White Fire (16 page)
“Not tonight, thanks. I’ve got to get home, get my sleep,” she said, but added a smile to let him know it wasn’t absolute.
“No problem. We’ll have to do this again—soon.”
“I’d like that.”
As she drove away from the restaurant, heading toward the dark woods and thinking about crawling into a freezing bed, Corrie started to regret her decision not to “see” Ted’s tiny apartment.
I
n his suite of rooms on the top floor of the Hotel Sebastian, Agent Pendergast laid aside the book he was reading, drained the small cup of espresso that sat on the side table, and then—standing up—walked over to the picture window on the far side of the sitting room. The suite was perfectly silent: Pendergast disliked the clamor of anonymous neighbors and had reserved the rooms on both sides of his own to ensure he would remain undisturbed. He stood at the window, absolutely still, looking down over East Main Street and the light snow that was falling onto the sidewalks, buildings, and passersby, softening the evening scene and bestowing a muted, dream-like quality on the millions of Christmas lights stretching many blocks. He remained there for perhaps ten minutes, gazing out into the night. Then, turning away again, he walked over to the desk, where a FedEx envelope lay, unopened. It was from his factotum in New York, Proctor, addressed to him in care of the Hotel Sebastian.
Pendergast picked up the envelope, slit it open with a smooth motion, and let the contents slip onto the desk. Several sealed envelopes of various sizes fell out, along with an oversize card—embossed and engraved—and a brief note in Proctor’s handwriting. The note said merely that Pendergast’s ward, Constance Greene, had left for Dharamsala, India, where she planned to spend two weeks visiting the nineteenth rinpoche. The fancy card was an invitation to the wedding of Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta and Captain Laura Hayward, which was scheduled for May twenty-ninth of the following spring.
Pendergast’s gaze moved to the sealed envelopes. He glanced over them for a moment without touching any. Then he picked up an airmail envelope and turned it over thoughtfully in his hands. Leaving the others, he walked back to his sitting room chair, sat down, and opened the letter. A single sheet of thin paper lay inside, a letter in a childish hand, written in the old-fashioned German script known as Sütterlin. He began to read.
December 6
École Mère-Église
St. Moritz, Switzerland
Dear Father,
It seems a long time since you last visited. I have been counting the days. They number one hundred and twelve. I hope you will again soon come.
I am treated well. The food here is very good. On Saturday suppers we have Linzer Torte for desert. Have you ever eaten Linzer Torte? It is good.
A lot of the teachers here speak German but I try always to use my English. They say my English is getting better. The teachers are very nice except for Madame Montaine who always smells of rose water. I like History and Science but not Mathematiks. I am not good at Mathematiks.
In the autumn I enjoyed walking on the hill sides after classes but now there is too much snow. They tell me that over the Christmas holidays I will be taught how to ski. I think I will like that.
Thank you for your letter. Please send me another. I hope we shall meet again soon.
Love,
Your son,
Tristram
Pendergast read the letter a second time. Then, very slowly, he refolded it and placed it back into its envelope. Turning off the reading lamp, he sat in the dark, lost in thought, book forgotten, as the minutes ticked by. Finally he stirred again, pulled a cell phone from his suit pocket, and dialed a number with a northern Virginia area code.
“Central Monitoring,” came the crisp, accentless voice.
“This is S. A. Pendergast. Please transfer me to South American Operations, Desk 14-C.”
“Very good.” There was a brief silence, a click, and then another voice came on the line. “Agent Wilkins.”
“Pendergast speaking.”
The voice stiffened slightly. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s the status of Wildfire?”
“Stable but negative. No hits.”
“Your monitoring efforts?”
“All listening posts are active. We’re monitoring national and local police reports and news media twenty-four seven, and we’re electronically combing the daily NSA feeds as well. In addition, we continue to interface with CIA field agents in Brazil and the surrounding countries in search of any…anomalous activity.”
“You have my updated location?”
“In Colorado? Yes.”
“Very good, Agent Wilkins. As always, please inform me immediately if the status of Wildfire changes.”
“We’ll do that, sir.”
Pendergast ended the call. Picking up the house phone, he ordered another espresso from room service. Then he used his cell phone to make another call: this one to a suburb of Cleveland called River Pointe.
The call was answered on the second ring. There was no voice; just the sound of a connection being made.
“Mime?” Pendergast said into the silence.
For a moment, nothing. Then a high, thin voice wheezed: “Is that my main man? My main Secret Agent Man?”
“I’d like an update, please, Mime.”
“All quiet on the Western Front.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a peep.”
“One moment.” Pendergast paused as a room service attendant brought in the espresso. He tipped the man, then waited until he was once again alone. “And you’re confident that you’ve cast your net widely, and finely, enough to spot the…target if he surfaces?”
“Secret Agent Man, I’ve got a series of AI algorithms and heuristic search patterns online that would make you stain your government-issue BVDs. I’m monitoring all official, and a goodly amount of unofficial, web traffic in and out of the target area. You can’t imagine the bandwidth I’m burning through. Why, I’ve had to siphon off server farms from at least half a dozen—”
“I can’t imagine. Nor do I want to.”
“Anyway, the objective’s totally offline, no Facebook updates for this dude. But if the guy’s as sick as you say, then the moment he surfaces—hoo, boy!” A sudden silence. “Um, oops. I keep forgetting Alban’s your son.”
“Just keep up the monitoring operations, please, Mime. And let me know the instant you note anything.”
“You got it.” The phone went dead.
And Pendergast sat in the darkened room, unmoving, for a long time.
C
orrie parked her Rent-a-Junker Ford Focus in the sprawling driveway of 1 Ravens Ravine Road—aka, the Fine mansion—and got out. It was almost midnight, and a huge pale moon, hanging low in the sky, turned the pine trees blue against a creamy bed of white snow, striped with shadows. A light snow was falling, and here, in this bowl-like vale at the edge of a ravine, she felt like she was inside some child’s overturned snow globe. Ahead, the row of six garage doors stood against the cement drive like big gray teeth. She killed the engine—for some obscure reason, Fine didn’t want her to use the garage—and got out of the car. She walked up to the closest door, plucked off her glove, punched in the code. Then, as it rose on its metal rails, she turned suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath.
There, in the shadow of the side of the garage, was a shape. At first, Corrie couldn’t make out what it was. But as the light from the garage door motor provided a faint illumination, she made out a small dog, shivering in the darkness.
“Well!” Corrie said, kneeling beside it. “What are you doing out here?”
The dog came over, whining, and licked her hand. It was a mutt, looking like a cross between a small hound dog and a spaniel, with droopy ears, big sad brown eyes, and brown and white splotches of fur. It was not wearing a collar.
“You can’t stay out here,” she said. “Come on in.”
The dog followed her eagerly into the garage. Walking up to a bank of buttons, she pressed the one for the bay she’d entered. The garage was empty—a ludicrous expanse of concrete. Outside, she could hear the moaning of the wind as it shook the trees. Why on earth couldn’t she park in here?
She glanced down at the dog, which was looking up at her and wagging its tail, a desperately hopeful look in its eyes. Screw Mr. Fine—the pooch would stay.
Corrie waited until the garage door had closed completely before unlocking the door and stepping into the house. Inside, it was almost as cold as outdoors. She walked through a laundry room with machines big enough to service a battalion, past a pantry larger than her father’s entire apartment, and then into the hallway that ran the length of the mansion. She continued on, dog at her heels, along the corridor as it bent once, then twice, following the contours of the ravine, past room after huge room filled with uncomfortable-looking avant-garde furniture. The corridor itself was filled with that African statuary, all big bellies and long angry faces and carven eyes that seemed to follow her as she passed by. The tall picture windows of the various rooms to her left had no curtains, and the bright moonlight threw skeletal shadows against the pallid walls.
The night before—her first night in the place—Corrie had checked out both the second floor and the basement, familiarizing herself with the rest of the layout. The upstairs consisted of a huge master bedroom, with dual bathrooms and walk-in closets, six other unfurnished bedrooms, and numerous guest bathrooms. In the main basement was a gym, a two-lane bowling alley, a mechanical room, a swimming flume—empty—and several storage areas. It seemed obscene that any house should be this big—or this empty.
She finally reached the end of the hallway and the door leading into her own small suite of rooms. She entered, closed the door behind her, and switched on the small space heater in the room she’d chosen as her own. Pulling a couple of bowls from the cabinet, she set out water and an improvised dinner of crackers and cereal for the dog—tomorrow, if she couldn’t find the owner, she’d pick up some kibble.
She watched the little brown-and-white animal as it ate ravenously. The poor thing was starving. While a mutt, it was an endearing one, with a big shock of unruly hair that fell over its eyes. It reminded her of Jack Corbett, a kid she’d known in seventh grade back in Medicine Creek. His hair had flopped down over his face in just the same way.
“Your name is Jack,” she said to the dog, while it looked up at her, wagging its tail.
She thought for a moment about fixing a cup of herbal tea for herself, but she felt too tired to make the effort and instead washed up, changed quickly into her nightwear, then slipped between the chilly sheets. She heard the tick of claws as the dog came in and settled down on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Gradually, her body heat and the little space heater—cranked to maximum—blunted the worst of the cold. She decided against doing any reading, preferring to use the electricity for heat instead of light. She’d gradually increase the amount of juice she used, and see if Fine complained.
Her thoughts drifted back to the date she’d had with Ted. He was earnest, and funny, and nice, if a bit goofy—but then, ski bums were supposed to be goofy. Handsome and goofy and carefree. He was no lightweight, though—he had principles. Idealistic, too. She admired his independence in leaving his parents’ grand house for a small apartment downtown.
She turned in the bed, slowly becoming drowsy. He was hot, and on top of it a nice guy, but she wanted to get to know him just a little better before…
…Somewhere, from the distant spaces of the house overhead, came a loud bump.
She sat up in bed, instantly wide awake. What the hell was that?
She remained motionless. The only light in the room came from the bright orange coils of the space heater. As she sat, listening intently, she could hear, faintly, the mournful call of the wind as it coursed through the narrow valley.
There was nothing else. It must have been a dead branch, broken loose by the wind and knocked against the roof.
Slowly, she settled back down into the bed. Now that she was aware of the wind, she listened to its faint muttering and groaning as she lay in the darkness. As the minutes passed, drowsiness began to return. Her thoughts drifted toward her plans for the next day. Her analysis of the Bowdree skeleton was just about complete, and if she was going to make any progress on her theory she’d need to get permission to examine some of the other remains. Of course, Pendergast had offered to do just that, and she knew enough of his meddling ways to believe that he would—
Meddling.
Now, why had she used that word?
And come to think of it, why did the mere thought of Pendergast—for the first time ever, since she’d known him—cause an upwelling of annoyance? After all, the man had rescued her from a ten-year prison sentence. He’d saved her career. He’d paid for her education, basically put her life on track.
If she was honest with herself, she had to admit it had nothing to do with Pendergast—and everything with herself. This cache of skeletons was a big project, and an incredible opportunity. She was wary at the thought of anyone else stepping in and stealing some of the limelight. And Pendergast—unintentionally—was capable of doing just that. If even a whiff got out that he’d helped her, everyone would assume that he’d done the real work and discount her own contribution.
Her mother had taken great relish in pointing out, again and again, what a loser she was. Her classmates back in Medicine Creek had called her a freak, a waste of space. She’d never realized, until now, just how much it meant to her to accomplish something important…
There it was
: another sound. But this was no bump of a tree branch hitting the roof. This was a low scratching sound, coming from some spot not all that far away from her own bedroom: soft, even stealthy.
Corrie listened. Maybe it was the wind again, rubbing a pine branch back and forth against the house. But if it was the wind, it sounded awfully regular.
