White Fire

Delving into the accordion file, Pendergast removed several manila folders and laid them out in rows, their tabs lined up. He knew exactly what he was looking for. The first documents he perused involved the original survey of the land, done in the mid-1970s, with corresponding photographs. They included a detailed topographic survey of the terrain, along with a sheaf of photos depicting exactly how the valley and ridges looked before the development began.

It was most revealing.

The original valley had been much narrower and tighter, almost a ravine. Along its length, carved into a benchland a hundred feet above the stream known as Silver Queen Creek, stood the remains of an extensive ore-processing complex first built by the Staffords in the 1870s — the fountainhead of much of their wealth. The first building to be erected housed the “sampler” operation, to test the richness of the ore as it came from the mine; next came a much larger “concentrator” building, containing three steam-powered stamp mills, which crushed the ore and concentrated the silver tenfold; and finally, the smelter itself. All three operations generated tailings, or waste piles of rock, and those tailings were clearly visible on the survey as enormous piles and heaps of rubble and grit. The tailings from all of the operations contained toxic minerals and compounds that leached out into the water table. But it was the last set of tailings — from the smelter — that were truly deadly.

The Stafford smelter in Roaring Fork used the Washoe amalgamation process. In the smelter, the crushed, concentrated ore was further ground up into a paste, and various chemicals were added…including sixty pounds of mercury for each ton of ore concentrate processed. The mercury dissolved the silver — amalgamated with it — and the resulting heavy paste settled to the bottom of the vat, with the waste slurry coming off the top to be dumped. The silver was recovered by heating the amalgam in a retort and driving off the mercury, which was recaptured through condensation, leaving behind crude silver.

The process was not efficient. About two percent of the mercury was lost in each run. That mercury had to end up somewhere, and that somewhere was in the vast tailings dumped into the valley. Pendergast did a quick mental calculation: a two percent loss equaled about a pound of mercury for each ton of concentrate processed. The smelter processed a hundred tons of concentrate a day. By inference, that meant a hundred pounds of mercury had been dumped into the environment on a daily basis — over the nearly two decades during which the smelter operated. Mercury was an exceedingly toxic, pernicious substance, which over time could cause severe and permanent brain damage in people who were exposed to it — especially in children and, to an even greater extent, to the unborn.

It all added up to one thing: The Heights — or at least, the portion of the development that had been erected in the valley — was essentially sitting atop a large Superfund site, with a toxic aquifer underneath.

As he replaced the initial documents, everything came together in Pendergast’s mind. He understood everything with great clarity — everything — including the arson attacks.

Moving more rapidly now, Pendergast glanced through documents relating to the early development itself. The terrain management plan called for using the vast tailing piles to fill the narrow ravine and create the broad, attractive valley floor that existed today. The clubhouse was built just downstream from where the old smelter had been, and a dozen large homes were situated within the valley. Henry Montebello, the master architect, had been in charge of it all: the demolishment of the smelter ruins, the terrain alterations, the spreading of tailings into a nice broad, level area for the lower development and the clubhouse. And his sister-in-law, Mrs. Kermode, had also been an integral player.

Interesting, Pendergast thought, that Montebello’s mansion was on the far side of town, and that Kermode’s own home was built high up on the ridge, far from the zone of contamination. They, and the other members of the Stafford family who were behind the development of The Heights, must have known about the mercury. It occurred to him that the real reason they were building a new clubhouse and spa — which had seemed the very essence of needless indulgence — and situating it on the old Boot Hill cemetery was, in fact, to get it out of the area of contamination.

Pendergast moved from one manila folder to the next, paging through documents relating to the original subdivisions and association pla

And, indeed, here was a file of the well permits. Pendergast looked through it. Each well required the testing of water quality — standard procedure. And every single well had passed: no mercury contamination noted.

Without question, falsified results.

Now came the sales contracts for the first houses built in The Heights. Pendergast selected those dozen properties in the contaminated zone in the valley for special scrutiny. He examined the names of the purchasers. Most appeared to be older, wealthy individuals in retirement. These houses had changed hands a number of times, especially as real estate values skyrocketed in the 1990s.

But Pendergast did recognize the name of one set of purchasers: a “Sarah and Arthur Roman, husband and wife.” No doubt the future parents of Ted Roman. The date of purchase: 1982.

The Roman house was built directly on the site of the smelter, in the zone of greatest contamination. Pendergast thought back to what Corrie had told him about Ted. Assuming he was her age, or even a few years older, there was little doubt that Ted Roman had been exposed to toxic mercury in his mother’s womb, and raised in a toxic house, drinking toxic water, taking toxic showers…

Pendergast put the records aside, a thoughtful expression on his face. After a moment, he picked up the phone and called Corrie’s cell phone. It went directly over to her voice mail.

He then called the Hotel Sebastian and, after speaking to several people, learned that she had left the hotel shortly after her work shift ended at eleven. In her car, destination unknown. However, she had asked the concierge for a snowmobile map of the mountains surrounding Roaring Fork.

With somewhat more alacrity, Pendergast dialed the town library. No answer. He looked up the head librarian’s home number. When she answered, she explained to him that December twenty-fourth was normally a half day at the library, but she had decided not to open at all because of the storm. In response to his next question, she replied that Ted had, in fact, told her he was going to take advantage of the free day by engaging in one of his favorite activities: snowmobiling in the mountains.

Again, Pendergast hung up the phone. He called Stacy Bowdree’s cell, and it, too, went over to voice mail.

A furrow appeared on his pale brow. As he was hanging up, he noticed something he normally would have seen immediately had he not been preoccupied: the papers on his desk were disarranged.

He stared at the papers, his near-photographic mind reconstructing how he had left them. One sheet — the sheet on which he’d copied the message of the Committee of Seven — had been pulled partway out and the papers surrounding it displaced:

mete at the Ideal 11 oclock Sharp to Night they are Holt Up in the closed Christmas Mine up on smugglers wall

Pendergast quickly left his office and went upstairs, where Iris was still dutifully ma