The Devil's Menagerie

by Louis Charbonneau

  It hadn’t been much of a fight, she thought.

  One

  THE INDIAN SLIPPED through brush and smoke, invisible until he popped up next to Dave Lindstrom. Startled, Dave lurched back a step.

  “I scared you,” the Indian said.

  “You sure as hell did. How do you do that?”

  “It’s something my people learned fighting the cavalry.”

  “You’re too young to have fought the cavalry.”

  The smoke-blackened Indian was a Navajo, no more than twenty-five years old, Dave guessed, one of a team of firefighters flown in the day before from Arizona. His name was Jim Roget. “Like the champagne,” he had said when he introduced himself.

  “Where did you acquire a French name?”

  “It’s a long story of oppression and deceit. You wanta hear it?”

  “Not really,” Dave had answered with a grin.

  The Navajos were experienced firefighters, and Jim Roget had been assigned as a crew boss for Lindstrom and his group of volunteers. They fought the fire with shovels and McLeod rakes and Pulaskis, the latter a double-edged ax and hoe, each of these tools used to cut down, clear away or bury combustible brush and grasses. Right now the volunteers were strung out along a service road on the east flank of San Carlos Canyon, halfway up the slope, trying to widen the gap created by the road before the fire reached it. Farther along the road Dave could see the line of fire engines, four-wheel-drive brush rigs and pumper trucks, and a tangle of thick hoses strung across the road like spilled intestines.

  Dave had been on the lines for thirty-six hours. It was hot, punishing work and every muscle ached. His blisters had blisters. Roget, he noted, looked as fresh as he had when the buses dumped him and the other Navajos at the base camp in San Carlos Regional Park the previous day.

  Unlike the Navajo, Dave Lindstrom was not a professional firefighter. He was an assistant professor in the Film and Television Studies program at San Carlos College. He had taken volunteer training with the county fire department, plus two weeks with the Forest Service, and this was the second year he had been called upon to help battle a major fire in the hills on the outskirts of San Carlos. Some of his academic colleagues thought he was crazy, and right about now Dave was inclined to agree with them.

  The time was the last week of September, the beginning of the fire season in Southern California. No rain since last April, and the brush on every hillside was—as the television anchors kept repeating—tinder dry. Set a match to it, or even throw a cigarette carelessly out of a car window, and the brush literally exploded. This fire had been started farther up the canyon two days ago. Some thrill-seeking arsonist slipping out of his car at the side of the road in early morning darkness, catching the glitter in his eyes as the first flames crackled in the brush.

  So far six thousand acres had burned and twelve homes had been destroyed along with their lifetime accumulations of possessions and memories. Most of the houses had burned the first night of the fire, hillside homes above Canyon Drive where the blaze had started.

  Off to Dave’s left there was a loud explosion. A tall palm tree burst into flames, a dazzling fire on a stick like a fireworks display. Through the pervasive smoke Lindstrom could barely see the strike force of firefighters who were making a stand before some threatened homes, hoping to stop the relentless march of the fire before more dwellings were gutted.

  A helicopter flapped overhead, one of the larger, twin-rotor choppers hauling a huge bucket of water at the end of a long cable and moving toward the threatened homes. Working his shovel, sweat pouring down his face, Dave peered through a film of his own making as the helicopter dropped its load. The water fell on a finger of flames, turning that little patch of hillside into a black smear. He felt like cheering, but the flames beyond the dousing seemed to leap higher and race even faster through the brush.

  Someone was shouting at him. Dave saw several of the other volunteers straightening up, clambering onto the service road. “Pull back! Pull back!”

  Lowering his head, momentarily blinded by white ash, Dave stumbled as he tried to climb. A strong hand gripped his arm, preventing a fall. Jim Roget, encased in his fire-retardant Nomex jacket and pants and matching yellow helmet, grinned at him. His black eyes peered through a coating of white, as if he wore warpaint. “Hang in there,” the Navajo said. “Help is on the way.”

  “What? The wind’s shifted?”

  “Naw, a couple of Super Scoopers are gonna hit this side of the hill. You know, those big mothers scoop the water right out of the ocean on the fly. We’re pullin’ back. Now.”

  He went along the line, informing and encouraging the crew. One by one they climbed onto the road, peered at each other through the gloom, and began to trudge up the slope toward the ridgeline. Laboring after them, Dave wondered if the Super Scoopers were as effective as claimed. Even more effective than the helicopters and the C-130 tankers that were used to drop either water or fire retardant onto the fire, the banana-yellow Super Scoopers were able to scoop up 1,600 gallons of water at a pass, repeating the maneuver again and again without returning to base.

  Above him Dave could now make out the phalanx of equipment and firefighters massing along the ridge above him. This, then, was the next line of defense. Beyond it, on the far side of the hill, were not isolated homes but the beginnings of a crowded subdivision, Mountain Ridge Estates, expensive homes overlooking San Carlos and the coastal hills on out to the Pacific Ocean.

  Nearing the ridge, Dave had a panoramic glimpse through a rent in the curtain of smoke. Along the side of the canyon scores of men in their yellow gear were clambering up the slope, like an army in retreat. And the fire, as if sensing a rout, blazed higher, leaping over terrain the retreating firefighters had surrendered. A stand of trees ignited, one after the other, sharp explosions succeeding each other like the crash of big guns. A sinuous thread of fire, licking through a cut in the hillside, merged with another, and the flames suddenly soared thirty feet into the air.

  The retreating firefighters were scrambling now, stumbling with exhaustion and a hint of panic, for the fire raced up the hillside faster than they could run. For Dave Lindstrom and the others, the heat was now a force, two thousand degrees at its heart, sucking the oxygen from the air and from their lungs. He was winded, exhausted, his legs wobbling like the Straw Man in The Wizard of Oz. Ray Bolger on a bad day, Dave thought.

  Suddenly there was a thunderous pounding almost directly overhead. Dave looked up in time to see the big, gleaming yellow shape of the highly touted Super Scooper aircraft swoop low across the canyon. A wall of water spilled down onto the advancing flames. Dave felt the moisture in the air, fine and hot against his face like scalding spray.

  Then he was being pulled onto the road at the ridgeline, hearing scattered cheers through the general turmoil. The road was crowded with men and equipment, everyone moving, shouting. Dave was pushed into a line with other volunteers at the side of the road, setting to once more with their shovels and axes and rakes. The smoke was now so thick that the entire scene was obscured. Digging and hacking away at tangled brush, Dave had no idea what was happening with the fire. He could hear the roaring of the flames even though he couldn’t see them, the hissing from the fire hoses, the shouts of crew chiefs barking orders. More than once he thought he heard the Super Scooper returning, and he had a glimpse of one of the water-dropping helicopters as well. He knew that some backfires had been set, a thin red line spilling over the slope toward the main fire like a small squad of suicidal soldiers. The whole scene was like a battlefield, thought Dave, who had never been in a battle. He had read that real military combat was often much like this, troops blundering along blindly the best they could, no one knowing what was happening more than a few yards away, confusion everywhere …

  * * *

  IT WAS DARK when Jim Roget again pulled Dave Lindstrom from the line onto the ridge road. “Break time,” he said.

  Dave saw a truck waiting, blackened
faces piled in back. A friendly hand shoved him toward the vehicle.

  “Where to next?” Dave mumbled. He swayed on his feet.

  “You’re being relieved—you and your buddies. Get some grub and a few hours rest. You can bunk down at the camp or go home if you live close enough.”

  “What? I don’t …”

  “We’ve stopped it for now,” the Indian said. “Those damned banana planes are good. We don’t have the fire contained yet, but we can start giving the crews a break in shifts. Back here at midnight, okay?”

  Dave climbed into the truck. Home, he thought numbly. Saw Glenda’s face, anxious, worried about him. Hadn’t seen her since early Thursday morning. What was it now—Friday? He had missed two days of classes. Out on the fire lines, where everything was reduced to fundamentals of survival, it was easy to lose track of days.

  The truck lumbered down the twisting grade and the bedlam on the ridge vanished as if it had never existed. Only the smell of the smoke persisted, filling the interior of the truck, clinging to clothes and hair. No one spoke. Each was immersed in his own bone-deep weariness. Dave felt it like one of those lead blankets they throw over you when you have X-rays taken. But way down beneath the fatigue was something that he would remember longer … a flicker of satisfaction.

  The emergency camp set up in San Carlos Regional Park was a sea of confusion that reminded Dave of an episode from the old television series Mash. There were lights strung from trees and poles, Jeeps and fire trucks rumbling along dirt roads, rows of tents, trailers that served as command and communication centers, a mess hall and an emergency medical center. Dave stumbled past tents to the parking area, where it took him five minutes to find his four-year-old Nissan Sentra. He could have grabbed an empty bunk in one of the sleeping tents but making his choice wasn’t much of a contest.

  Minutes later, funneling down the last grade out of the San Carlos Mountains, he had no sense of rushing toward disaster. That lay behind him, marked by a black smudge of smoke ten miles long that slowly dissolved into the enveloping darkness of the night sky. Ahead of him a sprinkling of lights outlined the city of San Carlos, sparkling like luminous dust motes scattered across the valley floor. In the distance, rising above treetops, Dave glimpsed the lighted clock tower on the campus of San Carlos College, where he taught. The glowing lights marking the wide, safe, tree-shaded streets of the college town brought a comforting familiarity.

  He was almost home.

  Two

  “SO HOW WAS it?” Glenda asked.

  “It could have been worse.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you tonight—the fire news is still bad, in Laguna and up in Malibu and here.”

  “We got some help from those big tanker planes, and the winds eased off. I have to report back at midnight,” Dave added apologetically.

  Glenda tried to hide her concern. “You need more rest than that—that’s only a few hours.”

  Dave shrugged. “I’m lucky to get this much of a break.”

  “I worry about you, you know.”

  “You don’t have to worry for the moment. You can even sit closer.”

  They were on the black leather sofa in the den, where Dave had collapsed and Glenda had brought him microwave-warmed leftovers of pot roast and brown potatoes. Dave thought he’d never tasted anything as delicious. Glenda leaned against him with a smile and his arm fell around her shoulders. For a moment they stared idly at the television set across the room, where stark pictures from other parts of the Southland mirrored the disaster Dave had left behind in San Carlos Canyon. From upstairs in the large old house came other voices, sometimes rising sharply. Friday nights the two kids—ten-year-old Richie and five-year-old Elli—were allowed to stay up later than usual, Richie having no homework. To Dave’s surprise the boy was still working on a chemistry project. Maybe he had a calling.

  “You smell all smoky, the way you used to when you still smoked those vile cigarettes.”

  “Those weren’t vile cigarettes, they were manly Marlboros.”

  “They smelled vile.”

  “Well, they’re a distant memory now.”

  “I still remember the way your shirts used to smell. I think you’d better change this one. Maybe the rest of those clothes too.”

  “Not much point … unless that’s some kind of excuse to get me with my clothes off.” He glanced at her sidelong, seeing mostly the top of her head where it nestled against his shoulder. Her hair was the same honey blond he had first seen bent over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a bench on the UCLA campus six summers ago. After more than six years and a second child, her figure was still as trim and sleek and given to sudden fullnesses as a small sailboat running before the wind. The humor, once tentative, had confirmed itself around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She was now … What was it, exactly, that was different? More relaxed. Self-confident. Mature. A girl then, a woman now, and the woman improved on the girl—a feat he would once have believed impossible.

  “I don’t need an excuse, and you’re too tired. You’re going upstairs for a couple hours sleep.”

  “I’m not sure I can. I’m too wound up. Besides, there’s tired and there’s too tired. This is just tired.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just trying to live up to those macho stories you told your fellow firefighters? I mean—”

  A shattering crash from upstairs cut her off. Dave felt her body flinch, and even when the explosion was followed instantly by a youthful voice shrill with accusation, a faint tremor continued to pulse through Glenda’s body.

  “I told you not to touch it!”

  “I didn’t mean to!”

  “They pick the damndest moments,” Dave muttered, rising from the couch.

  “They don’t know about Daddy and his moments.”

  “Well, they’re about to find out.”

  Before he could reach the open doorway to the den footsteps pounded down the stairs to the front hallway. Elli, all legs and hair and wide, panicky eyes, burst into the den. From behind her came a furious shout. “I’ll kill you!”

  Dave caught Richie as the boy flung himself headlong through the doorway. The impact of a sturdy ten-year-old in full flight knocked Dave back a step.

  “Daddy, stop him! He’s gonna kill me!” Elli’s tone of panic became shriller in the safe presence of her parents.

  “That’s enough!” Dave said sharply. “Nobody’s going to kill anybody.”

  Richie twisted so violently in his struggle to reach his sister that Dave had to brace himself. He tried to push the boy back lightly, but at that instant Richie went limp. Without the expected resistance, Dave’s shove turned into something much more vigorous than he had intended. Richie flew backward. His head smacked audibly against the wooden door frame.

  “Richie!” Dave heard Glenda’s gasp, saw the boy’s sudden tears. “I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t—”

  “Go ahead!” Richie blurted, struggling against tears. “You always take her side.”

  The words shouldn’t have meant anything important, they were nothing more than a normal childish complaint, but they hit Dave like a block of ice sliding down a chute and thudding into his stomach. “Only when you’re out to commit mayhem,” he said.

  “It’s true! You’re always on her side just because—”

  “Richie!” Glenda did not raise her voice, but a clear, sharp warning cut through the boy’s anger and silenced him. He glared across the room at his younger sister, who stood closer to her mother than necessary.

  Dave Lindstrom glanced from one to the other of his children, feeling the perplexity their constant quarreling awakened in him. It was only a phase they were going through, Glenda said, probably because they were five years apart in age. If the disparity were greater, she said, they wouldn’t have the same kind of rivalry; and if they were closer in age, they would be able to share more things. This sounded to Dave as if she had been reading too many of the child psychology books that filled one w
hole shelf of the bookcase in the den.

  On the face of it, the younger Elli, named after Glenda’s mother Ellen, was the troublemaker. A blue-eyed blonde like her mother, she was a skinny, long-legged girl with no waist or hips at all. Dave’s heart ached with parental joy whenever he looked at her. With no trace of malice in her makeup, but impulsive, thoughtless and irrepressible, she had a talent beyond her years for goading Richie into one of his temperamental outbursts. The boy was of a much stockier build, his hair a slightly darker shade, his eyes pale gray. Unlike his mother, who was quiet and restrained and kept things to herself, Richie had a very low boiling point. His was a case where popular psychology seemed to have it all wrong. Dave could hear his father, who was fond of adages, saying, “It’s no good to brood on things, Dave. Get ’em out in the open where you can take a good look at ’em and they shrink in size.” Not with Richie, Dave thought.

  “All right, let’s have it. What happened up there?”

  “He was gonna hit me,” Elli said quickly. “I was only—”

  “She knocked over my experiment,” Richie retorted. “I told her not to touch it. I told her what she’d get.”

  “Your chemistry experiment?”

  “She ruined my cultures.”

  Dave glanced at Elli, trying for a stern expression. “A lot of work went into that experiment,” he said quietly.

  “I didn’t mean to break anything. He just didn’t want me to touch it, that’s all.”

  “Was he wrong? You did knock it over, didn’t you?”