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.”
Barrow turned to the security guards. “See that Mr. Gunnerson is returned to his suite and remains there. I will not be threatened and insulted on my own property.”
“You son of a bitch—” Gunnerson lunged forward, trying to get past the two guards, but they seized him.
“Let me go!” He struggled briefly and then stopped, breathing hard, sweat pouring off his red face.
“Mr. Gunnerson,” said Cash quickly, realizing she had a rare opportunity to take advantage of the situation, “why do you say he killed your son?”
Gunnerson didn’t answer.
“Why?” she repeated forcefully.
“Ask him!” he shouted.
“This way, sir,” one of the guards said as they propelled him backward toward the door.
“You tell me!” Cash said to Gunnerson. “What is he hiding? Why did you say to him, You know what I’m talking about? What did you mean?”
“Ask him!” he repeated as he was wrangled out the door.
“Get him out of here!” cried Barrow.
The door slammed, and Gunnerson was gone.
Barrow turned to Colcord, his face furious with anger. “Sheriff, what did you mean by bringing that man in here to threaten me?”
Colcord returned the look with a cool one of his own. “I thought you might want to see him, give him your condolences. I’m sorry he threatened you—I had no idea.”
“I’m going to file a complaint.”
“That’s certainly your right,” said Colcord placidly.
Cash said again, “Mr. Barrow: Why does he think you killed his son?”
“He’s grieving and irrational. What could I personally have to do with his son’s disappearance? I wasn’t even here!”
Colcord interjected, “When Gunnerson shouted, You know what I’m talking about! and Ask him! and You said it was safe! What did he mean by those statements? What was supposed to be safe?”
Barrow looked at Colcord, then at Cash. “Can’t you see the man’s crazy with grief? You had no business bringing that man in, threatening my life. You heard him. If he weren’t the father of a victim, I’d throw him out of the resort.”
“I can’t help but think,” said Cash, “that there’s more behind his accusations than mere grief. If you know something we need to know, you’ve got to tell us now. If we find it out later and it turns out you’ve withheld information, you could be charged with obstruction.”
“I don’t know anything more, and I resent the implication. I’m sorry, but my cooperation with you is over. From now on, you’ll talk to my lawyers, and if you want further questions answered, it will be by subpoena.”
He rose, turned, and strode out of the room.
Cash stared at Colcord. She was amazed at his audacity. “That was some trick.”
“You disapprove?”
“Well, no. We got some valuable information. But there’s gonna be blowback.”
“I wanted to shake him up. I’m convinced both of them—Maximilian and Barrow—are hiding something.”
“I agree, but then why wouldn’t Gunnerson tell us what he knows? Especially if he thinks Barrow’s responsible for his son’s death?”
Colcord shook his head. “It’s almost like they each have something damaging on each other. They’re playing chicken.” He paused. “Let’s get Maximilian in here and confront him about why he never told us about the Jackman Mine.”