“I’ve got a recommendation,” says Ursulak, staring at me. “Stop using out-of-country service people.”
Grey looks annoyed. “You know that isn’t going to happen, Neil —”
I can’t take this anymore. The guilt. The finger pointing.
“Don’t worry,” I say, standing and glaring at Ursulak. “I won’t be back.”
I leave through the backdoor. Footsteps behind me — it better not be Ursulak. I start walking.
“Porter ... Jesus Christ, man ...”
It’s Grey, his stubby legs working hard to catch me. When he does, he’s puffing and his face is pink. I stop and grit my teeth, not trusting myself to say anything.
“That was a crappy thing for Neil to say. Totally uncalled for.”
I nod, stare at the ground.
“Come back in. The other guys have a few questions.”
I take a deep breath, glance at the ranger station. “I don’t think so.”
Grey gives me a long look. “Okay,” he says finally. “We can finish up later.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. I might need to talk to a lawyer.”
Grey looks worried. “No — I don’t think you’ll find that necessary. Neil Ursulak has his own axe to grind and will no longer be participating in the entrapment investigation.”
There’s an awkward silence. Grey looks pained.
“Anyway,” he says. “You don’t worry about that.”
I’ve missed lunch, and all I want to do is get away from the Forest Service and find something to eat. I go foraging for a restaurant in town. There’s quite a selection along Main Street. I pick the place with the fewest vehicles in the parking lot.
The Filling Station is a restaurant-and-bar combo with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and old gas pumps against the stucco walls. I slide into one of several crescent-shaped booths. The only other customers are a group of middle-aged bikers, sitting at a wooden table close to a window so they can admire their Harleys. The bikers all wear the same uniform: blue jeans, red bandanas, and black leather vests that no longer fit over their big bellies. A waitress with white poodle hair and skin aged to the same deep walnut as the furniture offers me a menu. She tells me the special today is the Pioneer Burger with fries and a drink, which I order, then sink back against the cool vinyl and watch the big ceiling fans.
From where I’m sitting, I can see across the entrance hall into the bar, where a big-screen TV has a football game on. My Pioneer Burger arrives: three patties the size of a plate, and the fries in a wicker basket
— this’ll take me a week to eat. I get started, work on my Harley physique.
Someone switches the channel on the big screen in the bar and the news comes on. A talking head with perfect hair tries to look both appealing and serious. She’s talking about the Holder’s Canyon Fire, shown on a map over her shoulder. Suddenly, I’m looking down at the ridge where Brashaw died. A quick close-up of two crumpled silver shelters, then the view begins to swing around and I watch, transfixed, expecting to see the black mummy in Brashaw’s shelter, but someone with more taste than the cameraman has edited that out. Instead, I see Grey pointing toward the camera, his features tense. Then my face fills the screen, in an unflattering close-up, my name in red letters at the bottom. Porter Cassel — Incident Commander and survivor of the Holder Fire Burnover. A new message flashes at the bottom of the screen: Memorial service, tomorrow at ten. I set down the burger, half-eaten, take a deep breath, and stare at the dessert menu until I realize someone is standing by the table.
“How is everything?” says the waitress, glancing down at the half-eaten burger. “Fine,” I mumble. “Just a little too much food for me.” “Are you done?”
“Yeah.” I try to give her a good-natured smile. “I’m through here.”
She reaches for the plate, looking at me. “You’re that guy from the fire,” she says. “The one that had to stay in one of those little silver tents, right?”
I nod reluctantly. “One of them, anyway.”
“What was it like?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She gives me an appraising look, clearly wondering how much more to ask. “Tell you what,” she says. “It’s on the house. You want some dessert? On the house too. Blueberry pie. That must have been something, being in the fire like that. Would you mind giving me your autograph?”
“My autograph?”
“Yeah. We don’t get many celebrities here.”
“Maybe after the pie.”
She brightens, heads for the kitchen.
I toss a ten on the table and get the hell out of there.
7
•
THE NEXT MORNING I eat breakfast at the cabin. No television. No waitresses. No reporters. Only drawback is I have to cook for myself, so I eat cold cereal. I dress in a clean shirt and jeans, wishing I had something more formal, and drive the borrowed Forest Service truck toward town. There’s a traffic jam at the intersection with the highway, cars and trucks backed up all the way to the sawmill. It might be a while — the drivers are out of their vehicles, wandering along the road or standing in groups along the shoulder.
I shut off the truck, join the crowd at the intersection.
A convoy of fire engines inches its way toward town, lights strobing. Men and women stand along the highway, hands solemnly clasped. Children stare at the bright, silent procession. It’s a parade without the noise and excitement. Drivers in dress uniform gaze grimly at spectators as they pass, returning the occasional salute. I count eighty-three engines from towns and cities all over the state. It’s an impressive sight — a procession worthy of a king. The crowd begins to disperse, returning to their vehicles. I wait for my turn in the queue and follow the convoy.
The memorial service is at the Carson Lake Community Center. Streets are jammed and I park halfway across town, walk the remaining distance, my hard-soled work boots clacking on pavement. Two fire engines stationed at the entrance to the centre grounds have their long derricks extended toward one-another, an American flag hung between them. There must be several thousand people massed on the grass in front of the building. It’s likely only a small percentage of them knew Brashaw, but all are mourning — typical of a profession where you face danger every day and rely on the skill of your co-workers. I doubt the crowd would be as large if Brashaw had been an accountant, or a lawyer. Near the big double doors, technicians are setting up loudspeakers for those who will have to remain outside. Close to them, a dozen Forest Service staff stand in rigid lines, dressed in crisp green uniforms, white gloves, and broad-brimmed hats. I circle around a cluster of reporters and their camera crews, spot Aslund among the crowd. He looks official this morning.
“Cassel, we’ve been looking for you.”
Not very hard, I’m thinking. I was at the cabin all morning.
“We’ve got a spot up front for you, if you’d like.”
I’d prefer a spot farther back, where I’d be anonymous, but Aslund leads me inside and offers me a seat a few rows back from the stage, among Forest Service staff and officials. I recognize Grey; the rest of the faces are largely unfamiliar. On the other side of the aisle are Brashaw’s relatives, most of them wearing black, and it occurs to me how little I know about his family. A little red-haired girl sits swinging her legs and I have a sudden impression this is Brashaw’s grandchild. Grey is behind a podium. There must be a platform behind there, or he’s on his toes. He taps the mike, looks out over the crowd.
“If I could have your attention please, we’d like to get started.”
Grey introduces himself, describes how Brashaw provided decades of leadership, friendship, and guidance to those he worked with. He speaks of tragedy, of loss to both Brashaw’s immediate family and the broader family of the Forest Service and firefighting. Grey is a good speaker — his voice strong and filled with emotion. He’s a striking figure behind the podium, white-haired and distinguished. Pine saplings have been set up on either si
de of the podium. A shovel and Pulaski are crossed behind an enlarged photo of Brashaw, grinning, covered in soot and ash — a good picture of a man I barely knew. On either side of the stage stand the honour guard, rigid and solemn.
A string of dignitaries follow Grey’s stirring introduction, reading their prepared speeches. The mayor. A fire chief. Higher officials from the Forest Service. Even the governor takes the stage, after which he presents a folded American flag to Brashaw’s daughter, Delise. The governor places a hand on her shoulder, offers a few words, then kneels and takes the hand of the red-haired girl. Flashes pop as reporters zoom in to capture this touching moment. The ceremony wraps up with the honour guard playing a piercing tune on their bagpipes as they march down the aisle and out of the building. Brashaw’s relatives follow, his daughter and grandchild first, holding hands.
Outside on the lawn is a large crate, filled with balloons. The wind has shifted and a smell of woodsmoke is in the air now, drifting in from the fire. The crowd stands silent, purple ribbons on their chests rustling in the breeze, while a final ceremony takes place. The crate is sprung and a flock of balloons rise into the air. The honour guard close ranks behind Delise Brashaw. In front of her a line develops, starting with the dignitaries and Forest Service officials. She shakes their hands, accepts their few words, her expression grim and determined. I hang back, wanting to meet her, to say something but not sure what that might be. No doubt, she’ll have a few words for me. Grey sees me hanging back.
“You holding up, Porter?”
“Yeah.” I try to look reassuring. “Good eulogy.”
He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me until I wander over, join the line. The line inches closer and soon I’m only a dozen yards from Brashaw’s daughter. She’s in her early twenties, with a strong jawline and handsome features. She has her father’s sturdy build, without his bulk. She nods after each handshake, wincing a little with each attempted smile. Suddenly, it’s my turn. I can tell she doesn’t know who I am.
“Porter Cassel,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I extend my hand, hoping she’ll just give it a quick shake and I can be on my way.
“Porter Cassel?” she says, then her eyes narrow. Here it comes.
“You were up there with BB when it happened,” she says.
“Yes. I just ... wanted ...”
She leans forward, gives me an unexpected hug. I’m not sure what to do and stand there like an idiot, my arms frozen at my side. Suddenly, her voice is an urgent whisper in my ear. “Come to Del’s Greenhouse.” Then she lets me go. Confused, I try to catch her eye, gauge her intention, but she’s already busy with the next mourner.
Grey catches up with me as I stand next to the empty crate.
“You got a few minutes, Porter?”
I nod, still a bit disoriented by Delise’s unexpected invitation. Grey leads me to a small conference room at the back of the community hall where Noble is waiting. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit and very wide red tie. His tanned scalp reflects the fluorescent lighting. He leans back in a cheap stacking chair, his legs loosely crossed, a sheaf of papers on the table in front of him. He doesn’t bother standing when I come in.
“Cassel — we’ve got a chronology of events on the fire we’d like you to review.”
“Sure. When do you need this back?”
“Take a seat. We’re on a tight timeline.”
I’d like to take the papers with me, or make a copy, but neither seems likely so I sit down, pull the papers closer and start reading. It’s pretty thorough, contains dispatch information prior to my arrival at the fire. I read this section twice. Reported by Kershaw Lookout at 12:37, well into the daily burning period. This means, if it was a half-hour fusee, the arsonist lit up right after lunch. If he was from town, he would have to leave a half-hour before this — all of which is interesting but useless without a suspect. Smokejumpers were dispatched from the Aerial Fire Depot in Missoula at 12:41 and jumped in about twenty minutes later. Brashaw’s crew was dispatched about ten minutes after the smokejumpers. Nothing especially revealing here.
Further along, I see my call requesting a fire investigator logged into the dispatch record, which makes me feel a bit better considering the disappearance of all the evidence at the origin. So are my repeated requests for aircraft. I reach the end of the lengthy summary and flip back a few pages. Grey is staring out a window. Noble is cleaning his nails with the end of a bent paperclip.
“There’s no mention of the origin disturbance,” I say to Noble.
He shrugs, looks unconcerned. “That’s a separate matter. This is just chronology.”
“That’s part of the chronology. The evidence vanished within two hours of my identification.”
Noble uncrosses his legs, pushes himself upright. “We’ve purposefully left out all reference to the arson in this report, other than your initial call. We don’t want any particulars getting out at this point. In fact,” he says, pointing the paperclip at me, “we’d prefer if you didn’t discuss this with anyone.”
“Why? Do you think Forest Service staff could be involved?”
Grey turns and looks at me. He isn’t impressed with my suggestion.
Noble shakes his head. “Anything’s possible, but at this point we doubt it. As you’re probably aware, withholding crime scene details is a routine practice. We don’t like the bad guys keeping up on what we know. And it makes it easier to sort out the copycats and crackpots.”
“What about your own determination of origin?”
“I think I mentioned before that it was inconclusive.”
“The pin flags you left out there — were they potential origin locations?”
Noble glances at Grey, who shrugs. “Yes, they were.”
“What about the squatters? Did you question them?”
Noble frowns, looks irritated. “They don’t claim to know anything.” I picture Noble showing up in the clearing, wearing his suit, questioning the Sasquatch. “What about an evacuation? Was that ever considered?” Now Grey looks irritated. “Of course. The squatters told us to piss up a rope.” “They didn’t want to leave?” “Apparently not.” “And you don’t know of anyone who might want to get rid of them?” “Everyone would love to get rid of them,” says Grey.“Myself included.” “Why?” says Noble, looking at me. “What are you thinking?” I hesitate; I don’t like discussing my theories without something to back them up, but I probably won’t be around Carson Lake much longer. “The squatters resent authority, and this fire is bringing them into conflict with plenty of authority. The Forest Service, the sheriff ’s department. Probably the blm. The fire may have been set specifically to make them uncomfortable, draw attention to them so they’d pull up and leave on their own.”
“Maybe,” says Grey. “But it didn’t work.”
“You haven’t dealt with the kind of squatters we get here in the States,” Noble tells me, tapping a pen against the table. “They’re not easily frightened. You ever heard of the Freemen? They’re anti-authority. Don’t pay taxes. Don’t recognize government. And they’re heavily armed. There’ve been a few confrontations in the past and the results have been disastrous, particularly for the fbi. In most cases, if they’re not hurting anyone, it’s better to leave them be.”
“Even during a wildfire?” “We’ve had our people shot at.” I picture the Sasquatch and his coach gun. “On this fire?” “Others,” says Noble, looking bored. “You seem quite interested in these squatters,” says Grey. “Any particular reason?” “I was there today,” I admit, and Noble shoots Grey an annoyed look, but I have a few comments before I’m shuffled out of the way. “What about energy interests? Is there some way the presence of the squatters could influence mineral rights or drilling or something like that? Because that wellhead is active — you should see what they’ve done to it. Talk about a safety concern.”
Noble raises an eyebrow, gives me a serious frown. “I know you’re a fire inves
tigator, Cassel, and you have a personal stake in what happened, but I would prefer it if you didn’t involve yourself in this arson investigation.”
“I’m only offering an opinion.”
“Good,” says Noble, leaning back. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Del’s Greenhouse is about twenty miles southwest of town at the end of a winding maze of gravel roads. It’s not hard to find; there are signs everywhere with little hand-painted pictures of azaleas and broccoli goading me on, telling me I’m almost there. I arrive at Del’s Greenhouse shortly after at eight o’clock. The sign says closed, but the gate is open.
The driveway is long, meanders amid treed hummocks and dugouts filled with aquatic plants. Small handmade signs near the ponds offer sedges and lily pads. Vehicles are pulled over along the side of the driveway like the lineup at an auction sale. I create a parking space near an army of fruit bushes standing guard in plastic pots.
The greenhouses are long A-frames and arches of varying vintage and design. Most are built over a base of weathered log, covered with corrugated sheets of plastic roofing. The main building, serving as office and store, is also log, low and quaint, with carved gnomes sitting on crossbeams, wind chimes dangling everywhere. Bales of peat moss and vermiculite are stacked by the door. Trays loaded with snacks sit on a nearby picnic table. Visitors in dark suits and dresses wander among the flowerbeds.
“Glad you could make it,” says a grey-haired woman, shaking my hand.
She looks to be in her early sixties, tall and gaunt, hair pulled back by a heavy comb. I don’t recognize her, but she seems pleased that I’ve come, squeezing my hand and giving me a companionable pat on the shoulder.
“I’m Del’s aunt,” she says. “Gertrude Steinhauser.”
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