Eric dropped to one knee and whispered, “What are you doin’? What happened?”
“I put my foot through an old root cellar door or a well cover. I couldn’t yell for fear of alerting our friends inside.” Vic jerked his head back toward the road. “Why aren’t you waiting for Brill?”
Eric ignored the question, patting the ground around Vic’s leg. The sheriff’s boot was jammed through a two-by-six-inch board. Eric tried pulling Vic’s foot free.
Vic groaned. “That’s ripping my ankle to shreds.”
Eric probed the opening with his fingers. Shards of wood jutted out at odd angles. Dirt was caked on top of the boards, cementing them in place.” An upward pull caused the boards to knit together. Eric tried pushing them down. What he needed was a shovel.
“Stop, Eric. If we make any more noise, they’re bound to hear us.”
Eric sat back on his heels. “Vell, you can’t stay here. They’re getting ready to torch the building.”
The sheriff stroked his mustache, then wet his lips, “Did you get a hold of Brill?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Good. Do you know how to use a gun?”
“Ja.” Though he didn’t care much for guns, Eric knew how to shoot. “Besides, we have help.” Eric told him about the cowboy and the dog.
“Do you think he’s trustworthy?” Vic asked.
“He didn’t shoot me.”
Vic contemplated Eric’s answer, then shrugged. “That’s good enough for me.” Unclipping his handcuffs from his belt, he handed them to Eric along with the gun. “Go signal the cowboy that you’re going inside. Give yourself two minutes. Then slip in through the back and yell ‘freeze.’ Real loud and real mean. That should be enough to stop those boys in their tracks. Then, after you cuff them together, come back and get me out of here.”
Sweat beaded on Eric’s forehead. The plan was simple, but Vic hadn’t seen the way Suett had been dancing around the bonfire. Or how bent Tres had been on building a flammable mountain. Throw the cowboy and his dog into the mix, and it was hard to tell what might happen.
Eric backtracked around the building. At the edge of the ditch, he raised his free arm above his head. The cowboy mimicked his action. Eric held up two fingers, then pointed with the gun barrel toward his watch. The cowboy tipped his hat and pushed himself upright off the corner of the post office.
Turning back, Eric prayed the cowboy had understood. Skirting Vic, he headed for the back stairs.
Three steps climbed to the back door, and Eric eased his weight onto the first step. A screech sliced through the night.
“Keep to the outside,” Vic whispered. “The outside.”
His advice made sense, decided Eric. The edges were joist. There would be less weight displacement on the boards there than in the middle. He tried again. This time the step only groaned. Better.
Once on the platform, Eric tried turning the handle on the back door. The handle wouldn’t budge. “It’s locked,” he whispered. “What do I do now?”
“What kind of lock is it?” Vic asked. “Some you can pick with a toothpick, some with a credit card. If worse comes to worse, you wait another minute to ensure your cowboy’s in position out front, then you shoot it open.”
Rambo tactics, thought Eric. He hadn’t bargained for this.
What amazed him more was the fine line between cop and criminal. Too bad he’d never learned to pick a lock. He might have made a good police officer.
Eric tested the door with his shoulder. There was some give to the wood, and he figured he could break the door down if he hit it right. Not without making some noise, but still better than a gunshot.
He counted to thirty. “Here goes.”
Eric’s shoulder hit. The door banged inward, slamming against a fire extinguisher that was hanging on the back wall. Regaining his feet, he discovered himself in an entryway facing another door. He jiggled the handle. Damn it! Didn’t anyone trust anyone anymore?
He butted his shoulder against the wood, but this time there was no give. A wrenching pain cut through his collarbone. Just great. Standing back, he shot a bullet in the lock and kicked open the door.
“Hey, what the—” Suett stood in the center of the room. He held the fusees coupled into a two-foot chain. Tres stared, slack-jawed, and dribbled the remnants of a can of lighter fluid onto his foot.
“Put the fusees down,” ordered Eric.
Suett held up a butane lighter. “Stay away from me.”
“I said, put the fusees down,” repeated Eric, giving his best Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation.
Suett listened about as well as any bad guy Arnold ever had to face.
“Back off, or I’ll light it,” he threatened. Flicking the butane lighter, Suett poised the flame under the wick of the fusee.
Tres’eyes grew big. “Hey, man, what are you doing? You can’t light that with us in here.”
“Shut your face, dude.”
Eric saw the wick spark and sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t want to do that, Suett.” Where the hell was the cowboy?
“How do you know my name?”
Eric heard a loud bang, and the front window shattered. Tres bolted for the door.
“Don’t shoot!” yelled Eric.
There was another explosion. This time buckshot splintered the floor near Suett’s feet.
“That’s it, dude.” Suett lit the fusees. The wick curled, then flamed, and the fusees burst to life. Like a giant sparkler, embers showered from the fusees to the floor.
Bingo barked and jumped through the window, knocking Suett to the floor. The fusees flew from his hand, tumbling in slow motion, spinning in the air like a giant pinwheel. Eric reached to catch them, and missed.
The fusees bounced once, then nosedived into the pyre.
The room ignited in a gigantic explosion of flame.
CHAPTER 18
Fire erupted in leaping flames and boiled toward the ceiling. Heat pulsed in waves along the wooden floor. Eric shied away. Glancing up, he saw the cowboy framed in the doorway.
“Bingo. Here, boy.” The man whistled.
Eric shielded his face against the wall of flames. Smoke burned his eyes, making them tear. The world swam.
Bingo yelped, then raced for the door and his master, his fur smoldering.
Where was Tres?
Eric searched for the boy. He hadn’t seen him since he’d bolted. With luck the kid had escaped through the front door and been collared by the cowboy.
Suett lay on the floor near Eric’s feet. Orange tongues of flame lapped in circles around his body. Eric needed to do something quickly, or the boy would burn to death. Bending down, he tried rousting him. “Suett!”
When he didn’t respond, Eric tried pulling the boy to his feet. The kid’s dead weight, combined with his size, made moving him alone nearly impossible.
Eric cast about for alternatives. Behind him, the flames leaped around the base of the old store’s shelves. Tin cans exploded, their contents swollen by heat. Microwave popcorn burst in its bag. He tried not to think about what would happen when the flames reached the ammunition most of these old country stores carried.
There had to be something… the fire extinguisher! There had been one on the wall when he’d crashed through the door.
Eric jammed his gun behind him in the waistband of his pants. He’d seen it done on TV. With luck, he wouldn’t blow a hole in his ass.
Racing to the back room, he ripped the fire extinguisher off the wall and pulled the pin. Juggling the heavy red canister, he squeezed the trigger, spewing foam onto the fire, driving it back toward the center of the room. The fire dodged the artificial snow. Forced to find other routes, the flames lapped along the baseboards and circled in behind.
Suett groaned.
“Hey, can you hear me?” Eric yelled.
The kid groaned again. “My head. I think I busted my head open.”
Eric jostled the boy with his foot. “Get up.”
“Listen to me. You have to get up.” Eric prodded the boy again, spraying foam around his inert form. The fire growled, and a fountain of sparks flew toward the ceiling. An ember landed, skittering along the splintered wood. Dry timbers crackled and flamed.
Realizing the only way he was going to get the kid out of there was to drag him, Eric doused the floor. Then, pitching the fire extinguisher aside, he reached for Suett’s arm.
“Let me help,” Tres said, materializing from out of the fire and grabbing his friend’s other arm. Eric stared for a moment, then together they pulled Suett out of the flames.
The back door stood open, and the two of them dragged Suett outside and down the stairs, moving him deep into the meadow away from the general store. Flames followed, licking the doorway and snaking into the grass before doubling back toward the building.
By the time Eric figured they’d moved Suett a safe distance from the burning building, the cowboy and Bingo had circled around back.
“Check on the sheriff!” Eric shouted, dropping Suett’s arm and racing back toward the general store. The building glowed a deep orange at its edges.
The cowboy reached Vic first. Laying his shotgun on the ground, he bent down and examined the situation. “We’re going to need a winch to get him outta here.”
Sirens blared in the distance, either Deputy Brill with the cavalry or the fire department. But either way, there wasn’t time to wait. Orange and blue flames spiraled through the dark night, dancing along the building’s eaves. The timbers dripped splinters of wood like molten lava. The general store stood poised to collapse.
The cowboy glanced at Eric. “There ain’t no way we’re going to kick it apart. There’s too much dirt and grass keeping the boards solid.”
Eric eyed the shotgun. “Can we weaken the boards by shooting them?”
Even in the dark, Vic paled. “Hold on a minute. That’s my leg you’re talking about.”
Eric didn’t speak. He pointed to the building, the flames licking through cracks in the walls, the fire destined to break free any minute. “We can’t wait.”
Vic glanced between the gun and the building. “What do you have in that thing? Slugs?”
“Birdshot.”
Eric frowned. Small gauge pellets that scattered.
“Can you shoot away from my foot?” Vic asked. “I mean, we only need to weaken the boards enough to break them. I don’t want my foot blown off.”
“I’m a pretty good shot,” assured the cowboy, drawing a bead over Vic’s shoulder. “Cover your ears.”
“Hang on,” Eric said. “We need to find something to cover his body.” All Eric had was the fleece vest in the car. “Does anyone have a coat?”
“I might have something in the back of the patrol car,” Vic said.
“I’ve got a saddle blanket in my truck,” the cowboy said.
Eric perked up. “That would work. Where is it?”
“I parked it by the gas station.”
“Is it unlocked?” Tres asked, leaving Suett to join them. “I can get it.”
The cowboy hesitated, then pitched the boy the keys. “Go with him, Bingo.”
Tres made a dash for the gas station, and Bingo set off after him.
Eric wondered if the boy would come back. This was a prime opportunity for him to make a break. But, he’d chosen to help save his friend. Now he had the opportunity to show his real colors.
“Don’t worry none,” the cowboy said. “Bingo’ll bring him back.”
The fire flared. Boards popped and crackled. Sirens wailed in the distance, and Eric thought he saw flashes of blue and white through a wind row of trees that cut the field. “Hang in there, Vic. Når nøden er størst, er hjelpen nœrmest.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s an old Norse saying. ‘When the need is at its greatest, help is at its closest.’”
“Yeah? Well my money’s on the kid.”
The seconds ticked by. The cowboy drew a bead on the boards near Vic’s feet. Vic cupped his ears, leaning away.
When the roof erupted in flames, the cowboy’s finger squeezed pressure on the trigger.
“Wait!” Eric shouted, pointing. Tres bolted toward them across the field with Bingo bouncing at his heels.
“I got it, man. And look what else I found,” Tres bench-pressed an axe above his head.
“Here. Give it to me,” the cowboy said.
Tres handed the axe to the cowboy and pitched the horse blanket to Vic.
“I hope you’re good with an axe,” Vic said.
“I only chopped my own leg once,” the cowboy promised. He winked, then swung. Vic winced.
On the third chop, the board splintered. Above them, the roof snapped and caved in, throwing up a shower of sparks.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Vic shouted. He tried standing, but his foot buckled under him. “The damn thing’s gone to sleep.”
The cowboy pitched the axe. He and Eric each looped one of Vic’s arms across their shoulders. Tres led the way.
“Go, go, go!” the cowboy yelled. The men dragged Vic into the meadow. Behind them the building groaned and timbers snapped. The fire crackled, leaping high into the air and showering a cascade of sparks down on their heads.
Reaching Suett, the four of them collapsed to the ground. Eric glanced back. The general store looked like a giant bonfire. Blue and white lights flashed at the corner. Bingo ran in circles and barked.
An hour later, leaning against the fender of Vic’s Caprice, Eric watched the firemen hose down the embers that were once Bellville’s General Store. The fire department had arrived on Deputy Brill’s heels with a 600-gallon pumper truck and a 5-man crew. A rancher had spotted the flames and called in the alarm.
“I’d say we’re almost done here,” Vic said, limping across the parking lot toward Eric. “Are you about ready?”
Eric nodded, then glanced over at the NPS truck still parked in the postmaster’s slot. “Nora isn’t going to be happy you impounded the truck.”
“I’ll handle Nora.”
Eric grinned. Nobody handles Nora.
“Besides,” Vic continued, “I have to impound it to preserve the evidence.”
“So what’s going to happen to the boys?” Eric asked, staring at Tres in the backseat of Brill’s cruiser. The boy’s head was bent, his blond hair blackened from soot and smoke. Suett had been air-lifted to a hospital in Fort Collins an hour ago.
“Suett will probably be in the hospital awhile. Weeks, maybe. He suffered some nasty burns.” Vic jerked his thumb at Tres. “He goes to juvi.”
“That boy helped save Suett’s life,” Eric said, hoping somehow restating the facts would help. “Yours too.”
“Look, son, don’t kid yourself. Tres Kennedy is accountable for what happened here tonight.” Vic hesitated. “Though I’d be surprised if he lights any more fires.”
“Ja? Why’s that?”
Vic tipped his head. “It’s another old saying. ‘A burnt child shuns the fire.’”
Eric gazed out at the glowing embers, dying like the coals of a stirred campfire. “Brent barn skyr ilden.” He glanced at Vic. “We can only hope.”
Deputy Brill hollered, and Eric turned. The officer hurried across the street, with the cowboy and Bingo in tow.
“Look what the cowboy pulled out of the fire.” Brill dumped an armload of fusees onto the hood of Vic’s car. “More evidence.”
The cowboy jammed his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t nothing. I saw ’em sittin’by the door. I nearly forgot I had ’em until Deputy Brill here started asking questions.”
“I count eight,” Brill said.
Eric pushed off the fender. “That can’t be right.”
“Why not?” the cowboy asked. Bingo growled.
“Because Suett had two in his hands.” Eric bent down and counted the fusees himself. Eight. “It doesn’t add up. Eight plus two makes ten.”
“Are you going somewhere with this?” Vic asked.
“The ten the boys had, plus the twelve in the truck, plus the two in Wayne’s pack equals twenty-four.”
“Maybe he breathed in too much smoke,” the cowboy remarked.
“No,” Eric said. “When you add them together, you’ve accounted for a full box of fusees.”
Vic frowned. The cowboy and Bingo looked puzzled, tilting their heads at a similar angle.
“So what?” Brill demanded. “So they’re all accounted for. I don’t see the problem.”
“So where did the fusee in Wayne’s hand come from?” Eric asked. “Don’t you get it? The National Park Service is holding Wayne responsible for lighting Eagle Cliff Fire with a fusee he would never have had.”
“Oh, come on, Linenger,” Brill scoffed. “You know, I liked Devlin, but so what if he had another fusee? Maybe he carried an extra one in his pack.”
“Not Wayne,” Eric insisted. “Vic, you know how meticulous he was about things. ‘Everything in its place, and a place for everything.’”
Vic stroked his mustache. “That’s true. He was orderly.”
Eric picked up a fusee. “It’s fact. Wayne came off every fire and repacked according to a checklist. Two fusees went in the pack and twenty-two fusees in the box. Extras were placed on the fire trucks or stockpiled for replenishing boxes. I’m telling you, the man wouldn’t have deviated. It’s how he’d done it for eighteen years. It’s how he accounted for supplies.”
Vic put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Be honest, son. You know as well as anyone Wayne hadn’t been acting like himself.”
“I’ll give you that,” Eric conceded. “He seemed different the past year and a half, but he always came through. I’m telling you, he would never have deviated from procedure.”
“Can you prove it?” Vic asked.
Eric toyed with the fusee. “No.”
Brill snorted. “Of course not.”
The cowboy and Bingo shifted positions and sidled away, extricating themselves from the conversation.
“I thought, in this country, someone was innocent until proven guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt,” Eric said, ignoring their departure. “I’m beginning to wonder.”
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