One Through the Heart

by Kirk Russell

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘The first thing he did was ask, “What’s happened?”’

  The interrogation went on for four hours and it wasn’t harsh but it was frank. Outside the gusts in the hills now topped forty and Mt. Tamalpais and Mt. Diablo were recording wind speeds in excess of sixty miles an hour over their summits. In the city the gusts rattled the light poles and shook the electric lines of the street cars.

  Lindsley, he was a bright guy, and they showed him cases where informants cooperated and helped prevent something from happening, and how much better it went for them later. Leave it to the Feds; they even had a graph that showed how much better you did if you cooperated. He was asked what will Alan Siles say about you? Will he say you tried to manipulate us at the point you got scared? How will you answer that? Will all three of them swear you were part of the plot?

  As each half hour passed, an FBI interrogator noted it and said, ‘Nothing has happened yet. You can still do this.’

  But Lindsley didn’t give up anything. He stayed right where he was in the text messages to Raveneau and pitched the same message he had before, that he came forward because he was worried. When Raveneau got home it was after midnight and the wind rattled metal awnings out over the street. The gusts shook the sliding glass door on to the deck and blew over one of the potted lemons. He slept three or four hours and thought it was sirens that woke him or his phone, but it was neither. It was the wind. He walked out on to the wooden walkway and crossed the smooth roofing to the parapet, his heart loud in his chest as he smelled smoke, and not the smoke of a building burning but dry grass and oak.

  Of course there had been warnings for weeks of fire danger, as there always were this time of year, especially as the anniversary of the Oakland Hills fire of 1991 grew closer. He scanned the hills across the bay. He didn’t see any fires. Yet the smell was strong and the wind came from the north-east and Raveneau didn’t have a good view in that direction. He checked the time. 04:10. He tried the Internet then TV and radio and called the Southern Precinct. The first squib showed online at just about the same time the Southern Precinct called back.

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘We have a report of a fire on Mount Tamalpais. Check that, we have a report that Mount Tamalpais is on fire on both the west and east sides. That’s all we know right now.’

  ‘The whole mountain?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s what it says.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Raveneau once sat in on an interview of an arsonist arrested after setting fire to five dilapidated houses in San Francisco over a period of three months. In one a homeless man squatting on the third floor died. The arsonist, a thirty-eight-year-old assistant manager at a tech facility named Steve Lahore, apologized for the death. He was aware from news reports that a man died in the second fire he lit. But that didn’t stop him from setting more. All that stopped him was getting caught.

  When confronted with possible murder charges, he was more interested in talking about how he planned the burns so that even a three-minute-response fire department wouldn’t get there in time. He was proud of his work and forthcoming with details but what Raveneau remembered most vividly was how he rhapsodized about the 1929 fire on Mt. Tamalpais and how wooded and thick with underbrush the mountain was now. He fidgeted in his seat as he described the fuel load, the underbrush and trees that had thickened in the eighty years since that burn.

  The right conditions brought out the arson bugs. They got them anxious and excited when the wind rose in the dry part of the year. Raveneau couldn’t help but think about Lahore as he heard the Tam fire was spreading very rapidly and already arced over the whole mountain. He hurried back in, showered, and dressed.

  A half hour later the burn smell was stronger. He scrolled his cell and found the phone number of a Petaluma fire captain, reasoning that he wasn’t waking anybody up. They would call everyone in. He punched in the number but didn’t hit Call yet, held his finger there for a moment before pressing the phone to his ear. First thing he heard was a big engine working hard.

  ‘Steve, it’s Ben Raveneau.’

  ‘Ben, hi, you’re calling about the fire?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a fire line that reaches from Highway One all the way up over the mountain and down to Lake Alpine, and we’re rolling there. That’s about all I know other than it started an hour and fifteen minutes ago and all at once.’

  ‘I’m heading your way.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’d be out of your mind to, and why would you? Winds are gusting to sixty at the summit. They’re thirty-five miles an hour down at the base. This fire is exploding. The whole mountain is going. There’s evacuation under way in Mill Valley and you wouldn’t even be able to get here, and why would you want to?’

  ‘We’re working on something that might tie to this.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There’s a possible tie and the timing coincides with a threat made. Look, I’m heading your direction, but I’ll stay out of the way.’

  Raveneau crossed the Golden Gate after picking up la Rosa. They had Coe on speakerphone as they looked at the orange halo over the mountain and tendrils of fire curling and rising fifty, a hundred feet into the air and twisting and leaping in the roaring wind. It was like a scene out of a volcano erupting or a nightmare of the end of the world. He had never seen anything like it and the idea of firefighters battling seemed absurd. Even in the pre-dawn darkness you could tell how fast it was moving, funneling up through steep ravines and dry oak and pine. On the open flanks a line of orange flame danced across the long slopes of dry grass and brush.

  A fine white ash fell on the windshield and the air filled with sirens as they exited and made their way toward Mill Valley. Across the road a long line of headlights came toward them and Coe reported that the highway patrol was getting ready to close 101 due to ash and smoke. Coe was off the freeway now trying to work his way around that, having left his house in Novato ten minutes ago.

  ‘There’s a police roadblock ahead,’ la Rosa said quietly and Raveneau nodded and continued to talk with Coe.

  ‘You know what their orders are,’ la Rosa said. ‘This is a full-on evacuation.’

  It was, and Raveneau kept Coe on the phone in case they needed his help. The police line was at Redwood High School and a uniform officer held a hand up for them to stop and then waved them forward signaling for them to turn into the high school. La Rosa lowered her window but it was clear the officer did not want to talk.

  ‘The surveillance team is still on location,’ Coe said, ‘but they can’t vouch for where Lindsley is. He could be in his apartment still. The police are using loudspeakers to tell people to leave immediately and the smoke is thickening and they’re not certain he’s still there.’

  ‘We’ll go up to the apartment.’

  ‘They say embers are falling and at least one small fire started on a roof not far from where our team is. At some point we’ll have to pull them.’

  ‘Give us ten minutes. We’re close but we’ve got to talk our way in now.’

  ‘I didn’t say they’ve lost him. They think he’s in his apartment still and they’ll send an agent up to his apartment if they need to. You don’t need to go there.’

  ‘He’ll be gone. It’s his excuse to move.’

  ‘Then that’s another reason you and Elizabeth can turn around.’

  ‘This is them. This fits. This was what the wind talk was about and it may have been why Lindsley wanted to drive up the mountain before we brought him in. They were never going to get enough radioactive material. This is what they had planned all along. We need to find Lindsley right now.’

  Raveneau looked over at la Rosa showing her homicide star and talking to a pair of California Highway Patrol officers. He heard their questions and could tell they were about to be waved through, but still said to Coe, ‘Get two agents to go
up now and knock on his door. They can knock on every door on the apartment floor and be concerned citizens. Lindsley won’t know. Let’s find out now if he’s still there.’

  ‘We’ll do that if we need to. I’m going to let the surveillance team make that call.’

  After Coe hung up, Raveneau said, ‘They don’t know where he is. It’s like a refugee camp out here. It’s chaos.’

  They were waved through now and Raveneau drove slowly past the police units and the high school and through the first stoplight where the wind gusted so hard the stoplight swayed back and forth. Smoke was like a thin fog in their headlights. It wasn’t too thick yet, but was enough to make la Rosa cough.

  ‘We’ll be a long time getting out of here,’ she said. ‘We may want to do what Coe suggested.’

  ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘And what if he’s not there?’

  ‘Then it’s a manhunt in an evacuation.’

  They got closer and then went past and Raveneau couldn’t tell if Lindsley’s car was there. It had to be. A bullhorn on a police car slowly passed them and made clear the evacuation was mandatory, cutting in front of them, blocking their way, telling them to turn around. And that was fine because they were past the apartment now. They made the U-turn the officers wanted, nosing their way into the stream of traffic and a hundred yards later making a right into the apartment lot.

  But before they left the car and went up to check, Coe called back.

  ‘There are new fires, fourteen of them, and one that’s now burning on Mount Diablo with multiple simultaneous ignitions similar to this Tam fire. I’m being told that seven of the new fires are in the East Bay Hills and they’re spreading very quickly.’

  ‘We’re headed into the apartment building. I’ll call you,’ Raveneau said and broke the connection. He turned to la Rosa. ‘There are fourteen new fires and they’re going to overwhelm the fire departments. If this wind keeps up, a lot of houses will burn. People will die. Let’s go see if he’s there.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  A flustered and frightened apartment manager came straight at them. He shook his head and said everyone was out and he was leaving soon. He wore a fluorescent orange coat that came down to his thighs and carried a sixteen-inch flashlight. Raveneau slowed him down and got him to go upstairs with them. After they got no response knocking on Lindsley’s door, the manager unlocked it. He called, ‘Mr Lindsley, Mr Lindsley.’

  ‘Could be hurt,’ Raveneau said, and moved inside with la Rosa. He called Coe when he was sure Lindsley was gone, and then told the manager, ‘We’re going to be a minute or two. We’re OK. We’ll pull the door shut when we go.’

  With the smoke, sirens, confusion and an evacuation under way it was believable Lindsley had slipped away. Raveneau stared at the line of cars and the fog-like smoke that colored the early sun a brown-gold as Coe continued to insist that Lindsley was probably still there in the building. Coe had the surveillance team on another line and they were sure he hadn’t left.

  Two agents on the FBI surveillance team came upstairs a few minutes later. The apartment manager was still there and Raveneau described the young woman with Lindsley on his last visit here. The manager recognized the description and led Raveneau down the corridor and then knocked on her door. When there was no answer he unlocked it, but it was empty as well.

  ‘He walked away,’ Raveneau said, and texted Lindsley. He sent a second text, this one to Alan Siles: ‘Let’s talk.’

  Raveneau got back on the phone with Coe after the FBI agents went downstairs with the apartment manager. ‘We’re not going to find him,’ Raveneau told Coe. ‘Are we covered if your agents search his apartment with our help?’

  ‘They need to be in the apartment.’

  Raveneau could hear the agents coming back up. He looked out the street window as Coe gave him a fire update and saw that the cars parked on the street and in the lot below were beginning to get a coat of white ash.

  ‘There are fatalities,’ Coe said. ‘An elderly couple trapped in their house in the Oakland Hills. That fire has already burned twenty-two homes. Between them they’ll burn hundreds of homes.’

  The white ash probably meant they were in the path of the fire and Raveneau didn’t need any convincing. If the winds didn’t let up, it would burn its way down the mountain and could easily get here. With the strong winds, tanker planes might not even be able to fly. Later today the fire could reach Mill Valley. He got off the phone and as the two FBI agents returned he and la Rosa and the agents searched Lindsley’s apartment, knowing as they did that by tomorrow the apartment building might be gone.

  Soon after they started they learned that two major fire lines up on the mountain had merged and that all of the homes and along the ridge and the Mountain Home Inn were gone. Winds were still gusting to sixty over the summit. On some roads the smoke was too thick to drive through and new fires were starting well ahead of the main fire line as glowing embers were carried and scattered by the wind. The Tam fire took its first victims while they were still in the apartment. Nine died in five cars that were trapped on a narrow street trying to get out when an ember generated fire grew rapidly and swept down the slope above where the cars were blocked by a fallen oak that had toppled in high winds. The fire burned nearly horizontal with flames reaching one hundred fifty feet as it came over the crest and started down on this side.

  A firefighter came upstairs. ‘OK, folks, time to go.’

  ‘We’ll be down in a few minutes.’

  ‘My orders are to get you out now.’

  ‘The man who lives here may know how these fires started. You need to give us a few minutes more, and I never told you what I just said.’

  ‘Five minutes. I’ll wait here with you.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Raveneau found the book he was looking for hidden behind others in a wood bookcase left of windows facing the street. It was slim with an orange cover and was one of two hundred printed after Ann Coryell’s death. In the circles Lindsley traveled it was hallowed. Compiled inside were unedited original essays, a series of blogs, and excerpts of the fabled thesis of Ann Coryell. It was put out by a small press that appeared, published it, and vanished again all in 2004, the year her body was identified. Raveneau learned of it then but didn’t try hard enough at the time to get a copy.

  One theory was that Lash financed it and someone else put it together, but Lash denied it and Raveneau believed him, especially after he plagiarized her for one of his books. The true publisher was still a mystery. There was no title on the book, no name of author on the spine or cover. This copy was thin and faded. Raveneau opened to the cover page and read, ‘The Writings and Teachings of Ann Coryell, De Haro Press,’ and then closed it and hurried through the rest of the search.

  He stayed with the bookcase and both agents undid the bedroom, emptying a closet, stripping blankets and sheets, then lifted away the mattress. They walked a desktop computer and a laptop down to their vehicle.

  The firefighter said, ‘Time’s up.’

  Raveneau turned to the couch and pulled off beige cloth covered cushions and found only loose change, a handful of quarters and dimes, a paper clip and cap for a pen tucked back in the cracks along with plenty of dirt.

  The firefighter’s voice got deeper and louder. He rapped his knuckles hard on the door frame. ‘Let’s go!’

  Raveneau stalled and did one last check as la Rosa moved out into the corridor. He checked the small kitchen. When he turned the firefighter was right there, yellow coat and helmet, and Raveneau nodded. He followed him. He checked his phone, read the text messages. Mt. Diablo fire out of control. More dead in the Oakland Hills. New fire in San Bruno. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock, less than eight hours since the Tam fire started and the governor was declaring a state of emergency and the smoke was so thick that commercial air traffic was being re-routed.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ the firefighter asked, though he didn’t turn around
to do it.

  His boots clumped on the stairs, and Raveneau said ‘no.’

  As they crossed the Golden Gate, Coe called. ‘I understand you found the book you’ve talked about. Can you bring it here on your way in?’

  ‘I can but I’d rather not stop.’

  ‘We’d like to get it from you now.’

  Coe’s message was the fires were terrorist acts until they knew otherwise.

  ‘We’ll bring it to you.’

  Outside the FBI Field Office, Raveneau double-parked. La Rosa stayed with the car and Raveneau rode the elevator up. The Feds wouldn’t have found the book and they wouldn’t do any more than thumb through it now, so it was a complete waste of time delivering it but he didn’t begrudge the Bureau anything.

  They did all the heavy lifting on terrorism investigations after 9/11. Other agencies provided information. Other agencies watched. Raveneau forgave the Feds their regulation haircuts and tight smiles and pronounced stares as if their seriousness made them better investigators. He forgave the task force meetings with folded chairs and power point talks that droned on, and forgave the chain emails, the eternal ‘Reply to All’ that beat the life out of a day.

  He knew a police captain who kept bees and viewed the FBI culture as analogous to a beehive. The bees were the agents who went out every day, but were never allowed to make decisions on their own. They flew home to the hive every night and reported to the drones who were called SACs and ASACS. The Director was the queen.

  ‘Letting you help search the apartment was like asking a shoplifter to help stock a store,’ Coe said, meaning it to be a joke though it fell flat this morning.

  Raveneau flipped through the remaining pages of the book and found a few had handwritten notes in the margins before he handed it to Coe. He asked, ‘Can you copy and scan these for me this morning?’

  ‘Is that Lindsley’s handwriting?’