Lake of fire, p.6
Lake of FIre, page 6
part #4 of Allison Coil Mystery Series
“You’re in the evacuation zone.”
The wrong thing--like that.
“Thank you for the notification,” said Earl. “I already evacuated and came back. Sorry you weren’t here to see it.”
Deputy Sheriff Campion’s was matter-of-fact. He expected compliance and reason. He explained that the forecast was for the winds to turn. It might look close to burned-out down by the river, but there was a whole chunk of untouched forest up on the ridge that could “blow up every bit as much as what we all witnessed the day before.” They had an army of firefighters on the way.
“The woods are burning,” said Campion. “It’s far from over. We’ll be working all through here. We need good access to the road that runs from Buford south to New Castle and this whole area. We can’t guarantee anyone’s safety.”
The fact that Earl McKee didn’t say anything did not imply, Allison knew, that he believed this new information had merit. Gabriella kept her distance up on the porch. Garrett came out of the house behind her, holding a mid-day beer. He lifted the glass as she caught his eye for a morning toast. Garrett looked wiped out or maybe he’d kept the beers going all night. Daniel came out behind Garrett, coffee mug slung casually.
“So you can’t guarantee you can protect my house, either? I mean, if we leave?” Earl’s tone was of the “making conversation” variety, but Allison heard the indignation an inch below the surface.
“All I hear the forest fire guys say is they want to find a spot to draw a line and hold it.”
“If the fire comes back this way, it would be like picking through the garbage at an old dump,” said Earl. “There’s nothing left.”
“This area is our access to the battlefield, and believe me when I say you don’t want to be here—the noise and the activity around here will be insane for weeks.”
“Then find another spot for your war,” said Earl. “We’re done being jerked around. Not a call or a morsel of assistance when shit was happening last night, and now you’re telling me to go when the threat is over? You gotta know that’s fucked up.”
Earl turned around, spotted Garrett on the porch and gave him a quick finger-flip. Come here. Garrett shuffled over with the pace of a pallbearer. Maybe to piss off his father. Maybe to be strange. When Garrett was halfway, Earl repeated the finger flip and stared, his expression cold and blank, at her.
“Earl let’s just—” Char tried to interject, but stopped. She had been pacing on the perimeter of the cluster. The three words were enough to draw her husband’s attention, but she hadn’t thought through the appearance of showing the authorities a break in the family ranks.
“Let just what?” The general mocked the idea that key tactical advice might come from a fresh troop in the rear guard.
“Go,” said Char. Her suggestion lacked oomph. “Get out of their way, you know. The main thing is moving all the animals. Let them fight the fire, and we’ll come back.”
Allison hadn’t budged an inch, giving Char space to make her case, and now Earl repeated the finger flip in her direction at the same moment as Garrett arrived.
Earl nodded as if he was contemplating Char’s counsel. He greeted Garrett with a firm shoulder grab.
Allison stepped up, loathing the thought that she could be treated like a child or a puppet. Earl’s hand came around her shoulder, and he squeezed her like a clamp.
“You know what these two did last night?”
“It was Daniel,” said Garrett, to Earl. “It was Daniel and Allison.”
“Right,” said Earl. “My mistake.”
“I don’t care what—”
Campion stopped mid-sentence. They all heard it at the same time.
It was a noise she knew well.
It haunted her dreams, both the day and night varieties. There were times she watched her personal plane crash from the perspective of someone standing on the end of the runway and the dreams—nightmares—always featured this same overpowering scream.
This jet flew so low that for a second Allison thought it might be on final approach to the non-existent Buford International Airport. Or maybe it was planning to put down in Earl McKee’s pasture. The jet’s nose tipped up. It swooped over the house, the fuselage so close Allison could make out the paneling pattern of aluminum on its underbelly. Acid soaked her stomach. Salt water lapped at the back of her throat. She stood smack back in the cold murky waters off Long Island Sound. Jets cruising at altitude had lost their psychological punch. They chose random times to gnaw at her soul but this one threatened to fall like a rock straight out of the sky and bash them all like bugs. What were the odds? You survive a crash of a commercial jet at a big-city airport but your fate is waiting for you a decade down the road in a spot where a DC-10 nose-dived and splattered all over a remote pasture.
The roar crushed them. Char plugged her ears with her fingers and bent over at the waist, as if an extra foot or two of distance might lessen the impact. Gabriella, on the porch, ducked.
The giant jet scraped the high ridge to the south. Its belly hemorrhaged bright red-orange guts and blood. The engine whine rose an octave. Then it was gone after a drawn-out diminuendo. Finally, there was room to speak.
“The fire is right up the hill,” said Campion. “You all need to evacuate.”
On some invisible cue, the remaining Nomex-clad authorities stepped forward.
“Whoa,” said Earl. “You got no legal right—and you know it. Get the fuck off my property now.”
Deputy Sheriff Joe Campion reached behind him. It was a quick move. Allison imagined a set of handcuffs dangling from a rear loop. The Nomex gang had numbers.
Char let out an audible gasp. She saw it coming. Allison, having moved back while the jet roared overhead, also saw it coming. Deputy Sheriff Joe Campion never saw it coming.
Earl McKee was a lefty. The punch started fast, ended faster with follow-through, a sickening pop hard to the jaw.
Deputy Joe Campion spun around. His arms didn’t come up to protect himself from the fall.
Chapter 8
Thursday Morning
“What the hell was that all about?”
Allison stared straight ahead. Colin drove. The pickup strained, tugging two horses and a mule. Riding to the trailhead might have been faster.
Calling in medical care for the deputy, whose face was bloody and smashed, hadn’t taken long but figuring out where to go and what to do had taken hours.
“You think I was having fun?” He looked over, shook his head and shuddered. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
“I mean that thing right before the punch when your dad wanted me to come up with Garrett?”
“Maybe he was going to say that you saved the house once and you could save it again.”
“What was happening during all of that, anyway?” said Allison. The question gnawed at her all night.
“Huh?” said Colin.
“Huh—what?” said Allison. “What was everybody doing all night?”
She refrained from replacing “everybody” with “you.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Allison. “Seemed odd to make me and Daniel the bucket and hose brigade.”
“And you did great,” said Colin. “We were moving stuff—you know, packing as much as we could. Every damn vehicle was crammed to the gills. I could sleep for a week starting right now, all the shit I lifted and carried.”
“So we had the easy job?”
“I didn’t say that. All I know is he gets his mind made up. Once he fell into a rhythm loading up, nothing was going to change until the house started burning or until we were done.”
In fact, when Earl McKee talked, you sometimes got the feeling his opinions were rooted down in his boots.
“I wasn’t being critical,” said Allison.
“Don’t think I love hanging around that place,” said Colin. “Especially when the whole crew is there, wives and girlfriends and all. I can’t keep straight all the things I can’t say so I tend to go numb.”
The pickup rounded a corner and the road pitched up, slowing them further.
Allison could feel the pressure lift. With Earl headed to jail, Daniel and Gabriella headed back to Denver. Garrett had his own place in Meeker; it didn’t sound like much. Allison’s head turned to the Flat Tops, and she wondered what kinds of views they would have of the fire when they climbed up on the plateau.
They would need one night under the stars, given the late start. It wouldn’t hurt to catch a trout or two, if they had time. Colin had swiped some frozen homemade chili from the McKee’s refrigerator, and they had ridden over with the usual stash of snacks and crackers and Fig Newtons. They would arrive home tired and hungry, Allison imagined, and that was fine because at least they would be out from under the McKee mayhem.
Coming out of the trailer, the horses and the mule smelled like smoke. They would all need a thorough scrub-down. With their meager supplies and minimal camping gear, it didn’t take long to pack and saddle up, including a check of the three animals. The high sun pounded the sandy pull-out where they worked. It was so hot Allison wondered if the forest would provide its usual relief. Whenever it was working, and whatever it was destroying today, the wildfire was no doubt feeling encouraged by the mother ship, the orange orb in the sky that squeezed any last bit of moisture from the fuel in its path.
A pickup pulled in behind the horse trailer. It stopped, spewing a cloud of dust. They’d seen no other vehicles all morning. This one came at them with purpose. It looked familiar. Colin tipped his head back, signaling resignation.
The sun’s reflection off the windshield blinded her view of the driver, but Colin seemed unworried.
“What now?” he said to nobody in particular.
Garrett climbed down from the pickup, extra wide and black with running boards and a front grille that mimicked a semi. He left the engine running.
“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Garrett shook his head. “I followed Dad to jail and he wants you back to stay with Char.”
Solo would suck.
“Tell him you missed us,” said Colin. “Tell him we were long gone up the trail.”
That seemed reasonable, thought Allison. Good thinking.
“He wants you to help watch the place,” said Garrett.
“Shit,” said Colin. Matter-of-fact.
Merlin snorted. Allison understood. Let’s go.
“I was gone,” said Colin. “We were gone. You found an empty trailer and empty truck. Can’t you work with that?”
“I’m a terrible liar. The worst.”
“Then you’ll have to do better.”
“He won’t believe me.” Garrett furrowed his brow as in imitation of someone who was thinking. “He’ll know there wasn’t enough time for you to get saddled up.”
“We’re quick,” said Colin. “And we’re travelling light.”
Allison knew when to stay on the sidelines, her Team Colin pom-poms tucked away. Not a peep. Not one dewy eye. Allison knew Colin would not budge.
And that Garrett wasn’t done trying.
“If Colin comes back with me, you’ll be fine by yourself, right?”
Allison took her time answering, for effect. “Not ideal with a two-horse string.”
“We’ll take Merlin back with us,” said Garrett.
“He should get out of the smoke,” said Allison. “And it’s a long ride solo with a mule and a horse on the string.”
Garrett sighed. “Guess I’ll have to tell Dad the same thing I told you.”
“What’s that?” said Colin.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” said Garrett.
“But you didn’t even see us,” said Colin. “Tell them you hiked up the trail, knew then you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”
Garrett headed back to the pickup. “Like I said, I’m a terrible liar. He’ll see right through me.”
Chapter 9
Thursday Afternoon
Duncan Bloom smelled smoke. He’d been waiting for a whiff. His windows were open. His crusty Camry gobbled up County Road 8, heading west from Yampa. The sky through the trees looked innocent, clueless and basic Colorado blue. He couldn’t see the smoke, but his nose said hello.
Duncan Bloom had covered his fair share of Colorado wildfires—the Red Canyon blaze near Carbondale a couple years back, the massive Hayman Fire that burned for weeks and weeks along the Front Range in 2002, back when Bloom was a Front Range reporter working at The Denver Post.
This one sounded like it had the potential to be the biggest one yet, although it didn’t have the dollar damage potential of the Black Forest fire in 2013 that trashed 500 homes near Colorado Springs.
Bloom slowed to a crawl. A thick white column of smoke blotted the sky. Its stalk was bent to the wind. A thousand feet up, maybe higher, the column smashed into an invisible ceiling, and the smoke pancaked into a messy blotch that smudged the whole northern sky.
Bloom stopped the car and snapped off the motor. His air conditioner was feeble to begin with, but the blast of outdoor suggested that he should be more forgiving of its efforts. He stood with his camera and recorded what he could with the longer of his two lenses. He wouldn’t make it to any Wi-Fi before Meeker to download the pics to his laptop and ship the digital images back to his editor. The fire roared west of Buford. If a checkpoint had been put up there, he was screwed.
Bloom’s cell phone squirted an electronic beep that cut through the stillness like a clarion. He’d left his car door open. The air conditioner would have to start all over again, climbing Mt. Everest starting from sea level at the Indian Ocean. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t have left the car running. Now that he was with Trudy Heath, whose every breath respected the earth and its resources, his habits had changed.
The cell phone squealed again.
“It’s Coogan. Where are you?”
“Making my way,” said Bloom. “From where I’m standing, this fire will be cooking for a long time to come.”
“Dante Soto is missing,” said Coogan.
“How do you know when a recluse is missing?” said Bloom.
“Riddle of the day, I guess,” said Coogan.
“He’s a hiker,” said Bloom. “Since when?”
“Not sure,” said Coogan. “Just got a tip called in, that’s all. All I’m saying is you’ve got more than the fire to cover. You’ve got sources. You should have an edge.”
It had been one of those profiles he had reported and written over the span of four months, snagging interviews and telephone conversations as he could. At some point along the way, he had let it slip to Dante Soto’s friends and cohorts that he was Trudy Heath’s partner or boyfriend. The next thing he knew Soto was lured out of the shadows and had joined them in Sweetwater for an off-the-record evening of in-depth conversation. In addition, Bloom had made four separate trips to Meeker to talk about the Dante Soto phenomenon and once made the long drive up a winding road to Soto’s remote yurt.
Soto, sort of the Hispanic J.D. Salinger of the environmental movement, didn’t grant interviews. In a couple of op-ed pieces, he slapped the media for its role in exacerbating every issue. The media found no ratings or advertisers by engaging thoughtful, solution-oriented analysts, Soto asserted. The rise of the insatiable consumer culture was due to the toxic yeast sprinkled on society by Giant Media and the advertisers who convinced us, post-World War II, to overspend, overuse and overeat.
The end result, Soto argued, was that as citizens we had lost touch with our relationship with the planet. We had no real concept of what fed us and fueled us. We had no idea what was behind a $79 round-trip discount airfare to go visit grandma at Thanksgiving. We had no idea what it took to fill our gas tanks or heat our homes.
Soto didn’t laud the heroes of the anti-fracking crowd, nor did he demonize those who wanted to drill. He didn’t believe that a new balance would be propositioned by lawmakers in either Denver or Washington, D.C.
For the most part, Soto shunned the limelight, but the fact that he was an intellectual Hispanic, one who had made the environment his top priority, gave the messages a nifty new twist.
Soto had attracted millions of loyal followers and developed a large network of friends and influencers, including no other than Trudy Heath. But Soto’s big plan had yet to get rolling. And Meeker was the place where he had wanted to start. As he gained traction, it wasn’t hard for Duncan to imagine he had stepped on some toes and awakened a beast. Status quo.
Chapter 10
Thursday Mid-Day
The pungency of a horse, Devo liked to say, at least to himself, was a whole different animal. The sweat produced a sharp odor that cut through the forest just like trout frying over a campfire or a meadow of July wildflowers basking in the sun. He smelled them before he heard them, heard them for a good ten minutes before he saw them.
Allison Coil and her guy both up on horses and a mule, too.
Devo’s nose had picked up a wrinkle in the horse sweat and now all was explained—the mule.
He hadn’t had to wait more than six hours. And there she was, coming right up alongside the edge of the burn scar. It was a short quarter-mile more south to the body but he had found a spot to wait and hide off in the unburned side of the Marvine Trail.
He stepped out onto the tree-lined trail, good as having a stop light in the goddamn forest.
Allison Coil rode in front, the mule stringed to her horse. And the guy, that same guy from the last time he’d seen her, brought up the rear.
The horses stopped. Allison shook her head. “Holy shit,” she said.
Chapter 11
Thursday Afternoon
“Point,” said Allison. “Point to the spot. I want to go in alone.”
One reason was to get away from Devo’s harsh bouquet. She knew from previous experience that it took some getting used to, but it was possible. She also wanted to step in as if finding it herself. The third reason she couldn’t quite specify, but she flashed on the fact that she had barely escaped this very fate, becoming a pile of charred bones in the woods.
