Davis said, “Maybe she succumbed to smoke inhalation somewhere else and then staggered out here.”
“Maybe,” Amy said. Then why, she thought, the blood on her back? She rolled over the body revealing a puddle of blood and what appeared to be three bullet wounds in her gut. “My God! She’s been shot.”
“I haven’t got time for a homicide right now,” Davis said. “This whole town’s a disaster zone.”
“We have to take the time.”
“She’s your problem. Call it in to Sacramento and ask for a medical examiner and forensic team.”
Davis walked back to his patrol car leaving her with the body. Well, I’m stuck with her, Amy said to herself. The way it always works out. The men leave the messes for women to clean up.
She tried to call it in but there was no cell service. The fire had wiped out the tower. She waved down a passing Forest Service SUV. A Ranger—a young woman, so she knew she would get some real help—got her through on her emergency frequency. A lot of good that did her. A male voice told her to “secure the area” until a forensics team arrived.
“How long will that take?”
“A good three to five hours.”
“What am I to do in the meantime?”
“Secure the area.”
“Are you kidding? We’re in the middle of one of the most catastrophic forest fires in years. The town’s largely destroyed.”
“Sorry about that. Do your best. There are fires everywhere.”
She hung up. What a farce.
*
Amy Grassy slumped over her desk in the municipal building, fighting to keep awake. She had hardly slept in the three days since the fire started. She had her patrolmen on overtime as they had battled to prevent looting and keep traffic moving in the cluttered central part of the city. Luckily the municipal building, and therefore her office, being built of brick, hadn’t been seriously damaged. A light rain the preceding night had helped dampen the fire, which was now about 60% contained. More than a thousand firemen had taken over a nearby campground. Public Works crews had cleared rubble from the town square.
She knew it was time to start work on the homicide of the blond girl. The medical examiner and the forensics team had come and gone. Their reports had yielded little that wasn’t obvious to John Davis and her when they had discovered the body. Died from three gun wounds pumped into her at close range—9mm rounds.
Amy had gotten one break. One of her officers attended the Full Gospel Tabernacle. A parishioner had discovered a Glock pistol near the wreckage of the charred sanctuary and turned it over to him. Amy sent it to Sacramento to see if it was a match for the bullets retrieved from the young woman’s body. She hadn’t heard yet, but assumed that there would be. Which wouldn’t be a hell of a lot of help as the weapon had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and its serial number had been filed off. It was possible, Sacramento told her, to raise filed-off serial numbers, but this required costly work. At her department’s expense. She had told them to go ahead. She’d bury the cost in the overruns that resulted from the fire. She was told not to expect results in less than two weeks.
The body had been identified as belonging to a Cherry Watson, nineteen years old, who worked as a bookkeeper at the mill. Moved up here six months ago from LA. The family was preparing to have the body shipped down south for a memorial service and a burial. That is, once she had released it. Which she hadn’t yet. It was presently residing in the morgue at the local hospital. She hesitated. Why? She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t stall much longer.
So, exhausted as she was, Amy forced her tired ass out of her chair and into her patrol car. She needed to take a trip to the mill. She had an appointment with Sam Hicks, its owner, and George Williams of Cal Fire.
*
Amy drove through the disaster zone that had once been the town she loved so much. She passed empty foundations and skeletal remains of the homes that belonged to the Edwards family, the Chavezes, the O’Reillys—all gray and lifeless. A touch of red from a toy truck, a green tricycle, indicated the once vigorous life of her adopted home. Here and there she spotted a yellow-clad fireman dousing a hot spot. The occupants of these homes were now staying with relatives or in motels in nearby communities. But they would return. Yes, her people would rebuild, her town would survive.
She slowed as she approached the massive plywood and composite board mill. It stretched a quarter-mile along a ridge slightly above the town. It usually spouted exhaust and fumes from the glue used in the manufacturing process. A hub of activity with trucks unloading timber and huge forklifts moving slabs of plywood to flatbed rail cars. Today it was ghastly and ghostly still. Not even wind blowing.
She spotted thin wisps of smoke coming from what was once the front office. Two trucks from Cal Fire stood by the entrance. Firemen blasted water on the remains of a smoldering fire. Amy braked, turned off her engine, and jumped out of the patrol car. No sense getting too close. You never know when these things can suddenly flare up. She was assaulted by a blast of acrid air. Her eyes watered and she wanted to flee back into her car and get the hell out of there. But she had a job to do.
Ahead she spotted Hicks’ black BMW with Williams’ bright red SUV pulled next to it. Both men stood in front of the mill and were engaged in a heated exchange. Amy recognized the tall, muscular, handsome man in running sweats as Hicks. She had a history with that man, and not a pleasant one. In her opinion he cared nothing for the town and the people who worked in his mill. He pushed production at the price of safety. A friend of hers in the Forest Service said he was fudging on his report of timber cut. But he couldn’t prove it and upper management was not interested in pursuing the matter. The short gray-haired roly-poly guy must be Williams of Cal Fire. The two stopped talking as she approached.
“Thank you, Chief, for joining us,” Williams said. He was the one in charge, the wealthy Hicks reduced to a supplicant.
“How can I help you?” Amy asked.
“Our investigators say the fire began around noon right here in this office, and then spread, fueled by the 50 mph winds. I’ve been questioning Mr. Hicks on how that could’ve happened. It appears to be a mystery to him.”
Hicks answered, “Williams claims the fire was deliberately set.” The guy was smooth, always in control of his emotions. Yet this time Amy spotted a slight tick in his face. Yes, he was nervous, very nervous.
“We’ve found no evidence of an accelerant being used,” Williams said. “It’s possible that the cause was faulty wiring. There’s little left of the structure to tell. However, there’s one peculiar feature. We found a deeply scorched wastebasket in the accounting office. Were you, by any chance, burning some papers there and the flames got away from you?”
“Not a chance. Why would I be doing that? Actually at the time I was addressing a Rotary meeting in Yreka on environmentally sustainable timber harvesting.”
Amy asked, “Who was left in charge of the office?”
“The foremen were out in the plant,” Hicks said. “Only one person was in the office, the bookkeeper Cherry Watson.”
“Maybe she could’ve been burning something,” Williams said. “However she’s in no condition to answer our questions, as she was shot under mysterious circumstances the afternoon of the fire. Could her death have any connection to her work at your mill?”
“I’ve no idea who shot Miss Watson or why. Perhaps a jealous boyfriend. She was quite pretty. I understand she had a habit of partying in town after work.”
Now Amy was pissed. Typical of a man to blame the victim. Happens all the time in rape cases. But this is murder. She wouldn’t let him get away with it.
She said, “She had no steady boyfriend. Her friends in town say she was a quiet person and spent most of her spare time pursuing an online a BA in preparation for a CPA exam.”
Hicks turned away from them and prepared to get back in his car. Amy, addressing his back, said, “I have one more question, Mr. Hicks, if you don�
�t mind. Why did you deposit $5,000 in Cherry’s bank account the week before the fire?”
Hicks swung around and glared at her. He wasn’t used to being questioned by someone he considered subordinate to him.
“What’re you implying? She asked me for an advance on her salary and I gave it to her. Cherry told me she wanted to buy a small fixer-upper and needed money for the down payment. If you have any more questions please call my lawyer.”
He turned away from her, entered his car, started up the engine.
“We’ll be in touch,” Amy shouted after him. “My investigation has only just begun.”
Hicks sped off, but she knew he had heard her.
Williams asked her, “What do you make of it?”
“I suspect Hicks was cheating the Forest Service. I understand some of his timber harvesting reports are suspiciously low. Cherry caught him at it. He paid her off to keep her quiet and to burn the evidence. Then had her killed to be on the safe side.”
“And the fire that wiped out most of the town?”
“I don’t think either of them expected the wastebasket fire to get out of control. No one was prepared for the horrific wind that blew through the town the night of the wildfire.”
“That’s all speculation.”
“For now, yes. But I’ve just got started.”
“Be careful,” Williams said to her.
“What do you mean?”
“Hicks has a lot of clout. This town is dependent on him. He has friends high up in the Forest Service. His plant is on land leased from the Service and most of the logs milled here are from Sierra Timber, which pays millions to the Service. And if you’re right that he paid to have Cherry killed, he might be willing to pay again to remove you. Your reputation for being dogged is well known throughout this mountain country.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to submit my report to the higher-ups in the Service.”
“And what are they going to do?”
“Don’t hold your breath on that one. Best to just go on with your life. We’re both out of our league.”
But Amy wasn’t built to just go on with her life. That’s not why she became a cop. Justice was her life.
*
A solitary figure, dressed in black jeans and hoodie, crossed the deserted town center of Sierra the next night. It was 3 a.m. and pitch black. The streetlights had yet to be repaired. From time to time he turned on a pocket-sized Maglite to get his bearings. He crossed the square and headed up Maple Street, then Pine to find the address he had been given by his employer.
The hooded man’s target lived in a two-story redwood house that had been spared by the fire. He pried open a back window, crawled in and found himself in the kitchen. He flashed on his light for a brief second and saw a door that led to the rest of the house. Passing through the portal, the intruder came to stairs leading to a second floor. He silently crept up the stairs, entered the open door of a bedroom and stood for a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The intruder could barely make out a bed and a large mound in its center.
The figure approached the bed intent on suffocating the sleeping occupant. He grabbed a pillow and flung himself down on the mound.
Bright light blasted the room. Amy, in her pajamas, hovered over him, holding a Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol. He turned, twisted smile on his face. As if he didn’t mind getting caught. He was counting on Hicks’ high-priced lawyers. Might even get a bonus.
She said, “Now let’s have a little discussion.”
Silence.
“We can begin with your name. Then, more importantly, the name of your employer.”
Silence.
“It’s Hicks, right?”
Silence.
“You’re aware I can shoot you as an intruder.”
Silence.
She moved closer to him and began to squeeze the trigger.
The intruder rushed her, trying to wrench the gun out of her hand. She blocked his move, grabbed his arm, bent down and flung him over her shoulder. He cried out as he landed on his back. The first sound he had made since she confronted him in her bedroom.
It would be his last. She pulled the trigger on her gun.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The shots reverberated throughout the room, breaking the still of the Sierra night. In the distance an owl hooted.
She lay down her gun and felt for his pulse. None. Checked his pockets for identification. Nothing. Picking up her cell phone from the bed stand, she speed-dialed the police station. Patrolman Allen Stagway would be on night duty.
“Allen, better come on over to my place. Been an intruder. I’ve shot him.”
“Should I contact EMT?”
”No need. He’s dead. Call the Sheriff and the State Police.”
Amy hung up. She looked forward to a decent night’s sleep. This bastard had caused her to lose sleep two nights in a row.
I’ve got one of ’em.
So far.
Thor’s Breath
Suzanne Berube Rorhus
Hamarr caught himself whistling as he unlatched the cover of the mechanism that powered the oars of Chief Trygve’s longboat. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but he was alone at the edge of the fjord. Bad enough his occupation was considered women’s work, he didn’t need to be caught whistling like a little girl as well.
He wrestled the huge boiler to one side, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his tunic. Once the boiler was out of the way, he could examine the workings of the steam engine. He stood, stretching a kink out of his back. He wiped his greasy hands on his breeches, then secured his thick blond hair with a leather thong to keep it from the engine’s moving parts.
Hamarr was the only mechanical healer in this remote coastal area of Norway in the year of that Christian Lord 627. As such, Hamarr was responsible for ensuring the region’s steam engines did their work, despite the evil spirits that were determined to bedevil all mechanical things.
Magic and healing were traditionally practiced by women in Viking society, while the men focused on the more traditional skills of farming and raiding. Vikings were happy enough when their women were as fierce and independent as men, but significantly less pleased when men were careful and clever as women.
Today, he had to mend a flaw in the chief’s longboat. The village men had planned on beginning a sea voyage to the northwest coast of the Frankish lands today to raid the towns and monasteries of their gold and wine, but the voyage had been delayed by a malicious spirit in the engine that drove the oars.
After examining the engine’s components, Hamarr discovered a frayed leather belt. Once he replaced it, the gears would again dip and pull the oars in unison, conveying the warriors on their voyage. Hamarr, for one, couldn’t wait to see them leave.
He preferred his village with the warriors gone. Now that the summer season had arrived with its nearly perpetual sunshine, it was time for the raids and trading trips that allowed the village to thrive during the dark winter months. With the warriors gone, Hamarr would be able to work in peace, creating and repairing the machines the women used for farming in the men’s absence. If time permitted, he would also work on his inventions. He’d received a black powder from the Orient that he was most eager to explore.
“And have you finished yet?” a voice boomed. Hamarr jerked his head around. Chief Trygve had joined him in the boat’s hull, sneaking up on leather-covered feet.
“I have. Shall we take her out for a test?” Hamarr gazed directly into the eyes of his chief. He’d learned to meet a man’s eyes. If he left his gaze on his mechanical treasures as he preferred, other men took that as a sign of weakness. Machines and their magic were not worthy of a grown man’s attention.
Hamarr loved the machines, though he would never admit to such a thing. The interaction of the endless gears and belts, driven by the steam from the boilers, could accomplish so much more than a man alone.
Hamarr reconnected
the engine’s components as the chief watched, then shoved the boiler back into position. He stoked the fire with a few armfuls of coal, fanning the flames until the temperature within grew hot enough to produce the needed steam. Satisfied, Hamarr untied the dragon ship from its mooring and pushed it away from shore.
He led Chief Trygve to the stern. Hamarr had installed a new starter for the oars’ engine, allowing the apparatus to be controlled from the wheelhouse rather than the hull.
“One push here,” he said, demonstrating by poking a wooden knob, “and the boiler will release steam into the apparatus. This will drive the oars in unison, propelling the boat forward.”
The engine banged then roared into life, frightening a flock of puffins into flight. Steam hissed and rattled before escaping through the opening in the ship’s dragon figurehead. The dragon’s mouth now emitted the steamy breath that so frightened their foes. The oars swung in unison above the water.
“Spare me the magic lesson,” the chief said. “Will she get us to the Frankish lands? I won’t have my men stranded on the seas with nothing to drive the oars.”
Hamarr jerked the lever to lower the oars into the sea and the boat lurched forward. “She’ll get you to the Frankish lands easily enough, though you will need to refill your charcoal stores to return home.”
Eventually satisfied, the chief returned to the quay and allowed Hamarr to tie up the boat and shut down the apparatus. The men would depart on the morrow.
Hamarr untied his mechanical dog Hellshund from the tree where he’d left him and walked home. Hellshund, his head as high as Hamarr’s belt, growled joyfully as steam issued from his nose.
When Hamarr arrived home, his wife and children greeted him at the door. His youngest son clambered aboard Hellshund, riding the dog as if it were a pony. Hellshund sneezed, scalding the ankle of Hamarr’s eldest daughter with a stream of boiling water as she set the evening meal on the table. She yelped and kicked at the dog, but Hellshund easily dodged the blow.
Hamarr sat down to his meal. He’d received a hare from yesterday’s labors on the lathe at the Larson farm, so tonight they supped on rabbit fricassee and boiled kohlrabi. After dinner, he lounged on a fur-covered bench as his children played a complicated game with stones and twigs, and his wife wove cloth on her loom. Steam belched from the loom as she worked, and Hamarr fell asleep to the comforting, repetitive sound.
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