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Authors: Dave Hugelschaffer,Dave Hugelschaffer

Tags: #Fire-fighting, #Series, #Murder-Mystery

One Careless Moment (4 page)

BOOK: One Careless Moment
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THE FIRE BURNS interminably. I try to ignore the pain in my hands and feet and the searing welt on my back, my mind skipping between fragments of memory laid against a tapestry of heat and crushing noise. Time ceases to exist. I'm trapped in a single hellish instant.

It's the change in noise I notice first — still a steady roar, but not quite as overwhelming. I listen hard, my mind beginning to clear, afraid that I'm losing my hearing and the fire is still just as bad, but I'm convinced that the change in the pitch of the fire is real. The heat, too, seems to be diminishing and I lift my head. The light inside the shelter is different — whiter — than before.

“BB, you okay?”

Nothing. I call again but hear only the pop and sizzle of fire. Maybe if I call him on the radio. Cautiously, I slide my hand along the edge of the shelter until I feel the antenna, drag the radio up to my head and press it against my lips.

“Bert Brashaw, this is Porter Cassel. Do you read?”

No response, and I realize the radio has been silent for some time. I try once more.

“This is Cassel. Anybody out there?”

Silence. Not even static. I check to ensure the radio is on, find the plastic on one side is warped and rippled, and I suddenly feel very alone. I lay my head against the rock and let out a deep breath. The worst is over and I'm alive. The realization leaves me weak with relief and for several minutes that's enough. Then I start to worry about Brashaw. I want to check on him but I'm not sure how much longer I should remain in the shelter.

What if he needs me? What if there's something I should do?

Leaving my shelter too early would be disastrous. One breath of the hot gases released by a fire can sear the delicate membranes of the lungs shut, causing suffocation and death in minutes. But when I lift my head, the heat is no longer unbearable. We deployed in the open, which means there is nothing around us to burn. A little moss maybe, perhaps the odd juniper, but nothing with any real mass. The blast of heat preceding the flame front was the primary danger, and that has passed. Then I remember the brief glimpse through the hole in my shelter, the heavy blazing branch. The top of an old ponderosa, maybe the whole tree, must have come down. That would explain the weight across my back: a small branch had snapped off and landed on my shelter. That could also explain why Brashaw has not answered. Slowly, I lift the right side of my shelter, expecting flames and heat, until I can see the silvery bottom of Brashaw's shelter. All that comes in is a little smoke.

I pull back my own shelter and sit up.

There is a brief, agoraphobic moment of disorientation. On one side, mere yards away, the world drops off — I'm a lot closer to the edge of the cliff than I had thought. Beyond the rocky precipice is a great trough of black tree trunks. Brashaw's aluminum fire shelter is crumpled and misshapen, strips of blackened foil draped over the ridge like forgotten tinsel. I remember the heat when the small patch of foil lifted on my own shelter, and come to my feet slowly, filled with a heavy foreboding. When I step past the ruined shelter and see the far side I have to look away.

It takes a moment to build the courage to turn back.

The top of an old ponderosa, snapped off by a blast of superheated air, smoulders and crackles several yards from Brashaw's shelter. It was this mass of fuel that destroyed the side of his shelter, the wind-driven flames eating the thin foil. The underlying fibreglass mesh is blown in, leaving the side of the shelter fully open. As if that weren't bad enough, the intact interior wall of the shelter reflected heat back onto Brashaw's grotesquely burned body.

I didn't hear him screaming; I can only hope that means he went quickly.

I retch suddenly, the force of it bringing me to my knees. It leaves me weak and I kneel on the scorched rock, stare blankly at the scene before me. Where there was colour there is now only austere shades of grey and black, like stepping into an old photograph. The slope at the back of the ridge — where Brashaw and I struggled uphill — lies exposed, a precipitous wasteland of carbonized poles, talc-fine ash, and drifting smoke. Somewhere down there is what's left of the truck. As I search for it, I catch flashes of colour, tiny yellow forms working their way toward me.

When they're closer I stand; it seems disrespectful to be found just sitting here. Galloway comes first, puffing, her features anxious and strained. Others follow, moving a little slower. I walk around the fallen tree, meet her away from Brashaw's remains. From here, you can see very little.

“Cassel,” she says, breathing hard. “Thank God you're okay.”

I nod, frowning. She brushes sooty hair away from her eyes.“Where's the other guy?”

When I shake my head, Galloway winces. She takes a step toward the cliff and I grab her arm.

“You don't want to go up there.”

She wrenches free her arm and stalks away, toward the cliff. I don't want to return to the ridge and face what remains of Brashaw. Galloway's entourage is almost past me when I turn and walk after her. I find her kneeling in front of the open side of Brashaw's shelter, her head hung.

“Jesus Christ,” she says softly. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Other boots scuff up behind us. I hear heavy breathing but nobody says anything. Galloway lets out a low, half-stifled sob and I lay a hand on her sooty shoulder. She looks up at me, her eyes anguished. “I didn't see it in time,” she says. “I didn't realize it was over the line.”

“It's not your fault.”

“It went so fast.”

“I know.” I look around, toward the tail of the fire where the trees are still green; into the canyon where the fire still crawls — anywhere but at what's in front of me. The way the two shelters are deployed, it's obvious Brashaw's shelter saved my life. “I'll need your radio.”

Mechanically, Galloway unsnaps her belt radio and hands it to me.

“We should cover him,” a voice says behind me.

“No,” says another, hushed. “We have to leave him.”

I turn, look at firefighters who stand like nervous pallbearers. “You guys don't need to be here. Maybe you could just back up, give us some room.”

They back up, no doubt relieved. I key the mike.

“Kershaw Lookout, this is Cassel on Incident 47.”

“Kershaw here. Go ahead Cassel.”

I pause. There's no easy way to say this. “There's been a burnover. We have a fatality.”

For a moment the radio is silent, then Kershaw comes on sounding strained.

“Cassel, this is Kershaw. Please confirm that you have a fatality.”

I confirm.

“Are there any other injuries?”

“Negative.”

“Stand by, Cassel.”

“You hear stories,” Galloway says quietly. “See things on the news. You never expect —”

Kershaw comes on abruptly, all business now. Help is on the way. So are investigators. Do not touch anything. No further radio communication regarding the whereabouts or identity of the injured firefighter. Is smokejumper Sue Galloway in the vicinity?

Galloway looks up sharply, lumbers to her feet. I pass on that she's in the vicinity.

I'm relieved of duty. Galloway will be the incident commander until help arrives.

I nod as though Dispatch were watching, hand the radio back to Galloway.

The helicopter, a silver A-Star, lands a hundred yards away on the ridge. It came in low and fast, banked once for a quick overview, then picked its spot, the skids sliding a little on the rock. There are two passengers, both wearing Forest Service brown. They duck as they exit the bird and run crouched, holding hard hats at their side. One of them carries a small duffle bag. We meet a dozen yards from Brashaw's shelter. The older of the two, a short rounded man with white hair and a bushy white moustache, is Herb Grey, chief ranger of the Carson Lake District. I met him two days ago at the station. He indicates the man with the duffle bag.

“Cassel, this is Wilfred Aslund. He's our district investigator.”

Aslund and I nod to each other; no one is in a hand-shaking mood.

Galloway is introduced as the smokejumper-in-charge and by some general, unspoken consent we move slowly toward the crumpled fire shelters. Grey takes point and we give him plenty of room. He stands in front of Brashaw's shelter for a few long minutes, intent, his moustache twitching, then crosses himself and walks carefully around both shelters.

“You were in the other shelter?”

I nod, although Grey probably already knew this.

“You okay, Cassel? You burned anywhere?”

I shrug. My hands and feet hurt, and there's a line of fire across my back, but right now it seems insignificant. “I'm okay.”

“You breathing all right?”

He's watching me carefully, like I might collapse. “I'm fine.”

“No macho bullshit?”

“No sir.”

He stares a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “So what happened?”

Behind us, the helicopter winds down like a toy low on batteries. When the pilot kills the rotors it's suddenly very quiet and everyone is looking at me. I shift uncomfortably, remembering Brashaw's nervousness in the truck when he realized where we were. Now, the curse seems too real, but as I tell the story it's the one thing I leave out. I tell Grey about arriving at the fire, my concerns about assessing behaviour without an aerial perspective, finding the fusee cap and origin, the trip to the ridge. It's the condensed version, but it's fairly compelling. No doubt they'll want the full, unabridged version later.

“Arson,” he says, scowling. “Goddamn it. Brashaw was a good guy.”

“Yes sir.”

“You didn't see anyone headed out when you drove up here?”

“No sir.”

I'm talking like a Marine. Maybe there's some security in the formal approach. Maybe I just don't feel like talking. Grey must be able to see this. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Try not to think about this for a while,” he says, as if that were possible. “We'll fly you back to town. You can clean up, get some distance from what happened here. We've got a psychologist on contract you can talk to, off the record of course. We'll get your statement tomorrow.”

Aslund looks disappointed. He's tall and wiry, full of energy. By the way he's been glancing around and shifting on his feet, he obviously has questions he wants to ask. Galloway keeps peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. I think she's worried he might try to pin this on her.

“I'd like to stay for a while,” I tell Grey.

He gives me a hard look. “You sure?”

I nod.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “For a little while, anyway.”

The radio barks. A sheriff 's deputy and an emergency medical technician are at the tail of the fire and need transport to the fatality scene. Grey calls the pilot and tells him to get down there, pick those boys up. After the helicopter augers away, Grey turns to Aslund, tells him to do his thing, then stands away from the ruined shelters and looks downwind, toward the head of the fire. On the south flank the fire has burned to the top of a parallel, lower ridge, throwing up a veil of smoke. The horizon, once occupied by mountain peaks, has been blotted out. While we wait for the helicopter to return, Grey makes use of his radio, leaving no doubt about who is in command.

“Where are those goddamn bombers?” he barks at Kershaw Lookout.

“Stand by Mr. Grey.”

“Don't tell me to stand by, goddamn it. Tell them we've got a fire rolling up the mountain here and we need resources. I need a full Type II Incident Management Team with air support. Order three more crews, two more dozer units, and two more engine modules. Tell them to start working on a base location and get someone in line to handle the media right away. And have them call the Missoula Technology Development Center, get some of their boys out here to check over the shelters and personal protective equipment. You got all that?”

“Uh, yes sir.” I can almost hear her scribbling. “Just one thing Mr. Grey —”

“Go ahead.”

“They want to know when you'll have a Wildfire Situation Analysis ready.”

“Tell them they'll get their damn analysis when I get my bombers.”

Kershaw copies. Grey glares at us, his moustache twitching. No one meets his eye.

“Where are the rest of your men, Galloway?”

Galloway briefs him on the status and location of resources presently on the fire. Dozerline cut nearly to the cliff, but overrun. Three of the four engines gone to refill. I wander away, no longer part of the command structure. I'm a witness now. A survivor. The helicopter returns, coming straight in this time. But it doesn't land, hovers alarmingly close, rotorwash rippling Brashaw's shelter, threatening to blow it away. It's a different helicopter.

Grey snatches up his radio. “Get the hell out of here,” he hollers, pointing at them.

The helicopter swings up and around, over the ridge. I can see the cameraman hunched in the front seat, pivoting to follow the action. In the back seat, a woman in a blue business suit cranes her neck. We're probably live, beaming into every living room in Montana, maybe the entire country.

“Listen up,” Grey hollers into the radio. “We've got a tfr on this fire.”

The pilot acts dumb, buying video bytes. “Come again?”

Grey's face is red. “A temporary flight restriction. Five thousand feet and five miles.”

There's a brief pause, then the pilot acknowledges and the machine begins to rise.

“Assholes,” Grey grumbles, watching them go. High above us, the helicopter begins to circle. Grey checks Brashaw's shelter, shaking his head. The whap of our own helicopter grows louder. The deputy sheriff and emt join the growing crowd on the ridge. The deputy's name is Wayne Compton. The emt is referred to simply as Hal. Everyone seems to know everyone else. Except Galloway and me — we hang back a bit, beyond the inner circle. Our importance in the grand scheme of things continues to diminish.

“Let's clear the site,” says Compton, waving a hand.“No non-essential personnel.”

A few firefighters, the ones who came up with Galloway, are shooed farther back. The deputy and emt approach Brashaw's shelter, the emt crouching beside the body, checking vitals. Given the state of the corpse, it's a formality. “Gone,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. Compton flips open a small notebook, checks his watch. His uniform is dark green with a crest on the sleeve, his rank in yellow bars. sheriff is printed in bright yellow letters across his back. He's very crisp, very clean. Not for long out here, though.

“Can you confirm the deceased's identity?” he asks Grey.

“Bert Brashaw,” Grey says curtly. “Crew boss. One of my men.”

Compton nods, looking around at each of us. I've seen the look before; he's taking a photocopy, a reasonable facsimile, storing us away for later reference. That done, he crouches next to the body, pulls on white surgical latex gloves. When they're snapped in place, he begins to examine Brashaw, peering, gently moving aside scraps of clothing. Aslund crouches over him, breathing in his ear. Compton stops, looks back at him.

“Need a hand?” Aslund asks.

Compton pulls a roll of yellow crime scene ribbon from a pack.“Here, flag off the scene.”

Aslund hesitates, obviously wanting to get in on the real action. Personally, I'd prefer a little distance. Aslund frowns and starts stringing the ribbon. Since there are no trees here he lays it on the ground, anchoring it with slabs of shale. The deputy reaches across and under the corpse, turning him onto his side. Brashaw rolls over like a burned log.

“You looking for anything in particular?” Grey asks.

Compton doesn't look up from his work. “It's just procedure.”

“You don't seriously think there's foul play here do you?”

“You never know.”

Grey draws himself to his full stubby height but the effect is lost on Compton, who continues his work, looking for knife wounds or whatever. Grey coughs, grumbles under his breath.

“Perhaps there's something you can do,” says Compton.

Grey scratches under the brim of his hard hat, smoothes his moustache. Clearly, he thinks this is a Forest Service affair. He stares at the back of the deputy a minute longer, then turns toward me. “Come on Cassel, let's go for a look at this fire.”

BOOK: One Careless Moment
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