Trial by Ice and Fire (25 page)

THIRTY-TWO

T
HE REST OF THE CLIMB
to the summit is technically easy. There's another chimney or two that embrace me within the comfort of three solid walls, a pitch up some steep, loose blocks, and then it's just a scramble to the summit.

But my mind is burning just as brightly as the valley below. Fire. It was fire that took Cali's father. Fire that stole from Alana Reese what was most loved by her. And now the valley's ablaze once again.

We are beginning the final easy pitch when a man steps up onto the summit block. He's leaning hard against the wind. I rest for a minute, watching him turning his head and staring out at the surrounding peaks and then out at the valley, and hoping he's not one of those assholes who likes to throw rocks into the void. He glances down at the North Face with what appears to be a quick shudder. Then he does a double take, seeing Roberto crawling up the final yards toward him without a rope. His mouth moves and I lip-read an awestruck “Holy shit!”

Another man steps up onto the block. He's wearing a jacket with the insignia of Exum Mountain Guides, a company I'd worked for a long time ago. When I move closer I recognize him—Jason something—a guy who was just starting out as a guide when I was quitting. He smiles knowingly as he watches us crawling up to the summit, understanding what we've been through and also surely noting the lack of ropes, harnesses, and gear.

He shades his eyes against the rising sun and squints first at my brother then at me. “Holy shit,” he too mouths. Then he calls out over the sound of the wind, “The Burns brothers?”

Roberto doesn't answer even though he's closer. I hear him mutter a couple of curses in our mother's language. I yell, “Hey, Jason! You know what's going on down there?”

But he's staring at my brother, who is more famous for both his climbing and extralegal exploits, no doubt wondering what he's doing back in the States and whether he's still a wanted man.

When he finally answers my greeting it's not to greet me in return. “The park's radio guy called our hut last night, trying to figure out if anyone's seen you. Something's going on in the valley, man. We're to report if we spot you.” He looks uneasily at Roberto, assuming the message has something to do with him.

“Have you heard what's going on in the valley?” I ask again.

“All I know is that there's been some kind of shooting and an assistant prosecutor is missing. And that some maniac's lit a fire in the valley.”

A brand-new fear turns the sky a tick brighter.

I run awkwardly in my stiff mountain boots, leaping small ledges and over boulders, rushing down toward the rappel ledge below the summit spire. My vision stays fixed on the rough ground—on not falling—but I'm intensely aware of the space all around me. The impossible amounts of air above, to the sides, and below. Bright blue sky and distant ice-covered peaks and dirty white glaciers. It's perverse, but I feel a bit of pleasure along with the apprehension. A revival. I've soloed the North Face and lived. And now the waiting is over. I'm needed down there, in the real world, where there has to be something I can do.

I temper the emotion by reminding myself that Cali might be in trouble. In very, very bad trouble.

Four climbers clad in Gore-Tex and with sticker-covered helmets are gathered at the rappel station, tying knots and double-checking one another's rap devices. I push through them, acknowledging the startled faces by saying, “Sorry. There's an emergency below. Mind if I borrow your ride?”

I grab the twin ropes hanging over the edge without waiting for an answer. The ropes are looped through a Gordian knot of bright, multicolored slings looped over a spike of rock. I check to see that the ropes are bound together with a tight double fisherman's and that the slings aren't too worn or weather bleached.

“Hey, man . . .” one of them starts to protest.

But his complaint is cut off by the deadly earnest expression I feel on my face. Or maybe it's because I hear Roberto coming up behind me.

“I've seen you, dude,” another says to him cautiously. Respectfully. “You're the guy who soloed the Nose in like three hours, right? That was
so
fucking sick. What'd you come up? The North Face or something?” His friend nervously nudges him to shut him up.

I don't wait to hear my brother's response. I'm already leaning over the edge, feeling the cold air rising up my jacket from below. Since I don't have a harness or a rappel device I've wrapped the rope around my shoulders, hips, and groin in the old-school method Dad had taught us. After lowering myself a few feet my boot soles lose contact with the vertical stone.

I'm hanging free, spinning as the rope squeezes me and hisses against my nylon shells like an enraged python, spiraling down toward another narrow ledge above the peak's Upper Saddle. Other than that and the cliff, there is nothing but space—thousands of feet of it—and Idaho and Montana and then Wyoming swimming before me with every rotation I make.

My boots thump down on the ledge just as my gloves start to burn through and my jacket begins to melt under the rope's pressure. I take off at a run down a steep ramp of broken rock and snow leading to the Upper Saddle. At one point the ramp narrows to nothing, but I half-leap and half-climb past the exposed section. I barely consider the potentially fatal air below.

In about two minutes' time I'm whipping an ax off my pack as I scramble into a narrow couloir and begin riding it down on the seat of my pants. Depressions and sun-spots in the steep snow threaten to launch me into the air. When my speed gets too great I use my ax's spike as a two-handed brake. I look back only once—I see Roberto sliding behind me, his long black hair streaming uphill.

At the broad, snow-covered expanse of the Lower Saddle, there are several bright tents fluttering in the wind that is sweeping between the Middle Teton and the Grand. Climbers are stomping around in their boots and racking gear and stuffing packs, not exactly getting an al-pine start. Beyond them is the aluminum-and-canvas hut of the Exum Mountain Guides.

When I barge through the thin door, the hut-tender—a young woman—stares at me in alarm. She's sitting up in her sleeping bag reading a book.

“I'm Antonio Burns. I need to use your phone.”

I look around the cluttered hut, taking in the bunks and dirty dishes sitting in a pan of half-melted snow. On a crooked counter is a small phone. It's nothing more than a combination of cell phone and radio. I expected something bigger, something meatier, would be necessary to connect this world to the one down below.

“You're the guy the ranger called looking for last night? Woke us all up—”

“Did he leave a number?”

“No. Hell, I didn't know what he was talking about. And none of us knew if you were up here.”

So I dial 911. The emergency call is picked up by a dispatcher in Idaho who agrees to transfer me after I explain my location and law-enforcement credentials. I wait for a long, long time. The girl pulls on some fleece then wanders outside to either get away from the wild look in my eyes or to give me some privacy. Through the metal door I can hear her talking to my brother. It takes him about a minute before he has her laughing at something.

Finally Sheriff Buchanan comes on the line.

“I'm up-valley at Alana Reese's ranch. On my cell phone. You need to get out here as soon as possible.” Even through the static and the wind that's rustling the canvas walls, the sheriff's voice sounds bewildered and panicked.

“What's going on? I'm no longer on her daughter's case. I'm supposed to stay away from them.”

“I think you're back on now, or will soon be. Four hours ago Bill Laughlin shot an FBI agent and tried to kidnap Alana Reese. She escaped, but he took her daughter. He's gone crazy.”

I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it like an idiot. What seems like minutes tick away as I stand stupefied, until evidence of a sort begins to assimilate in my mind.

Sights and sounds come back to me. Angela Hernandez saying that someone had broken into Alana's house and stolen her wedding dress. Cali telling me that Laughlin has always been in love with her mother—that she'd found a scrapbook hidden away. The words in
Smoke Jump
—that Laughlin had competed with Patrick for Alana and lost. Lester hissing at Laughlin when he'd come into the living room, the cat having been on the counter two days earlier when someone had tried to come through the window. Cali telling me that she could stay with him, that he has guns. The pawn shop owner telling me that he'd sold stun guns to a lot of “geezers.” And Laughlin saying, “You look out for her, you hear? She's a lot like her mother. Gives off a scent of something. Makes guys go crazy. Do the damnedest things.”

And Laughlin knows avalanches. He'd told us stories about all his close calls with them. Myron Armalli and his letters had been nothing but a lucky diversion for him.

I put the phone back against my ear in time to hear the sheriff saying, “Your boss has been calling for you from Cheyenne. He left a message for you. He said, and I'm quoting here: ‘
Unfuck it
.' ”

“Tell me what the hell's going on.”

“Like I said, Bill Laughlin's gone crazy. He lit a fire in the valley—”

“I saw it.”

“It started about a mile west of Alana Reese's ranch. As dry as things are, it sparked right up with the help of what the Forest Service guys are saying was a couple of gallons of gasoline and a drip torch. The wind didn't help either. Within an hour several acres were burning and it was headed right toward here—the house. It was only because of the fast response of some Hot Shots on leave that they were able to dig a break and keep the house from going up. The barn and the stable didn't make it. Neither did some of the horses. God, it smells awful. Before that, though, while the people in the house were evacuating, Laughlin came in with a rifle. It was him, although we haven't gotten a formal identification yet. They say he was absolutely raving. He tried to get Alana in his car, but she ran off and hid. Then he hit Cali with the butt of the rifle and started dragging her toward an old beat-up station wagon. The FBI agent, Angela Hernandez, tried to stop him but he shot her.”

“Is she all right?”

“She will be. She took a bullet in the chest but the doctors say it didn't hit anything vital. They've got her at the hospital now.”

“He took Cali?”

“I'm afraid so. The witnesses, Alana Reese among them, saw him shove her into some sort of cage in the back of the station wagon. Then he took off. We have a BOLO out on it right now, here, and in Idaho and Montana, but so far no one's seen anything. How long will it take you to get here?”

“Give me three hours.”

There's a pause on the other end of the line. Then she speaks fast, sounding more rattled than ever. “Three hours? That's too long. Do you understand what I'm telling you? A county attorney's been kidnapped. We've got a fire out of control. And your job's on the line, Burns.”

“I know. I'll be there as fast as I can.”

“In kidnapping cases like this, time is of the essence. We don't have time for you to breakfast, shower, and shave.”

“I'm on the Grand, Sheriff. It's going to take me some time to get down.”

Roberto comes into the hut alone after I switch off the radio phone. I quickly tell him what's happened. And what I'm going to do.

“I probably shouldn't go down there,” he says. “Wouldn't be prudent,
che,
know what I mean?”

“You'll be arrested on sight,” I agree. “And the place will be swarming with Feds since one of their own's been shot.”

I dump out my pack on the floor of the hut, spilling axes, crampons, PowerBars, and a first-aid kit. The only thing I put back in is my remaining full water bottle. Then I squat and lace my boots tight for the downhill run out of the mountains. The whole time Roberto hovers over me, seeming oddly indecisive.

“You gonna be okay, Ant?”

“Yeah. I got to go.” I kick the ground hard with the front of each boot, testing to see whether my toes will bang against the leather. “What are you going to do?”

He looks up at the Middle Teton. “Beg some food off these guys, then head up there. I'll drop down the other side,” he says, meaning Idaho, “and make my way to Salt Lake. You sure you don't need me right now?”

Something in his voice or in his eyes makes me look at him for a moment. He's studying me much the way McGee has been lately.

“Nah, bro. I'm gonna be fine. You do your thing. Get with the Feds tomorrow if that's what you want to do. If they don't jump all over your pal.” I nod at the Grand's sharp spire and can't help but grin at him. “Thanks. I needed that.” After a quick hug I push him away. “Take care, Roberto. Call me. Let me know what happens.”

The winding trail leading down Garnet Canyon is crowded with more climbers hoping to make an early-season ascent. Their faces are both eager and nervous as they crane necks upward, staring at the Grand's pyramid, as they hump their heavy packs full of ropes and cams up the trail. I come pounding down at them like a big stone rolling down from the sky. They curse as they scatter before me and yell more curses at my back.

THIRTY-THREE

T
HE
I
RON
P
IG WAITS
like a faithful hound in the crowded parking lot at the Garnet Canyon trailhead. As usual, the old truck starts right up on the first twist of the key. I ram it into gear and spin the tires, spraying dirt, as I tear out of the lot. Too late I notice the elderly Park Service volunteer who'd been walking behind me. Her dusty scowl chases me all the way to the highway.

I call Rebecca on my cell phone. A message comes on, telling me that there's no service where she is. I call the Spring Creek Ranch but no one answers in the condo. The operator tells me that she thinks she saw Ms. Hersh out walking with her father. Finally I'm forced to leave a three-word message with the annoyingly laconic desk clerk—
Wait for me.

It isn't far to Alana Reese's ranch, which says something about the value of her property. I rumble only twenty or so miles up the valley on 191 toward Yellowstone before reaching the rail fence that marks its southern edge. Enormous clouds of gray-black smoke billow up to the east, but whatever flames are building them are concealed by low hills. Every hundred yards or so along the highway, groups of sightseers pull over, eyeballing the smoke through the lenses of their video cameras.

An unmarked iron gate stands at the entrance to the ranch. A Teton County Sheriff's car is parked there facing the highway. The deputy behind the wheel raises a hand to stop me as I turn in. He isn't anyone I recognize. But he tells me that they're waiting for me “up at the castle” before I even have the chance to tell him my name.

I drive for three or four more miles on a private gravel road. The land on either side changes from rolling prairie interspersed with stands of aspens and cottonwoods to a smoldering moonscape at a point so sharp and obvious it's like falling into a pit. One moment it's beautiful, pure alpine grasslands—the next it's a literal nightmare. The transformation occurs atop a small ridge. A line of green cottonwoods once ran along it. What's left of them looks like a conga line of twisted black demons. The wind is blowing wisps of smoke from the few remaining branches.

In the rearview mirror the Grand stands like a beacon, cold and white and clean and sharp. It's hard to believe that three hours ago I was standing on top of that mighty beast—in another world entirely.

Up ahead on the top of a second, bigger ridge is what the deputy described as the castle. I slow and stare at it. It's constructed out of the same lodgepole-pine logs that frame my small cabin. But this is no cabin—it's a mansion, a literal castle, with wooden turrets at the several complex corners within view. A shockingly green lawn surrounds the structure, blocking out the blackened earth and charred pines before and beyond. I realize that this lush lawn is what saved the house. That, the fast-acting Hot Shot crew, the relatively light wind of the early-morning hours, and a hell of a lot of luck. But the once-massive barn-and-stable complex a few hundred yards to the south was not so lucky. The hoses of a local fire engine are still spraying that smoking ruin.

I have an image of the predawn hours—roaring flames, searing heat, panicked shouts, screaming horses, the sound of a rifle shot. I close my eyes and open them, suck in a breath and let it out, then spit out the window. The air tastes of an infernal barbecue.

I park among the police and fire vehicles that line the circular driveway. A few people—civilians—wander on a porch to one side of the house, staring at the witches' cauldron of smoke and wearing shell-shocked expressions.

At the top of the main steps are two of the biggest oak doors I've ever seen—easily ten feet high and probably a foot thick. They look as solid as the cop who stands before them. But unlike the dark wood, Wokowski's face is pale when I get out and walk toward him. The mirrored sunglasses he wears seem to draw in all the devastation around us, focusing it into the deep sockets under his heavy brows. I'm glad to no longer be heading his shit-list.

“It was Bill Laughlin. The bastard's gone nuts,” he says as I come up the steps. Then, “Where the hell have you been?”

“Climbing. I was taken off the case, remember?” It comes out harsher than I intend it to. Wokowski is clearly devastated. I soften it. “Tell me what happened, Wook.”

He raises one hand and pushes his sunglasses tighter against the bridge of his noise. It's a small, touching gesture, like wiping away a tear. It contrasts with the big clenched jaw and the jutting brows. I can see the outline of the engagement ring under the taut material of his uniform shirt.

“Cali came here yesterday after checking out of the hospital. At about four this morning someone noticed that the ridge back there was on fire and set off the alarm. Cali, her mom, and all the guests ran to get in their cars and drive out. Laughlin was out here waiting. Yelling at everyone, demanding that Alana come with him. She ran back in the house and hid but Cali stayed and tried to calm him down. According to her guests, Laughlin started grabbing at Cali. Trying to force her in his car. When she fought him off, he hit her with the butt of his gun. Then he took her. And he shot the Fed when she tried to stop him.”

He speaks with his hands clasped in front of his utility belt. The fingers swell and turn white as if he's fantasizing that Laughlin's heart is being crushed between them. Or maybe it's his own. He lets them drop to his sides when he notices me staring at them.

“You went to his place in town, right?” I ask.

“No one was there. I went in two hours ago with a couple of my SWAT guys. No warrant—I figured we'd be covered by the emergency exception. The place was a mess, but we found an empty box of bullets on a table. Also a charger for a Stun Master 625 from a pawn shop in town.”

One of the giant doors swings open softly on well-greased hinges and Sheriff J. J. Buchanan joins us. Her gray-and-brown hair is lank and greasy looking, and her leathery face looks just as bad. It definitely has more wrinkles than when I'd last seen her two days ago. Behind her is an entry hall big enough to park all the cars in the drive. I can't see the ceiling.

“Sorry it took me so long,” I tell her. I don't bother to add that I'd risked breaking my neck during my wild sprint down from the peak.

She looks at Wokowski. “You filled him in?”

“Yeah.”

“What's being done now?” I ask.

The sheriff answers, “We're looking everywhere for the station wagon. But no one's seen a thing. And there are a thousand back roads around here in the forest. Every cop for a hundred miles is too busy to look seriously, trying to keep all the tourists from cooking themselves and evacuating the nearby homes. They say the fire's going to be picking up speed in a few hours, heading east toward Preacher Park.”

“What else?”

“I've called in every available officer in my department. The police chief for the Town of Jackson has done the same. The problem is that most of them are getting stuck dealing with traffic and keeping the tourists from getting themselves hurt. The fire is taking up all our resources. We've also notified the FBI. Of course they're interested in the kidnapping, and the fact that one of their agents has been shot has them quite excited. If we can get a lead on where Cali is, they might be willing to send in the Hostage Rescue Team from Quantico. As it is right now, they're sending a team of four agents in from Salt Lake. Apparently they have a bunch of them doing something big in Salt Lake.”

I manage not to look startled. And not look especially worried at this last bit of news. But I need to call Roberto and warn him before he gets to Salt Lake.

“Can you think of anything else we should be doing, Burns?”

They follow me when I walk back to the Pig and spread a topographical map on the hood. For want of anyplace else to look, I stare at the area called Preacher Park. Where the sheriff had said the fire is headed.

A tripod mark, like a crude oil derrick, on top of the butte catches my eye. In tiny print I see the word
Elation.

“What's that?” I point at the drawing of the derrick.

Wokowski bends close and studies it through his sunglasses. “Elation Peak. There's a fire-lookout station up there—that's what that symbol means. It's unmanned this early in the year.”

“You ever read
Smoke Jump
?” I ask them both, talking fast. They nod. “Elation Peak is where Cali's dad—Laughlin's best friend—burned to death. Laughlin was in love with Alana and still is. But Patrick Morrow took her away from him, and Alana's continued to reject him all these years. There were questions raised in the book about whether he'd done all he could to save his friend. And there's no doubt it was Laughlin's decision to run for high ground that got Morrow killed twenty-five years ago. If you read it a certain way, it's like he killed him.”

“What are you saying?” the sheriff demands. “That was a quarter century ago.”

“He still didn't get the girl. Alana. And I think he's been pissed about it for all these years. Not just pissed—enraged. And obsessed. After all, he acted like an uncle to Cali so that he could be closer to Alana. Now that he's dying anyway, I think he wants to give his old pal Patrick the finger one last time. Alana, too. If he can't do it through Alana because of the bodyguards, and because she managed to get away last night, he's going to do it through Cali.”

In the distance I can hear the helicopter working. I don't wait for them to digest what I've told them or argue. I point at the helicopter and ask, “Whose is that?”

Wokowski answers quickly, his voice stronger. “The Forest Service's. It's a Bell Jet Ranger with a rig for carrying water.”

“Who's in contact with it?”

“A fire command center's being set up at the station in Moran Junction. They've got to be running it.”

“Let's go.”