He took a deep breath, collected himself, and forced open the door. The reaction was instant, the crowd pushing forward, the cameras and mikes swinging dangerously, one even knocking his hat off. He stood up, dusted off his hat, replaced it, and held up his hands. “All right. All right! Please. I can’t make a statement if you keep this up. Give me some room, please!”

The crowd backed off a little. The chief looked around, acutely aware that his image was going to be broadcast on every nightly news show in the country.

“I will make a brief statement. There will be no questions afterward.” He took a breath. “I’ve just come from the crime scene. I can assure you we are doing everything humanly possible to solve these vicious crimes and bring the perpetrators to justice. We have the finest forensic and crime-scene investigators in the state on this case. All our resources and those of the surrounding communities have been brought to bear. On top of that, we have brought in as a consultant one of the FBI’s top agents specializing in serial killings and deviant psychology, as it appears we may be dealing with a serial arsonist.”

He cleared his throat. “Now to the crime itself. The scene is of course still being analyzed. Two bodies have been recovered. They have been tentatively identified as the actress Sonja Dutoit and her child. Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims, their families, and all of you who have been touched by this horrible event. This is a huge tragedy for our town and, truthfully, I can’t find the words to express the depth of my shock and sorrow…” He found himself temporarily unable to continue, but quickly mastered the constriction in his throat and wrapped things up. “We will have more information for you at a press conference later today. That is all I have to say for the moment. Thank you.”

He barreled forward, ignoring the shouted questions and the forest of microphones, and within five minutes managed to stagger into his office. There was Pendergast, sitting in the outer office, dressed in his usual impeccable style, sipping tea. The television was on.

Pendergast rose. “Allow me to congratulate you on a most effective appearance.”

“What?” Morris turned to Shirley. “I was on the tube already?”

“It was live, Chief,” she said. “And you handled it very well. You looked like a hero, with that determined voice…and those streaks of soot on your face.”

“Soot? On my face?” Damn, he should have washed up.

“A Hollywood makeup artist couldn’t have done a finer job,” said Pendergast. “That, combined with the disheveled uniform, the windswept hair, and the evident emotion, made for a singular impression.”

The chief threw himself down in a chair. “I couldn’t care less what they think. My God, I’ve never seen anything like this. Agent Pendergast, if you heard what I said on television, then you know I just elevated you to official consulting status.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

“So I hope to God in heaven you will accept. I need your help more than ever. How about it?”

The man responded by removing a slim envelope from his suit and dangling it in front of Morris by his fingertips. “I’m afraid I beat you to it. I’m not just consulting — now I’m official.”

As Corrie entered the empty library, it seemed less cheerful than before, more foreboding. Maybe it was because an atmosphere of doom seemed to have descended on the town — or perhaps it was simply due to the dark storm clouds that were gathering over the mountains, promising snow.

Stacy Bowdree, following her into the history section, whistled softly. “Does this town have money, or what?”

“Yeah, but nobody ever comes in here.”

“Too busy shopping.”

She saw Ted, at his desk across the room, rising from his book to greet them. He was wearing a tight T-shirt and looking exceptionally good, and Corrie felt her heart flutter unexpectedly. She took a breath and introduced Stacy.

“What’s on the program today, ladies?” Ted asked, giving Stacy an appreciative once-over. Corrie had to admit Stacy was striking and that any man would enjoy looking at her, but his attentive eye still concerned her.

“Murder and mayhem,” Corrie said. “We want all the articles you’ve got on murders, hangings, robberies, vigilantism, shootings, feuds — in short, everything bad — for the period of the grizzly killings.”

At this Ted laughed. “Just about every issue of the old Roaring Fork Courier is going to have some kind of crime story. It was a hot town in those days — a real place, unlike now. What issues do you want to start with?”

“The first grizzly killing was in May 1876, so let’s start with, say, April first, 1876, and go six months out from that.”

“Very good,” Ted replied.

Corrie noticed that his eyes were still straying regularly to Stacy — and not just to her face. But the captain seemed oblivious — or perhaps she was just used to it from her years in the military.

“The old newspapers are all digitized. I’ll set you up at some terminals and show you what to do.” He paused. “Sure is crazy in town today.”

“Yeah,” said Corrie. The truth was, aside from all the traffic she hadn’t paid much attention.

“It’s like Jaws.”

“What do you mean?”

“What was the name of that town — Amity? You know, the tourists leaving in droves. Well, that’s what’s happening here. Haven’t you noticed? All of a sudden the ski slopes are deserted, the hotels are emptying out. Even the second-homers are making preparations to leave. In a day or two, the only people who’ll still be here are the press. It’s nuts.” He typed away at two side-by-side terminals, then straightened. “Okay, they’re all set up for you.” He showed them how to work the equipment. He paused. “So, Stacy, when did you get here?”

“Four days ago. But I’ve been lying low, didn’t want to cause a ruckus.”

“Four days. The day before the first fire?”

“I guess it must have been. I heard about it the following morning.”

“I hope you enjoy our little town. It’s a fun place — if you’re rich.” He laughed, winked, and, to Corrie’s relief, went back to his desk. Was she jealous? She didn’t have a lock on him — she’d even declined his offer to see his apartment.

They divided up the searching by date, Corrie taking the first three months while Stacy took the next three. Silence descended, broken only by the soft rapping of keys.

And then Stacy whistled softly. “Listen to this.”

THEY WANTED THE SAME GIRL

And They Fought a Duel by Lantern Light on Her Account

BOTH MEN LITERALLY CUT TO RIBBONS

Two Ohio swains meet at midnight and, by the aid of a lantern, proceed to hack each other with swords and pocket knives until both are unconscious. One of the rivals, rousing himself, runs his adversary through with his sword, causing a fatal injury. The lady, Miss Williams, is prostrate with grief over the terrible affray.

“That’s pretty bizarre,” said Corrie, hoping that Stacy wasn’t going to read aloud every silly story she came across. It was only with a degree of soul searching that she’d accepted Stacy’s offer of assistance.

“I like that. Prostrate with grief. I’ll bet she just soaked her bloomers over the affray.”

The crudity of the comment shocked Corrie. But maybe that was the way women talked in the military.

As Corrie paged through the headlines, she realized Ted was right: Roaring Fork, at least in the summer of 1876, was a bloody town. There was practically a murder a week, along with daily stabbings and shootings. There were stagecoach robberies on Independence Pass, mining claim disputes, the frequent murder of prostitutes, stealing of horses, and vigilante hangings. The town was overrun with card sharps, shysters, thieves, and murderers. There was also a huge economic divide. Some few struck it rich and built palatial mansions on Main Street, while most lived in teeming boardinghouses, four or five to a room, and tent encampments overrun with filth, rats, and mosquitoes. A casual and pervasive racism infected everything. One end of town, called “China Camp,” was populated with so-called coolies who were horribly discriminated against. There was also a “Negro Town.” And the newspaper noted a squalid camp in a nearby canyon that was occupied by “assorted drunken, miserable specimens of the Red Race, the sad remnants of the Utes of yore.”