a sudden sick feeling. Earlier, Stacy had claimed she was going to spend the day back at the Fine house, on account of her hangover. But the hangover didn’t seem so bad that she couldn’t go to dinner with Ted. Were the two of them cheating on her behind her back? It seemed unthinkable — and yet, suddenly, quite possible. Maybe this was some sort of payback on Ted’s part for her refusal to sleep with him the previous night. Was he taking up with Stacy on the rebound?
…And what about Stacy? Maybe she was messed up enough to do something like that. After all, she sure hadn’t turned out to be the supremely confident air force captain that Corrie had initially thought, but rather a confused and lonely woman. She hated the idea that all this had changed her feelings toward Stacy, but she
