by Nora Roberts
“Copy that.”
“Okay, Dobie, get that saw working. And watch out for flying wood missiles. I don’t want any more drama.”
The backfire held. It took another ten hours, but reports from head to tail called the fire contained.
The sunset ignited the sky as she hiked back to camp. It reminded her of watching the sun set with Gull. Of bullets and blind hate. She dropped down to eat, wishing she could find that euphoria that always rose in her once a fire surrendered.
Yangtree sat down beside her. “We’re going to get some food in our bellies before we start mop-up. Ops has eight on tap for that. It’s up to you since he was on your team, but I think Cards should demob, get that wound looked at proper.”
“Agreed. I’m going to pack out with him. If they can send eight, let’s spring eight from camp.”
“My thinking, too. I tell you, Ro, I say I’m too old for this, but I’m starting to mean it. I might just ask your daddy for a job come the end of the season.”
“Hell. Cards is the one with the hole in his face.”
He looked toward the west, the setting sun, the black mountain. “I’m thinking I may want to see what it’s like to sit on my own porch on a summer night, drink a beer, with some female company if I can get it, and not have to think about fire.”
“You’ll always think about fire, and sitting on a porch, you’d wish you were here.”
He gave her a pat on the knee as he rose. “It might be time to find out.”
She had to browbeat Cards into packing out. Smoke jumpers, she thought, treated injuries like points of pride, or challenges.
He sulked on the flight home.
“I get why he’s in a mood.” Gull settled down beside her. “Why are you?”
“Sixty hours on fire might have something to do with it.”
“No. That’s why you’re whipped and more vulnerable to the mood, but not the reason for the mood.”
“Here’s what I don’t get, hotshot: why, after a handful of months, you think you know me so damn well. And another is why you spend so much time psychoanalyzing people.”
“Those are both pretty easy to get. The first is it may be a handful of months, but people who live and work together, particularly under intense conditions, tend to know and understand each other quicker than those who don’t. Add sleeping together, and it increases the learning curve. Second.”
He pulled out a bag of shelled peanuts, offered her some, then shrugged and dug in himself when she just glowered at him.
“Second,” he repeated. “People interest me, so I like figuring them out.”
He munched nuts. Whatever her mood or the reasons for it, he wasn’t inclined to lower his to match it. A hot shower and hot food, followed by a bed with a warm woman in it, ranged in his immediate future.
Who could ask for better?
“You’re starting to think about what’s waiting back at base. All the crap we’ve been too busy to worry about. What’s happened while we were catching fire, if the cops charged Brakeman, found Dolly’s killer. If not, what next?”
He glanced over toward Cards, who snored with his head on his pack, a fresh bandage snowy white against his soot-smeared face. “And you’re mixing in worrying how bad Cards messed his face up. Whatever Yangtree and you talked about before we demobbed topped it off.”
She said nothing for a moment. “Know-it-alls are irritating.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. “I’m getting some sleep.”
“Funny, I think having somebody understand you is comforting.”
She opened one eye, cool, crystal blue. “I didn’t say you were an understand-it-all.”
“You’ve got me there.” Gull shut his eyes as well, and dropped off.
ROWAN HEADED STRAIGHT to the barracks after unloading her gear. To settle down, Gull decided, as much as clean up. Maybe she’d label it as “taking care of her,” and that was too damn bad, but he postponed his own agenda to hunt down L.B.
He waited in Operations while L.B. coordinated with the mop-up crew boss.
“Got a minute?”
“For the first time in three days, I’ve got a few. I’m stepping out,” L.B. announced, then jerked his head toward the door. “What’s on your mind?”
“You telling me the status of things around here so I can pass it on to Rowan.”
“I don’t know how much they’re keeping me in the loop, but let’s find a place to sit down.”
WHEN ROWAN STEPPED OUT of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, a still filthy Gull was sitting on the floor.
“Is something wrong with your shower?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been in it yet.”
“I’ve got a lot to do before I’m done, so we’ll have to reschedule the hot sex portion of the evening.”
“You’ve got a one-track mind, Swede. I like the track, but there are more than one.”
She opened a drawer, selected yoga pants and a top.
“I’ll give you the rundown,” Gull began. “Trigger dragged Cards to the infirmary. The wound’s clean. No infection, but it’s pretty damn deep. Plastic surgeon recommended, and after some bullshit, he’s going into town to see one in the morning. He wants to keep his pretty face.”
“That’s good.” She pulled on the pants and top without bothering with underwear—something Gull appreciated whatever the circumstances. “And it’ll be fun to rag him about plastic surgery,” she added, stepping back into the bath to hang the towel. “We ought to get some fun out of it.”
“Trigger already suggested they suck the lard out of his ass while they’re at it.”
“That’s a start.”
“They’ve charged Leo Brakeman.”
He watched her jerk, just a little, then cross over to sit on the side of the bed. “Okay. All right.”
“His rifle, prior threats and the fact he can’t verify his whereabouts for the time of the shooting. He admitted he and his wife had a fight, and he went out to drive around for a couple hours. He’d only just gotten back when the cops showed up at the door.”
“His wife could’ve lied for him.”
“He never asked her to. Some of this came from the cops, some of it’s via Marg. I could separate it out, but being a know-it-all, I figure Marg’s intel is as solid as the cops’.”
“You’d be right.”
“They fought about him coming out here, going off on you. About Dolly in general. I think losing a child either sticks the parents together like cement, or rips them up.”
“My father had a brother. A younger one. You probably know that, too, since you studied Iron Man.”
Gull said nothing, gave her room. “He died when he was three of some weird infection. He’d never been what you’d call robust, and, well, they couldn’t fix it. I guess it cemented my grandparents. Has he admitted it? Brakeman?”
“No. He’s claiming he was driving around, just tooling the backroads, that somebody broke in, took his rifle. Somebody’s framing him. His wife finally convinced him to get a lawyer. They held the bail hearing this morning. She put up their house to post his bond.”
“Jesus.”
“He’s not coming back around here, Ro.”
“That’s not what I mean. She’s dealing with more than anybody should have to deal with, and it just doesn’t feel like any of it’s her doing. I don’t know how she’s standing up to it.”
“She’s dealing with more yet. They identified a man Dolly met at a motel off Twelve the night she died. One she met there a number of times in the past few months. Reverend Latterly.”
“Their pastor? For the love of—” She broke off, slumped back. “Dolly was putting out for her mother’s padre, all the while claiming she’d been washed in the light of the Lord or whatever. It makes sense,” she said immediately. “Now it makes sense. God will provide. That’s what she said to Lynn. Her baby would need a father, and God would provide.”
“I don’t think God had the notion to provide Dolly w
ith a married man who’s already got three kids. He’s denying it, all righteously outraged, and so far, anyway, his wife’s sticking with him. The cops are working on picking that apart.”
“He met her the night she was killed. She wanted a father for her baby, and Dolly always pushed when she wanted something. She pushed, maybe threatened to tell his wife, ruin him with his congregation. And he kills her.”
“Logical,” Gull agreed.
“It still doesn’t explain why he didn’t just leave her, why he took her into the forest, started the fire. But odds are it’s the first time he killed anyone. It’s probably hard to be rational after doing something like that.
“Gull . . . If he and Dolly were heating the sheets, all this time—and he’s been preaching to Mrs. Brakeman for years—he could’ve gotten into their house.”
She tilted her head. “And you’ve already thought about that.”
“Speculated. I expect he’s had Sunday dinner there a time or two, he and his wife probably brought a covered dish to summer cookouts and so on. Yeah, I think he knew how to get in, and he might’ve known or been able to access the combination to the safe.”
“It would be a way to have the cops looking at Brakeman, and that worked. Maybe have them speculating. This violent man, this man with a violent temper, one who’d already pushed his daughter out of the house once, has been known to have heated arguments with her. It could be.”
“It’s not out of the realm. You lost your mood.”
She smirked, just a little. “Know-it-all. Maybe I was feeling useless again, a comedown from three days when I know everything I did mattered, made a difference, was needed. Then I’m coming back here where I can’t do a damn thing. I can’t be in charge, so I guess it helps some to think it all through, and to figure out what I’d do if I could be in charge. Maybe it helps to talk it through with somebody who understands me.” She smirked again. “At least understands parts of me.”
“You know, I could sit here and look at you all night. All gold and cream and smelling like a summer orchard. It’s a nice way to transition back after an extended attack. But, how about I clean up, and we go get ourselves a late supper?”
“That’s a solid affirmative.”
“Great.” He pushed to his feet. “Can I use your shower?”
She laughed, waved toward the bathroom. Since she had some time she decided to call the other man who understood her.
“Hi, Dad.”
ELLA TURNED when Lucas opened the door to the deck. She’d slipped out when his cell phone rang to give him some privacy for the call, and to admire the fairy lights she’d strung on the slender branches of her weeping plum.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Rowan just wanted to check in, and to update me on what’s going on.”
“Is there anything new?”
“Not really.” As he sipped a glass of the wine they’d enjoyed with dinner, he brushed his fingertips up and down her arm.
She loved the way he touched her—often, like a reassurance she was with him.
“She sounded steady, so I feel better about that. With Ro, when bad things happen, or wrong things, she tends to take it in. What could she have done to prevent it, or what should she do to fix it?”
“I can’t imagine where she gets that from. Who’s been fiddling around here every chance he gets? Fixing the dripping faucet in the laundry room sink, the drawer that kept sticking in that old table I bought at the flea market?”
“I have to pay for all those dinners you cook me. And breakfasts,” he added, gliding his hand down to her waist.
“It’s nice to have a handy man around the house.”
“It’s nice to be around the house, with you.” He hooked his arm around her waist so they looked out at the garden together, at the pretty lights, the soft shadows. “It’s nice to be with you.”
“I’m happy,” she told him. “I tend to be a happy person, and I learned how to be happy on my own. It was good for me, to have that time, to find out a little bit more about myself. What I could do, what I could do without. I’m happier with you.”
She hooked an arm around his waist in turn. “I was standing here before you came out thinking how lucky I am. I’ve got a family I love and who loves me, a career I’m proud of, this place, good friends. Now the bonus round. You.”
Lights sparkling, she thought, in her garden, and in her heart. And all the while her friend lived in the terrible dark.
“I talked with Irene earlier.”
“She’s got a terrible load to carry now.”
“I went to see her, hoping to help, but . . . I can’t even begin to conceive what she’s lost. The most devastating loss a mother can know. What she may lose yet. Nothing in her life is certain now, or steady or happy. She’s burying her daughter, Lucas. She’s facing the very real possibility her husband will go to prison. The man she trusted with her spiritual guidance, her faith, betrayed her in a horrible way. The only thing she has to hold on to now is her grandchild, and caring for that sweet little girl must bring Irene incredible pain and joy.
“I’m lucky. And I guess I’m enough like you and Rowan to wish there were some way I could fix things. I wish I knew what I could do or say or be to help Irene.”
“You’re helping her plan the service, and you’ll be there for her. That’ll matter. Do you want me to go with you?”
“Selfishly yes. But I think it would embarrass her if you did.”
He nodded, having thought the same. “If you think it’s right, you could tell her I’m sorry for her loss, sorry for what she’s going through.”
“I’ve made us both sad, and here I was thinking about being happy.”
“People who are together get to share both. I want to . . . share both with you.”
Almost, she thought as butterflies on the wing filled her belly. They were both almost ready to say it. Had she said she felt lucky? She’d been blessed.
“Let’s take a walk in the moonlight,” she decided. “In the garden. We can finish drinking this wine, and make out.”
“You always have the best ideas.”
USING A DEAD WOMAN’S phone to lure a man to his death felt . . . just. A man of God should understand that, should approve of the sentiment of an eye for an eye. Though Latterly was no man of God, but a fraud, a liar, an adulterer, a fornicator.
In a very real sense Latterly had killed Dolly. He’d tempted her, led her onto the path—or if the temptation and leading had been hers, he had certainly followed.
He should have counseled her, advised her, helped her be the decent person, the honorable woman, the good mother. Instead he’d betrayed his wife, his family, his God, his church, for sex with the daughter of one of his faithful.
His death would be justice, and retribution and holy vengeance.
The text had done its job, so simple really.
it wasnt me u have 2 come bring money dont tell not yet talk first need to know what 2 do meet me 1 am Lolo Pass Vistor Center fs rd 373 2 gate URGENT Can help u Dolly
Of course, the soon-to-be-dead man called the dead woman. The return text when the call went unanswered had been full of shock, panic, demands. Easy enough to deflect.
must c u face 2 face explain then will do what u say when you know what i know cant txt more they might find out
He’d come. If he didn’t, there would be another way.
Planning murder wasn’t the same as an accident. How would it feel?
The car rolled in ten minutes early, going slow. A creep along the service road.
Easy after all. So easy. Should there be talk first? Should the dead man know why he was dead? Why he would burn in fiery hell?
He called for Dolly, his voice a harsh whisper in the utter peace of the night. At the gate, he sat in his car, silhouetted in the moonlight.
Death waited patiently.
He got out, his head turning right, left, as he continued to call Dolly’s name. As he continued up the road.
Yes, it was easy after all.
“An eye for an eye.”
Latterly looked over, his face struck with terror as shadow moved to moonlight.
The first bullet struck him in the center of the forehead, a small black hole that turned terror to blank shock. The second pierced his heart, releasing a slow trickle of blood that gleamed black in the shimmer of light.
Easy. A steady hand, a just heart.
No shock, no grief, no trembling, not this time.
A long way to drag a body, but it had to be done right, didn’t it? Anything worth doing was worth doing well. And the forest at night held such beauty, such mystery. Peace. Yes, for a little while, peace.
All the effort came to nothing in that moment when the body rested at the burn site, on the pyre, already prepared.
Reverend Latterly didn’t look so good, didn’t look so pious now with his clothes and flesh torn and dirty from the trail.
A click of the lighter, that’s all it took to send him to hell.
Flames kindled with a whoosh as they gulped fuel and oxygen. Burning the body as the soul would burn. Peace settled while the fire climbed and spread.
How did it feel to murder and burn?
It felt right.
20
The fire chewed its way east, consuming forest and meadow, its head a rage of hunger and greedy glee leading the body across two states.
Gull dug his spikes into a lodgepole pine, climbing up, up into a sky of sooty red. Sweat dripped down his face to soak the bandanna he’d tied on like a latter-day outlaw as he ground the teeth of his saw through bark and wood. Logs tumbled, crashed below as he worked his way down.
The blaze they sought to cage danced, leaped nimbly up trees to string their branches with light as it roared its song.
He hit the ground, unhooked his harness, then moved down the saw line.
He knew Rowan worked the head. Word traveled down the crew, and the jumpers from Idaho had twice had to retreat due to unstable winds.