White Fire

10

Jenny Baker arrived at the Roaring Fork City Hall lugging Chief Stanley Morris’s second briefcase in both hands. The chief carried two bulging briefcases to every meeting he attended, it seemed, so as to be prepared to answer any question that might come up. Jenny had tried to persuade him to get a tablet computer, but he was a confirmed Luddite and refused even to use the desktop computer in his office.

Jenny rather liked that, despite the inconvenience of having to lug around two briefcases. So far, the chief had proven a pleasant man to work for, rarely made demands, and was always agreeable. In the two weeks she had interned in the police station, she’d seen him flustered and worried but never angry. Now he walked alongside her, chatting about town business, as they entered the meeting room. Big town meetings were sometimes held in the Opera House, but this one — on December thirteenth, less than two weeks from Christmas — was not expected to be well attended.

She took a seat just behind the chief in the town-official seating area. They were early — the chief was always early — and she watched as the mayor came in, followed by the Planning Board, the town attorney, and other officials whose names she did not know. Hard on their heels came a contingent from The Heights, led by Mrs. Kermode, her coiffed, layered helmet of blond hair utterly perfect. She was followed by her brother-in-law, Henry Montebello, and several anonymous-looking men in suits.

The main item of the meeting — the agenda was routinely published in the paper — involved a proposal from The Heights regarding where the Boot Hill remains were to be reinterred. As the meeting opened, with the usual pledge of allegiance and the reading of minutes, Jenny’s thoughts drifted to the woman she had met — Corrie — and what had happened to her. It sort of freaked her out. She had seemed so nice, so professional — and then to be caught breaking into a warehouse, desecrating a coffin, and stealing bones. You never could tell what some people were capable of doing. And a student at John Jay, too. Nothing like that had ever happened in The Heights, and the neighborhood was still up in arms about it. It was all her parents talked about at breakfast every morning, even now, ten days after the event.

As the preliminaries went on, Jenny was surprised to see just how many people were filing into the public seating area. It was already packed, and now the standing-room area in the back was filling up. Maybe the cemetery thing was going to erupt into controversy again. She hoped this wasn’t going to make the meeting run late — she had a dinner date later that evening.

The meeting moved to the first item on the agenda. The attorney for The Heights rose and gave his presentation in a nasal drone. The Heights, he said, proposed to rebury the disinterred remains in a field they had purchased for just such a purpose on a hillside about five miles down Route 82. This surprised Jenny; she had always assumed the remains would be reburied within the town limits. Now she understood why so many people were there.

The attorney went through some legal gobbledygook about how this was all perfectly legal, reasonable, proper, preferable, and indeed, unavoidable for various reasons she didn’t understand. As he continued, Jenny heard a slow rising of disapproving sounds, murmurings — even a few hisses — from the public area. She glanced in the direction of the noise. The proposal was, it seemed, not being greeted with favor.

Just as she was about to turn her attention back to the stage, she noted a striking figure in a black suit appear in the very rear of the public area. There was something about the man that gave her pause. Was it his sculpted, alabaster face? Or his hair, so blond it was almost white? Or his eyes of such pale gray-blue that, even across the room, he looked almost like an alien. Was he a celebrity? If not, Jenny decided, he should be.

Now a landscape designer was on his feet and giving his spiel, complete with slide show, images on the portable screen displaying a plat of the proposed burial area, followed by three-dimensional views of the future cemetery, with stone walls, a quaint wrought-iron archway leading in, cobbled paths among the graves. Next came slides of the actual site: a lovely green meadow partway up a mountain. It was pretty — but it wasn’t in Roaring Fork.

As he spoke, the murmurings of disapproval, the restlessness, of the gathered public grew in suppressed intensity. Jenny recognized a reporter from the Roaring Fork Times sitting in the front row of the public area, and the look of anticipatory delight on his face signaled that he expected fireworks.

And now, at last, Mrs. Betty Brown Kermode rose to speak. At this, a hush fell. She was a commanding presence in town — even Jenny’s father seemed intimidated by her — and those who had gathered to express their opinions were temporarily muted.

She began by mentioning the exceedingly unfortunate break-in of ten days earlier, the shocking violation of a corpse, and how this demonstrated the need to get those human remains back in the ground as soon as possible. She mentioned in passing the seriousness of the crime — so serious that the perpetrator had accepted a plea bargain that would result in ten years’ incarceration.

The Heights, she went on, had been taking care of these remains with the utmost attention, deeply aware of their sacred duty to see that these rough miners, these pioneers of Roaring Fork, were given a burial site suitable to their sacrifice, their spirit, and their contribution to the opening of the American West. They had, she said, found the perfect resting place: on the slopes of the Catamount, with heartbreaking views of the Continental Divide. Surrounding the graveyard, they had purchased over a hundred acres of open space, which would remain forever wild. This is what these Colorado pioneers deserved — not being jammed into some town lot, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of commerce, traffic, shopping, and sport.

It was an effective presentation. Even Jenny found herself agreeing with Mrs. Kermode. The grumbling was no longer audible when she returned to her seat.

Next to stand was Henry Montebello, who had married into Kermode’s family and, as a result, gained instant power and respectability in the town. He was an older man, gaunt, reserved, and weathered looking. Jenny did not like him and was, in fact, afraid of him. He had a laconic mid-Atlantic accent that somehow caused every observation he made to sound cynical. Although he had been the master architect for The Heights way back when, unlike Kermode he did not live within the development, but rather had his home and office in a large mansion on the other side of town.

He cleared his throat. No expense had been spared, he told the gathered crowd, in developing The Heights — and not that alone, but also in ensuring that it conformed, not only with the spirit and aesthetic of Roaring Fork, but to the local ecology and environment, as well. He could say this, Montebello continued, because he had personally supervised the preparation of the site, the design of the mansions and clubhouse, and the construction of the development. He would, he said, oversee the creation of the new cemetery with the same close, hands-on attention he had given to The Heights. The implication seemed to be that the long-dead occupants of Boot Hill should be grateful to Montebello for his personal ministrations on their behalf. Montebello spoke with quiet dignity, and with aristocratic gravitas — and yet there was a steely undertone to his words, subtle but unmistakable, that seemed to dare anyone to challenge a single syllable of what he’d uttered. No one did, and he once again took his seat.

And now the mayor rose, thanked Mrs. Kermode and Mr. Montebello, and called for public comment. A number of hands went up, and the mayor pointed at someone. But as that person rose to speak, the man in the black suit — who had somehow slipped all the way to the front — held up his hand for silence.

“You are out of turn, sir,” said the mayor, sternly, rapping his gavel.

“That remains to be seen,” came the reply. The voice was as smooth as honey, an unusual Deep South accent Jenny could not place, but something about it gave the mayor just enough pause to allow the man to continue.

“Mrs. Kermode,” the man said, turning to her, “as you well know, permission from a qualified descendant is required to exhume human remains. In the case of historic burials, both Colorado and federal law state that a ‘good-faith effort’ must be made to locate such descendants before any remains can be exhumed. I assume that The Heights made such an effort?”

The mayor rapped his gavel. “I repeat, you are out of turn, sir!”

“I’m happy to answer the question,” Mrs. Kermode said smoothly. “We did indeed make a diligent search for descendants. None could be found. These miners were mostly transients without families, who died a century and a half ago, leaving no issue. It’s all in the public documentation.”

“Very good,” said the mayor. “Thank you, sir, for your opinion. We have many other people who wish to speak. Mr. Jackson?”

But the man went on. “That is strange,” he said. “Because in just fifteen minutes of idle, ah, surfing on the Internet, I was able to locate a direct descendant of one of the miners.”

A silence, and then the mayor spoke. “Just who are you, sir?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment.” The man raised a piece of paper. “I have here a letter from Captain Stacy Bowdree, USAF, just back from a tour in Afghanistan. When Captain Bowdree heard that you people had dug up her great-great-grandfather Emmett Bowdree, dumped his remains in a box, and stored them in a filthy equipment shed on a ski slope, she was exceedingly upset. In fact, she plans to press charges.”

This was greeted by silence.

The man held up another piece of paper. “Colorado statute is very strict on the desecration of cemeteries and human remains. Allow me to read from Section Ninety-Seven of the Colorado Criminal Codes and Statutes: Desecration of a Cemetery.” And he began to quote aloud.

(2) (a) Every person who shall knowingly and willfully dig up, except as otherwise provided by law with the permission of an authorized descendant, any corpse or remains of any human being, or cause through word, deed or action the same to happen, shall upon conviction be guilty of a Class A felony and shall be imprisoned for not more than thirty (30) years or fined not more than Fifty Thousand Dollars ($50,000.00), or both, in the discretion of the court.

Now the mayor rose in a fury, hammering his gavel. “This is not a court of law!” Bang! “I will not have these proceedings co-opted. If you, sir, have legal questions, take them up with the town attorney instead of wasting our time in a public meeting!”

But the man in the black suit would not be silenced. “Mayor, may I direct your attention to the language? Or cause through word, deed or action the same to happen. That seems to apply to you quite specifically, as well as to Mrs. Kermode and the chief of police. All three of you were responsible in word, deed or action for the illegal exhumation of Emmett Bowdree — were you not?”

“Enough! Security, remove this man from the premises!”

Even as two cops struggled to make their way to the man, he spoke again, his voice cutting the air like a razor. “And are you not about to sentence someone to ten years in prison for violating this very statute that you, yourselves, have already so clearly violated?”

Now the public was aroused, both pro and con. There were some murmurings and scattered shouts: “Is it true?” and “What goes?” along with “Get rid of him!” and “Who the hell is this guy?”

The two cops, pushing their way through the now-standing public crowd, reached the man. One took his arm.

“Don’t give us any trouble, sir.”

The man freed himself from the cop’s grasp. “I would advise you not to touch me.”

“Arrest him for disturbing the peace!” the mayor cried.

“Let him speak!” someone shouted.

“Sir,” Jenny heard the cop say, “if you won’t cooperate, we’ll have to arrest you.”

The man’s response was drowned out by the hubbub. The mayor rapped his gavel repeatedly, calling for order.

“You’re under arrest,” said the cop. “Place your hands behind your back.”

Instead of obeying the order, Jenny saw the man remove his wallet with a single, smooth motion and flip it open. There was a flash of gold, and the two officers froze.

The hubbub began to die down.

“In response to your earlier question,” the man told the mayor in his dulcet southern voice, “I am Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Now the entire room went deathly silent. Jenny had never before seen the look she now saw on Mrs. Kermode’s face: shock and fury. Henry Montebello’s face betrayed nothing at all. Chief Morris, for his part, looked paralyzed. Paralyzed wasn’t the word — he looked wilted. Slumped. As if he wanted to melt into his chair and disappear. The mayor looked merely undone.

“Emmett Bowdree,” the man named Pendergast continued, “is just one of a hundred and thirty human remains that the four of you — Mrs. Kermode, the mayor, Mr. Montebello, and the chief of police who signed the actual order — are responsible for desecrating, according to Colorado statute. The criminal and civil liability is staggering.”

Mrs. Kermode recovered first. “Is this how the FBI operates? You come in here, interrupt our public meeting, and make threats? Are you even a real agent? Come down here and present your credentials to the mayor in the proper fashion!”

“Gladly.” The pale man slipped through the gate separating the public area from the official one and strolled down the aisle with a sort of insolent casualness. He arrived in front of the mayor and laid the shield down on the podium. The man examined it, his face reflecting growing consternation.

With a sudden, lithe movement, Agent Pendergast plucked the mayor’s microphone out of its mount. Only then did Jenny realize that inviting the stranger to the front had probably not been the best idea. She could see the reporter from the Roaring Fork Times scribbling madly, a look of pure joy on his face.

Now the mayor spoke, raising his voice on account of having lost his amplification. “Agent Pendergast, are you here in an official capacity?”

“Not yet,” came the answer.

“Then I move we adjourn this meeting so that our attorneys, the attorneys from The Heights, and you can address these issues in private.” A bang of the gavel sealed this statement.

Agent Pendergast’s black-clad arm snaked out, took the gavel, and moved it out of reach of the mayor’s hand. “Enough of that uncivilized pounding.”

This brought a laugh from the public section.

“I am not yet finished.” Pendergast’s voice, now amplified by the sound system, filled the hall. “Captain Bowdree wrote me that, since her great-great-grandfather’s remains have been so rudely disinterred, and nothing can remedy the insult to his memory, she believes that they should at least be examined for cause of death — for historical purposes, of course. Therefore, she has given permission for a certain Ms. Corrine Swanson to examine those remains before they are reburied. In their original resting place, by the way.”

“What?” Kermode rose in a fury. “Did that girl send you? Is she behind this?”

“She has no idea I’m even here,” the man said smoothly. “However, it would seem that the most serious charge against her is now moot — but has instead redounded to the four of you. You are now the ones facing thirty years in prison — not on one count, but on one hundred and thirty.” He paused. “Imagine if your sentences were to be served sequentially.”

“These accusations are outrageous!” the mayor cried. “I hereby adjourn this meeting. Will security immediately clear the room!”

Chaos ensued. But Pendergast did nothing to prevent it, and the meeting room was finally cleared, leaving him alone with the town fathers, The Heights attorneys, Kermode, Montebello, Chief Morris, and a few other officials. Jenny waited in her seat beside the chief, breathless. What would happen now? For the first time, Kermode looked defeated — haggard, her platinum hair undone. The chief was bathed in sweat, the mayor pale.

“It looks like there’s going to be quite a story in the Roaring Fork Times tomorrow,” said Pendergast.

Everyone seemed to stagger at the thought. The mayor wiped his brow.

“In addition to that story,” said Pendergast, “I’d like to see another one appear.”

There was a long silence. Montebello was the first to speak. “And what might that be?”

“A story stating that you—” Agent Pendergast turned to Chief Morris— “have dropped all charges against Corrine Swanson and released her from jail.”

He let that sink in.

“As I said before, the most serious charge is now moot. Ms. Swanson has permission to examine the remains of Emmett Bowdree. The other charges — trespassing and B and E — are less grave and could be dismissed with relative ease. Everything can, in fact, be chalked up to an unfortunate miscommunication between Chief Morris here and Ms. Swanson.”

“This is blackmail,” said Kermode.

Pendergast turned to her. “I might point out it wasn’t actually a miscommunication. My understanding is that Chief Morris indicated she would have access to the remains. He then withdrew that assurance, due to your own gross interference. It was unfair. I am merely rectifying a wrong.”

There was a pause while the others digested this. “And what,” asked Kermode, “will you do for us in return? That is, if the chief releases this lady friend of yours.”

“I’ll persuade Captain Bowdree not to take her complaint officially to the FBI,” Pendergast said smoothly.

“I see,” said Kermode. “It all depends on this Captain Bowdree. Provided, of course, this person even exists.”

“How unfortunate for you that Bowdree was an unusual name. It made my task so much easier. A phone call established that she was well aware of her Colorado roots and, in fact, quite proud of them. Mrs. Kermode, you claimed The Heights made a good-faith effort to locate descendants. That is clearly a falsehood. Naturally, this is something the FBI would have to look into.”

Jenny noticed that under her makeup, Mrs. Kermode’s face was very pale. “Let’s get this straight. This Swanson girl — she’s what, your girlfriend? A relative?”

“She’s no relation to me.” Agent Pendergast narrowed his silvery eyes and looked at Kermode in a most unsettling way. “I will, however, be remaining in Roaring Fork to take in the Christmas season — and to make sure you don’t interfere with her again.”

As Jenny watched, Pendergast turned to the chief. “I suggest you call the newspaper right away — I imagine their deadline is looming. I’ve already booked a room for Ms. Swanson at the Hotel Sebastian, and I hope that — for your sake — she does not spend another night in your jail.”