“Or maybe I
didn’t
doctor it.”
Swinton froze.
“You’ll never know.” Pendergast picked up his own Les Baer, and—while covering Swinton with it—removed the round from the Blackhawk and put it in his coat pocket. “And now I will answer your earlier question: I’m not a magazine writer. I’m a federal agent. And there’s one thing I promise you: if you lied to me, I’ll know it, sooner rather than later—and in that case, none of your weapons will save you.”
T
hat same day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Corrie lounged in the room she had acquired at the Hotel Sebastian, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe supplied by the hotel, first admiring the view, and then checking out the mini-bar (which she couldn’t afford, but enjoyed rummaging through anyway) before moving into the marble bathroom. She turned on the shower, adjusted the water, and slipped out of the bathrobe, stepping in.
As she luxuriated in the hot shower, she considered that things were looking up. She felt badly about what happened at breakfast the day before, but even that paled in comparison with Pendergast’s revelations. The Doyle story, the mercury-crazed miners—and the Stafford family connection—it was truly remarkable.
And
truly frightening. Pendergast was right: she had placed herself in grave danger.
Roaring Fork had now pretty much resumed the ghost-town status it once held, except it was all dressed up for Christmas with nowhere to go. Totally surreal. Even the press seemed to have packed up their cameras and microphones. The Hotel Sebastian had lost most of its guests and staff, but the restaurant was still going strong—stronger than ever, as those remaining in town, it seemed, all wanted to eat out. Corrie had managed to drive a hard bargain with the hotel manager, snagging room and breakfast free of charge in return for six hours of kitchen work every day. And although her arrangement with the hotel came with only one meal a day, Corrie had plenty of experience with all-you-can-eat deals and was confident she could scarf down enough food in one sitting to last twenty-four hours.
She got out of the shower, toweled off, and combed her hair. As she was drying it, she heard a knock at the door. Quickly donning the bathrobe again, she went to the door and peeked through the eyehole.
Pendergast.
She opened the door, but the agent hesitated. “I’d be glad to return later—”
“Don’t be silly. Sit down, I’ll only be a moment.” She went back into the bathroom, finished blowing out her hair, wrapped the bathrobe a little tighter, and came back out, seating herself on the sofa.
Pendergast did not look well. His usual alabaster face was mottled with red and his hair looked like it had been in a wind tunnel.
“How did it go?” Corrie asked. She knew he had gone to Leadville to see if he could trace a Swinton descendant.
Instead of answering the question, he said, “I am delighted to find you safely ensconced in the hotel. As for the cost, I’d be happy to help—”
“Not necessary, thank you,” Corrie said quickly. “I managed to finagle free room and board in return for a few hours of kitchen work.”
“How enterprising of you.” He paused, his face growing more serious. “I regret that you felt it necessary to deceive me. I understand from the chief that your car was shot at and your dog killed.”
Corrie colored deeply. “I didn’t want you to worry. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you eventually.”
“You didn’t want me to take you away from Roaring Fork.”
“That, too. And I wanted to find the bastard who killed my dog.”
“You must not attempt to find out who killed your dog. I hope you now understand you’re dealing with dangerous and highly motivated people. This is far bigger than a dead dog—and you’re intelligent enough to realize that.”
“Of course. I understand that clearly.”
“There’s a development worth two hundred million dollars at stake—but this isn’t just about money. It will lead to heavy criminal indictments against those involved, some of whom happen to belong to one of the wealthiest and most powerful clans in this country, beginning with your Mrs. Kermode and quite likely ending with members of the Stafford family as well. Perhaps now you can understand why they will not hesitate to kill you.”
“But I want them brought to justice—”
“And they will be. But not by you, and not while you’re here. When you’re safely back in New York, I will bring in the Bureau and all will be exposed. So you see, there’s nothing left for you to do here except pack your bags and return to New York—as soon as the weather permits.”
Corrie thought about the coming storm. It would close the road again. She supposed she could start writing things up, get an outline of her thesis nailed down, before she had to leave.
“All right,” she said.
“In the meantime, I want you to stay within the confines of the hotel. I’ve spoken to the chief of security here, an excellent woman, and you’ll be safe. You may be stuck here for a few days, however. The weather forecast is dire.”
“Fine with me. So…are you going to tell me about your trip to Leadville?”
“I am not.”
“Why?”
“Because the knowledge would only put you in more unnecessary danger. Please allow me to handle this from now on.”
Despite his kindly tone, Corrie felt irritated. She’d agreed to what he asked. She was going back to New York as soon as the weather cleared. Why couldn’t he take her into his confidence? “If you insist,” she said.
Pendergast rose. “I would invite you to dine with me, but I have to confer with the chief. They have made little progress on the arsonist case.”
He left. Corrie thought for a moment, and then went over to the mini-bar. She was starving and had no money for food. Her breakfast deal didn’t begin until the next morning. The can of Pringles was eight dollars.
Screw it
, she thought as she tore off the lid.
T
hree o’clock in the morning, December twenty-fourth. After flitting like a specter past the worn shopfronts and dark windows of Old Town, Pendergast took just seconds to break into the Ideal Saloon, picking the picturesque but ineffectual nineteenth-century lock.
He stepped into the dim space of the bar-
cum
-museum, its interior illuminated only by several strips of emergency fluorescent lighting, which cast garish shadows about the room. The saloon consisted of a large, central room, with circular tables, chairs, and a plank floor. A long bar ran the entire length of the far end. The walls consisted of wainscoting of vertical beadboard, gleaming with varnish and darkened by time, below flocked velvet wallpaper in a flowery Victorian pattern. The wall was decorated with sconces of copper and cut glass. Behind the bar and to the right, a staircase led up to what had been a small whorehouse. And farther off to the right, in an alcove partly under the staircase, stood some gaming tables. Velvet ropes just inside two swinging doors created a viewing area, preventing visitors from proceeding into the restored saloon.
Moving without noise, Pendergast ducked under the ropes and took a long, thoughtful turn about the room. A whisky bottle and some shot glasses stood on the bar, and several tables were also arrayed with bottles and glasses. Behind the bar stood a large mirrored case of antique liquor bottles filled with colored water.
He moved through the bar and into the gaming area. A poker table stood in one corner, covered with green felt, with hands of five-card stud laid out: four aces against a straight flush. A blackjack table, also artfully arranged with cards, stood beside a splendid antique roulette wheel with ivory, red jasper, and ebony inlay.
Pendergast glided past the gaming area to a door under the stairs. He tried to open it, found it locked, and swiftly picked the lock.
It opened into a small, dusty room, which remained unrestored, with cracked plaster walls and peeling wallpaper, some old chairs, and a broken table. Graffiti, some bearing dates from the 1930s, when Roaring Fork was still a ghost town, were scratched into the wall. A pile of broken whisky bottles lay in one corner. At the back of this room stood a door that led, Pendergast knew, to a rear exit.
He took off his coat and scarf and carefully draped them over one of the chairs, and looked around, slowly and carefully, as if committing everything to memory. He stood, quite still, for a long time, and then finally he stirred. Choosing a vacant spot on the floor, he lay down on the dirty boards and folded his hands over his chest, like a corpse in a coffin. Slowly, very slowly, he closed his eyes. In the silence, he focused on the sounds of the snowstorm: the muffled wind shaking and moaning about the exterior walls, the creaking of the wood, the rattling of the tin roof. The air smelled of dust, dry rot, and mildew. He allowed his respiration and pulse to slow and his mind to relax.
It was in this back room, he felt certain, that the Committee of Seven would have met up. But before he went down that avenue, there was another place he wished to visit first—a visit that would take place entirely within his mind.
Pendergast had once spent time in a remote Tibetan monastery, studying an esoteric meditative discipline known as Chongg Ran. It was one of the least known of the Tibetan mind techniques. The teachings were never put down in writing, and they could only be transmitted directly teacher-to-pupil.
Pendergast had taken the heart of Chongg Ran and combined it with several other mental disciplines, including the concept of a memory palace as described in a sixteenth-century Italian manuscript by Giordano Bruno titled
Ars Memoria
, Art of Memory. The result was a unique and highly complex form of mental visualization. With training, careful preparation, and a fanatical degree of intellectual discipline, the exercise allowed him to take a complex problem with many thousands of facts and surmises, and mentally stitch them together into a coherent narrative, which could then be processed, analyzed—and, especially,
experienced
. Pendergast used the technique to help solve elusive problems; to visualize places, via the force of his intellect, that could not be reached physically—far distant places, or even places in the past. The technique was extremely draining, however, and he employed it sparingly.
He lay for many minutes, as still as a corpse, first arranging a hugely complex set of facts into careful order, then tuning his senses to the surrounding environment while simultaneously shutting down the voice in his mind, turning off that incessant running commentary all people carry in their heads. The voice had been especially voluble of late, and it took a great deal of effort to silence it; Pendergast was forced to move his meditative stance from the Third Level to the Fourth Level, doing complex equations in his head, playing four hands of bridge simultaneously. At last, the voice was silenced, and he then began the ancient steps of Chongg Ran itself. First, he blocked every sound, every sensation, one after another: the creaking of the building, the rustling of the wind, the scent of dust, the hard floor beneath him, the seeming infinitude of his own corporal awareness—until at length he arrived at the state of
stong pa nyid
:
the condition of Pure Emptiness. For a moment, there was only nonexistence; even time itself seemed to fall away.
But then—slowly, very slowly—something began to materialize out of the nothingness. At first it was as miniaturized, as delicate, as beautiful as a Fabergé egg. With that same lack of hurry, it grew larger and clearer. Eyes still shut, Pendergast allowed it to take on form and definition around him. And then, at last, he opened his eyes to find himself within a brightly lit space: a splendid and elegant dining room, refulgent with light and crystal, the clinking of glasses, and the murmur of genteel conversation.
To the smell of cigar smoke and the learned discourse of a string quartet, Pendergast took in the opulent room. His eyes traveled over the tables, finally stopping at one in a far corner. Seated at it were four gentlemen. Two of the men were laughing together over some witticism or other—one wearing a broadcloth frock coat, the other in evening dress. Pendergast, however, was more interested in the other two diners. One was dressed flamboyantly: white kid gloves, a vest and cutaway coat of black velvet, a large frilled necktie, silk knee breeches and stockings, slippers adorned with grosgrain bows. An orchid drooped in his buttonhole. He was in deep descant, speaking animatedly, one hand pressed against his breast, the other pointing heavenward, index finger extended in a travesty of John the Baptist. The man beside him, who seemed to be hanging on his companion’s every word, presented an entirely different appearance, a contrast so strong as to almost be comical. He was a stocky fellow in a somber, sensible English suit, with big mustaches and an awkward bearing.
They were Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle.
Slowly, in his mind, Pendergast approached the table, listening intently, as the conversation—or, more frequently, monologue—became audible.
“Indeed?” Wilde was saying, in a remarkably deep and sonorous voice. “Did you think that—as one who would happily sacrifice himself on the pyre of aestheticism—I do not recognize the face of horror when I stare into it?”
There was no empty seat. Pendergast turned, motioned to a waiter, indicated the table. Immediately, the man brought up a fifth chair, placing it between Conan Doyle and the man Pendergast realized must be Joseph Stoddart.
“I was once told a story so dreadful, so distressing in its particulars and in the extent of its evil, that now I truly believe nothing I hear could ever frighten me again.”
“How interesting.”
“Would you care to hear it? It is not for the faint of heart.”
As he listened to the conversation taking place beside him, Pendergast reached forward, poured himself a glass of wine, found it excellent.
“It was told to me during my lecture tour of America a few years back. On my way to San Francisco, I stopped at a rather squalid yet picturesque mining camp known as Roaring Fork.” Wilde pressed his hand to Doyle’s knee for emphasis. “After my lecture, one of the miners approached me, an elderly chap somewhat the worse—or, perhaps, the better—for drink. He took me aside, said he’d enjoyed my story so much that he had one of his own to share with me.” He paused for a sip of burgundy. “Here, lean in a little closer, that’s a good fellow, and I’ll tell it you exactly as it was told to me.”