Bleeding Green

www.annejamesbooks.com

The characters in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © Anne James , 2012

All rights reserved. Published by the Peppertree Press, LLC.
the Peppertree Press and associated logos are trademarks of
the Peppertree Press, LLC.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher and author/illustrator. Graphic design by Rebecca Barbier.

Cover design by Linda Russell-Walton

For information regarding permission,
call 941-922-2662 or contact us at our website:
www.peppertreepublishing.com or write to:
the Peppertree Press, LLC.
Attention: Publisher
1269 First Street, Suite 7
Sarasota, Florida 34236

ISBN: 978-1-61493-119-5

Library of Congress Number: 2012919160

Printed in the U.S.A.

Printed October
2012

To Carolyn and Susie,

My sisters.

Forever beautiful,

Always inspiring,

Sometimes provoking!

Acknowledgements

A
special thanks to the independent, capable, strong women in the Florida Park Service who “get ‘er done!” For her professional expertise regarding prescribed fires, Amy Copeland, District Biologist. Captain Laura DeWald provided valuable L.E. information. Sound medical guidance came from Dr. Laura James Radel. For encouragement and stress relief, The Original Pink Ladies: Deborah LaFreniere, Jennifer Dillard, the two Amy’s, and most of all,
Leesa, who among all her many willing sacrifices provided the generous opportunity for me to write this story.

A 21-gun salute to volunteers in AmeriCorps and the Florida Park Service! Your dedication and generosity has taught me so much.

Don Philpott. His unfailing support and encouragement defines the word friend.

Mr. Ed Gray for his editorial navigation.

Linda Russell-Walton created the front and back book cover. Her feisty, fun spirit shows even as she was taken so unexpectedly from this earth.

Thank you.

Prologue

Timucuan Springs,Florida

H
e nodded at his grubby-looking accomplice indicating for him to hand the tube of cherry red lipstick to the dark-haired woman. The only sound was the rustling of palm fronds. Early morning humidity glistened in droplets on the skin of the two naked women bound together at the ankle by a thin blue nylon rope.

A lightweight gold chain was wrapped around a cabbage palm and connected to the waists of the blonde woman and the brunette. The chain dropped in a loose v shape to the top of their pubic hair. Close to twelve feet of play in the chain from the trunk of the tree allowed them movement.

A gauzy fuchsia scarf gagged the dark-complexioned woman. The same fabric in white silenced the blonde.

Dressed in long white cotton shorts and a loose Bermuda white cotton shirt, the wide-shouldered man sucked on a fat cigar. Exhaling slowly, smoke engulfed his Panama straw hat. The air heavy with moisture fought to keep the smoke from rising. His large right hand holding the cigar rested on his hairy knee as he sat in the wooden canvas deck chair with his leg crossed so that his right ankle dangled off his left knee. Brown huarache sandals covered his long hairy toes. A large gold signet ring on his pinky sparkled as it reflected light when he tapped the smoking cigar, ashes falling onto the forest floor.

A slovenly small man stared at the seated man eager as a dog waiting for his master to acknowledge his movement. He extended his shaking arm with the lipstick to the tall thin woman with dark hair. An eight-inch grimy knife clasped in his left hand pointed toward the ground.

The Panama hat nodded again.

As the small man turned to eye the woman, his eyes focused on her erect nipples. He licked his lips, raising the lipstick to her mouth.

“No!” The order was growled in a low voice from the seated man. “I want her to put it on,” he paused as he raised the cigar to his full lips, “slowly.”

A smile revealed yellow, stumpy teeth as the little man held out the lipstick to the dark-haired figure.

She gave him a hard stare. As vulnerable as she was, she gave the impression that she was clothed in full combat gear. She refused to cower revealing the fear that was filling her being. Her body, taut as a harp string, defied the danger surrounding the two women.

Turning her head, she looked deeply into the green eyes of her companion.

The blonde gave a light shake of her head as tears filled her eyes.

Both women had been swimming in the springs after their ten-mile run in the park, part of a daily workout that kept them in shape for the adventure racing in which they competed. They exercised in the early hours before the park was open to the public, using their yearly passes to access the code for the locked front gate. This had never been a problem until today.

Their Speedo one piece bathing suits lay in a dark puddle at the base of the palm, sliced open from crotch to neck from the dirty knife.

A hard thump on the thigh of the dark woman caused her to jump. Startled, she jerked her head around to face the little man.

He grinned, holding up the knife that he had slapped her with and with his other hand, thrust the tube of lipstick at her.

With a movement as graceful as Cleopatra, the ancient Egyptian Queen of the Nile, she opened the palm of her hand extended toward the grubby creature.

The seated man grunted his approval. She reminded him of Elizabeth Taylor who played Cleopatra. He had selected his entertainment well.

She gazed at the seated man as she raised both hands to undo the knot in the scarf, freeing her mouth.

He dipped his head at her in approval.

She opened the lipstick to its full length. Pursing her lips she applied the cherry red color with the deliberateness of an artist, all the while staring into the eyes of the other woman. She fully understood her role in this hideous drama and was going to give the male monster in the chair the illusion that she was complying with his desires.

The small man started to giggle in excitement.

“Silence, you imbecile! Not one tiny sound out of your putrid mouth.” The seated man stabbed his cigar toward the sniveling creature.

Shoulders bowed, the small man stumbled backward in submission.

As she applied the lipstick, she tried to send a message with her eyes to her pale-skinned companion. A message of calm.

The blonde was shaking so hard that she was having trouble standing. Her knees threatened to buckle at any moment. Her large breasts heaved as she struggled to breathe through her nose.

As the dark-haired woman finished painting her lips, she started to close the tube.

A noise came from the man in the chair. His voice was a mere whisper as he said, “Put some on your girlfriend and lick it off.”

The blonde had tears streaming down her face.

Breaking the quiet of the morning, the man leaped from his chair knocking it over backwards as he pounced on the women in one swift movement as if he was going to throw them on the ground. He stopped a few inches from them, his huge presence covering them like a thundercloud. He didn’t touch them, pointed the fat cigar at the blonde’s cheek, “If I don’t see you enjoying this, I’m going to have that filthy little man cut your black goddess here in a place that will make birthing babies a cinch!” He spat on the ground. “You American women disgust me.” He was hissing the words like a giant anaconda. “You act like you don’t enjoy fucking each other when I know that you do. Now, show me how it’s done.”

The dark-haired woman turned her head, her dark eyes appearing almost black. Inches from his narrowly slitted snake eyes, her mouth almost touching his, she said, “Watch us and learn.”

Chapter 1

W
hirling spirals of smoke filled the air. Walls of twenty to thirty-foot flames raced toward each other, competing to devour wire grass and fallen pine needles. Longleaf pines exploded in a fiery blaze. As if a huge vacuum sucked the air out of the sky, the roar of these two galloping infernos met with a tremendous thump!

“Laurel to burn boss.”

“Go ahead, Laurel.”

“My crew is at point F. The two walls just met and the fire is now on its way to point B.”

“Copy that, Laurel. Brock’s crew is looking good. Now we’ll let the head-fire do the job!”

Success! Eyes stinging from the smoke, tears streaming down her face, Laurel gave a thumbs-up to the firefighter closest to her.

Intense heat scorched the faces of the five crewmembers on her team. Even the black-shrouded face protection, the latest innovative gear for firefighting, couldn’t withstand the hellish heat. Snapping, sizzling, the flames gobbled cabbage palms as if they were soaked with gasoline. Palmettos shriveled, shrinking into a smoking heap. A movement caught her eye.

“Laurel to all crew. There’s a three-foot eastern diamondback rattler heading north. Looks like it just hid in a gopher tortoise burrow.” She clicked off her radio and smiled under her face protection. That would get their attention!

A rabbit zigzagged out of the way of the advancing flames. Known nationwide for its outstanding burn program, the Florida Park Service conducted prescribed burns like this in many of its parks. Laurel never ceased to marvel at Florida’s unique ecosystems and how plants and animals had adapted to the periodic burnings … even required them to thrive.

Boyd Warner, Manager of Timucuan Springs State Park, was the burn-boss on this 211-acre job. He was good, too.

“Boyd to all crew. Be alert for any change in wind direction.”

Laurel Grey and Brock Johnson were the two crew-bosses for the burn. Laurel’s crew had five members, while Brock’s had six.

Each firefighter wore the agency’s required PPE—personal protection equipment. The gear consisted of fire retardant yellow long-sleeved shirts, green pants, black, eight-inch high-leather fire boots and yellow helmets. A chest harness strapped hi-band, hand-held radios securely.

The PPE wasn’t the most comfortable uniform, especially when firefighters also had to lug around the five-pound, five-by-ten burn shelters. These they carried on their belts. But despite all the complaining, no one left the shelters behind!

Laurel looked at her crew. From a distance the fire commandos looked identical, but within the teams, each recognized and respected the hierarchy of command. The burn-boss was in charge of every aspect of the burn. If anything went wrong, his name and certified burn number would take the hit from the public—delicious fodder for the media.

Proper radio etiquette was observed at all times.

All twelve radios burst to life.

“Attention all crew! This is Jason. Stand by for the 1400 weather.” Jason Andrews was the designated weatherman on Brock’s team, and every firefighter stopped to listen. Each weather forecast was important on a burn job. “Dry bulb temperature 92 degrees. Wet bulb temperature 74 degrees. R.H. 54%. Wind speed 8-12 mph’s out of the southwest. Temperature 92 degrees.” Jason’s voice was deep and measured.

Laurel knew each of her sweat-drenched crew members were wire taut. This latest forecast explained why the pine trees were torching and the fire was travelling with such ferocious speed.

“Drake to Laurel.” The urgency in his voice was unmistakable over the radio.

Her response was immediate. “Go ahead, Drake.”

“A snag has caught an ember in the next zone. It’s on fire about 15 feet in between point A and E.”

“Copy that, Drake.” This was not good news. Laurel turned quickly and lengthened her stride. She needed to get to a position where the smoke wasn’t so thick so she could see up the line to Drake’s position. “Is Marie with you, Drake?”

Her heartbeat speeded up. If the snag-fire poured embers on the ground, it would ignite the flammable grasses. A spot-over like this meant the fire had crossed the black line to a zone not intended to burn. A wildfire could develop unless this snag-fire was handled fast.

“Marie is backing up the fire truck.”

Good! Drake had assistance to control the snag.

As Laurel rounded a slight bend in the trail, she saw the snag—a dead, limbless 25-foot burning oak.

She grabbed a fire-rake off the type-6 engine, and trotted to the smoking stump. A few quick pokes told her it was punky—it could burn for hours, like a pine tree filled with fat lighter.

Her skilled team needed no communication. Drake opened an aluminum door on the left side of the truck and hefted a 16-inch Stihl chainsaw out of the toolbox.

Marie pulled on the heavy fire hose, stumbling backward in a lopsided run as it unreeled. Panting with the effort, she trained the hose on the snag, spraying the burning effigy and soaking the ground all around.

Already tense as she watched her crew work, Laurel jumped when the next radio transmission crackled to life. The deafening motor of the water pump on the back of the fire truck made it impossible to hear the call. She stepped away so she could hear, and stumbled on a root. Keeping her balance, she tilted her head down toward her chest to listen.

“Sam to Brock.”

“Go ahead, Sam.”

“I’m just east of point C. There’s a hiker in the green zone.”

Boyd’s voice interrupted the transmission. “Repeat that, Sam!

Laurel thought she heard Boyd’s heart sink to his boots. Hers just had!

“The hiker’s about 150 yards in. The fire’s coming up behind him fast.” Sam’s voice crackled over the radio.

Boyd spun the 4x4 Kubota around in a wild 180-degree turn. Sand sprayed up as the right wheels fought to keep in contact with the ground. Damnation! What the heck was going to go wrong next! His thick, black eyebrows furrowed together as he scowled, swiping his right forearm over his upper lip as the sweat poured down his face. Things were going south fast and with the experience of 115 prescribed burns under his belt, he knew that once that happened this late in the day, the outcome couldn’t be good. Coupled with the latest weather reading, the sense of impending calamity made the hair on his neck rise.

Bouncing over logs and stumps, swerving like a NASCAR driver going cross-country, he attempted a radio transmission.

“Boyd to Jason. I need an update of the forecast!”

“Copy that, burn boss.”

Gallberries, palmettos, blackberry brambles slapped the Kubota like small whips. A herd of white-tailed deer soared from bounce to bounce as they passed by, going away from the flames.

Peering ahead through the thick undergrowth, he glimpsed the hiking trail. Flooring the vehicle, he straddled the trail heading straight toward the head fire, heart beating so fast it felt as if it would burst from his chest.

The hiker was running hell-bent down the trail, dressed only in flip-flops and jean shorts. His muddy blonde hair had loosened from a ponytail and streamed behind him.

His face purple with rage, Boyd stomped on the brake, skidding to within inches of the charging man.

“What the hell are you doing out here, man? Can’t you read signs?” Boyd yelled, his voice higher than he intended. Just twenty yards away, the head fire was coming toward them with the sound of a freight train.

The hiker’s eyes were wild with fear, pupils so huge his eyes appeared black. Gasping he started to speak, but foamy, spittle sprayed from his mouth taking the place of words. Not moving he clutched the bar of the Kubota frame with his right hand.

Boyd reached across the seat and snatched at the waist of the hiker’s shorts heaving him onto the passenger seat. “Get in the buggy, you damn fool!” he shouted over the approaching roar. His foot hit the accelerator as he spun the wheel to the left. The hiker tumbled out in a heap.

Not bothering to put the gear in neutral, Boyd sprang out of his side and scrambled around the vehicle. He tossed the thin man in, raining curses on the man’s head, as he half-slid across the front end of the burn buggy.

“Hold on!”

Once more he stomped on the gas pedal as he kept a vise-like grip on the right arm of the hiker. He glanced over his shoulder. The deafening inferno was fifteen yards away—hell racing to swallow them whole.

He kept the buggy on the trail, knowing it would bring him out near Brock’s team. He could hear Jason giving the update that he’d requested, but the transmission was too weak to make sense.

The Kubota rocketed toward Brock, a cloud of dust kicking up behind the vehicle as Boyd crossed into a black zone of the safety burn. He released his hold on the hiker’s arm and braked to a halt with a huge sign of relief.

Brock’s large, craggy face dripped with sweat as he eyed the park manager. “You okay, boss?”

Boyd pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t trust his voice. Starring at the pathetic sobbing creature next to him, he saw a plastic baggie with dried green crunchy leaves falling out of the front left pocket of the man’s shorts. He gave it a tug and stared at what was in his hand. Opening the baggie, he sniffed the contents. Turning his head he looked at Brock.

“You believe it? This son-of-a-bitch was smoking weed back in the middle of my god-damn forest!”

Brock raised a gloved fist at the hiker. “You sorry piece of trash! You almost got the boss here killed. My boss!” Sweat dripped off his bristled chin.

The hiker shook as if he had a bad case of Parkinson’s. “I …”

“Shut the heck up, dude!” Brock yelled in a deep voice as he lowered his fist. “Go get your sorry self in the cab of the fire truck and stay there.”

Flames that had just torn through the Florida vegetation slowed and flickered out when they reached the black zone the backfire had burnt.

Both crews came together as the smoldering acres showed the sign of massive destruction.

With exhausted steps, Laurel approached Brock.

“Tired?” A rakish smile slid across her sooty face.

He returned the smile. “A bit.” Folding his thick-muscled arms across the front of his chest, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “…‘bout killed that feller sittin’ in the truck, though.”

She shook her head. “What was that guy’s problem? We had enough burn signs out for an army!”

They both turned as Boyd walked up.

Picking up a water bottle, Boyd took long swallows of water, draining it.

Squinting his brown eyes, Brock said, “Boss, I could swear that beard of yours has more salt than pepper now than it did this morning!”

A dry chuckle, that wasn’t a chuckle at all but more of a hoarse croak, erupted from Boyd’s throat. He shook his head as he looked at them. “This day racks right up there with some of the wackiest burns I’ve ever had!” He took his right glove off to stroke his mustache. “How’s our crazy hiker?”

Brock’s voice was dry as the desert. “Our miracle man is flyin’ high on weed. I don’t think he knows where he is or what he is.”

Boyd said, “Tell your crews to mop up 50 feet in.”