Extinction, p.9
Extinction, page 9
“We’re closing the airspace over Erebus,” McFaul said, “so those media people don’t interfere with the search. The press will be kept out of the valley for now.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” said Cash.
“Good.” He rose. “It goes without saying that we need to show progress—and fast.”
13
Cash drove west on I-70, the CBI vehicle climbing into the Front Range, Romanski in the passenger seat. It was another gorgeous fall afternoon, the mountains still topped with fresh snow.
“McFaul’s a publicity hound,” said Romanski. The whole drive, he’d been grousing about not being invited to the presser. “I can just see him up there onstage, his long pink tongue hanging out, drooling at the cameras.”
“If this case goes south,” said Cash, “he’ll be the one skewered.”
“He’ll blame us. But do you think the case is gonna go south?”
“No. I don’t,” said Cash. “How could it? Six killers lugging around two bodies and two heads? I mean, something’s gotta give. But I feel like we’re missing a crucial piece.”
“Like what?”
“Why’d they take the bodies?” said Cash. “What are they doing with them? It’s a lot of work to haul dead bodies around, and … I hate to say it … they begin to smell.”
“Maybe gonna make a big-toe cassoulet?” Romanski said.
NPR had been droning on the radio in the background, and Cash suddenly heard the word Erebus float by.
“Uh-oh.” She turned up the volume.
And there it was—the Erebus story was breaking on the national NPR feed. They had many of the relevant details: the kidnapping, bloodstains, possible decapitation and murder, the search, the victims, the billionaire father—on and on. All the ingredients of a scorching story.
“Damn it,” said Cash. “I wonder who they got to?”
“It was bound to get out,” said Romanski.
A half hour later, as they passed the Vail exit, Cash realized something was amiss when several television vans bombed past them, going over a hundred miles an hour.
“Shall we pull ’em over?” Romanski said eagerly.
“Yeah, right, and get our mugs on the evening news,” said Cash.
Far up ahead, she saw the vans take the Erebus exit and disappear. They took the same exit. The road to Erebus wound up a narrow valley toward a dramatic cluster of peaks called the Spiders. As they gained altitude, a number of cars started coming down in the opposite direction, the traffic getting heavier the farther up they went.
“Looks like that NPR report triggered a lot of departures,” said Romanski.
“Good,” said Cash. “I hope they all leave.”
The final turn of the road revealed the dramatic stone Mammoth Gates into the Erebus Valley. It also revealed a traffic jam of monumental proportions, cars and vans lined up to get in.
“What the fuck?” said Romanski as Frankie slowed the car. “This can’t all be media!”
“It is,” said Cash, squinting ahead. “Look at it. From all over.”
“Siren, please,” said Romanski.
“Yeah.”
She reached over and pressed the yelp button, the siren giving a loud sound. The cars immediately in front tried to move over, but the road was too narrow, and there wasn’t enough shoulder on the right for them to get out of the way. The oncoming traffic was steady and growing heavier. There just wasn’t the room to pass.
She gave it another yelp.
“This is hopeless,” said Romanski.
She put the siren on wail, trying to edge around, but there was no way it was going to work on the narrow road with no shoulders against the steady stream of cars coming out.
She got on her car phone and called Maximilian.
He answered immediately. “Bloody hell,” he began. “The story just broke in the news and—”
“I know, I know. We’re trying to get in through the Mammoth Gate, but there’s a jam of press. Can you stop the flow of cars coming out until we can come in?”
“On it.”
They waited and finally, the stream subsided. She put the siren back on wail, and they drove up the final stretch of road on the left side, through the huge wrought iron gates set into walls of stone, forty feet high, that went from one side of the narrow valley opening to the other. A big guardhouse stood on the left, and a large substation on the right.
“You think they call them Mammoth Gates because they’re so big,” Romanski asked, “or because they’re designed to keep in the mammoths?”
“Both.”
Once inside, it was suddenly peaceful. An orderly flow of guests was still leaving.
They drove up the road to the lodge, parked, went inside, and headed to the war room.
There she found Colcord, who had continued interviewing while they were absent. A flustered-looking woman was just leaving as they entered.
Colcord got up and stretched.
“Who was she?” Cash asked.
“Head of personnel.” He had been taking notes by hand in a hardcover notebook, which he set aside.
“Looks like someone talked to the press,” said Cash.
Colcord shook his head. “Yeah. I know. But …” He grimaced. “It was bound to break.”
Cash nodded. He was right. No point in belaboring it. “Anything new?”
He shook his head. “No. We’ve spent the morning with Erebus employees. No one has a history that jumps out. They’re paid well, no labor unrest, low staff turnover.” He tapped his notebook. “She gave me a list of individuals they’ve fired over the past three years. I’m asking our department to hunt down and question all they can find.”
“And the ground search?”
“Nothing.”
“Christ,” said Cash, “I could use a coffee.”
“Me too.” Romanski made a beeline for the espresso machine. “Anyone care for a doppio?”
“Quadrupio for me,” said Cash.
“Double for me,” said Colcord, starting to rise. “I can make it myself.”
“I knew you’d volunteer,” Cash said, “being the only gentleman present—but Romanski’s on it.”
Romanski snorted and began messing with the machine. He made a doppio and two quadruples for himself and Cash, bringing them over.
Cash turned to Colcord. “Okay, Sheriff, Bart and I were talking on the way up, and we’ve got a number one question: Why did they take the bodies?”
Colcord frowned. “I handled a case about twelve years ago, the Poudre River Killer. You remember that?”
“Before my time.”
“I remember it,” said Romanski. “Weird fucking dude.”
“He took the bodies home,” Colcord said. “He played with them.
Cut them up. Had fun.”
“Had fun?”
“Yeah. Made things. Sewed them back together in funny ways.”
Cash shuddered. “So you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”
“No,” said Colcord. “Serial killers work alone or at most in pairs. This is more like a gang.” He paused and said, “Maybe they want the bodies for some sort of ritual, Satanic or otherwise.”
Cash swigged her bitter drink. God, it tasted good. “Satanic rituals?”
“It’s a possibility.”
She tossed down the rest of her espresso. Satanic rituals … It was a viable hypothesis.
“While you were gone,” said Colcord after a moment, “I arranged to interview the director of the film crew. In about half an hour. You want to come with me? We can go in my vehicle.”
“Film crew?” Cash asked. “What film crew?”
“They’re shooting a film in the old ghost town. You didn’t know?”
“How would I know if no one told me? Hell yes, I’d like to go along. Anything else going on I should know about? Ice Capades, Criss Angel, Elvis impersonators?”
“My apologies. I believe the film crew is the only outside group in here now.”
“I gotta stay here,” said Romanski. “I need to get a whole bunch more DNA swabs from everyone who was at the crime scene.”
14
Cash eased into the passenger seat of Colcord’s vehicle, a late-model black Suburban with sheriff’s department decals. Her hand slid over the luxurious russet leather of the seat.
“Nice wheels,” she said. “Eagle County must have plenty of money.”
“We’re fortunate,” he said. “In addition to Erebus, we have Vail and a bunch of other ski resorts. That gives us a rich tax base but not a lot of infrastructure to keep up. Nineteen hundred square miles and only fifty-five thousand people. The county is mostly wilderness.”
“You ever ski at Vail?” she asked.
“Oh, sure.”
“You good?”
“I used to be. Now I don’t take too many risks, just go nice and easy on the groomers. And you?”
“I took up skiing when I moved here ten years ago. I suck.”
“Just being in the mountains is what it’s all about.”
They drove awhile in silence, working their way down the valley. She had been curious for a while about the sheriff’s background. He was quiet and unassuming, not like a lot of other elected sheriffs she’d worked with.
“So what’s your story?” she asked abruptly.
“My story?” Colcord sounded surprised. “Born here, grew up on a ranch west of Durango. The usual ranching childhood.”
“What’s the usual ranching childhood?”
“Felt like most of the time I was stretching barbed wire and hunting lost cows. But it was a good childhood. Nothing tragic, no broken home, great dad. I was lucky. We had cattle and horses, an irrigated section of alfalfa. Hunting and fishing in the San Juans. Growing up in Colorado is like growing up in heaven.”
“You had your own horse?”
“Oh yeah. Chewbacca. A shaggy, dun-colored grade horse.”
“Chewbacca? What kind of name is that for a horse?”
“Named by a kid who loved Star Wars.”
Cash laughed. “Okay. And then?”
“Did my twenty in the military, moved to Eagle, bought a café, ran for county sheriff, won.”
“Which branch?”
“Army.”
“Rank?”
“Lieutenant colonel, now retired.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
“If you’re reasonably competent and get along with people, it’s not so hard to make the grade in twenty years.”
“You were a commissioned officer?”
“West Point class of ’95.”
“Did you see action?”
“Iraq. Three tours.”
“Was it worth it?”
This question elicited a sudden silence. “I don’t know you well enough,” said Colcord slowly, “to go into the long answer to that question.”
Judging from the darkening tone in his voice, Cash realized she had trod on sensitive ground and changed the subject. “You own a café?”
“The Ore House in Eagle.”
“When did you drop the W-H?”
“Very funny. It was once an assay office. Pressed tin ceiling, creaking wooden floors, comfortable furniture, woodstove going in the winter, homemade scones and pastries and good, strong coffee.”
“My kind of place.” She liked the sense of pride in his voice.
“Drop in sometime.”
“You going to run for sheriff again?”
“These are a lot of questions, Agent Cash.”
“I’m nosy.”
“Watch out, I’m going to turn the tables on you.”
“You can try.”
The road passed through a narrow ravine and topped out in a valley with a stream flowing through it. The ghost town was spread out on both sides of the river, with an old wooden bridge across it—a picturesque cluster of batten board buildings, stables, corrals, and a narrow church with a steeple. At the entrance to the town, a dirt parking lot was filled with movie vans and trailers, along with several cherry pickers, cranes, and other equipment.
They drove up to where the road into town was blocked with a gate. A man at the gate came over and bent down to look in the car.
“We’re here to see Slavomir Doyle,” said the sheriff, showing his badge.
“He’s shooting a scene,” said the man. “Does he know you’re coming?”
“Yes. I made an appointment.”
“Park over there. I’ll bring you over to the shoot.”
They parked and followed him past the gate into the lone dirt street leading through town. It was a classic Western town, with long boardwalks, saloons, livery, a hotel, dry goods store, sheriff’s office, jail, and at the far end, a gallows.
“Who you gonna hang?” Cash asked.
“I don’t know. That’s for the movie.”
“What’s it called?”
“Hannibal and the Baron. Starring Brock Ballou.” He paused with reverence at the naming of the famous star. Then he went on. “It’s sort of Cowboys and Aliens meets Jurassic Park. A herd of mammoths gets caught in a time warp and appear in the 1880s, and a bunch of cowboys catch and break them, and then ride them into town to save it from a railroad baron and his gang of killers.”
“Right, okay,” was all Cash could say.
“Is it … a comedy?” ventured Colcord.
“No, no. It’s a Western,” the man said.
As they approached, a bunch of lights on towers and tripods came into view, set up outside the main saloon, with a number of camera operators. Two groups of cowboys were facing off on the dirt street. Cash could see that one was Ballou, wearing a tall white hat, standing clean and straight, while the other was a dirty slouching man with greasepaint smeared on his face, a black hat, stubble, and a missing front tooth.
“Gee,” said Cash, “I wonder which one’s the bad guy?”
The director, Slavomir Doyle, was standing behind a camera, shouting and waving his hand. His voice was shrill and high, and it cut the air like the cawing of a crow.
“Um, it looks like he’s still busy,” said their escort. “Can you wait?”
“No,” said Colcord, his voice suddenly devoid of its usual friendly warmth. “We can’t.”
This was a side to Colcord Cash hadn’t seen before. She decided to hang back and let him take the lead.
“Okay, well, let me check and see …”
“You don’t need to check anything,” said Colcord, brushing past him and striding toward Doyle. “Mr. Doyle?” he boomed out. “Sheriff Colcord.”
“Cut! Cut!” The man spun around, his face furious. “What the hell? Can’t you see we’re shooting a scene here?”
Colcord went straight up to him, opening his jacket to display his star and moving well into Doyle’s personal space before halting. “And my associate, Agent in Charge Cash of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.”
Cash watched, amused. Ballou stood in the middle of the dusty street, hands on his hips. He began striding over, an annoyed look on his face. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “Who are these people?”
Colcord turned to him. “We have an appointment with Mr. Doyle. You’ll have to excuse us, Mr. … Sorry, your name?”
Ballou stared at him, outraged that the man didn’t know who he was.
Without waiting for an answer, Colcord turned his back on the movie star and spoke to Doyle again. “That looks like an appropriate place to chat,” he said, pointing toward the sheriff’s office. “After you. We’re in a hurry.”
“Hold on!” Ballou demanded in a loud stage voice. “We’re in the middle of shooting a scene!”
Colcord turned to him. “Do you mind, mister?”
“I do mind. Very much so. My time is extremely valuable.” He positioned himself to where he was blocking Colcord’s path forward, standing with arms crossed. Cash could see that this was not a good move on Ballou’s part.
Colcord said coldly, “Why don’t you go back to your trailer and powder your nose while we have a chat with Mr. Doyle here. Or would you rather garner the publicity of being charged with obstructing a law enforcement officer—Mr. Ballou?”
Ballou stared at him for a moment and then stepped aside with a scowl.
“Let’s go,” said Colcord to Doyle in a decidedly unfriendly tone.
Doyle cursed under his breath and walked stiffly toward the office, leaving the rest of the actors and crew standing in stunned silence. They went inside. Colcord immediately took the chair behind the sheriff’s desk and leaned back, hands behind his head. Cash sat on the far side.
Doyle remained standing. “Jesus fuck, you can’t talk to my leading man that way. And I’m trying to shoot a movie here—”
“Jesus doesn’t fuck,” said Colcord. “We had an appointment. This won’t take long. Of course, it’s entirely voluntary.” He put his feet up on the desk with a thunk. “I feel quite at home here,” he said pleasantly, looking around. “Better than my own office. Have a seat, Doyle.”
Doyle sat down.
Cash looked at him curiously. He was a small, intense man, with a head of curly black hair, in his late thirties perhaps. He had an Irish accent and one of those diminutive faces with the features a little too close together, graced by a sharp little red nose. The blue eyes were extremely intelligent, restless, and wary.
“Look, I want to be helpful,” Doyle said, “but the incident took place many miles up the valley—nothing to do with us.”
Colcord put his feet back down and sat up, placing his cell phone on the desktop, pointing at Doyle. “Could you please state your name and title for the record?”
“Slavomir Doyle, DGA, director of Hannibal and the Baron.”
“Thank you. Interviewing are James Colcord, sheriff, Eagle County, and Agent in Charge Frances Cash, Colorado Bureau of Investigation.” He reeled off the date and location, then paused and smiled. His affability had returned.
Cash decided to sit back and let him do the talking.
“Now, Mr. Doyle, could you tell me what you were doing at the time of the killing—that is, at nine p.m. two nights ago?”
“We were shooting a night scene. Wrapped at midnight.”
“How much of your crew were there?”
