Into the fire, p.14
Into the Fire, page 14
So what else would be new?
“Do I detect a hint of regret about your career choice?” He kept his manner conversational.
“No.” Her firm response was immediate. “No regrets. The work is satisfying. All my jobs have been satisfying. It’s just kind of disheartening that I have so little to show for everything I’ve done. My brother even felt compelled to offer me a loan this morning. Sweet, but depressing.” She sighed. “Sorry. You caught me at the end of a long and trying week. I shouldn’t dump on you.”
“Don’t apologize. If you find someone with a willing ear, take advantage of it. Venting is healthy. And I hear you about income issues. Firefighting isn’t the highest-paying profession, especially if you live in a smaller town or more rural part of the country. Is that where you worked out West?” He braced, waiting for her to change the subject.
She didn’t.
“Yes. Towns don’t get much smaller or more rural than McCall, Idaho.”
McCall.
Home to a major smokejumper base.
Marc squinted at the squiggles on the pad. “Did you work for the city?”
A few seconds ticked by.
“No. US Forest Service.”
The speculation he’d been playing with gained traction. “Were you a smokejumper?”
Another pause.
“Yes. After I logged five years of hotshot experience.”
Wow.
Marc set his pen down, leaned back, and stared at the file folder he’d put on his laptop screen the day he’d taken his first job with the ATF but rarely opened anymore.
Bri had been part of the elite group of four hundred or so men and women who risked their lives parachuting into isolated, rugged terrain to fight wildfires up close and personal with only the equipment that dropped in with them and little hope of rescue if a situation went south.
In the firefighting world, they were the stuff of legends.
And he thought he’d led an exciting life.
“Can I say I’m impressed?”
“It’s just firefighting on a different scale. There’s no magic to the job. A willingness to work hard is the main prerequisite.”
“Along with a boatload of courage.”
“Lots of jobs require courage.”
“Some more than others.” He added modesty to her list of virtues and shifted the focus to practical matters, since she seemed uncomfortable with praise. “So why did you leave?”
“Parachute accident. My main chute didn’t deploy properly, and the descent on the backup is faster. I had a bad landing. But I did live to tell the tale, albeit with a souvenir. I’m sure you’ve noticed my limp.”
“Yes.” Pretending otherwise would be disingenuous. “What happened with your main chute?”
“No idea. But I packed it, so the career-ending mistake was mine. A shattered femur held together with plates and pins isn’t conducive to smokejumping or firefighting. When it comes to regrets, that slipup tops my list.”
“I’m sorry.” What else was there to say?
“Thanks. But I’d have aged out of the job eventually anyway. That’s why I double majored in forestry and forensic science. Fire investigation was always where I wanted to end up—just not this soon. As Mom liked to say, though, we may not always understand God’s timing as it unfolds, but in hindsight we can often see a purpose to it.”
He moved his cursor to the file folder and circled around it.
What purpose could there be in a potentially fatal accident that had left her with a permanent limp?
“Have you?”
“Yes. Mom began to decline about the time of my accident, so after I recovered, I trained in fire investigation, got a job in a municipality within driving distance of St. Louis, and was ready to step into my present job when the opening came up. The accident allowed me to be closer to Mom in her final months.”
Somehow Bri had found the bright side to an experience that would have made many people bitter and resentful.
Talk about making lemonade out of lemons.
“Nan has a similar philosophy.” He moved the cursor away from the folder. As long as she was opening up, this could be his chance to find out if her career out West in the wide-open spaces had anything to do with her walls-closing-in comment. “I’m assuming the degree in forestry means you love the outdoors. Have you always—”
“Oops. I’m being summoned. I have to run.” The sound of a door opening came over the line, and the background noise once again picked up. “I’ll let you know as soon as I finish my list. Cross your fingers that I find a match. Otherwise, we may be at a dead end.”
Their conversation was over.
Tempted as he was to try to detain her, duty was calling. The moment was lost.
“Enjoy whatever you can salvage of your weekend.”
“Thanks.” The background noise increased. “I’ll give it my best shot. Talk to you soon.”
The line went dead.
Marc pressed the end button, processing the history Bri had shared from the confines of her car—apparently a safer spot for her to have a personal discussion than while sitting within touching distance of him.
Useful information to tuck away for future reference.
He shut down his laptop and stood, unanswered questions scrolling through his mind.
Were her sister and brother blood relations, or had they all been adopted separately?
What had happened to her parents?
Had she been in the foster system?
If so, what kinds of experiences had she had there, and how had they shaped her?
What had gone wrong with the guy she’d known out West?
Had her bad experience left her gun-shy of romance, or was she simply not interested in him?
And if she decided she was interested, what was he going to do about it?
Excellent question.
For as he’d told Nan when he’d come home, romance was a low priority for the immediate future.
But all at once, her advice replayed in his mind.
“Don’t close any door too fast. Some only open once.”
So if Bri opened a door, he’d better decide soon whether he wanted to walk through—or perhaps spend the rest of his life regretting a lost opportunity with the most intriguing woman he’d ever met.
TRAVIS SWIPED OFF THE SWEAT beading above his upper lip, cracked his window to refresh the stale air in the car, and eyed the new burner phone clasped in his white-knuckled grip.
He had to call the note writer. He or she had left him no choice.
Yet once he did, his life would get way more complicated than it already was. He knew that as surely as he knew the summerlike warmth of these falls days wouldn’t last.
But sitting in a parking lot stewing about the situation wasn’t going to fix it. He ought to get the facts before he panicked.
He flexed his fingers to restore circulation and tapped in the number from the slip of paper.
After five rings, an androgynous voice greeted him. “Hold.”
Silence followed.
He waited.
Three minutes later, the voice returned. “It took you a while to respond. Don’t make that a habit.”
“Who is this?”
“My identity doesn’t matter. All that matters is how you can help me.”
“Why should I do that?”
“I have information the authorities would find interesting.”
“Like what?”
Seconds later, his phone pinged.
“I texted you a photo. Take a look. I’ll wait.”
Dread pooling in his gut, he clicked on the image.
He recognized himself instantly in the shadowy figure putting roofing nails on Bri’s driveway.
But most people wouldn’t be able to discern much. The image was on the dark side, and his features were murky. Maybe the cops could enhance it, identify him from this. Maybe not.
His predicament might not be as bad as he’d thought.
Pulse moderating, he put the phone back to his ear. “I’m not impressed.”
“There’s video to go with it that shows your face much more clearly, along with the license plate of your rental car—and your name on the rental agreement. I could post it on YouTube if you want to see it. Plus the one of you working on that tree at Bri’s house.”
His heart missed a beat. Raced on.
“No.” The last thing he needed was an incriminating video splashed all over the internet for the world to see. That wouldn’t help his situation back in Idaho. “What do you want?”
“A small favor. No more than a continuation of what you’re already doing to your former colleague.”
Someone else had it in for the woman who’d messed up his life?
He wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the steering wheel. “What’s your beef with Bri?”
“Not important. All you have to do is follow my instructions. I have two potential assignments for you. The first one has to be completed by three o’clock Sunday afternoon. I don’t care when or where you do it, as long as it’s finished by the deadline. If you want an idea, though, she likes to walk in the park near her house early on Sunday morning. I assume you have a gun?”
Sweat broke out on his upper lip again, and he rolled his window up tight. Lowered his volume. “What if I don’t?”
“Get one. But I’d be willing to bet a man with your background is never far from his gun.”
What did this person know about his background?
This was getting worse and worse.
“I’m not shooting Bri.” Mayhem was one thing. Murder was another.
“That’s not part of this weekend’s assignment. I just want you to take a shot at her. Come close, but miss.”
A few yards away, a woman struggled to pull a shopping cart free from the nested line waiting to be trundled back inside, but it was stuck tight. “What are you trying to do, scare her or something?”
“Or something.” A touch of amusement colored his blackmailer’s inflection.
“It’s too dangerous. I could get caught.”
“Make certain you don’t. And don’t disappoint me, Travis. You won’t like the repercussions. One more thing. Don’t leave town until you hear from me.”
The caller cut the connection.
Travis slowly lowered the phone and tried to control the shaking in his fingers.
How could this be happening, after everything had gone so well? From the day he’d left Idaho, he’d been in total control of the situation, had called all the shots.
Not anymore.
He set the phone on the seat beside him and wiped his palms down the denim covering his thighs.
Taking a shot at someone, even one not intended to kill, was dicey. If he got caught, no one would believe he hadn’t had murder on his mind. They’d just assume his aim was bad.
But he had to do it. His blackmailer had left him no choice. The trick would be pulling it off in a manner that guaranteed he didn’t get caught.
The question was how.
Minutes passed as he racked his brain for an answer.
None came.
He had two days to think about it, however. To plan. And with his smarts, he ought to be able to both satisfy the person on the other end of the burner phone and stay safe.
After all, it wasn’t like the note writer had asked him to kill Bri. All they wanted him to do was scare her, which dovetailed with his own plans. While a gun hadn’t been part of his aggravation arsenal, a shooting would shake her up. Much more than his pranks to date had.
That was a definite upside.
But there was also a definite downside.
Unlike flat tires and a fallen branch, a shooting would be deliberate. No one would classify that as an accident.
That jacked up the risk exponentially.
Still, he ought to be able to pull it off and escape unscathed.
Yet as he started the engine and put the car in gear, the knot in his stomach kinked tight.
Because even if he completed this task to his blackmailer’s satisfaction, another potential assignment could be coming.
And if the first one involved a gun, odds were the second one would be at least as risky—and perhaps more dangerous.
He could only hope it never materialized. Or that if it did, it wasn’t more lethal than the first.
THIRTEEN
NOT. ENOUGH. SLEEP.
Propping up her eyelids, Bri shoved her hair back from her face and padded barefoot into the kitchen. After her late night at the fire scene, another hour or two of slumber would have been bliss.
Alas, her internal alarm clock refused to be silenced.
And now that she was awake, why lie in bed staring at the ceiling instead of doing something productive? Like restocking her almost empty fridge or throwing in a load of laundry . . . or going over the case files from the Kavanaugh puzzle again in case she’d missed a nuance that would be helpful.
But first, coffee.
Yawning, she went through the motions with her one-cup brewer, then poured herself a glass of cranberry juice and sat at the table to wait for the caffeine infusion that would nudge her brain into gear.
As she sipped her juice, she squinted at her watch. Much too early to rouse Cara for their usual Saturday morning chat. Her night owl sister wouldn’t appreciate a wake-up call at this hour.
But a quick pass through her email wouldn’t bother anyone, nor would it tax her sluggish mind too much.
Chin propped in hand, she scrolled through the messages that had come in since she was summoned to the fire yesterday afternoon. Work . . . work . . . spam . . . a confirmation for a haircut . . . church newsletter . . . work . . . Crystal . . . reminder for—
Wait.
She backed up.
Crystal had finally responded to her email from Tuesday night.
She opened it and read the message.
Hey, girl! Sorry for my tardy response. I unplugged from all electronics and spent a few days camping in the backcountry.
Glad you got the job at County. I’m loving my ranger gig with the National Park Service. Wish I could have talked you into joining me instead of going home, but I know you wanted to be there for your mom.
Funny you should ask about Travis. I’m still connected to the McCall grapevine, and he is in one heap of trouble. After the furor died down between the two of you, he apparently reverted to his old ways—except his next victim did more than threaten to file harassment charges. She followed through.
Now he’s on administrative leave until the matter is resolved, and the general consensus is that he’s either taken off for parts unknown or is lying low and staying under the radar. That guy is a piece of work. (I’d use a stronger term, but you wouldn’t approve! J)
As the last vestiges of sleep vanished, Bri skimmed the remainder of the chatty email about Crystal’s current beau and the smokejumper crew, then reread the two pertinent paragraphs.
So Travis had pulled the same stunt again, after he’d promised under threat of a lawsuit and job loss to mend his ways?
Crystal was right.
Piece of work didn’t come close to describing him.
And if he wasn’t in Idaho . . . if he’d fallen off the radar there . . . where was he?
A quiver of unease slithered up her spine as suspicion began to swirl through her mind.
Surely he wouldn’t travel cross-country just to play mean-spirited practical jokes on her, though.
Would he?
Frowning, she rose to claim the mug of caffeine she no longer needed, an image of his cold, angry eyes strobing across her mind. Eyes that had strafed her whenever they’d met after their squad leader took her concerns to his supervisor, who’d called her and Travis in for separate chats.
Of course Travis had said all the appropriate things. Agreed to respect her space and keep his distance. Put on a public show of conciliation and deference.
But while he’d honored his promise to leave her alone, rage had continued to burn in him. He’d masked it well around the other team members, hiding it behind the jovial demeanor that had fooled her at first too. On the few occasions they’d encountered each other at the base facility without witnesses around, however, the venom in his gaze had sent an arctic chill through her.
Instead of being grateful she’d refrained from pressing harassment charges, those glowering looks had made it clear the grudge he harbored wasn’t going away anytime soon.
Bri took a sip of her brew, wincing as the hot liquid scalded her tongue.
Her own fault, though. If you got up close and personal with heat, you should expect to get burned.
Scrubbing a hand down her face, she moved to the fridge, pulled out a carton of half-and-half, and added a generous splash to her coffee.
Despite her suspicions, it was foolish to jump to the conclusion that Travis could be behind the tire and tree incidents. Their clash was old news at this point. Besides, why come after her for problems he’d brought on himself because of his improper behavior with another woman?
That wouldn’t be logical.
Yet anger could override logic, and he did have anger management issues.
Her doorbell rang, and her hand jerked, sending coffee spewing across the floor in a wide arc.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
She was getting all worked up over speculations that probably had no basis in reality.
After giving the java splatter a fast swipe, she hurried toward the front of her unit and peeked through the sidelight.
Did a double take.
Why on earth was Cara on her doorstep at this hour on a Saturday morning?
She flipped the lock and pulled the door open. “What are you doing here?”
Her sister’s eyebrows arched. “Good morning to you too.”
“Sorry. Good morning. Come in.” She stepped back, ushered her inside, and closed the door. “But I repeat, what are you doing here?”
“Can’t one sister drop in on another?”
“Yes—but trekking more than a hundred miles doesn’t qualify as dropping in. And you never get up until after eight on weekends.”
“Never is a slight exaggeration. I’ve been known to rise early on days off if the situation warrants it.” She plopped into the overstuffed chair she always claimed on her visits. Skewered her with an accusing look. “And your eventful week warranted it. Were you ever going to tell me about the tires and the tree?”
