Trapped

by Denise A. Agnew

  Trapped

  Denise A. Agnew

  Published 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-258-7

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2015, Denise A. Agnew. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Arlie Davis ran from fire once before and yet paid a terrible price. A new fire threatens her world and an entire community and fear nips sharply at her heels. When a madman decides she’ll succumb to the flames, firefighter Hank Clancy is her only hope for survival.

  Acknowledgements

  I got the idea for Trapped June 29, 2013. When I learned June 30 that 19 hotshot firefighters had lost their lives, I was set back on my heels because I’d already started writing about a wildland firefighter.

  Fire is a theme in many of my stories, and in the last several years wildfires have menaced communities I’ve lived in, such as the Monument and Antelope Fires in Sierra Vista, Arizona in June 2011, and the Waldo Canyon Fire in Colorado Springs in June 2012. Then came June 11, 2013 and the Black Forest Fire. Black Forest was where I grew up, and while I haven’t lived there for many years, it is dear to me. Fortunately, my old home survived the conflagration.

  My relationship with fire is a curious one, as it has been all my life. It’s one of enormous respect for the raw power of Mother Nature and with it a fear that can’t always be avoided.

  So with that, I dedicate this story to the Prescott Granite Mountain Hotshots who saved homes here in Sierra Visa in June 2011 but who perished in the Yarnell Hill Fire in Arizona on June 30, 2013. They were doing what they loved and did so well, saving property and lives. Thank you for your service. May you rest in peace.

  Disclaimers: In this story Chimney Rock, Arizona is a fictional town, but it might be Anywhere Town here in the Southwest. Also, as far as I know, the University of Arizona does not have a fire science program.

  Chapter 1

  Chimney Rock, Arizona

  Friday

  100 degrees Fahrenheit

  Arlie Davis watched the rickety building loom up in the distance as she floored the gas petal on the old blue pickup.

  The gas station on the flats just north of Chimney Rock looked like it belonged in a slasher flick.

  This isn’t a movie, Arlie.

  Wind gusted heavy for a second and moved the truck around. She corrected with the steering wheel.

  From a distance, the gas station appeared abandoned, but a closer look revealed it still operated. Sure, the big truck stop on the other side of the four-lane highway served more patrons, but the old station catered to locals who preferred a more personal touch.

  She pressed down on the gas pedal again. She’d passed cars like her life depended on it, and it very well might. She wasn’t proud of her reckless driving, but she didn’t have time to wait in line with the others fleeing before the Chimney Fire roared into town and burned the place into oblivion.

  The fire had teased the mountain for six days, backing off during the evenings when humidity rose and firefighters attacked. But the wind had picked up during the day yesterday, howling up to fifty miles per hour, while temperatures rose in the semi-arid high desert. It was like standing in a hairdryer. Taking advantage of the conditions, the fire exploded like a volcano, smoke boiling up dark and sometimes white, illuminated by a reddish and yellow glow straight from Dante’s Hell. The sight of the blow-up had stolen Arlie’s breath as fear took over.

  While others in the evac and pre-evac areas dragged their heels packing their worldly goods, she’d been planning to make a quick exit if need be since the fire started. Seeing that horrendous cloud of smoke and ash yesterday had sealed it for her.

  No. That wasn’t entirely true. Junior had been the last straw.

  She glanced in the rear view mirror, half afraid she’d see Junior sailing up behind her in his squad car, or perhaps even worse—the raw and deadly power of the wildfire. She shivered, unable to control the panic spiking through her body. The rational part of her was annoyed at not being able to control the reaction, but it came from somewhere primal. She tried slowing her breathing, but her heart rattled in her chest like an old engine.

  She shifted on the seat. Her butt hurt—the bench seat had lost its stuffing a long time ago, if it ever had any, and the seat belts were shoved so far down she couldn’t have reached them even if she’d had time. Thankfully the old truck had a cab cover on the back where her luggage was stowed. If the rain ever came, her stuff wouldn’t get wet. Thank God for small favors.

  Her mouth was dry but she didn’t take her hands off the steering wheel to grab her water bottle and take a swig.

  This isn’t safe, Arlie. Slow down.

  Hell, no. It wasn’t safe. She hadn’t had time for pretty, reasonable driving when she’d grabbed the keys and jumped inside the truck, rammed it into gear and shot out of the driveway. Tears moistened her eyes. God, she was a mess. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision. It wouldn’t help her if she ran into a ditch and wrecked the pickup. She needed Grandmother’s old contraption to make it out of here. To make it out of the universe. Because God only knew what it would take to escape the fire roaring down the mountain and Junior Douglas.

  When Junior woke up with a splitting headache he’d be pissed.

  That is, if he woke up at all.

  Fear slicked her in sudden sweat. What if she’d killed him? What if? She swallowed hard as her stomach went sour. No. Can’t afford to get sick. Can’t afford it.

  She glanced at the gas gauge and groaned. She didn’t want to stop, but trucks didn’t run on fumes. Emotions battered her from a half-dozen directions. She’d evacuated her grandmother’s old trailer with a few important papers in her purse, a suitcase full of clothes in the bed of the truck, and the T-shirt, khaki shorts and athletic shoes she wore now. If the trailer burned, she’d start again. Beginning again didn’t scare her half so much as the flames chewing up the trees on the peak and the law that would be after her if Junior were dead.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror as her scrambled thoughts tried to right themselves. She’d never suspected Junior’s pathology, never guessed he was nuttier than a fruit basket and meaner than an entire hive of Africanized bees. She looked at the gas gauge again. No one else was exiting to use the old gas station, so maybe she had time. Considering the long line of cars behind her that she’d circumvented by taking a back road, it was possible if Junior woke up he’d be stuck in the traffic jam. She could only hope.

  Instinct prickled along her skin like a thousand tiny spiders dancing along her arms. She knew that feeling well and the consequences of ignoring it. She’d ignored her squiggy feelings about affable-looking Junior because he was a deputy sheriff, and look where that had gotten her. Yet the thought of running out of gas as the wildfire came across the mountains frightened her more than Junior catching up.

  She careened into the right turn lane and down the long off ramp that led to the gas station. Benson Hardy’s Gas Station and Convenience Store had been here fifty years, even though Benson Hardy had been dead the last thirty of them. Successive owners never changed the name. They’d tinkered with the building, made changes like a
dding a big trucker’s style bathroom and shower area. Otherwise it maintained a friendly mom and pop feel.

  She screeched up next to a pump. The other gas pump was occupied by a nondescript black SUV with tinted windows but no one was with the vehicle. She jumped out and hurried toward the station with her purse slung over her shoulder. She had cash, a lot of it, and didn’t plan to pay with a credit card. That meant she had to go inside. She glanced back at the massive glow of red and yellow mixed with gray boiling along the top of the mountain as it devoured dead spruce trees. She hated the trees being blackened and destroyed. She really hated that. Tears prickled her eyes.

  She pushed through the double glass doors. A man stood at the counter, back turned to her. Old Mick Bufford, current owner of the gas station, was helping the patron. She took in a few details about the customer. For a second she thought he looked familiar, but she shrugged off the thought as impatience made her stomach twist into knots. The customer was way taller than her five foot eight, and had dark hair cut military short. His ripped arms and broad back were well displayed by a form-fitting navy T-shirt. Trim-waisted, the man wore jeans that were tight enough to show off a nice rear, but certainly not enough to look as if he was purposefully displaying the facts. The cash register beeped as Bufford scanned a large bag of nuts and two bottles of water. The customer’s well-muscled arms flexed as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and she noticed a tattoo inked onto his left bicep that looked Celtic or maybe military. She wasn’t a tattoo aficionado.

  “Damn fire is a bit close. You from town?” Bufford asked the man.

  “Yeah.” The man’s voice had a low, rumbling quality.

  Bufford looked like he was examining the guy’s T-shirt. “Hey, Creed Hot Shots. You a firefighter?”

  “Yeah, but maybe not much longer.”

  The guy’s voice was liquid and deep. The type of voice that could get a girl into trouble if she was looking for it. Which she wasn’t. No, not for a long, long time after this mess. If ever again.

  “Not much longer?” Bufford looked up at the man.

  “They sent me packing.”

  “Oh.” Bufford’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t ask the man any more questions. Bufford smiled when he saw her. “Hey, Arlie.”

  She tossed him a weak smile, eager to just pay and leave. “Hey.”

  The customer didn’t look around as he paid for his purchases. Bufford grabbed a plastic bag from under the counter and loaded it with the nuts, water, and a receipt. Before the man turned around, the sound of screeching tires made her look out the windows. Junior’s squad car had come to a crooked halt near the doors. Her body froze to the spot. Shit, shit, shit.

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved she hadn’t killed him or absolutely terrified. Okay, she was both.

  “What the hell?” Bufford said.

  “It’s Junior Douglas.” Her tongue felt thick and as dry as cardboard. “Mr. Bufford…look, I have a problem. I just left Junior back at my old place, and he wasn’t too happy.”

  Instinctively she backed toward the counter, her heart slamming in her chest and her breath coming faster as fear spiked.

  “Why’s that?” Bufford asked, surprise clear in his tone.

  “It’s a long story,” Arlie said.

  Junior leapt out of the squad car. The only thing she had going for her was witnesses. What could he do to her? He could arrest her, take her somewhere in the woods where no one would see him execute her. A wave of pure terror made her move back again, and she bumped right into a tall, hard body. The customer. His hands clamped on her upper shoulders. Maybe he planned to hold her for the cop? After all, he would trust the police officer, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t most people assume she was in the wrong about what had happened?

  “Girl, what did you do to get his dander up?” Bufford asked, his voice sounding cranky.

  “I told him no.” Her voice sounded strangled, as if she was trying to suck in air at the same time. “He tried—”

  The doors came open and Junior barreled in, his weapon drawn. She held her hands up as if surrendering, her mind a riot of panic. The man clutching her arms didn’t move and didn’t say a word, his hands steady, his body hard against her back.

  Junior wasn’t a television stereotype of corrupt law enforcement. In fact, most would say he looked too harmless to be a hard-core sheriff’s deputy. His short, almost black hair was thick and styled with too much hair product. His face reminded her of Elvis in a way, his features too good looking, as smooth as a baby’s butt and just as pale. He was at least as tall as the man behind her but Junior looked soft and a little mushy around the middle. He’d always been a blockhead, but the sheriff had hired him because Junior’s father was the mayor and had more money than sense. Much of that money came in the form of a large housing development scarring the mountainside near town. The same development in imminent danger of destruction from fire.

  Junior pointed the gun directly at her. “There you are. Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

  “Now what’s going on, Junior?” Bufford asked, his voice calm but a little irritated.

  Junior smiled without a hint of humor, his blue eyes colder than winter. “She ignored me for the last time. Now she’s gotta pay.”

  Bufford cleared his throat. “Uh…I don’t understand. Did she commit some crime?”

  Junior sneered. “She’s been committing crimes since high school. Has everyone fooled into thinking she’s the good little bitch, but she’s not so holier than thou.”

  “Now, Junior, whatever it is I don’t think we need to point a gun at her—” Bufford started to say.

  “Shut. The. Hell. Up.” Junior’s voice stung like a slap. “Shut up.”

  “Junior.” Her voice was thready, a mere whisper. “Let them go. It’s just you and me. Don’t involve them.”

  “Too late for that. You screwed up, just like you always do. If you would’ve just done what I wanted like a good little girl no one else would need to get involved. It’s all on you.”

  The stranger behind her moved his hands down her arms until he released them, then landed on her waist. She flinched, shocked. What the hell?

  “What’s the charge against her?” The customer’s deep voice rumbled close.

  “What the hell do you care?” Junior frowned. “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know Jack.”

  Bufford started to move around the counter. “Let’s be reasonable about this. It must be a misunderstanding, because I’ve known Arlie all my life. She doesn’t break the law.”

  Junior snorted. “She’s a ‘ho. My mother told me all about what Arlie’s done in the past. Things she’s done that no good church-going woman would do.”

  A different fire rose inside Arlie, one that had burned brightly when she’d been back at the trailer, before she’d run for her life. She wanted to brain Junior again.

  “What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?” Bufford asked. “Now listen here, this just ain’t right. If I have to call 911 and get other cops here I—”

  Junior aimed toward Bufford and fired. She flinched at the ear-splitting sound.

  For a second she wondered if she’d feel pain. Because he must have fired at her. She’d said the wrong thing, held her mouth the wrong way. She heard a loud cry from Bufford and swung out of the man behind her back’s grip.

  “Oh, Jesus! Bufford!” She started to move as the old man fell behind the counter where she couldn’t see him.

  “Don’t move!” Junior crouched into a shooting stance, as if he had a bead on a highly dangerous individual.

  “Take it easy.” The customer lifted his hands as if surrendering to his own arrest. His voice was solid, almost as if he was making polite conversation and hadn’t just seen Bufford cut down by gunfire for no good reason. “We just need to calm down here.”

  “I’ve got to help him. Please,” she said, tears overflowing her eyes as she heard
Bufford moan in agony. “Please!”

  Junior snorted. “Too late for that, Arlie. Too damned late.”

  “Look, there’s a solution to this,” the customer said.

  “Solution?” Junior laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Put us in the storage room in back. The fire is coming pretty fast, and if you want to get away with murder that’s the best way to do it. I figure when that fire gets here in the next few hours it’ll burn so hot they won’t find much more than charred corpses.” His voice was calm, as if he were suggesting they all sit down and have coffee, rather than an outlandish suggestion that made almost no sense, but still made Arlie’s blood run thick with dread.

  Which was worse? She’d rather Junior just shoot her now, because the thought of perishing by fire made her sweat with heart-stopping fear.

  By now the customer had eased around so he stood almost in front of her. She still hadn’t looked at his face. Her attention stayed riveted on Junior’s hate-filled expression.

  “Look, I don’t know what beef you have with this woman, deputy, but this isn’t the way to solve it,” the man said to Junior.

  Junior’s lip curled. “Shut up or I’ll shoot you, too. You don’t know shit what she did to me.” Junior’s voice had turned raspy, as if he’d already sucked on the smoke coming down the mountain. “But maybe you got an idea. I mean, how dumb is that giving me an idea on how to kill her?”

  She almost agreed, but something in the customer’s tone earlier made her think he’d given Junior the idea for a good reason she didn’t understand. Could the guy have a clever plan? She could only hope.

  The deputy sheriff’s eyes glittered with a strange insanity, one she hadn’t heeded well enough. She’d learned her lesson. Never, ever become involved with a crazy-assed local from her hometown. First things first, she had to survive this encounter with this particular crazy-assed local. Her heart still slammed in her chest, and she thought she’d suffocate. Hell, she was a friggin’ basket case. Time continued to slow, and she realized she was dizzy—maybe she’d held her breath, or maybe unfettered terror had cut oxygen to her brain. She’d made a critical mistake stopping here. Very critical and now she’d pay with her life and so would two innocent men.