White Fire

62

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Mike Kloster had pulled his VMC 1500 snowcat with its eight-way hydraulic grooming blade out of the equipment shed, getting it ready for the night ahead. Twenty inches of snow had fallen over the last forty-eight hours, and at least another eight were on the way. This was going to be a long night — and it was Christmas Eve, no less.

Turning up the heat in the cab, he let the machine warm up while he pulled over the tow frame and began bolting it on to the rear. As he bent over the hitch, he sensed a presence behind him. Straightening up again, he turned to see a bizarre figure approaching, bundled up in a black coat and trilby hat, wearing heavy boots. He looked almost clown-like.

He was about to make a wisecrack when his gaze fell on the man’s face. It was as cold and pale as the surrounding landscape, with eyes like chips of ice, and the words died in Kloster’s throat.

“Um, this is a restricted area—” he began, but the man was already removing something from his coat, a worn alligator wallet, which fell open to reveal a badge.

“Agent Pendergast. FBI.”

Kloster stared at the badge. FBI? For real? But before he could even answer, the man went on.

“Your name, if you please?”

“Kloster. Mike Kloster.”

“Mr. Kloster, unbolt that device immediately and get in the cab. You are going to take me up the mountain.”

“Well, I’ve got to, you know, get some kind of authorization before—”

“You will do as I instruct, or you will be charged with impeding a federal officer.”

The tone of voice was so absolute, and so convincing, that Mike Kloster decided he would do exactly as this man said. “Yes, sir.” He unhitched the tow frame and climbed into the cab, sliding behind the wheel. The man got into the passenger side, his movements remarkably agile given the ungainly dress.

“Um, where are we going?”

“To the Christmas Mine.”

“Where’s that?”

“It is above the old Smuggler’s Cirque mine complex where the Ireland Pump building is situated.”

“Oh. Sure. I know where that is.”

“Then proceed, if you please. Quickly.”

Kloster engaged the gears, raised the front groomer blade, and started up the slopes. He thought of radioing his boss to tell him what was going on, but decided against it. The guy was a pain in the ass and he might just put up a fuss. Better to tell him after the fact. His passenger was FBI, after all, and what better excuse was there?

As they climbed, curiosity began to get the better of Kloster. “So, what’s this all about?” he asked in a friendly way.

The pale-faced man did not answer. He didn’t appear to have heard.

The VMC had an awesome sound system, and Kloster had his iPod all docked and ready to go. He reached out to turn it on.

“No,” said the man.

Kloster snatched back his hand as if it had been bitten.

“Make this machine go faster, please.”

“Well, we’re not supposed to take it over three thousand rpms—”

“I’ll thank you to do as I say.”

“Yes, sir.”

He throttled up, the groomer crawling a little faster up the mountain. The snow had started again and now the wind was blowing as well. The flakes were of the tiny, BB-pellet variety — from long experience, Kloster knew every variety of snowflake there was — and they bounced and ticked noisily off the windscreen. Kloster put on the wipers and flicked the lights to high. The cluster of beams stabbed into the grayness, the pellets of snow flashing through. At three thirty it was already starting to get dark.

“How long?” the man asked.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, to the mine buildings. I don’t think this machine’ll get any higher than that — the slopes are too steep above Smuggler’s Cirque. The avalanche danger is pretty extreme, too. They’re gonna be setting off avalanche charges all Christmas Day, I bet, with this new snow.”

He realized he was babbling — this man sure made him nervous — but again the agent didn’t even acknowledge having heard.

At the top of the ski slope, Kloster took the service road that led to the top of the ridge, where it joined the network of snowmobile trails. Arriving at the trails, he was surprised to see fresh snowmobile tracks. Whoever it was, they were hard-core, venturing out on a day like this. He continued on, wondering just what the heck his passenger was after…

And then, above the dark spruce trees, he saw something. A glow, up on the mountain. Instinctively he slowed, staring.

The FBI agent saw it, too. “What is that?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t know.” Kloster squinted upward. He could make out, beyond and above the trees, the upper part of Smuggler’s Cirque. The steep slopes and peaks were bathed in a flickering yellow glow. “Looks like a fire.”

The pale man leaned forward, gripping the dashboard, his eyes so bright and hard they unnerved Kloster. “Where?”

“Damn, I’d say it’s in that old mine complex.”

Even as they watched, the glow grew in intensity, and now Kloster could see dark smoke billowing upward into the snowstorm.

“Fast. Now.”

“Right, sure.” Kloster really gunned it this time, the VMC churning across the snow at top speed — only twenty miles an hour, but plenty fast for an unwieldy groomer.

“Faster.”

“It’s pegged, sorry.”

Even as he made the last turn before the tree line, he could see that the fire in the cirque was big. Huge, in fact. Flames were shooting up at least a hundred feet, sending up towering pillars of sparks and black smoke, as thick as a volcanic eruption. It had to be the Ireland Pump Engine building itself — nothing else up there was big enough to produce that kind of inferno. Even so, it couldn’t be a natural fire — nothing natural could spread so fast and so fiercely. It occurred to Kloster that this must be the work of the arsonist, and he felt a stab of fear, which was not reassured by the strange intensity of the man next to him. He kept the pedal to the metal.

The last stubby trees slid past them and they were now on the bare ridge. The snow was shallower here, due to wind scouring, and Kloster was able to eke out a few more miles per hour. God, it was like a firestorm up there, mushroom clouds of smoke and flame pummeling the sky, and he fancied he could even hear the sound of it above the roar of the diesel engines.

They crossed the last part of the ridge and headed up the lip to the hanging valley above. The snow grew deeper again and the VMC churned its way forward. They cleared the lip and, instinctually, Kloster stopped. It was indeed the Ireland building, and it had burned so fast, so furiously, that all that remained was a burning skeleton of timbers — which even as they watched collapsed with a thunderous cracking noise, sending up a colossal cascade of sparks. It left the Ireland Pump itself standing alone, naked, the paint peeling and smoking. The fire began to die as quickly as it had exploded: when the building collapsed, huge piles of snow had fallen from the roof into the burning rubble, sending up volatile plumes of steam.

Kloster stared, stunned by the violence of the scene, the utter suddenness of the building’s immolation.

“Move closer,” the man ordered.

He eased the groomer forward. The wooden frame had been consumed with remarkable speed, and the cascade of snow from the collapsing roof and the continuing blizzard were damping down what remained of the fire. None of the other buildings had burned — their snow-laden roofs were protecting them from the incredible shower of sparks that rained downward all around them like the detritus of countless fireworks.

Kloster eased the cat among the old mining structures. “This is as far as I’d better go,” he said. But instead of the argument he expected, the pale man simply opened the door and got out. Kloster watched, first in amazement, and then horror, as the man walked toward the smoking, fire-licked remains of the structure and circled it slowly, like a panther, close — way too close.

Pendergast stared into the hellish scene. The air around him was alive with falling sparks mingled with snowflakes, which dusted his hat and coat, hissing out in the dampness. The engine and all its pipework had survived intact, but the building was utterly gone. Plumes of smoke and steam billowed up from hundreds of little pockets of heat, and timbers lay scattered about, hissing and smoking, with tongues of fire flickering here and there. There was an acrid stench, along with the whiff of something else: singed hair and burnt meat. All that could be heard now was the low hiss of steam, the crackle and pop of isolated fires, and the sound of the wind moaning through the ruins. He made a circuit around the perimeter of the fire. There was enough light from the many dying fires to see everything.

At a certain point he paused abruptly.

Now, moving ever so slowly, he stepped deeper into the fire zone, raising the scarf to cover his mouth against the acrid smoke. Winding his way among pipes and valves, his feet crunching on the cracked cement floor littered with nails and glass, he approached the thing that had stopped him in his tracks. It resembled a long, black log, and it, too, was hissing and smoking. As he got closer he confirmed it was the remains of a human body, which had been handcuffed to a set of pipes. Even though the arm had burned off, and the body had dropped to the floor, a carbonized hand remained in the cuffs, the fingers curled up like the legs of a dead spider, blackened bones sticking out from where the wrist should have been.

Pendergast sank to his knees. It was an involuntary motion, as if all the strength was suddenly drained from his body, forcing him down against his will. His head fell forward and his hands clasped together. A sound came from his mouth — low, barely audible, but undeniably the by-product of a grief beyond words.