White Fire

43

Later that afternoon, on her way back from the ski warehouse, Corrie decided to stop in town and warm up with a cup of hot chocolate while catching up on email. It was dark, the snow was falling, and she knew she should be getting home, but she did not want to face that horrible, cold mansion after spending most of the day freezing in the warehouse, which she had begun to refer to in her head as the “Siberian torture chamber.”

The snow had lightened a bit as she parked her new Ford Explorer on the street. Since the arson attack of last evening, there was parking everywhere, when before you practically had to give up your firstborn to find a space. Despite the closing of the highway and the airport earlier in the day, an awful lot of people had managed to get out of town. She strolled into Ozymandias, one of the few ordinary, unpretentious cafés in town, with free Wi-Fi and a relaxed wait staff who didn’t look down their noses at her.

The place was almost empty, but a friendly waitress came over and added a bit of cheer to Corrie’s dreary mood. She ordered a hot chocolate and took out her iPad. There were quite a few emails, including one from her advisor asking for another update on her work, fishing for inside details on what was really going on in Roaring Fork, and complaining that she wasn’t keeping him informed. It was true, she had been cagey in her reports; she didn’t want him interfering or trying to shut her down, and she figured the less information he had to latch on to, the better. Once her thesis was completed and turned in, it would blow the committee away; her advisor would have no choice but to join in the general accolade; it would win the Rosewell Prize…or, at least, she hoped that’s how it would happen. So to satisfy Carbone she composed a vague, ambiguous reply to his email, dressing it up as a report but saying essentially nothing, implying her work was getting off to a slow start and that she had little real information as yet. She hit the SEND button, hoping that would hold him for another few days.

Her hot chocolate arrived and she sipped it as she browsed through the last of the emails. Nothing from Pendergast — not that she’d expected it; he wasn’t, apparently, an emailer. Email complete, she checked the New York Times, the Huff Post, and a few other sites. The Times had a front-page story on the arson attacks, which she read with interest. The story had gone national after the second attack, but this third one elevated it to one of those horrific, sensationalistic stories that captured the attention of the country. Ironic: now it was big news, just as the storm was about to hit and no reporters could get in to cover it.

Chocolate finished, she figured she really had better get home. Pulling her scarf tight, she exited the café and was surprised to see, walking down the far side of the street, just passing under a streetlamp, a couple she recognized as Stacy and Ted. She stared. While they weren’t exactly walking hand in hand, they seemed pretty friendly, talking and chatting together. As she watched, they disappeared into a restaurant.

Corrie experienced a sudden sick feeling. Earlier, Stacy had claimed she was going to spend the day back at the Fine house, on account of her hangover. But the hangover didn’t seem so bad that she couldn’t go to dinner with Ted. Were the two of them cheating on her behind her back? It seemed unthinkable — and yet, suddenly, quite possible. Maybe this was some sort of payback on Ted’s part for her refusal to sleep with him the previous night. Was he taking up with Stacy on the rebound?

…And what about Stacy? Maybe she was messed up enough to do something like that. After all, she sure hadn’t turned out to be the supremely confident air force captain that Corrie had initially thought, but rather a confused and lonely woman. She hated the idea that all this had changed her feelings toward Stacy, but she couldn’t help but think of her now as a different person. She wondered what the PTSD meant and how it might manifest itself. And then there was the odd fact that Stacy had arrived in town several days before revealing herself to anyone. What had she been doing during that time? Had she really just been “getting a feel” for the place?

Corrie got into her car and started the engine. There was still some residual heat so it warmed up fast, which made her grateful. She drove out of town and headed up Ravens Ravine Road, taking the switchbacks very slow, the snow building up on her wipers. It was falling so thickly now that anyone waiting with a gun wouldn’t even see her car on the road, let alone have a shot. So much the better. She thought ahead to her crappy meal of beans and rice — all she could afford — and another evening of freezing her ass in the house. The hell with it, she was going to pick the thermostat lock, turn up the heat, and let the owner howl. Ridiculous that a multimillionaire was so concerned about a few extra dollars.

The mansion emerged from the falling snow, dark and gloomy. Stacy’s car was gone, as expected. Corrie hoped she wouldn’t drink in the restaurant and try to drive home in this weather afterward.

She parked in the driveway. Her car would be plowed in the next morning, as it had been several times before, requiring her to shovel it out. All because the owner wouldn’t let her use the garage. No wonder he was locked in a horrible divorce.

As she got out of the car, freezing already, it abruptly occurred to her that Pendergast was right. It was time to get out of Roaring Fork. Her basic research was complete, and it was all too clear she wasn’t going to solve the hundred-fifty-year-old serial killings. She’d exhausted all avenues without coming up with so much as a clue. As soon as the highway was opened, she’d split.

Decision made.

She stuck her key into the door of the house and opened it, expecting the usual flurry of barks and yips to greet her — only to be met with silence.

She felt a welling of apprehension. It was like last night all over again. “Jack?” she called out.

No answer. Had Stacy brought the dog into town with her, in case he was lonely? But she hadn’t shown much interest in Jack and professed to prefer cats.

“Jack? Here, Jack!”

Not even a whimper. Corrie tried once again to control her pounding heart. She flicked on all the lights — screw the electric bill — and called again and again. Making her way down the hall to her wing of the house, she found her bedroom door shut but unlocked. She pushed it open. “Jack?”

The room was dark. There was a form at the foot of the bed, and a very dark area around it. She turned on the lights, and saw Jack’s body — minus the head — lying on top of the rug, surrounded by a huge crimson stain.

She didn’t scream. She couldn’t scream. She simply stared.

And then she saw the head, propped up on the dresser, eyes open and staring, a cascade of congealing blood dripping down the fake wood front. Stuck between the jaws was a piece of paper. In an almost dream-like state, disconnected, as if it was happening to someone else, Corrie managed to pick up a letter opener, pry open the jaws, take out the paper, and read the message.

Swanson: Get out of town today or you’re dead. A bullet through that sweet little head of yours.

Corrie stared. It was like some sick take on The Godfather…And what made it totally ridiculous was that, even if she wanted to get out of town, she couldn’t.

The note snapped her out of her fog. Amid a sick wash of fear and disgust, she also felt a groundswell of rage so powerful it frightened her: fury at the crude attempt at intimidation, fury for what had been done to poor, innocent Jack.

Leave? No way. She was staying right here.