Extinction, p.13
Extinction, page 13
She made her way past the crowds to the conference room. It was empty—Colcord hadn’t yet returned from his research trip to Eagle. She made herself a double espresso and eased down in one of the plush conference chairs, throwing her feet up on the table in the blessed silence and privacy of the room, and dialed her boss to check in.
After a ring, McFaul answered.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I just heard that you were stalked! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Cash said. “I’m calling because Barrow’s just arrived. I want to interview him while we have the chance. Since they’re saying he won’t talk voluntarily, I’d like to get a subpoena started.”
There was a short silence. “Agent Cash,” McFaul said, “I want you to understand the situation out here. It’s crazy. The media is all over this thing. They’re pouring in from the coasts. Our parking lot’s jammed up; they’re buttonholing everyone coming and going. I just got a call from the governor, wanting to know what the hell we’re doing.”
Cash waited out this rush of words. “What does this have to do with interviewing Barrow?”
“My point is, we’ve got to be careful. All eyes are on us. If we go chasing a subpoena to compel the testimony of the world’s fifth-richest man, that’s front-page news, and there’d better be a good reason. He wasn’t there when all this happened. He doesn’t have any direct knowledge. If you can persuade him to talk voluntarily, hats off to you, but no subpoena. Now, anything else before I hang up? We’re swamped here dealing with the media.”
Cash took a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure from what I saw today that there were at least eight killers.”
“Jesus. We’ve got some kind of crazy cult on our hands.”
“I believe the risk to civilians is too high. We need to shut the resort down to all but investigators, security personnel, and the minimum of support staff.”
A silence. McFaul then spoke, his voice unnaturally calm. “Erebus is the fourth-largest employer in Colorado after Lockheed Martin, United Airlines, and Vail Resorts. Did you know that?”
Cash didn’t answer.
“What you’re proposing would cause economic damage not just to Erebus but to the entire state. And not just for the duration of the shutdown. It could hurt their business long-term.”
Cash took a long breath. “Sir, consider the economic damage that more killings would cause.” She paused. “And the damage it might cause to the CBI’s reputation.” She stopped herself from mentioning the damage it might also cause to his own reputation—and hers.
“Erebus has already pulled their guests out of the backcountry. The only guests remaining are at the lodge, which is like a fortress, or so I’m told, with armed guards around the clock.”
“What about the movie team shooting in the town? Or the laboratory up in the mountain?”
“They have their own armed protection. Look, Cash, the bottom line is: I don’t have the authority to close the place down.”
“You could talk to the governor.”
“This conversation is verging on insubordination.”
Cash swallowed. McFaul was a wimp who’d never backed her up before, and she’d been stupid to think he’d change now.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Just trying to do what’s right for the investigation.”
“I know you’re under a lot of pressure,” McFaul said, softening his tone. “I have faith in you. Just get me something, anything, in the next twenty-four hours, because if not, we’re in trouble.”
She hung up. This was bullshit. Her head reeled from stress and lack of sleep. What she really should do was head back to her room and snatch a few hours of sleep, but she was worried if she did that, she wouldn’t be able to get up and would sleep through to the next day. No, what she needed to do was tank up on coffee and think through this thing.
As she was making her second double espresso, Colcord entered. He looked at her with concern. “I heard about what happened to you,” he said. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she said curtly.
Colcord laid his hat on the table and sat down next to her. “I made a rather interesting discovery today,” he said in a low voice. “Rather, two discoveries.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a third abandoned mine up here, called the Jackman.”
“Maximilian never mentioned it.”
“Exactly. Why didn’t he? I went to the Eagle County Historical Society and looked at their map collection. The maps of the Jackman Mine have all been stolen.”
“No shit.”
He grinned. “But I found an old prospector who had drawn his own maps.” He held up his phone. “Got ’em all photographed.”
“You think the killers could be hiding in the mines?”
“It’s a definite possibility. But why were the Jackman maps stolen, and why did Maximilian never mention that mine? I feel like they’re hiding something.”
Cash nodded.
“I’d like to give Maximilian the third degree on those two points,” said Colcord.
“Me too,” said Cash. “And that brings up something I’ve been thinking about—what would you think of asking the governor for some National Guard troops in here? I’m a little uneasy leaving all the security and most of the searching to Erebus. I mean, what if they’re involved?”
Colcord looked at her. “That would be a big step. But yes, I think you’re right.” He hesitated. “You know that’s your bailiwick, not mine—right?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I know. Just glad to know you’d support it.”
“I’d back you up one hundred percent.”
She’d have to ask for it through McFaul. No way would he agree to it now, but maybe in another day—or if something else happened, god forbid. She looked at her watch. Three p.m. “They won’t let me subpoena Barrow. But maybe we can get a voluntary interview.”
Colcord picked up his hat. “It’s worth a try. Let’s go find him.”
They found Maximilian in the security monitoring room. He turned to them as they arrived, his face flushed. “We’re launching an armed sweep of the forest where you were cornered,” he said. “We’re going to find those attackers. We’re also monitoring the drone camera in case whoever took the drone turns it back on. We’re also allowing the drone search to continue.”
“All good,” said Cash. “The sheriff and I’d like to speak to Barrow.”
“You want me to set up a meeting?”
“No meeting,” said Cash. “I’m talking about an interview.”
Maximilian paused. “Why?”
“It’s not up to you to ask why,” Cash said in a surge of irritation. “This is standard investigative procedure.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Barrow is not available.”
“How would you know without checking?” Cash demanded.
“Because he never speaks to anyone. Ever.”
“I’m asking you, Mr. Maximilian, to tell Barrow we’re seeking a voluntary interview.”
“No point. He’s going to say no.”
“Who’s going to say no?” came a booming voice from the doorway.
Cash turned to see a stocky man of medium height, wearing white slacks and a blue blazer with brass buttons and an ascot, close-clipped white beard, and intense blue eyes. He looked uncannily like a shorter Hemingway. He came striding into the room, a charismatic presence so strong that everyone fell momentarily silent.
“Well?” he asked.
“Mr. Barrow,” said Maximilian, “I was just telling Agent Cash that you’re not available for an interview.”
“I’m not?” He turned to Cash. “Agent in Charge Frances Cash, I believe? And this must be Sheriff James Colcord. Pleased to meet you.”
He stuck out a big, rough, workingman’s hand and shook both of theirs with vigor. He had a British accent.
“Now—where shall we chat?”
“We have an interview room all set up down the hall,” said Cash. “Please follow us, Mr. Barrow.”
Maximilian started down the hall with them, but Barrow waved him off. “I can handle this myself, thank you, Mr. Maximilian!”
They entered the room, and Barrow, before seating himself, stood behind Cash’s chair to help seat her as one might do at a formal dinner party. Cash hesitated, momentarily incredulous, then she said, with a cool smile, “Thank you, Mr. Barrow, but I prefer to seat myself.”
“Independent. Good!” He took his own seat. “Now—what questions do you want to ask me? I am at your service.”
24
Barrow gave them both a smile, displaying a row of very white, fine teeth in a deeply tanned face. He sat on the other side of the table, hands clasped, looking the very picture of cooperation.
“Thank you, Mr. Barrow,” Cash said. “Do you mind if I turn on a recorder?”
“No problem.”
She turned on the phone recorder and went through the preliminaries, identifying herself and Colcord, ID’ing Barrow, and making sure it was a matter of record that this was a voluntary interview.
“Mr. Barrow,” Cash began, deciding to get straight to the point, “it appears there are half a dozen or more killers in Erebus. They appear to be deeply familiar with the resort, the terrain, and your security procedures. They are clever. They have evaded a hundred searchers now for three days.”
He nodded.
“In other words,” she said, “the evidence strongly points to the Erebus killers as being employees—former or current.”
“That also occurred to us,” Barrow said. “We’ve scoured our employment records every which way, looking for disgruntled employees, spies, foreign operatives, hired guns from rival companies. We’ve found nothing—yet. We’ve turned over reams of records to the CBI too, and I assume you’re looking through them also?”
“We are.” Their investigative team had so far found nothing, but it was a big task. She glanced at Colcord. He was jotting notes in his book.
“Do you have any idea who they might be?” she asked.
“I don’t.”
“Surely you must have some thoughts on that question.”
“I have enemies. Everyone knows who they are. My enemies are misguided environmentalists, scientists, PETA militants, NIMBY activists. They may be unpleasant people, but are they killers? Would they infiltrate half a dozen people into my valley to start brutally killing people? It seems unlikely.”
“It was my impression, being surrounded in the forest earlier today, that they were back-to-the-land crazies or radical environmentalists—dressed up in homemade camo and playacting like wild animals.”
“It’s possible that a truly fringe group might be behind this.”
“I understand you know the father of Mark Gunnerson, one of the victims.”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“We met at Davos about ten years ago, I believe. We’ve kept in touch, off and on, as casual business associates will. We do not socialize on a friendship basis.” He said this with a certain tightening of the voice.
“Why is that?”
“We move in different circles. He’s in finance; I’m a scientist. I don’t find financial people interesting—unless they’re making me money.” He gave a laugh. “We are both members of Bohemian Grove, I might add.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know? It’s a—how to explain? A retreat of cabins in the redwoods of Northern California, where influential men gather once a year for two weeks of relaxing, sports and games, amateur theatricals—that sort of thing.”
“I’m not sure I quite understand. You and Gunnerson are members?” said Cash.
“That’s right. The club dates back to 1870, and the all-male membership includes—let me speak frankly—some of the most influential people in the world—business leaders, former U.S. presidents, powerful media executives.”
“And you spent time with him there every year?”
“Just once. I don’t go every year. I’m very busy. And as I said, he’s not really a friend—more like an acquaintance.”
“Did you know his son, Mark?”
“I never met him. Nor his new wife.”
“Have you had any financial dealings with Gunnerson?” she asked.
“None whatsoever. Obviously, his son paid to come here, but I had nothing to do with that.” He sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers and looking at her with a placid, self-satisfied face.
Cash had the urge to shake him up, he was so self-assured and comfortable. “Are you British?”
“No,” he said.
“Where are you from originally?”
“Born in Kansas City, grew up in LA.”
“Why the British accent?”
“Oxford. Rhodes scholar.”
“Hard to pick up a plummy accent like that in just a year.”
“I imagine you think it’s pretentious. And perhaps it is. We all reinvent ourselves—as you did, relocating from Maine to Colorado after that unfortunate incident with the Taser. How tragic.”
Cash was mightily startled, but then she realized she should have anticipated it. A man like this would naturally have looked into her background. She glanced at Colcord. He seemed angered by the comment but was, for the moment, holding his tongue.
“Excuse me,” said Colcord. “I’ve got to run out for a moment. I’ll be back.”
Cash looked at him incredulously, but there was a knowing look in his face that stopped her from asking what the hell he was doing, leaving in the middle of an interview.
Colcord departed. Cash turned back to Barrow. She had interviewed people like this before—savvy, experienced, polished, impenetrable.
“Mr. Barrow, you say you’re a scientist. But really, you don’t have an advanced degree in genetics. You made your money in the tech business. Isn’t it really Dr. Karman who did the real science?”
She could see she’d hit a nerve.
“I financed this,” he said. “Sure, Bill Gates didn’t build the first personal computer or even write the software, but he was the genius behind Microsoft. We were the first to de-extinct and rewild the woolly mammoth.”
“Okay, but why did you take it so much further—buying this valley, building this resort? That’s entertainment, not science.”
“A great scientist,” said Barrow, “is like a great artist. You love what you do for its own sake—but you also crave an audience. Michelangelo would never have painted the Sistine Chapel if he thought no one would see it. I wanted to share my creations with the world. Hence”—and he spread his hands apart with a big smile—“Erebus.”
“What’s your ultimate goal?” Cash asked.
“Here?”
“Anywhere.”
Barrow leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers, and half closed his eyes. “To make the world a better place.”
What pabulum, she thought, making an effort not to roll her eyes. She was going to get nothing out of this man.
“I see you’re skeptical. But let me explain. Think about the miracle of life on this planet. A dust cloud in space condensed into a wet dead rock orbiting an average star. And then, somewhere on this rock, a microscopic bag of chemicals made a copy of itself. And copied itself again, and then again. Because these copies were imperfect and differed slightly from each other, some chemical bags survived better than others. That’s it. That dumb little rule, iterated a billion times, produced us and everything else in our glorious natural world! But you and I are still a bag of chemicals, fabulously complex, that somehow acquired this mysterious thing called consciousness. Look at you and me—it blows the mind that we evolved from a dust cloud left over from an exploded star!”
Cash had never heard it explained quite that way, and she was struck by his passion and sincerity, different from her initial impression of him as a manipulative businessman interested only in money.
He went on, his voice rising. “‘There is grandeur in this view of life,’ Darwin wrote, ‘with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.’”
He paused, his eyes shining with childlike earnestness. “But now, we’ve reached the point where we can resurrect the dead. We can actually reverse the extinction of a species and bring it back to life. What a beautiful thing! Not only have I brought back to life some extraordinary animals, I’ve created a place for human beings to enjoy and learn about the richness of life itself.”
He sat back. “So, yes, I am making the world a better place.”
Cash didn’t know how to respond to this enthusiastic flood of words, which put Barrow in a different and more complex light in her mind. As she was collecting her thoughts and looking for the next question, she heard a sound in the hall, then a loud voice.
“Where? In here?”
Good god, it was Gunnerson.
The door opened, and Colcord entered, holding it open for Gunnerson.
Barrow was struck dumb, all his composure vanishing. “Mr. Gunnerson, what a surprise. I didn’t expect—”
Gunnerson cut him off with a chopping motion of his hand. “You said it was safe.” He advanced, his finger shaking, pointing. “You said it was safe.”
It was remarkable how quickly Barrow recovered his composure. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Gunnerson,” he said. “I want to assure you we’re doing everything—”
“Cut the bullshit,” said Gunnerson. “You killed my son.”
“I will not accept that accusation, sir.”
“Oh yes you will. You know what I’m talking about.” Gunnerson took a step toward Barrow, his fists clenching.
Barrow pressed his hand to the side of his suit jacket—and instantly, two security guards entered the room.
“Don’t touch me,” Gunnerson roared as the two security guards interposed themselves between him and Barrow. “I’ll kill you, you bastard.”
