“At the rate this fire is moving, you have at best ten minutes,” the fire commander had told her.
“Please don’t push it,” Oliver had pleaded. “Pay attention to the clock.”
“I’m not stopping to socialize. I’ll be fine.”
In the end they’d set a safe time parameter, but Tess was way past that now.
He was across the street from his church—all services had been canceled today—and stood near the Hollow bridge, looking down River Drive. The wind whipped around him as he tried to get a better view of the road she should be coming down if she followed the last evacuee. The truck he knew as belonging to Janie and Garrett Cooper appeared, passed him, and turned in to the already-crowded church lot. Rogue’s Hollow Community Church was a certified shelter for those complying with the evacuation orders. Though only half the town was threatened and the wind-whipped fire was swirling away from downtown Rogue’s Hollow, it seemed as though the whole town was here at the church and mobilized to help.
That was what Oliver loved about this place and the people he called friends and parishioners—they were always ready and able to help. There were trailers used to help move threatened livestock, RVs loaned in case people were out of their homes for an extended period of time, and food and food preparers ready and able to start serving up meals.
Knowing that all he could do right now was commit Tess to prayer, Oliver crossed the street and walked back to his church and all the activity there. The fire department had set up a command post in the lot. Emergency personnel, volunteers, and displaced residents milled about. Arthur Goding, looking distraught, was talking to the incident commander. The last communiqué from a helicopter pilot dropping water in the area was that the old logging camp behind his house had gone up in flames. Arthur was more concerned about the camp than he was his own home.
“I can rebuild my house, but that camp is irreplaceable because of the history there.”
In all the years Oliver had lived in Rogue’s Hollow, he’d never seen such a hot and fast fire as he was seeing today. Started by an early fall thunderstorm on Bureau of Land Management property yesterday, the flames spread quickly over summer-dried brush as the same wind that moved the thunderstorms along spread the fire.
Oliver felt bad for Arthur. As he fought back his continuing worry for Tess, he shoved his phone in his pocket and went to speak to the Coopers.
“She headed to the mystery mansion,” Garrett Cooper said. His wife was sniffling; it was obvious she’d been crying.
Their house was surely lost, Oliver thought, stifling the urge to turn and look down the road again. The growing and moving cloud of smoke would only heighten his anxiety about Tess.
The “mystery mansion” was what locals called the home of Livie Harp. She was the area’s most elusive resident. No one really knew much about her except what was gossip. Oliver remembered when she moved to the Upper Rogue. She’d spent a lot of money remodeling the old farmhouse she purchased, practically rebuilding it, hiring out-of-the-area contractors and making them sign nondisclosure agreements. At the time, it created quite a sensation in town, and the gossip threads had fascinated him.
Oliver had spoken to her at length once, when she came to him late one night about a month after she’d moved in and asked that the meeting be confidential. She took him by surprise, sort of like a sneaker wave at the beach, and even after he began to speak with her, he wasn’t certain that his legs were under him. He let her ask the questions, trying to gauge what was really going on with the woman.
“I’ve listened to a couple of your messages on the Internet. You talk a good game,” she said, refusing his offer of a chair.
“I share a Good News message—”
“Good news? That’s what people call the Bible, right?”
“Right.”
“You believe the Bible? All of it?”
“I do.”
She stopped pacing and stared at him. Then the questions came rapid-fire.
“How can you be so certain the book is true and not fairy tales? How can you be so sure? Do you really believe there is a God?”
“Let me take those one at a time.” Oliver swallowed. “I do believe the Bible is true. I’ve studied the book for most of my life. It’s consistent, historical, and it brings a clear Good News message of salvation for mankind. There’s historical evidence as well, but my guess is that isn’t what you are looking for—dry history.”
“I want some proof.” She banged her closed fist into an open palm.
“I can’t pull a rabbit out of my hat, if that’s what you want, but if you’re truly looking for God, he’s not hard to find. The proof is all around us. Seek him honestly; he’s there, in those pages.”
“He may be there in those pages, but he’s certainly not present in this world. How can he be? There is so much evil, so much pain. How do you explain that?”
“I won’t argue that the world isn’t broken. But it’s not the absence of God; it’s the presence of sin that’s responsible for the pain and suffering here. God’s presence gives us hope. The Good News of the gospel is the story of God—”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why doesn’t he just stop it all, stop all the suffering? If he’s all-powerful, he could.”
Oliver could see that underneath all the nervous energy was a lot of pain. What had hurt this woman so deeply? he wondered. He struggled to find the right words, to know exactly what would impact her.
“And he will. I don’t claim to understand all the ways of God. But I trust that he knows what’s best. Besides the Bible, another way to learn about God’s character, his purpose, is to be around people committed to him. Why don’t you join us for service on Sunday?”
She struck him as a true seeker, but she flatly rejected his invitation. “I don’t do well in crowds.”
He tried again. “I’ll pray with you. I’ll help you understand the passages in the Bible you struggle with, and I’ll point you to comforting passages, but trying to work this out on your own won’t give you the whole picture. It’s been my experience that it helps to be around and involved with God’s people.”
“It’s been my experience that it’s best to not trust people at all. I’ll keep to myself, thank you.”
She’d left, and he’d never spoken to her again. He wasn’t certain he’d helped her, and he wondered what had happened in her life to make her so closed off. But recently he had hope that some of what he’d said had sunk in and borne fruit. Harp was venturing out more and more—he’d heard as much from others in his congregation. She’d even been seen flitting through the market in town. When she did come and go, she did so quietly, and a lot of the chatter about her had died down. Since their first meeting perhaps four years ago, Oliver had Livie Harp on his prayer list. He prayed that she’d keep searching and find what she was looking for.
Would she stay in her home with the fire advancing that way?
Boom! The sound of an explosion in the distance made Oliver duck reflexively. He turned, but all he could see from here was wildfire smoke. As he recalled, several people out that way had propane. A propane tank explosion would only exacerbate an already-dicey situation.
Oliver hurried back to the incident command post, which was a flurry of activity. There he heard the words that just about made his heart stop.
“The fires have crossed the road. Chief O’Rourke and any other resident beyond the junction of Juniper and River Drive are cut off.”
3
Tess turned away from the flames, heart pounding. She gripped the steering wheel and looked up as the gate slowly swung open. As soon as the opening was large enough, she pressed the accelerator and shot up the gravel driveway, smoke swirling in the air like a murky, flowing curtain. Powerful sprinklers engaged on either side of her, sputtering at first and then shooting out strong jets of water. Livie Harp was prepared.
Noting cameras every several feet, Tess drove, elevation increasing, for about three-quarters of
a mile before Harp’s house came into view. Fear of the fire fled as an overwhelming curiosity about this mysterious woman took over.
She knew that preppers were not uncommon around the area, even extreme preppers like Harp. Though all the other properties she knew as belonging to preppers were occupied by groups, families, not single recluses. Large properties with good wells seemed to attract people who feared some disastrous worldwide catastrophe on the horizon. She’d been told that many people in the area drove old cars, vehicles that operated with carburetors, not computers, in the event of an electromagnetic pulse attack that would destroy the electrical grid and render computers and the cars they controlled useless.
Was that Harp’s story?
At the end of the drive stood an impressive two-story log home, shrouded in smoke and surrounded by another security fence, with a large wraparound porch and the mountain behind. The word defensible popped into Tess’s head. Solar panels, a water tank behind some trees, and what Tess believed was a greenhouse were visible. There was also a huge barn and corral, set up with a circular walker for horses, with Harp’s Land Rover and a horse trailer parked in front. More gossip came to mind, about Harp patrolling the perimeter of her property on horseback, shotgun at the ready. Everything but the old Rover looked state-of-the-art, and Tess couldn’t help but wonder how on earth Harp supported herself.
A second gate swung open and she drove through. A woman Tess pegged as Harp stood on the porch, holding a shotgun.
Tess’s radio crackled. It wasn’t dispatch; she recognized Oliver’s voice and she heard the panic there.
“Tess! The fire has crossed Juniper. Where are you?”
She picked up the mike and took a moment to calm her own voice. “I’m fine,” she said, hoping to defuse his panic. “I’m at the Harp property. Looks like we’ll both ride this out here. I think the Coopers’ propane tank just exploded.”
“We heard it all the way down at the church. The wind finally seems to be letting up, and a C-130 is on the way. They hope to knock a lot of the fire down. Stay safe.”
“I will.” Tess disconnected, glad that he sounded calmer. She parked her car and undid the seat belt.
Harp hadn’t moved. She stood on the porch, watching Tess.
Tess opened the door and climbed out. “Thank you for letting me in here,” Tess said as she approached the stairs.
“I’m sorry you felt the need to come here. I can take care of myself no matter what.”
“It’s my job to make sure people are safe. The evacuation order was made yesterday—”
“I will not evacuate.” She stepped back as Tess reached the top of the porch.
“Now there’s no choice,” Tess countered.
Tess regarded the mysterious prepper for a moment. Harp was taller than Tess, but not by much. And she was older, Tess guessed by at least ten years. She also looked lithe and fit, reminding Tess a little of Linda Hamilton from the Terminator movies, wearing dark jeans and a dark tank top. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a ponytail. And there was an energy about her like she was a coiled spring, ready to explode. Tess had seen energy like that in good cops and in bad criminals. It had to do with a sure sense of purpose. Harp was confident and assured, ready for anything. That made Tess more curious, not less, and she wondered what the next hours would bring.
She made a mental note to do as much digging into the woman’s background as possible—if they survived the fire.
“We’ll be fine,” Harp said as if reading Tess’s mind. She looked away and gestured with the shotgun barrel. “My livestock are out of harm’s way, and I’ve got all the space cleared of brush around my home, a good well, and cisterns full of water. I’m prepared for any contingency.”
Tess coughed as a blast of smoke rolled over them. Briefly she wondered if the wind had weakened as Oliver said. If it had, that would certainly help the fighting effort. The flames were visible through the eerie smoke haze, off to the left, on the hillside, running this way. She heard a chopper and then saw it drop a load of water on the leading edge of the flames.
Harp set the shotgun down. “We may need to man some fire lines. Are you up for that?”
Tess nodded as a dry pine tree caught fire to their right, crackling and popping as the flames took hold. She followed Harp as the woman jumped off the porch and jogged to a heavy-duty diesel-powered ATV. On the back was a spool of thick fire hose.
“Hop on,” she said to Tess. As Tess climbed onto the vehicle, Harp turned on a valve. She then hopped into the driver’s seat, and they headed for the fire.
The hose wound off the spool and Harp stopped a short distance away from the tree. Tess got out of the vehicle and followed Harp’s lead, helping to draw out hose on this end. Tess felt the heat of flames and struggled to breathe amid the swirling smoke. She pulled the mask that was around her neck up over her mouth and nose.
“Open that water valve,” Harp ordered, coughing and nodding toward a lever.
Tess did as instructed, switching on the water, and the hose plumped, charged with water.
Harp pointed at the closest flames as Tess helped her pull the water line along.
Her eyes burned, and her lungs felt as if they’d burst. She wondered if the two of them could survive before the C-130 made its appearance and dropped its load. She did something she was very rusty at but was working on, trying to remember what her father had taught her years ago and what Oliver was trying to reteach her . . . She prayed.
4
SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA
Ice looked around him at the mess accumulated after the party last night. Granted, the house was no palace to begin with—it was a boarded-up foreclosure the man he was looking for had broken into a week ago—but now it looked as if a bomb had exploded. Along with the beer cans, half-finished drinks, and half-eaten pieces of pizza, partygoers who hadn’t made it home slept here and there. There were two on the couch, several on the floor, and a couple in the corner. From the smell, someone had vomited somewhere, but he wasn’t looking for that.
He was here to clean up a mess, though not the vomit, stale pizza, and discarded cups and plates. This wasn’t Ice’s normal gig. His was the con, the smile, the look, the story that strung the merchandise along. But something had happened that pulled him away from his normal job, and now he needed to solve a problem, a worthless employee, someone who had double-crossed him. Ice’s partner had called, explaining that this man had poached the merchandise Ice had provided.
Ice drew in several deep, calming breaths to tamp down his anger, knowing he shouldn’t act on emotion. There was no room for mistakes, and acting emotionally led to mistakes. This was business. He’d procured a young girl for his partner and passed her to a middleman. The middleman was to move her right along, and he hadn’t done that. He’d violated the terms of his contract, and Ice would mete out justice.
Ice had been watching the man, waiting for the right time to approach. When the party started, he thought perhaps the cops would enter the picture. So he waited for them to bust the party and take care of the problem for him. But that hadn’t happened. It was seven in the morning now, and Ice had come back to survey the damage and take care of the guy himself.
His eyes roamed the room, and then he found him. The guy was in the corner, arms wrapped around Ice’s “loner,” a San Quentin quail, the one girl he had procured on this trip for the partner. The sight obliterated his calm and made him so angry, if he’d had a bat in his hands, he’d have been hitting home runs on people’s heads.
Ice trafficked in girls but, like a drug dealer, didn’t want employees sampling the product. The girl was meant for the man who paid all the bills, and this jerk should never have gotten involved with the merchandise.
He walked to the corner and stood looking down at the pair for a minute, hands on hips, trying to decide how best to handle the situation.
He’d met the girl four days ago. It had been easy to gain her trust and voluntary compliance. Thou
gh in his early forties and far from being a teen, Ice was youthful-looking, and he knew it. With sharp blue eyes, sandy-blond hair he liked to wear long, and sculpted features, he’d been told by more than one female that he looked like a young Brad Pitt, only better.
And he used it.
He’d seen this girl at the mall by herself, looking lonely and more than a little angry. Those were the easiest to score. He’d started with a nonthreatening smile. Before long he was buying her a soda and listening compassionately to her pour out her teenage angst and fury at her mother, who still treated her like a baby. Dad had left and was married to a wicked stepmother. She hated them all. Ice had heard so many similar stories over the years. Listening was important—listening and gaining trust. With this cute little brunette, a charming dimple in her chin, all it took was that afternoon chat, and she was in his van with him, ready to leave it all behind.
He’d delivered her to the middleman, who should have been long gone to Arizona with his cargo. Ice knew telephone poles and storefronts all over were being plastered with pictures of the girl, “Have you see her?” posters. He didn’t want to leave without her; that would be leaving money. To Ice, the girls were simply a commodity, a product he provided to clamoring clients. This young one was particularly suited for Ice’s partner. She was so anxious to get away, she’d complied, no force needed.
It didn’t matter to Ice one way or another. Compliance was nice, but if there was no compliance, he’d apply force quickly and ruthlessly.
He heard voices and stepped to the window. Cops. From what Ice could make out, someone had called them because a party attendee had left his car blocking a driveway. They were at the curb.
Cold Aim Page 3