“Cassel,” he says, recognizing me. “What are you doing here?”
“Just trying to help. Anyone hurt? Anyone home when it went off?”
Gunderson frowns — he’s a big guy, with a heavy chin and goatee. He glances over his shoulder, toward the fire. “We don’t know. Haven’t been able to get close.”
“When did it start?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago.”
“You see anyone drive past?”
He shakes his head. “We weren’t really looking —”
“Just stay out of this, Cassel,” says one of the officers, staring at me. He’s older, with dark bushy eyebrows and a lean, haggard face. I don’t know him but that doesn’t mean much — most of the Forest Service in Montana would recognize me by now. “We’ve got enough to worry about already,” he says, turning back to the others. I bite my tongue, retreat — the message is clear enough. I’ve become a pariah. An embarrassment. I stand for a moment, a few paces back from Gunderson and the fire gods, frustrated and more than a little angry. They ignore me. Belt radios blare tinny voices. The helicopter reports the fire is creeping into timber. The voice, which sounds a lot like Grey, asks for aerial support, dozers, water trucks, crew to cap the blow out, and to send an investigator. Gunderson shoots me a cautionary look and I turn away, find Harnack talking with the men by the vfd engines. They fall silent when they see me and I wonder what he might have told them. Then Doug Bradley gives me a friendly smile. “Hell of a thing,” he says. “Got any marshmallows?”
I shake my head. “You heard if there was anyone in the trailers?”
“No.” He looks concerned. “Nothing left on that wellsite but hot metal.”
“When did you guys arrive?”
“A few minutes after the Forest Service.”
I nod, thinking about the Holder fire. Bradley must read my expression.
“We called ahead this time,” he says. “They asked us to lend a hand.”
Nice to see everyone working together, I tell him. He grins and we watch the fire for a few minutes. Harnack is silent and I wonder what he’ll say if Castellino turns those X-ray eyes on him. Will he blurt out the whole muddled story, twist it around so he looks like a hero for Del? Or say nothing, in which case Castellino will probably never know we were there. Either way, it won’t make a difference for Hutton and Dancey. I watch as the helicopter lands farther back along the trail, stirring up dust. A uniform steps out, crouches as the helicopter augers away. Then Deputy Sheriff Wayne Compton strides up the trail, green and officious-looking. I fade back as he passes, watch him talk with the Forest Service men. They nod their heads, move in separate directions. Compton watches the fire for a moment, a hand up to shield his face from the heat, then turns abruptly and sees me.
“Cassel — what the hell are you doing here?”
“I saw the smoke and came to help.”
“Just can’t stay away from disaster, can you?”
“Not when it involves fire. Was there anyone in the trailers?”
“I don’t think so. I was in the area before it went, looking for those pot gardens. I flew over the camp a few times, didn’t see anyone. No vehicles either, just that shot-up old car.”
“The ignition source had to come from somewhere.”
He nods, staring at the jet of flame shimmering ahead of us.
“Did you find the gardens?”
“No.” He gives me a dubious look. I want to ask him where he searched, if he found anything at all — clearings, trails, any indication — but he walks away, talks with Bradley and his group. I watch the fountain of fire through the rifle sight of trees, cautiously edge closer, trying to see what’s left of the trailers. Burning pine pop and crackle. Barely visible, metal frames waver in heat rippling off scorched earth. The roar of the fire is frighteningly familiar and suddenly I’m back in the fire shelter, surrounded by flame. I force myself to take a deep breath — my heart is surging — and fight the panic that threatens to engulf me. Slowly, the impression subsides and I’m back on the narrow trail, dizzy and faint from the spent adrenaline rush. I lean against a tree as the memory ebbs, watch the fire. My enemy gropes blindly outward, reaching for fuel. Always reaching. Forever hungry. Growing until someone stops it. I take another deep, steadying breath and make a short foray into the timber, to get a better idea of how quickly the fire is spreading. Smoke drifts among the trees, stinging my eyes. The pungent odour of burning pine fills my nostrils. Flame creeps through underbrush, snapping and sizzling. When I return to the trail, a lowboy bearing a dozer lumbers to a halt. Busloads of Forest Service firefighters are arriving — Brashaw’s crew, now under the stern leadership of Brad Cooper. Harnack joins them, suits up. A burning tree crashes across the trail, sending a shower of sparks into the surrounding underbrush, igniting smaller fires, soon to be consumed by the larger conflagration, and it comes to me as I watch
— this fire is just a diversion. The pot is gone. The guilty are being punished. Soon, the squatters will be nothing but a memory. Fire will cleanse the area of clues, leaving only ash and twisted metal.
I can’t help an ironic chuckle. I should have seen it coming.
The helicopter is circling again. On the ground behind me, men begin to unload equipment. Trucks jockey for position. Engines beep as they back down the trail. Harnack approaches, dressed and ready for action. “We’ve got to move these vehicles back,” he says. “Your truck is in the way.”
“You okay?”
He frowns, looking down, then nods.
“What are you going to tell them?”
“About what?” he says.
“Nothing. Go do your job.”
Harnack grins, returns to his unit. I watch him string hose into the bush. They’ll stay back from the blowout, establish a perimeter, control the wildfire. The blowout will be left to another group of heroes. Soon, water is flowing onto the fire as firefighters stand face-to-face with the beast. Farther down the trail a familiar figure walks through the smoke. It’s Grey, in fire gear and hard hat.
“Cassel,” he says as he approaches. “Just can’t stay away, can you?”
I shake my head, point. “There’s a lot of understory on the north side —”
“But you’ll have to,” he says, watching me. “Stay away, that is.”
Our eyes meet and a look of sorrow crosses his face. I nod, to show I understand.
“It would be best if you cleared the area. Before the media arrive.”
I’m about to say something, apologize maybe, when his belt radio blares. He snatches it out of its holster. I hear him swear, then he comes over, snapping his radio back into place. “You better get going.”
“What’s happened?”
“We’ve got another damn fire.”
18
•
DEL IS WAITING at the motel when I get back to town. She’s been busy. The desk is covered with strips of shredded newspaper, like a gerbil has been making a nest. “What took you so long?” she says, raking a hand through her hair. “Where’s Lyle?”
“Lyle is fine,” I say, closing the door.
She stares at me like I’m crazy. “So where is he?”
“Working. There’s another fire by the canyon.”
For a moment she just stands there, her hand in her hair, trying to connect the dots. She can’t and sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me, her hands in her lap. She looks confused and distraught, but I’ve begun to suspect she’s good at looking whichever way best suits her need.
“The well at the squatters’ camp blew out.”
“What?” she says, frowning.
“Erwin and his buddies had lines tapped into an old wellhead. One must have been leaking.”
Her frown intensifies. “Is anyone hurt?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. The camp seems to have been deserted.”
“Good,” she says slowly. “That’s good. But how did the meet go?”
“Not so goo
d,” I say, tossing my jacket over the back of a chair, scooping the gerbil strippings into a nearby wastebasket. I’m not in a hurry to talk about the meet because I’m not yet sure what I want to say. Del sits tensely on the edge of the bed, watching me. Waiting. “Well
— tell me, for Christ’s sakes,” she says impatiently. “Were they there?
Did you give them the diary? What happened?”
“Yeah — they were there.”
“Was Lyle okay?” She’s kneading the bed sheets.
“He was a little freaked out, but he was fine.”
“And you gave them the diary?”
I nod.
“So what didn’t work out so well?”
I hesitate, take a deep breath. I might as well tell her. Better she hears it from me, rather than Castellino. “They liked the diary — real top-notch work — but they weren’t so keen on letting Lyle and me go. In fact, they had a little surprise ready for us.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Del says, almost in a whisper.
I wait, to see if there’s anything she’d like to add, but she just watches me.
“They were going to kill us, Del, just like you suspected, but the strangest thing happened.”
I pause, watching her face. Her expression doesn’t change. She’s very good.
“Erwin and his buddies came along and saved us. It was amazing.”
“Erwin?” she says, looking perplexed.
“Yeah — Erwin, and a few friends. They must have been following me, or Hutton, because they knew where we were. They set off the wellhead as a diversion, then swooped in and rescued Lyle and me. Very coordinated. Like a military operation.”
Del manages to look stunned. “That’s incredible. Have you told the police?”
“Not yet,” I say, shaking my head.
There’s a long moment as Del and I watch each other. I try not to betray the mix of feelings churning inside. Anger at her betrayal — at being used. Gratitude for being rescued. Annoyance that we have to play these games. Sorrow for everything lost.
“What happened after they rescued you?” she says, her voice catching just slightly.
“I don’t know. I didn’t hang around.”
She nods, waiting anxiously. She knows there’s more.
“I think you can bring Melissa home,” I say, handing her the revolver.
There’s a brief hesitation, then she lets out a sigh, sags a little. “Thank God.”
It’s done and I don’t want to prolong our goodbye. There are a few things I have to do, I tell her. A few loose ends. She catches my meaning, excuses herself, tucking the revolver under her jacket and saying she has to get back to the greenhouse. Please stop by for supper. About six. I thank her for the invitation. Then I’m alone, staring at the phone. I wait a few minutes, until my pulse returns to something resembling normal, then rummage in the small trash can on the floor, pull out the strips of newspaper. At the bottom is a wrinkled nugget of a different kind of paper and I open it up, smooth it out. It’s from the pad next to the phone, has the motel logo in one corner. It’s been shaded grey with a pencil, like a kid taking a rubbing off a coin, but the message is more specific: directions to the meet. I shake my head. Another thing I should have seen coming. Del wanted me to continue investigating for a reason. She was the one who gave the gun back to Erwin. She kept him at the greenhouse overnight, worked out the details. She played me like a pro.
I flush the note down the toilet, along with most of the pad, tearing the sheets off one at a time, watching them swirl away. Del has her revenge and, in a way, so do I. But it doesn’t feel like much. I pull a phone book from a drawer in the table, look up travel agencies. There’s a flight tomorrow afternoon, at twelve thirty, leaving from Missoula. I book a seat, eat supper alone.
I sleep late the next morning, ignore the phone. Breakfast is a gourmet affair involving a fist full of coins and a vending machine. Home seems achingly far away. I can’t wait to see my sister Cindy and her kids. But my simple morning is interrupted when Deputy Sheriff Wayne Compton calls, offering me a ride to the ranger station. I’m not keen on another tour, but participation is mandatory. Castellino, Batiste, and Haines are in a room downstairs, scowling over a table covered with photographs and reports.
“Cassel,” Castellino says dryly. “Glad you could make it.”
“I had a good chauffeur.”
“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”
The men look haggard. Castellino is in jeans and a rumpled shirt, stained dark with sweat under his arms. Batiste is sullen and stoop-shouldered. Haines has bags under his eyes, hair plastered to his sweaty scalp. They’re all grubby and unshaven. “We had a bit of an interesting night,” says Batiste, waving at the table. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I move closer, take a look. The photos on the table are the usual ash and blackened bits of wood. Grids and measurements. Burned-out truck. But there’s something else here that makes me shudder — shots of a corpse, mummified to charcoal. Black on black. I think of Brashaw and my heart races.
“You all right?” says Castellino. “You look a little flushed.”
“Fine,” I mumble, staring at the mummy.
“You sure? You look like maybe you’re going to faint.”
I force myself to look away from the horrifying images. “Who is that?”
“Interesting question,” says Castellino. “Glad you asked. Would you like to guess?”
I wait, wondering if it’s Hutton or Dancey, and what happened to the other.
“No guesses?” Castellino walks around the table, picking up photos and offering them to me. Dropping them when I don’t move. “Pity,” he says. “Because I’m willing to bet you have a pretty good idea.” When I don’t bite, he drops the last photo, looking disgusted. “Let me give you a clue. Male. Early forties. Worked for the Carson Lake Volunteer Fire Department. Still don’t know?”
“Hutton?”
“Yes!” He slaps the table hard enough several pictures drift away. “Telford Hutton.”
“Give the man a prize,” mutters Batiste.
“What happened?”
“What indeed?” says Castellino, walking to the far side of the table, so he can stare at me across the grisly expanse of photographs. He seems a little melodramatic — a little manic — but that’s what you get from long hours and too much coffee. “Well, so far as we can tell, Mr. Hutton was trapped in a burning structure outside of town. Exactly how he came to be there is a matter of some conjecture. When was the last time you saw him?”
“A few days ago, at the fire station.”
Batiste raises an eyebrow. “What were you doing at the fire station?”
“You know very well what I was doing,” I tell them, not bothering to keep the irritation from my voice. “I told you everything when we set up the sting at the grocery store. I was looking for some information on how the vfd were dispatched to the Holder fire.”
“Ah, yes — the sting,” Castellino says, giving me a humourless smile.
“You mentioned a structure,” I say. “This didn’t happen at the wellhead fire?”
Haines gives me a thoughtful frown. “No, this was an old house.”
“Was anyone injured at the wellhead fire?”
“It appears the camp was empty,” says Castellino. “Which I find interesting.”
“Empty,” I echo. “You’re sure?”
“Reasonably. The vehicles were gone and the trailers appear to have been vacant.”
I think again about the children. “That’s a relief.”
“Indeed,” says Castellino. “Another interesting thing — there was no pot in the forest, none that we’ve found yet anyway, although we’ve found some interesting trails and a few unmistakable indications.” He pauses significantly. “You know what I think, Mr. Cassel?”
I shrug — it’s best never to answer a question like that.
Castellino wag
s a stubby finger at me. “I think you told these pot growers your suspicions regarding Mr. Hutton and his associate. They pulled up their crop and staged both of these fires, trapping the men in an old house and using the wellhead fire as a diversion.”
He gives me an intent look, waiting for a reaction.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” I say truthfully.
“Really. When was the last time you saw them?”
“Days ago. I talked with one of them — a young guy with heavy sideburns — hoping he might give me some insight as to why someone would want to burn out the valley, but he wasn’t very co-operative.”
Batiste glances at Castellino. “Matches the description from the break-in.”
Castellino nods. “I’ve seen him around. Not lately though. What’s his name?”
“Erwin,” I say. “Erwin Smith.”
“Ah, yes,” Haines mutters. “The ubiquitous Smith family.”
“You did more than talk with him,” says Castellino. “It seems the two of you were getting pretty chummy. You were seen driving around with him. Visiting the motel clerk.”
He pauses, watching me carefully. “You sure you didn’t visit our cabin together as well?”
“I was trying to work with him,” I say, ignoring the question. “I thought I might be able to make some headway before the squatters became nervous and pulled up stakes. It didn’t seem likely they would talk to anyone in law enforcement, and they seemed to trust me.”
“Really?” says Batiste. “Why would they do that?”
“Because of what happened on the fire.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence. I avoid glancing at the photos on the table.
“What did you and Mr. Smith talk about?”
“Not much. He had no idea who was after his pot.”
Castellino smiles, without much humour. “But you did, didn’t you, Mr. Cassel? You were certain enough that Telford Hutton was responsible for the fire that you set up that little Gong Show at the grocery store. You sure you didn’t let Mr. Smith in on your plans?”
I shake my head. “We parted ways long before that.”
“Did you discuss Karalee Smith?”
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