by Sue Henry
The inverted troughs between the joists were filled with urethane foam insulation, the surface of which immediately caught fire, burning as fast as if not faster than the dry wood around it and releasing a combination of smoke and hot gases. Confined to the space behind the cabin skirt, which was now heating up as well, these gases began to accumulate and flow away from the fire between the joists, along with thick brownish-black smoke.
Slowly the blaze grew, and with paper and wood
shavings gone, now ate its way into the insulation, creating pockets of intense heat that seared through to the plywood subfloor. Through small spaces the colorless, odorless gases crept, finally beginning to escape through cracks in the upper floor into the room above, long before the flames themselves would make an appearance.
Outside, all was still in the dog yard. Inside, no one woke or moved; sleeping silence filled the space.
Without warning the carbon monoxide detector be-
tween the kitchen and bedroom door went off with a shrill scream, startling Jessie groggily awake in the dark. Living in a log house had made her conscious
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and wary enough of fire to be sure she had alarms for smoke and for the poisonous gases fire could produce, as well. Religiously, she checked them and replaced their batteries.
Still tired after the trip to Little Peters Hills and the stress of dealing with Anne, she sat up, trying to figure out which alarm was creating the shrieking that as-saulted her ears and why. Swinging her feet out of bed on the living room side, she started across the room.
Halfway to the door, she realized that the floor under her bare feet was warm.
She flipped the light switch and looked down. There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the smooth finished wood, but it was definitely not its normal temperature. In the rectangle of light that shone out of the bedroom, she could see Anne sitting sleepily on the edge of the sofa in the sweats she had worn to bed, frowning in confusion, her hair a tangle around her head. Her lips moved in a question Jessie could not hear above the howling alarm.
At that moment the fire alarm above the bedroom
door also sprang to life with a slightly different but equally disturbing screech, raising the combined noise to an intolerable level. Anne’s hands flew to her ears as Jessie hurried to silence the carbon monoxide detector and then turned back to do the same to the bedroom alarm, which was still shrieking its warning.
“What is it?” Anne shouted, as she passed.
Jessie didn’t even try to answer, dragging a chair across to climb on to reach the fire alarm. Both alarms quiet, she stepped back into the bedroom and, grabbing her jeans, yanked them up over the extra large T-shirt
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she had worn to bed. The floor she moved across was warmer now beneath her feet and seemed to give oddly as she crossed the room to the back bedroom window.
It was hot enough to make her dance from one foot to the other as she looked out into the backyard. The woods were dark, but a warm glow was reflected from the drifted snow nearest the cabin.
“Get out,” she called, turning back and snatching the quilt from the bed as she passed. “Something’s burning under the house. Get your clothes, quick. We’ve got to get out of here.”
She could now see a thin haze in the room and, as she left it at a run, she caught a faint whiff of smoke that smelled oddly like a newly mowed lawn or hay field. What the hell was burning, and why?
Anne was in motion throwing on her clothes. Before going to sleep, she had moved her suitcase into the living room. Now she was carrying it, and the rest of her things toward the front door.
“Leave it,” Jessie said impatiently. “Just get outside and help me get some water going.”
Detouring past the desk she grabbed up the cell
phone she carried on training runs and, dialing the emergency number on her way to the door, gave the dispatcher the necessary information while stomping on her boots. Hesitating, she ran back and snatched her Iditarod trophy from its shelf on the wall, then taking her parka, she went out onto the porch. Anne followed, still determinedly carrying everything she owned, including the pack that contained the metal box of tiny bones. She took it all down the porch steps and
dropped it just beyond Jessie’s truck.
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The motion censor had turned on the yard lights on their tall pole, allowing Jessie to see as she ran around the cabin, cramming the phone into a parka pocket and tossing the quilt and trophy at a snowbank. Scanning the back of the cabin, she located the source of the glow she’d seen—a narrow break in the skirting that should have been solid. Racing to it, she grasped the edge. Throwing her adrenaline-aided weight behind the attempt, she ripped it loose. She felt the bite of heat on her palms and fingers and took two steps back as she swung around and tossed the board away into the snow, a motion that saved her from the flames.
Through the narrow break in the skirting, enough oxygen had now reached the fire to replace what it consumed and feed it. But, as it grew within the confined space under the cabin, the temperature of everything—wood, insulation, the very air—had rapidly risen to ignition level of over a thousand degrees.
Jessie had no way of knowing that by tearing off a section of skirting in order to see what was burning she had provided a sudden inflow of oxygen to super-heated conditions. The fire exploded in the whoosh of a flashover that hurled flames to the farthest reaches of the crawl space, and back at her through the opening she had created in the skirting. It missed setting her clothing on fire by inches, and she felt an almost intolerable heat on her exposed skin.
Between the storage and the puppy pens was an insulated water spigot that provided water for her kennel.
A long garden hose, which she carefully drained after use so it would not freeze, was rolled near it. Frantically, Jessie attached the hose, turned the water on as
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far as it would go, and ran it back to where the flames were now reaching from under the cabin to lick up the walls under the bedroom window.
“Anne,” she yelled. “Anne! Help me!”
There was no answer. Jessie turned the water on the fire flowing up the outside logs and, when it died, directed the inadequate flow into the hole in the skirting, where it sizzled and turned to steam but did little good.
The whole crawl space was now a glowing hot furnace.
“Anne! An-n-ne,” she screamed again, but heard
nothing.
“Dammit. Where the hell is she?”
Giving up, furious, she focused on getting as much water under the house as she could, also drenching what she could reach of the outside back wall, which steamed and quickly dried. She knew that the wood of the cabin was bone dry. Kept from the damp ground on pilings, warm enough to live comfortably within, the few years since its construction had parched it, like most other Alaskan residences—especially those made of logs. Glancing up at the window, she thought she could see a flickering orange glow on the ceiling of the bedroom. Where were the firefighters? How long
would it take them?
All the dogs were frantically barking and howling in the yard, but she had no time to consider them, knowing they were safe. Realizing she was achieving little in dousing the conflagration in the crawl space, she turned to the nearby storage shed. Perhaps water on that would keep it from burning if the whole cabin went. Directing the flow from the hose onto the walls and roof closest to the cabin, she began to soak what
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she could reach, straining hopefully to hear sirens on the road over the roar of the fire and the rush of water splashing. Looking back, she saw that the fire had once again escaped and was beginning to burn the exterior cabin wall. Quickly she returned the stream of water to it and was still fighting to put it out when she heard the first wail in the distance.
<
br /> My truck, she realized desperately. It’ll be in their way.
“Anne, move my truck.”
No response.
She realized the keys were in her parka pocket.
“Damn! Anne? ”
Dropping the gushing hose, digging for the keys, she dashed back around the cabin with the intention of moving the truck farther into the dog yard and saw the first fire truck swing into her long drive, followed closely by the vehicles of three firefighters, red lights flashing from their dashboards, reminding her of the recent wild ride to the Other Place.
Running toward her truck, Jessie looked around in shocked, incredulous anger, realizing why Anne had not responded to her frantic calls. The place where she had dropped her things was empty. They were gone—
Anne and her belongings had vanished into the night.
As she moved the truck out of the way, parking it between the dog yard and the outbuildings, and
climbed out, the windows of her cabin exploded and she could hear the bellow of the fire inside in a second flashover. The interior was now as involved as the crawl space.
*
*
*
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Hours later, Jessie sat, wrapped in the quilt she had snatched from her bed, slumped and shivering in the passenger seat of Becker’s patrol car with the door open, watching the firefighters, some of them still wearing tanks and masks to avoid breathing the poisonous gases and smoke, carefully extinguishing hot spots, kicking and pulling apart still-glowing piles of unidentifiable material, overhauling the collapsed cabin, a ruin of rubble, charred and half-burned logs scattered like pick-up sticks. She felt numb and sick to her stomach, had vomited twice. Everything was gone, burned to ashes, and, beneath the ashes, some of her former life still smoldered.
The yard was full of people; attracted by sirens in their neighborhood for the second time in three nights, they had rushed to help and now stood, as they had at the pub fire, in small regretful groups, shaking their heads, speaking in low voices. Many of them had
driven in, bailed out of their vehicles, and gone immediately to work to help fight the blaze. With help from Jessie’s hose, they had managed to save the storage and maternity sheds and the puppy pens, and had
moved her dogs to the back of the yard, out of harm’s way. No dog had been injured or scorched by falling debris, but the vet had showed up in his mobile clinic van, wearing sweatpants and his pajama top, notified by telephone. “Just in case.”
Jessie knew she was, and would be, grateful, to them all for their help and concern, but she was still trying to take it in—to realize that the cabin she had built and loved was gone forever. With it had gone all that she owned, except her dogs, racing and kennel equipment,
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and the trophy that lay beside her on the seat. Somewhere under the smoking debris where the bedroom had been lay her big brass bed, distorted and dull. Her wonderful sofa—found in a yard sale and carted home because of its amazing comfort and length, enough for two people to sprawl—was now nothing but some
blackened coils and springs. Her carefully refinished oak dining table—and the bright-colored chairs she had collected one by one and painted herself—cinders. All the paperwork and records for her kennel, the Celtic and country-western music she enjoyed and the system that played it, her much loved books, photographs, keepsakes, other things she hadn’t even remembered yet—vanished and buried in the black, steaming, smoking ruin. Though the floor had fallen into the crawl space and the roof after it as the building collapsed, unbelievably, from where she sat, she could see that the living room woodstove had somehow dropped straight down and landed without tipping. It sat in the midst of the wreck, on the charred ground, as if it belonged there. Incredibly, it still supported the cast iron dragon humidifier that had resided, full of water, atop it.
Scorched clean of color and boiled dry in the intense heat, the dragon was just visible, but no trail of humid-ifying steam now rose from its nostrils.
“At least you woke up and got out,” Hank Peterson had told her, when he, once again grimy and coughing from smoke, had found her standing helplessly by his truck with no idea what to do next. He gathered her into a huge, sooty hug that in its simple comfort had, finally, made her cry. “It’s only walls and things, Jessie. You’re okay. Be glad for smoke alarms.”
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Mentally, she knew it was true and that she would be able to appreciate it—later. Right now, she felt para-lyzed, anesthetized, exhausted, and desperately sad.
The loss was too much to absorb. Other reactions would soon follow, she knew; but, for the moment, she could only stare in disbelief at the place where her cabin had been, slow tears making clean streaks that she couldn’t see on her dirty cheeks and dripping from her chin onto her filthy parka, for she had been everywhere, fought as hard as any.
Why? she asked silently now. Why? And some-
where deep inside a spark of anger began to glow through the dark grief and loss. Why? And— who?
She was still sitting there, wiping her streaked face and hands with a warm damp towel handed to her by a thoughtful neighbor, when Mike Tatum showed up by the open door of the patrol car.
“Well, Mizz Arnold,” he said in a self-satisfied tone,
“I guess you’ll want to talk to me now about Marty Gifford.”
Jessie was very still for a moment, glanced up without speaking, then slowly swung her feet out onto the ground and turned toward him, expressionless.
“You sorry son of a bitch,” she said clearly in a low and level voice, and, directing the total power of her strong, rising body into the effort, buried her fist in his unguarded stomach, remembering that it was better not to break your hand on bony targets like his face.
12
Q
“I WILL NOT HAVE TATUM ANYWHERE NEAR THIS
—
FIRE
not one foot set on my place.”
Jessie stood by the patrol car, feet apart, hands on hips, stubbornly refusing to give an inch, still so angry her jaw ached from clenching her teeth.
“Jessie, he’s the assigned arson investigator. I can’t tell him he can’t—”
“Becker, you’d damned well better. Get someone
else assigned. The .44 I take with me on runs wasn’t in the fire. It’s in the shed, and I swear to God I’ll use it to keep him away from here if you don’t.”
“Jessie. You gotta be reasonable.”
“No. Not this time, Phil. There’s something not right about that guy—he’s got real problems. You let him take over here and I’ll figure out some way to make a lot of trouble. I promise you, I’ll start by screaming to the media and all the way to the governor’s office, and you know I can do it.”
Becker scowled at her and shook his head in frustration. “Okay—okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
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“Not good enough.”
“Look, he’s gone for now . . . you made sure of that.”
“Hank made sure by escorting him back to his car.”
“Yeah, and he may regret it.”
“Not if I have anything to say.”
“He could make you regret punching him by pressing charges.”
“He had it coming, and I’m not sorry.”
“Maybe so, but you don’t just punch—”
“Well, I already did. So whatever happens, happens.”
“Okay. I said I’d try to take care of it. For now, let’s get you set up somewhere in town—a motel.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I’m not leaving.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Sure I can. My equipment’s in the storage shed and that’s all I need. My mutts have got to be taken care of.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“It’s okay, Phil�
�really. I want to be here.”
“Well, there’ll be people around checking on the fire for the next few hours. I guess it’ll be all right. You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’d worry about my guys if I was anywhere else. Besides, it’s only me. Anne’s gone.”
“But she got out, right? You got any idea where she might have disappeared to?”
“Not a clue. She hauled her stuff out when the fire started and took off while I was out back with the hose.
Didn’t help—didn’t say a word.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “You think she set it,
Jessie? Somebody did.”
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“O-oh, Phil. I don’t know. I don’t think so, but . . .
She seemed awfully ready to get out of the cabin with all her stuff—but she was leaving today anyway, so who knows?”
When Becker and the rest had gone, and only a firefighter or two were still poking in the ruins of the cabin, Jessie walked slowly around it, trying to come to some kind of terms with the magnitude of her loss.
Half the neighbors and friends who had showed up at the fire had offered her shelter, and she knew some of them would be back in the morning to help any way they could. Several mushers had offered to stay with her, but she had sent them all off, knowing she needed to assess the whole situation by herself.
Many had volunteered to help muck out the remains of the cabin when that was possible, and help build a new one if she decided to do so. Hank Peterson said he would bring his Bobcat for some of the heavy work.
“We’ll dig a hole and bury a lot of that burned stuff.”
But it would have to wait until the investigation of arson was complete. As long as Mike Tatum had nothing to do with it, Jessie was content to be patient, not knowing what she wanted to do anyway. It was too much and too soon, though she felt a little better knowing that the cabin had been insured, but the papers had gone up in smoke with the rest of her belongings and records. That was okay—there were other copies
somewhere else.
The halogen lights on their tall pole had not been burned and now shed a circle of light over the destruction. She noticed that someone had carefully rolled up