White Fire

She stared with something like stupefaction. There were four in all, laid out in a row of skeletons — or rather, partial mummies, as they still had dried flesh on their bones, rotten clothes, old boots, and hair. Their dried-up heads were tilted back, their jaws wide open as if screaming, exposing mummified mouths full of black, rotten teeth.

As she crawled in to look more closely, she could see all the signs. They had been shot — she could see numerous holes in their skulls, many other bones broken by what looked like bullet impacts. A firing-squad attack far in excess of what would have been necessary to kill them — a display of violent, homicidal fury.

The four mercury-crazed miners. They’d been killed somewhere in this tu

Near the corpses lay a long, heavy stick — a cudgel, really, perhaps carried by one of the killers. It would do for an improvised crutch.

As quickly as she could without compromising the integrity of the evidence, Corrie took off her knapsack, removed the specimen bags, and laid them out. Removing the glove from her good hand and dropping to her knees, she crawled from body to body, taking from each a sample of hair, a fragment of papery dried flesh, and a small bone. She sealed them in the bags and put them back in her backpack. She photographed the bodies with her cell phone, then put the pack back on.

With a gasp of pain, she managed to get to her feet, leaning on the cudgel. Now she had to figure out where she was and find her way out — without getting shot in the process.

As if on cue, she could hear, way back near the cave-in, additional firing. She almost imagined she could hear the buzzing of the rattlers, a soft hiss in the distance: pleasant, like the ocean.

She made her way farther down the tu

And there it was.

Thank God. A break, at last. According to the map, she was now in the Sally Goodin Mine, not far from a lower exit. A dewatering tu

Sure enough: after a few more minutes of excruciating travel she finally came to a low stream of water that covered the rock floor, and then to the opening of an ancient pipe, nearly three feet in diameter, that ran along one side of the tu

It was dark and close, and her bulky suit kept catching and tearing on rusted areas of the pipe. But the going was relatively clear, with no cave-ins or narrowings. Within ten minutes she could feel the flow of air growing colder and fresher, and she fancied she could smell snow. In another few minutes she made out the dimmest of lights ahead, and soon she emerged, first through a shunt, and then a partially open wooden door, into a dark, dingy space, thick with rusted pipes and giant valves. It was now very cold, and a dim gray light filtered in through gaps and cracks in the wooden ceiling. She figured she must be somewhere in the depths of the old Ireland Pump building.

Giving a sob of relief, she looked around and saw an old staircase leading upward. As she limped toward it, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a dark, moving shape. A human shape — coming at her fast.

He’s gotten through the snakes. Somehow he’s gotten through the snakes and flanked me…

One arm wrapped around her waist; another around her neck, covering her mouth, stifling her scream and pulling her head back. Then a face appeared, in the dimness — a face that was just recognizable.

…Ted.

“You!” Ted cried, suddenly loosening his grip and uncovering her mouth. “It’s you! What on earth are you doing here—?”

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, “Ted! There’s a man. Back there…he tried to kill me…” She gasped, unable to continue, as he held her.

“You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed.

She started to sob. “Thank God, Ted, thank God you’re here. He’s got a gun…”

Ted’s grip tightened again as he held her up. “He’s fucked if he comes here,” he said quietly, in a dark voice.

She sobbed, gasped. “I’m so glad to see you…My finger’s been shot off…I need to get to a hospital…”

He continued to hold her. “I’m going to take care of you.”

58

At half past two o’clock in the afternoon, a man wearing an enormous greatcoat, bundled up in gloves, silk scarf, and a trilby hat, carrying a bottle of champagne, rang the doorbell of the large Italianate mansion at 16 Mountain Trail Road. A maid, dressed in a starched black uniform with a white apron and cap, answered the door.

“May I help—?” she began, but the man came striding in with a cheery Christmas greeting, overriding her voice. He handed her his hat, scarf, and coat, revealing himself to be dressed in a severe black suit.

“The storm seems to be letting up!” he said to no one in particular, his voice loud in the echoing marble foyer. “My goodness, it’s cold out there!”

“The family is at Christmas Eve di

But the man paid no attention.

“I’m supposed to a

She could hardly keep up with him. He arrived at the great double doors to the dining room, grasped the handles, and threw them open, to reveal the entire family, a dozen or more, seated around an elegant table gleaming with silver and crystal, the remains of a suckling pig on a giant platter in the center. The pig had been reduced to a rib cage surrounded by greasy gobbets and bones, the only thing remaining intact being its head, with its crispy curled ears and the requisite baked apple in its mouth.

Everyone at the table stared at the man in surprise.

“I tried to—” the maid began, but the gentleman in black interrupted her as he held up the bottle of champagne.

“A bottle of Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne and a Merry Christmas to each and every one of you!” he a

A shocked silence. And then Henry Montebello, sitting at the head of the table, rose. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” His eyes narrowed. “You — you’re that FBI agent.”

“Indeed I am. Aloysius Pendergast, at your service! I’m making the rounds of all my friends, bringing season’s greetings and gifts of cheer!” He sat down in the only empty chair at the table.

“Excuse me,” Montebello said coldly. “That chair is reserved for Mrs. Kermode, who should be here momentarily.”

“Well, Mrs. Kermode’s not here yet, and I am.” The man plunked the champagne down on the table. “Shall we open it?”

Montebello’s patrician features hardened. “I don’t know who you think you are, sir, bursting into a private family di

The agent paused, swaying slightly in the chair, a hurt expression gathering on his face. “If you’re not going to open the champagne, fine, but don’t send me away without a little glass of something.” He reached over the table and picked up a half-full bottle of wine, examining the label. “Hmmm. A 200 °Castle’s Leap Cabernet.”