“Oh my,” Cecilia said.
“Not with a low-intensity burn. Then the damage is negligible,” Eric said. “In a year or so, you’d never even know there’d been a burn.”
Eric found it ironic he was using Nora’s logic—an argument he’d rejected a few days ago—to convince the birders to accept RMNP’s fire management policies. Maybe he wasn’t being honest with himself.
“So, Forest, tell us what you propose,” Dorothy said.
“Nothing.” Nettleman preened beneath the shocked stares of his listeners. “I propose that we stop lighting fires and that we let natural wildfires burn themselves out. No suppression. No intervention. No participation in any way. It’s time we allow Mother Nature to plot her own course.”
“What about when a fire roars into town?” demanded Henderson. “Or when it’s your house or the Wildland Center burning down? Surely you don’t think we should just stand by and roast weenies on the carnage.”
“That’s exactly what I’m advocating. If a structure is in the path, it’s meant to burn.”
“Okay everybody, listen up,” said Miriam, banging her fist on the bar. “I’d like to call this meeting to order.”
Eric hesitated, then turned to face Miriam. Nettleman leaned forward.
“On a final note,” he said quietly, “this fire may be all it takes for me to convince the National Park Service boys that I’m right. Somewhat of a disguised blessing, in more ways than one.”
Eric stiffened.
Lark, who had sidled up next to Eric when Miriam called the meeting to order, leaned over and whispered, “Is everything okay?”
“Jeg foler ugler I mosen,” he answered.
Lark looked puzzled.
“I sense owls in the moss,” Eric translated. “In English—something feels wrong.”
CHAPTER 14
Miriam quickly dispensed with the preliminaries and moved onto old business—an update on the protocol for reporting rare bird sightings, a report from the field trip committee on upcoming events, a standing request for newsletter articles, and the scheduling of a cleanup day along the Paris Mills Nature Trail.
“Now, does anyone have any new business?” she asked.
“I do,” Eric said. He wasn’t anxious to make his request in the wake of the earlier conversation with Forest, but maybe it would work to his advantage. Miriam gestured for him to take the floor, and he moved to where he could face the gathering.
“I’m sure all of you know by now that the recent fire affected over nine thousand acres,” he said. “Mostly Park Service land, but some privately owned property too.”
Cecilia reached out to clutch Dorothy’s arm, while the other bird watchers whispered among themselves. Eric raised his voice above the buzz. “Beaver Meadows was the primary park habitat for the green-tailed towhee and Virginia’s warbler. The meadows area was decimated. We also lost some of the forested habitat for three-toed woodpeckers.”
The buzz increased, and Miriam rapped on the bar. “Let him finish.”
Gertie Tanager, Miriam’s step-daughter, glanced at her watch, then glared at the others. “You know, some of us have to work tomorrow.”
Eric continued. “For the next few months—”
“Years,” interjected Lark.
“Whatever,” Gertie said.
“Years,” Eric amended. “The thing is, the NPS needs volunteers. It’s my job to pinpoint the location of plants surviving in the burned-out areas and to document the return of wildlife.” He paused and scanned the faces of his friends. “I’m sure you realize this type of study is essential to understanding the effects of fire on avian populations and habitats. I am hoping I can count on EPOCH to supply some manpower.”
Henderson scratched his goatee. “How many hours a day do you need?”
“Whatever you can give,” Eric answered. “Ideally we’d like to have someone, or a number of someones, observe a designated area during a specific time every day.”
Nettleman raised his hand. “Excuse me. Exactly what is your primary objective?” he asked. “What’s the goal of the observation?”
“We need to do two things. One, gauge the amount of new growth versus the amount of food the elk are consuming. And two, determine the impact of prescribed burning on various bird and animal species.”
“To prove what?” Nettleman asked, rolling his eyes. “That prescribed burns adversely affect the wildlife?”
Eric bristled. “I believe we’ve covered this ground, Forest. But if you’re asking me on a personal level what I care about most, it’s the effect of the burn on the green-tailed towhee.”
“You want my guess?” Nettleman turned from Eric and addressed the group. “It’s negative.”
Eric’s face heated up. “We’re not interested in guesses, Forest. We’re interested in facts. The NPS needs to document the effect so we can factor the evidence into future burn plans.”
“That sounds easy enough,” Lark interjected. “Do we need to make a motion?”
Miriam shook her head. “I encourage all of you to participate. Eric will set up a volunteer schedule and post it at the Raptor House. Those interested in helping out should stop by there and sign up for available times.”
“Thanks,” Eric said, heading back to his seat.
“Excuse me,” Nettleman said, clearing his throat. “What I don’t understand is why the National Park Service bothers to use people.”
Eric halted midway across the Persian carpet.
“Would you care to explain that, Forest?” asked Miriam.
“Well, people get sick, don’t show up, and miss seeing or identifying things. Human observation is fallible. That’s why the Wildland Center uses motion-sensor video cameras for all of its studies. We’ve found using cameras to be much more accurate and dependable.”
“And expensive,” Eric remarked.
“True,” Nettleman agreed. “But it only takes one or two digital video cams mounted in strategic locations to cover most sites. They’re worth their weight in gold.”
“And people aren’t?” Eric asked. “Then who evaluates the videotape?”
Lark muffled a laugh behind her collar, her shoulders shaking. Nettleman looked flustered.
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for the suggestion, Forest. I’ll keep it in mind.” He walked over to where Lark was standing, then turned back. “Hey, you don’t happen to have any video cameras you’d be willing to lend the Park Service, do you?”
Miriam rapped her knuckles on the bar. “This meeting is adjourned.”
The group dispersed quickly. Eric drove home, pulling into his driveway by eleven o’clock. His headlamps skimmed the outside wall of the small cabin, and he flicked them off, killing the engine and soaking in the night.
A sliver of moon shone overhead, casting enough light to highlight the rim of the mountain range extending to the north and etch the outlines of the trees at the edge of the horizon. In the distance, a great horned owl hooted, and a rabbit or other small animal rustled the bushes nearby. Overhead, the stars glittered against a black-purple sky.
He climbed out of the truck and crunched across the gravel to the door, aware of the smoky smell that lingered in the air, of the cool breeze blowing out of the west, and of the feeling of contentment draping his shoulders.
The telephone’s voice mail light broke the spell, pulsing with an even beat from the corner of the living room. Eric felt his heart jump into a quickened rhythm in the dark.
Crossing the room, he punched on the speakerphone, keyed in his access numbers, and listened.
“You have one unheard message,” said the pre-recorded voice. “First message, received today at ten fifty-five p.m.”
He’d just missed the call.
“Hello? Eric? Linda Verbiscar. I need to talk with you as soon as possible. I’ve come across something I think you’ll want to see. I’m at 970-555-6730. It doesn’t matter how late.”
Eric replayed the message, wondering what she wan
ted. They’d met only once, at the turnaround, just after the blowup on the Beaver Meadows fire. As memory served, she’d made him look like an ass on KEPC News at Noon.
“I’ve come across something I think you’ll want to see,” her voice repeated.
The kitchen clock read just after the hour.
“It doesn’t matter how late.”
What the heck? She had just called.
Eric punched in her number and was surprised when she picked up. He’d been expecting to get her office voice mail, but instead, her groggy voice crossed the line.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I woke you.”
“It’s okay. I’d just gone to bed,” she answered, her voice clearing. “It’s Eric, right?”
“Ja.”
“I’m glad you called. I hit the jackpot.” She sounded excited. He waited for her to go on.
“I have a piece of evidence that proves Wayne Devlin didn’t set that fire.” She paused, and Eric found himself holding his breath.
“What type of evidence?” he demanded.
“Video.”
“You have footage?” He flashed on Nettleman’s comments regarding the video cameras and wondered if the clip came from a Wildland Center camera or from something she and Charlie had taped on location. Adrenaline flooded his veins. “What’s on the video? Does it show Wayne being murdered?”
“No. But it shows enough to pinpoint a possible murderer.”
“Have you called Vic Garcia?” Eric asked, pacing the length of the phone cord, then pivoting. “Or Bernie Crandall?”
“Are you kidding? And let them confiscate the tape?” She lowered her voice, like she was afraid of being overheard. “Look, Eric, if you tell either of them about this, I’ll deny I have anything.”
A stab of fear raised the hairs on his neck. “Ms. Verbiscar, if you have evidence of a crime that the authorities should see, you need to turn it in.”
“No frickin’way. I’ve waited years to be able to break a story like this.” Her voice gushed out in breathless bursts. “You know the fire film for the Wildland Center? That was supposed to be my big break. With the center burned to the ground, we both know that deal’s toast. But this story, it practically guarantees me a Colorado Broadcasters Association Award. Maybe even a national credit. No way I’m blowing my chance at the networks so some small-town police officer can make his case.”
“Why did you call me?” He had reached the end of the cord again.
“Because to do this right, I need an interview.” Her voice honeyed. “You know, Eric, you come off well on screen. You’re tall, good looking, and you have great manners. ‘Ms. Verbiscar.’ But most important, you wear the NPS uniform. I want your reaction to the film on camera.”
In violation of how many laws? thought Eric. As a park ranger, he had a responsibility to notify the proper authorities of any evidence pertaining to a crime committed in the park. Plus, Nora had issued a gag order. Only official spokespeople were allowed to speak to the press. Not to mention what Verbiscar had done to him the last time she’d captured him on tape.
“What’s on the video?” he asked for the second time.
“Grant me the interview and you’ll find out.”
“I’d be jeopardizing my job.” He felt suddenly antsy. “I’m going to hang up now.”
She exhaled softly, like she was smoking a cigarette. “You know, you’re not the only one I’ve asked for an interview.”
“So there are others who know about the tape?” Eric shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Who?”
“A couple of people. At least one person you know.” She paused while her words sank in. “I can do this without you, Eric. If you’re not interested, forget we had this conversation. But do stay tuned.”
“Wait!” he said, afraid she’d hung up. If the video showed Wayne’s murder, how could he refuse? “Tell me where you’re staying. I’ll come over, and we can discuss it in person.”
He heard her fumbling with something in the background, then a clang.
“Ms. Verbiscar?”
“Hold on. I knocked the clock over. What time is it anyway? Good Lord! It’s late.”
“You said to call.”
“Yeah, but I’m on the air at five. The station slotted me early so I could cover the funeral tomorrow. Any chance we could meet in the morning instead of tonight?”
Eric glanced at the wall calendar. He was scheduled to pick Jackie up early. She wanted to be at the church to arrange the flowers. “I could meet you at eight-thirty.”
“I won’t be finished yet.” She expelled another slow breath. “How about after the services?”
He shook his head, then realized she couldn’t see him over the phone lines. “There’s the luncheon,” he said. “But it should be over by two.”
“Then let’s meet after that. Say around three.”
“Where?” Eric snatched up a pen.
“I’ve rented a little cabin at the Inn on 34, off of Big Thompson Avenue. Just a little ways down the canyon on the left. Cabin G.”
“I’ll be there.”
Eric cradled the phone. The red charge light blinked on. The room was still. Then, from outside, came a rabbit’s scream.
CHAPTER 15
Funerals are the living’s tribute to the dead. Lark had attended three—Will Tanager’s, for Miriam; Esther Mills’s, because she had to; and this one, because Eric had asked her to come. She’d hated them all.
“Are you okay?” Eric asked, ushering her up the front walk of the Devlin’s home.
“Fine.” In truth, she was more worried about him. He looked uncomfortable in his black suit, and, like a kid in a school uniform, he kept tugging at the collar of his starched white shirt.
The morning had been hard on him. Jackie had asked him to give the eulogy, then sit with her at the cemetery. The strain had taken its toll. Sorrow cut lines deep into his face, making him look drawn and tired. Lark wished they could just go home. Instead, they trailed behind the steady stream of people that poured through the front door of the Devlin’s house. Stepping across the threshold, Lark braced herself for another exchange of murmured condolences.
Jackie greeted them in the hall. Dressed Jackie Kennedy-style in a tailored black suit with a veiled pill-box hat, she looked the part of the grieving widow. Her pale blond hair cupped her jaw, softening the lines of her chin. Clear, bright eyes peered out through the black gauze of her designer hat.
“Lark, I’m so glad you came.” Jackie kissed air at the side of Lark’s cheeks, then latched onto Eric’s arm and pulled him toward the kitchen. “You don’t mind if I borrow him for a minute, do you?”
“Of course… not,” Lark said. Was that a smile she detected out of Eric?
“I’ll come find you in a minute,” he said.
“Take your time.” Lark waved him off, then wandered toward the living room. Everywhere in the house, flower arrangements in riotous colors edged out the people. Tiger lilies from Wayne’s sister Beatrice guarded the doorway; irises from a cousin in Louisiana graced the hall; a vase full of chrysanthemums adorned a pedestal near the stairs. The only live plant—condolences from the Rocky Mountain National Park Service staff—drooped in a corner near the door like an errant child in time-out.
A large number of NPS employees had shown up for the funeral, but neither Nora Frank nor Pacey Trent were in attendance. Understandable, considering their stance on Wayne’s culpability for the Eagle Cliff Fire. Showing up would have been in poor taste.
Cards tagged the flower displays, and Lark took her time browsing the messages.
“So sorry for your loss, Gil Arquette, Esq.”
“He will be missed, The Friends of the Library.”
“In Fond Remembrance, Dr. Semper.”
The largest arrangement was a mixture of greens and daisies marked, “I love you, Daddy.”
Tears flooded Lark’s eyes.
“Need a Kleenex?”
Lark reached for a tissue and look
ed up to see Tamara Devlin holding the box.
“Thanks,” Lark said.
“No problem.” Tamara shrugged a thin shoulder. Barely eighteen, she had the same petite frame and pale blond hair as her mother. She wore no makeup, and her red-rimmed eyes made it clear she’d been crying. At the moment, however, she appeared very calm.
“How are you holding up?” Lark asked.
“Fine.” Tamara dropped the tissue box on the coffee table. Plopping down on the white leather couch, she crossed bare legs, her skin sallow against the hem of her black skirt. “The drugs help. I just wish all these people would get out of our house.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
Lark wondered whether the drugs Tamara referred to had been prescribed or were more of the garden variety. “These things don’t usually last very long,” she offered. “People come to pay their respects, then they leave.”
“People come to eat, drink, and tell stupid jokes,” Tamara said. She folded her arms across her chest and wet the inside of her upper lip with her tongue.
Cotton mouth.
“The worst is the stupid media.” Tamara reached for a can of Coke sitting on the end table. “That Linda Verbiscar person is a viper. Thank God Mama finally had Sheriff Garcia throw her out.”
Lark grinned. “I would have paid to see that.”
“The witch made a real scene. Man, was she hot.” Tamara rolled her eyes. “They ought to run a tape of that on the five o’clock news.” She took a swig of the Coke, then banged down the can, sloshing sticky liquid across a Martha Stewart Living magazine. “Crap, look who’s here.”
Lark followed the direction of Tamara’s gaze and spotted Gene Paxton and Forest Nettleman entering the room.
Before Lark realized what was happening, Tamara stood up and pointed a bony finger at the two men. “You,” she intoned in a frosty voice. “Both of you. Get out.”
The room fell silent.
“Don’t pretend you don’t hear me. You know I’m talking to you,” Tamara shrieked. “I want you to leave. Get out. Now!”
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