Chasing Fire

by Nora Roberts

  wilderness put themselves through the wringer. I have ideas about photographs and videos, and . . . I have ideas,” she said with a laugh. “And we’d have all summer to put the project together.”

  “I think it’s a good thing you’re trying to do. I’m not much good at speaking. Public speaking.”

  “I can help you with that. Besides, I’d rather you just be who you are. Believe me, that’s enough.”

  She picked up one of the potato skins the waitress had served while she’d laid out her plan.

  She’d caught him up in it, he couldn’t deny it. The idea of it, the passion behind it. “I can give it a try, I guess. At least see how it goes.”

  “That would be great. I really think we can do something that has impact—and some fun. And that brings me to two things.” She took another drink. “Let me just get this off the table. I was married for twenty-eight years. I uprooted myself, then my kids as well to support and suit my husband. I loved him, almost all of those twenty-eight years, and for the last of them, I believed in the marriage, the life we’d built. I believed in him. Until on my fifty-second birthday, he took me out to dinner. A beautiful restaurant, candles, flowers, champagne. He even had a rather exquisite pair of diamond earrings for me to top it off.”

  She sat back a little, crossed her legs. “All of this to set it up, so I wouldn’t cause a public scene when he told me he was having an affair with his personal assistant—a woman young enough to be his daughter, by the way. That he was in love with her and leaving me. He still thought the world of me, of course, and hoped I’d understand that these things happened. Oh, and the heart wants what the heart wants.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to think what I should say, but nothing that’s coming into my head seems appropriate.”

  “Oh, it can’t be any less appropriate than what I said—after I picked up the champagne bucket and dumped the ice over his head. When I went to a lawyer—the very next day—she asked if I wanted to play nice or cut him off at the balls. I went for castration. I’d finished playing nice.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I wondered if I would regret it. But so far, no. I’m telling you this because I think it’s only fair that you understand, right now, I can be mean, and that both my marriage and my divorce taught me to understand myself, virtue and flaw, and to not waste time in going after what I want.”

  “Time’s always wasted if you’re not aiming for what you want.”

  “An excellent point. Which brings me to the second thing. I lied to you earlier today when I said I wasn’t hitting on you. I was. I am.”

  It wasn’t just that his mind went blank, but that his whole system hit overload and snapped to an abrupt halt. He couldn’t quite manage the simple act of swallowing as he stared into her sparkling eyes.

  “I don’t believe in absolute honesty in all things,” she continued, “because I think a little shading now and then not only softens the edges, but makes things more interesting. But in this case, I decided on the bald truth. If it scares you off, it’s better to know at this point, where there really isn’t anything on the line for either of us.”

  She took a small sip from her glass. “So . . . Have I scared you off?”

  “I . . . I’m not very good at this.”

  “I should have put in there that whether you’re interested or not, I’m very sincere and serious about the project, and about learning how to skydive. Both of those things might be connected to me being attracted to you, but they’re not contingent on it. Or you reciprocating.”

  She sighed. “And that sounded like a high-school principal when I’d hoped not to. I’m a little nervous.”

  The idea of that stopped the degeneration of his brain cells. “You are?”

  “I like you, and I’m hoping you’re interested enough to want to spend time with me, on a personal level. So, yes, I’m a little nervous that pushing that forward so soon might put you off. But it’s part of my don’t-waste-time policy, so . . . If you’re interested, or inclined to consider being interested, I’d like to take you to dinner. There’s a nice restaurant a couple blocks away. It’s an easy walk—and I made a reservation, just in case.”

  He considered, shook his head. “No.”

  “Well. Then we’ll just—”

  “I’d like to take you to dinner.” He could hardly believe the words came out of his mouth, and didn’t cause a single hitch. “I heard there’s a nice restaurant a couple blocks away, if you’d like to take a walk.”

  He loved watching the way the smile bloomed on her face. “That sounds great. I’m just going to go freshen up first.”

  She got up from the table, moved toward the restroom.

  The minute the door closed behind her, she did a high-stepping dance in the bold purple peek-toe pumps she’d bought that afternoon.

  On a foolish giggle, she walked to the sink, studied her giddy face in the mirror. “Let the adventure begin,” she said, then took out her lipstick.

  A few years before, she’d wondered, worried, all but assumed her life was essentially over. In a way, it had been, had needed to be to push her to start again.

  So far, the new life of Ella Frazier brimmed with interesting possibilities.

  And one of them was about to take her to dinner.

  She nodded to her reflection, dropped the lipstick back in her purse. “Thanks, Darrin,” she declared to her ex-husband. “It took that kick in the teeth to wake me up.” She tossed her hair, did a stylish half turn. “And just look at me now. I am wide awake.”

  ROWAN RESISTED calling or texting her father’s cell. It struck her as a little too obviously checking up on him. Instead, she opted for his landline at home.

  She fully expected him to answer. She’d waited until nine thirty, after all, busying herself with her paperwork. Or trying to. When his machine picked up, she was momentarily at a loss. She had to grope for the excuse it had taken her nearly a half hour to come up with.

  “Oh, hey. I’m just taking a quick break from writing up my reports and realized I didn’t get the chance to tell you of my brilliance as fire boss. If I can’t brag to you, who can I brag to? I’ll be at this for another hour or so, then I’ll probably take a walk to clear the administrative BS out of my head. So give me a call. Hope your meeting went well.”

  She rolled her eyes as she clicked off. “Meeting-schmeeting,” she muttered. “A drink with a client doesn’t go for two and a half hours.”

  She brooded awhile. It wasn’t that she thought her father wasn’t entitled to a social life. But she didn’t even know who this client was. Lucas Tripp was handsome, interesting, a successful businessman. And a prime target for an opportunistic woman.

  A daughter held a solemn duty to look after her single, successful, naive and overly-trusting-of-women father. She wanted him to get home and call her back, so she could do just that.

  Maybe she should try him on his cell, just in case—

  No, no, no, she ordered herself. That crossed the line into interfering. He was sixty, for God’s sake. He didn’t have a curfew.

  She’d just finish the stupid report, take that walk. He was bound to call before she’d gotten it all done.

  But she finished the report, sent it to L.B. She took a long, admittedly sulky walk, before going back to her quarters and taking twice as long as necessary to get ready for bed.

  Annoyed with herself, she shut off the light. During a brutal mental debate about the justification of trying her father’s cell after midnight, she fell asleep.

  VOICES WOKE HER. Voices raised outside her window, outside her door. For a bleary moment she thought herself in the recurring dream—the aftermath of Jim’s tragic jump when everyone had been shouting, rushing. Scared, angry.

  But when her eyes opened in the half-light, the voices continued. Something’s wrong, she thought, and instinct had her out of bed, out the door before fully awake.

  “What the hell?” she demanded as Dobie pushed by her.
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  “Somebody hit the ready room. Gibbons said it looks like a bomb went off.”

  “What? That can’t—”

  But Dobie continued to run, obviously wanting to see for himself. In the cotton pants and tank she’d slept in, Rowan raced out in her bare feet.

  The morning chill hit her skin, but what she saw in the faces of those who hurried with her, or quick-stepped it toward Operations, heated her blood.

  Something’s very wrong, she realized, and quickened her pace.

  She hit the door to the ready room in step with Dobie.

  A bomb wasn’t far off, she thought. Parachutes, so meticulously and laboriously rigged and packed, lay or draped like tangled, deflated balloons. Tools scattered on the torn silks with gear spilling chaotically out of lockers. From the looks of it, tools, once carefully cleaned and organized, had been used to hack and slice at packs, jumpsuits, boots, damaging or destroying everything needed to jump and contain a fire.

  On the wall, splattered in bloody-red spray paint, the message read clearly:

  JUMP AND DIE

  BURN IN HELL

  Rowan thought of pig’s blood.

  “Dolly.”

  With his hands fisted at his sides, Dobie stared at the destruction. “Then she’s worse than crazy.”

  “Maybe she is.” Rowan squatted, slid a hand through the slice in silk. “Maybe she is.”

  EXTENDED ATTACK

  A little fire is quickly trodden out;

  Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  11

  Every able hand worked in manufacturing, in the loadmaster’s room, in the loft. They spread through the buildings, making Smitty bags, ponchos, finishing chutes already in for repair, rigging, repacking. Under the hum and clatter of machines, the mutters, Rowan knew everyone’s thoughts ran toward the same destination.

  Let the siren stay silent.

  Until they repaired and restocked, rerigged, inspected, there was no jump list.

  Nothing in the ready room could be touched until the cops cleared it. So they worked with what they had in manufacturing, running against the clock and the moods of nature.

  “We could maybe send eight in.” Cards worked opposite Rowan, painstakingly rigging a chute. “We can put eight together right now.”

  “I can’t think about it. And we can’t rush it. It’s a damn good thing she didn’t get in here. Bad enough as it is.”

  “Do you really think Dolly did that?”

  “Who else?”

  “That’s just fucked up. She was sort of one of us. I even . . .”

  “A lot of the guys even.”

  “Before Vicki,” Cards added. “Before Jim. Anyway, I mean, she worked right here on base, joking and flirting around in the dining hall. Like Marg and Lynn.”

  “Dolly’s never been like Marg and Lynn.”

  Focusing, Rowan arranged the chute’s lines into two perfect bundles. One tangled cord could be the difference between a good jump and a nightmare. “Who else is pissed off and crazy besides Dolly?”

  “Painting that crap on the wall, too,” Cards agreed. “Like she did in your room. I was up till damn near one, and didn’t hear a goddamn thing. Wrecking the place that way, she had to make some noise.”

  “She snuck onto base late, after everyone was bunked down.” Rowan shrugged. “It’s just not that hard, especially if you know your way around. It happened, that’s for damn sure.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.” Gull stopped on his way to another table with a repaired chute. “If there’s a fire when we’re not squared away, they’ll send in jumpers from other bases. Nobody’s going to jump until our equipment’s cleared. Who’s she trying to hurt?”

  “Crazy doesn’t have to make sense.”

  “You’ve got a point. But all that mess down there accomplishes is to cost time and money—and piss everybody off. Not to mention cops knocking at your door, when you slid by that one last time.”

  “Vindictive doesn’t have to make sense either.”

  Gull started to speak again, but Gibbons hailed Rowan. “Cops want to talk to you, Ro. To all of us,” he added as the machines hummed into silence. “But you’re up.”

  “I’m going to finish packing this chute. Five minutes,” she estimated.

  “L.B.’s office. Lieutenant Quinniock.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Cards, when you’re finished there, you can go on over to the cookhouse. The other one, Detective Rubio’ll talk to you there.”

  Cards jerked his head in acknowledgment. “Looks like you got the short straw, Ro. At least I’ll get some breakfast.”

  “Gull, Matt, Janis, when the cops give us the go-ahead, you’ll be working with me on cleanup and inventory. You want chow, Marg’s got a buffet set up. Fill your bellies because we’re going to be at it awhile. Fucking mess,” he said in disgust as he walked out.

  Cards signed his name, the time and date on the repacked chute.

  “I’ll walk down with you,” Gull told Cards, and brushed a hand down Rowan’s back as he walked by her.

  She finished the job, choking down everything but the task at hand. When she was done, she labeled the pack. Chute by Swede.

  She shelved it, then gladly left the headachy din of manufacturing. But she detoured to the ready room.

  She wanted to see it again. Maybe needed to.

  Two police officers worked with a pair of civilians—forensics, Rowan concluded. She knew the woman currently taking photos of the painted message. Jamie Potts, Rowan thought. They’d been stuck in Mr. Brody’s insanely boring world history class together their junior year in high school. She recognized one of the cops as well, as she’d dated him awhile about the same time as Mr. Brody.

  She started to speak, then just backed out, realizing she didn’t want conversation until she had no choice.

  Besides, looking at the torn and trampled, the strewn and defaced, only heated up her already simmering temper.

  She shoved her hands into the pockets of the hoodie she’d pulled on over her nightclothes.

  Halfway to Operations, Gull cut across her path. He handed her a Coke. “I thought you could use it.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I thought you’d headed down for breakfast.”

  “I’ll get it. It’s a bump, Ro.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He gestured behind them, toward the ready room. “It’s a bump, the kind that gives you a nasty jolt, but it doesn’t stop you from getting where you’re going. Whoever did that? They didn’t accomplish a thing but make everybody on this base more determined to get where we’re going.”

  “Glass half full?”

  She honestly couldn’t say why that grated on her nerves. “Right now my glass is not only mostly empty, it has a jagged, lip-tearing chip in it. I’m not ready to look at it in sunny terms. I might be once her vindictive batshit crazy ass is sitting in a cell.”

  “They’ll have to call in the rangers or the feds, I guess. U.S. Forest Service property that got messed with, so it’s probably a felony. I don’t know how it works.”