Shadow people. He’d run across it plenty in his line of work. A visual hallucination in the form of a person, a side effect of methamphetamine use. So sad, little sister’s seeing things. He laughed, shook his head. “No.” She kept her eyes focused on the spot on the trail, then she tensed as the corners of her mouth turned up in an insane little smirk.
But then there was a blow to the side of his head, and the world got dark, quick. He was down, his face in the dirt, another blow to his stomach. The girl’s bare feet were there in front of him, turquoise bejeweled toenails. The next second, her feet quick-stepped, swirled up in a tornado of movement, a twist of leaves and dust, then inky shade obscured the rest of his view. He heard crushing branches behind him, the sound of something big disappearing into the forest.
He sucked and sucked, trying to get air into his lungs, then rolled on his side and punched himself in the solar plexus to reset his diaphragm, which had spasmed to a halt. Finally, he was able to sit up. He squinted as the sickly yellow sun came back out of its hiding place. He turned his face away from the glaring sky, back down to the ground. The phone sat next to him in the dirt, only slightly sullied by the escapade, earphones jangling on and on, as if nothing had happened.
Let her run. She had given him something he could use.
Tuesday, October 23
THE AM RADIO IN the tack room was way more informative about the fires than the TV news. Deirdre turned it up and sorted through her supplies, ears perked for any mention of Fairy Glen. It was impossible to work inside, partly because the kids were home, but mostly because looking at the phone only made waiting for a return call from Deputy Harvey more torturous. Had he checked on Stephanie? If he didn’t call her today, maybe he’d be at the emergency town council tonight.
Evacuation was looking more likely all the time, and Wilma liked to have everyone on the same page. So far the fire had swept from the hilly national forest at the southern border north through the Laguna mountains, on its way consuming pines, brush, and charring everything down to bare boulders. She remembered the last fire, which had followed roughly the same path. It had decimated the historic mining towns in the mountains before it swept westward towards increasingly populated areas, relentlessly marching towards the coast. If this fire was anything like the last one, it was only a matter of time.
Did she need more VetRap? You can never have enough. She added a few rolls to her armful of ointments and salves and turned to go put them all in the trailer, but a small dark figure blocked the door. She screamed and dropped it all.
“Mom, are you okay?” Rebecca asked.
“Of course. Why?” She hunched to pick everything up.
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just that I heard the front door open and close like, a million times. What are you doing?”
“I’m preparing for evacuation, what does it look like I’m doing?” she said testily. She guessed she had been bouncing around a lot, remembering something important in the house while down at the barn, then remembering something important at the barn once she got to the house. But that’s how her brain worked.
“Okay…” Rebecca said. “But can you give me a ride to work?”
“Work? You’re leaving me here?” Deirdre said. Her voice squeaked, hoarse from breathing ash.
“I work Tuesday through Saturday, remember? It’s Tuesday.”
She certainly couldn’t fault Rebecca’s work ethic. “I don’t want you gone at a time like this.” She stood up. “I might need your help.”
“You want me to get fired? I’m a supervisor now, I have a duty to show up. Darius says it’s busier than ever. Nobody wants to cook in this weather.”
“I’m not giving you a ride to work Rebecca. Call and tell them you can’t come.”
They faced off for a few seconds, until Rebecca said, “Fine. Forget it.” She turned and was gone.
Deirdre dropped her head, which was pounding from the constant news coverage. Her eyes hurt from the smoke in the atmosphere, but the tears that welled up eased the pain a little.
God, did all three of her kids hate her now? Justin had been in his room all day playing video games. Clara was in her own world, glued to the TV news. And Rebecca, well, she was Rebecca. Deirdre threw hay for the horses and started cleaning their stalls while they ate. She also marked her cell phone number on their hooves with Sharpie.
Back up at the house she fed the dogs and shoved a bowl of mac and cheese under Clara’s nose. The other two kids didn’t come out when she called, so she pecked Clara on the forehead and left to walk up the street to the firehouse.
* * *
REBECCA FOLLOWED AT A distance as her mom walked up the street and across the main road to the town council meeting. She hated walking more than anything, and yet here she was. But she wanted her freaking bike back, once and for all.
She got hot, quick. She took off her hoodie and wrapped it around her waist, adjusted the damp bandana wrapped around her face, and defogged her goggles. Trees whipped in the wind. It was getting extra super smoky all around. Like nuclear winter.
Mom was a nervous wreck. Worse than most Octobers, that is. Something was going on with her, but she wasn’t talking. I mean, she hadn’t even asked why Rebecca needed a ride to school yesterday. Hello? Rebecca rode her bike every day.
And now the one time she needed a ride to work her mom had refused. But then Darius had called her saying they’d decided to close the restaurant, so it didn’t matter.
But now she had a new complication. Jeremy had called her an hour ago in a panic. She told him to meet her on the corner again, so her mom wouldn’t see. Little did she know her mom would be walking up this very road. She glanced ahead. Her mom looked both ways before crossing Fairy Glen Road, then turned towards the firehouse.
Rebecca waited a few minutes at the corner. She heard Jeremy’s car coming long before she saw it. He pulled over in a dusting of dirt, rolled down his window, and started talking.
“Crystal was gone from the campsite. I thought she just went into the bushes to take a dump—her purse was there but her phone was gone. I waited for her to come back, then I started searching the forest,” he said, before taking a big breath. “Then I went to John’s place, but she wasn’t there either. I’ve been driving around all night and day looking for her. It’s all my fault, I never should’ve left her alone.”
“Slow down, Jeremy.”
“If I tell you something, you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Remember that fortune cookie? I don’t wanna know your secrets.” She held out her hand for his keys to unlock the trunk and get her bike.
“That detective that came up to the quarry?” he went on, totally ignoring her. He got out of the car. “I talked to him. I almost made a deal with him.” He lowered his voice. “Listen, Beck, if I can put my dad in jail, who’s gonna inherit all his assets? Me. It all goes to me.”
“I really don’t think that’s how inheritance works…” God, she couldn’t help herself from correcting people. But what on earth was he thinking? His dad wouldn’t be dead.
“My dad must’ve found out, so he took Crystal to punish me. He took her Beck! What am I gonna do?”
Right then his phone dinged. It was a text from Crystal. He read it. “Come get me at the apartment.” He sagged against the car with relief, running a hand through his hair. “Thank god.” Then he reanimated, and jumped back in the driver’s seat.
“Wait a minute,” Rebecca said, sticking her head in the window. “You said Crystal didn’t take her purse?”
“No, just her phone.” He started the engine.
“Wait,” she said again. He threw it in gear and pulled out onto Fairy Glen Road. “I don’t think this is a good idea Jeremy!” she yelled after him. “Shit! My bike.”
She cursed some more as she ran back to the house, flung the garage door open and commandeered Justin’s mountain bike.
There was no way Jeremy would know, but a girl who carries a purse never leaves
it behind—not willingly.
* * *
AT THE FIREHOUSE, DEPUTY Harvey leaned against his car talking to Wilma. He summoned Deirdre with a beckoning finger and sad expression. Wilma went inside after meeting her eyes for a brief second. She felt like a kid getting called to the principal’s office.
“We performed a wellness check on the Bartleys, like you asked,” the deputy started.
“Not the Bartleys. Stephanie Bartley,” she corrected him, crossing her arms.
“Sheriff’s deputies went to the house last night,” he said, and shifted on his feet.
“And?”
Harvey sighed deeply. “They say you’ve been harassing them. Numerous calls, texts, voicemails. He says he has witnesses who saw you grab his son and try to kidnap him.”
“That’s not true—”
“And, as you must be aware, he filed a restraining order on you last week.” He was covered in a thin layer of sweat. She herself was baking in the heat, but surprisingly unsweaty. He lowered his voice. “I really wish you’d told me that. If you keep this up, you could be arrested. He chose not to press charges. This time.”
“But, did you get Stephanie alone, did you ask her if she was okay?” She couldn’t believe the sheriffs had gone to all the trouble of checking and still screwed it up so badly.
Harvey wiped a hand down his face. “I don’t think you’re hearing me. You need to leave them alone. I’m telling you this not as a sheriff, but as a friendly courtesy.” He stopped, and lowered his voice. “This obsession with the Bartleys needs to stop.”
He held her gaze for a few seconds, then turned, got into his car, and put it in reverse, forcing her to walk backwards as he pulled out and drove away.
Inside the firehouse, the voices sounded tinny and distorted. Deirdre searched for a familiar face but didn’t see any.
Wilma spoke. “People People! Have a seat. We have a lot to get through tonight and I’d appreciate your attention.” She paused for effect, then swept the assembled Fairy Glenners with a stern gaze. “After I’m done you’ll have a chance to ask questions. But I will not tolerate anarchy, got me?”
There was a murmur of assent. Deirdre scurried up the aisle. People waved away from her like the tentacles of an undersea creature. She found a chair and sank into it, feeling light-headed.
“As you all know, last Saturday a brushfire started at the border. At last count, there are now seven fires, all over the county. They’re fast-moving, unpredictable, and dangerous. Any of you that lived through 1999 remember that. They’re joining together, creating their own weather system. We’re in a valley, that means we only have two ways out.” Which was technically not true, if you counted the cross-country routes. And Deirdre knew them all. “If the fires come, it’ll be from the east. Which means only one way out—to the west. But, something’s different from the last time we had a big fire—”
“Yeah, I’m not nine months pregnant,” Deirdre mused, then to her horror realized she’d said it out loud. A few people around her giggled nervously.
Wilma stopped the blaze of laughter with a single glance and continued louder, “We’ve got San Amaro Hills to contend with. Even without full capacity in the residential areas, we have five thousand extra people, most of whom don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to real survival. I predict a clusterfuck. Excuse my French.” But she didn’t sound very sorry. “What I want from you is a promise—that if I give the word, the neighborhood evacuates. We don’t wait for the sheriff or the county or anybody else to make the decision. I don’t want all of us stuck behind a caravan of bimbos in minivans, is that clear?"
As the natural resistance to evacuation traveled through the crowd, someone asked, “Who’ll keep our homes safe?”
"Those of us who stay behind," she indicated the lineup of hefty volunteer firemen behind her, "will keep an eye out for looters and firebugs. But, when it comes right down to it, if you have to choose, will it be your stuff, or your life?” The crowd hushed. “And don’t you dare make us come rescue your ass.”
After a pause, Wilma continued. “We’ve done it all before folks, but here’s the checklist again.” She took a stack of photocopies and handed them to someone in the front, then read a few items off the list: “Sign up for reverse 911. Fill up on gas if you go below 3/4 of a tank. Fire equals no power, and no power equals no gas pumps. It also means no well pumps, so make sure your water tanks are full and accessible…”
Deirdre knew this list by heart. She tuned out, replaying what Deputy Harvey had told her. She’d have to let it go this time. She’d done her duty, the most she could do. Now she could finally write Stephanie off. One less thing to worry about. So why didn’t she feel relieved?
Wilma was ending her rant, “…the most important point. You are not kindergartners. You are not farm animals. If you see fire, if you feel danger, don’t wait for somebody to tell you to leave. You are ultimately responsible for your own safety.” Something about the way she said this echoed Smokey the Bear, and Deirdre, verging towards hysterical, barely contained a fit of giggles as Wilma concluded, “Stay safe people. This could be a 40-year firestorm.”
The crowd didn’t applaud. Deirdre pretended to reach under her seat to get her purse until the inappropriate laugh-spasm passed. There was a mass scraping of metal chairs and shuffling of feet. By the time she lifted her head, the crowd was half evacuated themselves. Nobody wanted to stick around and chew the fat when they could be packing valuables. When she brushed the strands of hair off of her flushed face and stood, Wilma blocked her way.
“I know the last fire was traumatic for you Dee.”
Ok, last time this happened was—kind of traumatic, she admitted to herself. Giving birth to Clara in her living room with eight-year-old Rebecca as her midwife, while a fire raged towards them. But it wasn’t like a tour of Afghanistan, for crying out loud. Walt had gotten home just in time, and they’d all gotten out right before the house burned. She felt a cold sweat prick her forehead.
Wilma put a hand on her shoulder, which was very unlike her—she was definitely NOT a touchy feely kind of person—and said, “Everything will be fine.”
Deirdre cleared her throat. Had Wilma and Deputy Harvey been talking about her? Her ‘mistaken’ belief that Stephanie Bartley was being, if not held hostage, then at least coerced in some way, her suspicions of Bartley and his ex-wife, her violation of the restraining order? And she herself had told Wilma about her ghost sighting for Christ’s sake. Maybe Wilma thought she was going bonkers.
Maybe Wilma was right.
“I know, Wilma. I’m fine. Really.” She plastered a convincing smile on her face.
Wilma smiled back in a way that made it clear she was clumsy at this. “I’ll come check on you tomorrow, okay?”
“Oh please don’t, there’s really no need. But thanks anyway.”
Wilma squeezed her shoulder, then smacked her back a couple of times. It’s a wonder she didn’t slap her butt like a quarterback. Wilma could be such a dude.
But despite Wilma’s concern, Deirdre sensed a distance between them. The two of them usually communicated on a basic, no BS level, but that was absent.
By the time she got back home, Deirdre felt even more alone than before.
* * *
REBECCA CHECKED OVER HER shoulder, waited for a speeding car to fly past, then swerved across Fairy Glen Road onto a worn dirt path. One of the secret byways of the non-automotive subclass.
She picked up some speed now, took a few jumps—clumsy, on Justin’s mountain bike. But a bike gave her an advantage. If everyone else was just rats in a maze, hamsters in a HabitTrail, she wanted to be the cockroach in the cabinets, finding the hidden ways through.
Up ahead, the apartment complex’s lights twinkled through a clump of eucalyptus trees. Whoever had planted these all over California back in the day was a real Mensa member. Not only were they an invasive species, but they killed people. A few years ago, a eucalyptus
branch had fallen on a lady walking her dog in Old Town, crushing her. And they were highly flammable.
She came out behind a dumpster enclosure at the back of the parking lot. Under the yellow cone of a street light, a Hispanic man in a wife-beater leaned deep inside the hood of his car, his paunch rolled over it, a loud polka blasting from the car stereo. She glided past him without a sound, skirting the circles of light, by the side of the ravine separating CopperWood from the Albertson’s parking lot, and stopped to peer through the bushes at the building closest to her. Bingo. Jeremy’s car crouched there, colorless in the yellow light.
She left the bike in the bushes, hoping it was hidden well enough that it wouldn’t get stolen—again. Her mom had always been paranoid. But now that she’d been a crime victim, she was starting to see her point. She pulled her hoodie back on, for camouflage and because the sweat was turning cold on her skin.
Trying not to look like a ninja in training, she approached the staircase. Before she could debate whether or not it was crazy to go upstairs, she heard a door open directly overhead. She pressed up against the doorway behind her, which thankfully had no lights or sound coming from inside because it’d be awfully embarrassing if the residents opened the door right now and she fell backwards into their living room.
The footsteps scuffled above her. A faint grunting. Then one by one made their way down the stairs. When the feet got to her eye level, she could see why the going was so slow. It was two people.
Step by step, the leader of the dance went; right foot down a step, left foot, followed by two random puppet staggers of the other person. The other person who she now recognized as Jeremy, by the cut of his baggy-ass jeans.
Heart thumping, she waited. When they got a few steps lower, she saw the bulk of a very large man who had Jeremy in an iron grip next to him, like a Raggedy Andy being dragged around by a two-year-old. Jeremy was upright, but just barely. All the locomotion came from the dude.
October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 30