Corrie shuddered. Until Pendergast had told her, she hadn’t any idea that, the whole time she’d been shackled to the pump, Mrs. Kermode had been in the building as well, out of sight, handcuffed to the far side of the engine — probably unconscious after being beaten up by Ted. Oh, God, will I take care of that bitch, he’d said…
“I was in such a hurry to escape the flames, I never even saw her,” Corrie said. “I’m not sure anyone deserves to be burned alive like that.”
The expression on Pendergast’s face indicated he might disagree.
“But there’s no way Ted could have known that Kermode and the Staffords were responsible for his own madness — was there?” Corrie asked.
Pendergast shook his head. “No. Her end at his hands was poetic justice, nothing more.”
“I hope the rest of them rot in prison,” said Stacy.
After a silence, Corrie asked, “And you really thought Kermode’s burnt body was mine?”
“There was no question in my mind,” Pendergast replied. “If I’d been thinking more clearly, I might have realized that Kermode was potentially Ted’s next victim. She represented everything he despised. That entire auto-da-fé up on the mountain was arranged for her, not for you. You just fell into his lap, so to speak. But I do have a question, Corrie: how did you undo the handcuffs?”
“Aw, they were crappy old handcuffs. And I’d tucked my picks into the space between the inner and outer glove when I was trying to pick the lock into the mine — because, as you of all people know, you have to use several tools simultaneously.”
Pendergast nodded. “Impressive.”
“It took me a while to remember I even had the tools, I was so terrified. Ted was…I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. The way he shifted from screaming rage to cold, calculated precision…God, it was almost more frightening than the fire itself.”
“A common effect of mercury-induced madness. And that perhaps explains the mystery of the bent pipes in the second fire—”
Stacy said hastily, “Um, let’s open the rest of the presents and stop talking about this.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for anyone,” said Corrie.
“You were otherwise engaged,” said Pendergast. “And while I’m on the subject, given what also happened to you in Kraus’s Kaverns back in Medicine Creek, in the future I would advise you to avoid underground labyrinths, especially when they are tenanted by homicidal maniacs.” He paused. “Incidentally, I’m very sorry about your finger.”
“I suppose I’ll get used to it. It’s almost colorful, like wearing an eye patch or something.”
Pendergast took up a small package and examined it. There was no card, just his name written on it. “This is from you, Captain?”
“Sure is.”
Pendergast removed the paper, revealing a velvet box. He opened it. Inside, a Purple Heart rested on satin.
He stared at it for a long time. Finally he said: “How can I accept this?”
“Because I’ve got three more and I want you to have it. You deserve a medal — you saved my life.”
“Captain Bowdree—”
“I mean it. I was lost, confused, drinking myself into oblivion every evening, until you called out of the blue. You got me here, explained about my ancestor, gave me purpose. And most of all…you respected me.”
Pendergast hesitated. He held up the medal. “I will treasure this.”
“Merry Christmas — three days late.”
“And now you must open yours.”
Stacy took up a small envelope. She opened it and extracted an official-looking document. She read it, her brow furrowing. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s nothing, really,” said Pendergast. “Just an appointment for an interview. The rest is up to you. But with my recommendation, and your military record, I feel confident you will pass muster. The FBI needs agents like you, Captain. I’ve rarely seen a finer candidate. Corrie here may rival you, one day — all she lacks is a certain seasoning of judgment.”
“Thank you.” It looked for a moment like Bowdree might hug Pendergast, but then she seemed to decide the gesture might not be welcome. Corrie smiled inwardly; this entire ceremony, with its attendant displays of affection and emotion, seemed to be making him a little uncomfortable.
There were two more presents for Corrie. She opened the first, to find within the wrapping a well-worn textbook: Techniques for Crime Scene Analysis and Investigation: Third Edition.
“I know this book,” she said. “But I already have a copy — a much later edition, which we use at John Jay.”
“I’m aware of that,” Pendergast said.
She opened it, suddenly understanding. Inside, the text was heavily annotated with marginalia: comments, glosses, questions, insights into the topic being discussed. The handwriting was precise, and she recognized it immediately.
“This…this was your copy?”
Pendergast nodded.
“My God.” She touched the cover, caressing it almost reverentially. “What a treasure trove. Maybe by reading this I’ll be able to think like you someday.”
“I had considered other, more frivolous gifts, but this one seemed — given your evident interest in a law enforcement career — perhaps the most useful.”
There was one gift left. Corrie reached for it, carefully removed the expensive-looking wrapping paper.
“It’s from Constance,” Pendergast explained. “She just returned from India a few days ago, and asked me to give you this.”
Inside was an antique Waterman fountain pen with a filigreed overlay of gold, and a small volume in ribbed leather, with cream-colored, deckle-edged pages. It was beautifully handmade. A small note fell out, which she picked up and read.
Dear Miss Swanson,
I have read with interest some of your online “blogs” (hateful word). I thought that perhaps you might find indulging in a more permanent and private expression of your observations to be a useful occupation. I myself have kept a diary for many years. It has always been a source to me of interest, consolation, and personal insight. It is my hope this slight volume will help confer those same benefits on you.
Constance Greene
Corrie looked at the presents scattered around her. Then she glanced at Stacy, seated on the edge of the bed, and Pendergast, relaxing in his chair, one leg thrown lightly over the other. All of a sudden, to her great surprise, she burst into tears.
“Corrie!” Stacy said, leaping to her feet. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
“No,” Corrie said through her tears. “I’m not in pain. I’m just happy — so happy. I’ve never had a happier Christmas.”
“Three days late,” Pendergast murmured, with a twitch of his facial features that might have indicated a smile.
“And there’s nobody on earth I’d rather share it with than you two.” Corrie furiously brushed away the tears and, embarrassed, turned to look out the window, where the morning sun was gilding Roaring Fork, the low flanks of the mountains, and — farther up — the bowl-like shape of Smuggler’s Cirque and the small, dark smudge against the snow where a fire had almost ended her life.
She tapped the journal. “I already know what my first entry will be,” she said.
Acknowledgments
We’d like to thank the following for their support and assistance: Mitch Hoffman, Eric Simonoff, Jamie Raab, Lindsey Rose, Claudia Rülke, Nadine Waddell, Jon Lellenberg, Saul Cohen, and the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.