White Fire (35 page)

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

T
he 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?”

Swinton shifted in his chair. The expression on his face went through several rapid changes. He exposed his ferrety teeth several times, his lips twitching. This went on for a while, then at last he cleared his throat. “Why do you want to know?”

“Private curiosity.”

“Who are you gonna tell?”

“Nobody.”

Swinton stared hungrily at the thousand dollars sitting on the table. “You swear to that? It’s been a secret in my family for a long, long time.”

Pendergast nodded.

Another pause. “It started with the Committee of Seven,” Swinton said at last. “My great-great-granddaddy, August Swinton, was one of them. At least, that’s what was passed down.” A tinge of pride edged into his voice. “As you said, those were no grizzly killings. They was done by four crazy bastards, former smelter workers, who were living wild in the mountains and had turned cannibal. A man named Shadrach Cropsey went up to track the bear and discovered it wasn’t a bear at all, but these fellers living in an abandoned mine. He figured out where they were holed up and then pulled together this Committee of Seven.”

“And then what happened?”

“That’s a second question.”

“So it is.” Pendergast smiled. “Time for another round?” He picked up the revolver, spun the cylinder, and laid it down.

Swinton shook his head. “I can still see the round, and it ain’t in the firing chamber. Another thousand bucks?”

Pendergast nodded.

Swinton picked up the gun and pulled the trigger again, put it down, held out his hand. “This is the dumbest damn game I ever saw.”

Pendergast handed him a thousand dollars. Then he picked up the gun, spun the barrel, and without looking at it put it to his head and pulled the trigger.
Click.

“You really are one crazy motherfucker.”

“There appear to be a great many like me in this area,” Pendergast replied. “And now for my question: What did Shadrach Cropsey and this Committee of Seven do then?”

“Back in those days, they handled problems the right way—they did it themselves. Fuck the law and all its bullshit. They went up there and smoked those cannibals. The way I heard it, old Shadrach got his ass killed in the fight. After that, there weren’t no more ‘grizzly’ killings.”

“And the place where they killed the miners?”

“Another question, friend.”

Pendergast spun the barrel, placed it on the table. Swinton eyed it nervously. “I can’t see the round.”

“Then it is either in the firing chamber or in the opposite chamber, hidden by the frame. Which means there is a fifty–fifty chance you will live.”

“I ain’t playing.”

“You just said you would. I didn’t imagine you were a coward, Mr. Swinton.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the brick of hundreds. This time he peeled off twenty. “We’ll double the stakes. You will receive two thousand—if you pull the trigger.”

Swinton was sweating heavily. “I ain’t gonna play.”

“You mean, you pass on your turn? I won’t insist.”

“That’s what I mean. I pass.”

“But I do not pass on my turn.”

“Go ahead. Be my fucking guest.”

Pendergast spun the barrel, held the revolver up, pulled the trigger.
Click.
He put it down.

“My final question: Where did they kill the miners?”

“I don’t know. But I do have the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one that got passed down to me. It sort of explains things.” He rose from his creaking chair and shuffled off into the dim recesses of the cabin. He returned a moment later with a dusty old piece of yellow paper sandwiched in Mylar. He eased himself back down and handed the letter to Pendergast.

It was a handwritten note, undated, with no salutation or signature. It read:

mete at the Ideal 11 oclock Sharp to Night they are Holt Up in the closed Christmas Mine up on smugglers wall there are 4 of them bring your best Guns and lantern burn this Letter afore you set out

Pendergast lowered the letter. Swinton held out his hand, and Pendergast returned it. Swinton’s brow was still beaded with sweat, but the look on his face was pure relief. “I can’t believe you played that game without ever looking at the cylinder. That’s just crazy-ass dangerous.”

Pendergast dressed again in his coat, scarves, and hat, and then took up the revolver. He opened the cylinder and let the .44 magnum round drop into his hand. “There was never any danger. I brought this round with me and substituted it for one of yours after I unloaded the gun.” He held it up. “It’s been doctored.”

Swinton rose. “Mother
fucker
!” He came at Pendergast, drawing his carry, but in a flash Pendergast had shoved the round back in and rotated it into firing position, pointing the Blackhawk at Swinton.