Scorched: Burn Me Once..., page 7
“Attention. May I have your attention please?” Heads turn in my direction. Conversation stops. “We have received a message from the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office. The Chalk Creek Fire has shifted.” A low murmur begins as the visitors turn to each other, deciphering the news. “Although it has started moving this way, it likely will shift again based on the wind forecast. Even if it doesn’t shift away, they estimate it would take more than a day to reach this location.”
“Are the roads clear?” A voice from the back of the room calls out.
I nod, scanning the crowd. “They are. As a precaution, the exhibit is closing. We are asking all attendees to depart immediately.” The murmurs morph into a rumble. “In an orderly fashion.”
Patrons surge toward the main doors. Unsure if I’ve injected the right amount of calm into my announcement, I lean into the microphone again. “I repeat, this is a precaution. Not an emergency. Please take your time. Gather your belongings and proceed to your vehicles. If you would like, you can grab a mask for the smoke on the way out. You should move with a purpose, but there is no need to panic.”
Heads nod, but eyes still flare like a bronco who’s smelled a grizzly, as the visitors surge toward the front entrance. Agent Frazier appears at my side. “Anything I can do to assist?”
My smile is tight. “Guess you’re not getting that interview with Tristen, huh?”
Frazier shakes her head. “I can’t find him. His photographer is still here. He doesn’t know where he went, either.”
“That’s not good.” I fix my eyes on Frazier. “Why don’t you keep looking for him? And anyone else who might have left the main exhibit area. I’m helping Laura pack her art. I’ll come back to you when we’re done for a final sweep of the place.”
Frazier nods, turning toward the staircase by the foyer. I walk through the kitchen, heading for the service entrance at the back of The Lodge. I push the door open. Laura paces the rear access road, her hands out to the side.
“They’re gone. You made that announcement and everyone just bolted. I can’t find the caterers.”
“Caterers?” I’m unsure why she’s worried about the food.
“They’re the ones who unpacked and displayed my artwork. It’s part of their contract to pack it up at the end.”
I check the access road. Two cars remain parked on the shoulder. “Are you sure? Maybe they just moved their vehicles after everything was loaded inside.”
Laura’s face is slack. “What am I going to do, Tyler?”
A couple of days ago, I had almost volunteered my truck to haul Laura’s art from the Sheriff’s Office in Salida to Buena Vista. Now the idea doesn’t look so crazy.
“Wait inside. I’ll bring my truck around and we can load the stuff in the back.” I point to the crates at the bottom of the stairs. “We don’t have to pack it perfectly. But we can use the same crates they used to deliver it here. We can recruit some folks to ride in the back with it to make sure it’s secure.” I pause. “Hell, I’ll ride back there. You can drive the truck.”
Laura meets me halfway on the stairs, giving me a quick hug before moving inside. I continue to the road and loop around The Lodge to the front parking lot. My tan Tundra is barely visible through the smoke, one of only a smattering of vehicles left in the lot. I pull out and circle the lot to the access road leading to the back of The Lodge.
Back at the service entrance, I reverse into the loading area. The crates I suggested for Laura’s painting still sit by the stairs. I stride through the kitchen into the exhibition room, where I stop in my tracks.
Later, I won’t remember whether I froze because of sound or sight. A high-pitched wail, something less than a scream but more than a moan, fills the exhibition. A small group of people—Monica, Julie, and Tristen off to one side—surround a figure kneeling on the floor. Even from the other side of the room, I recognize Laura. The easel by her side is empty.
As I rush toward her, Agent Frazier lowers to a knee, resting a hand on Laura’s shoulder.
“What’s going on?” I step into the gap between Julie and Monica, trying to decide if I should join Frazier at Laura’s side. Laura doesn’t appear injured. I can’t understand what’s happening.
Monica turns to me, her head shaking. “It’s Broncho Buster. Someone took it.”
My eyes shift to the empty easel. In the scramble to leave The Lodge, someone has taken advantage of the chaos to steal Laura’s most-prized piece of art.
I whip my head around the room. It’s not like this is a big city exhibition. I can count the number of attendees.
Who stole Broncho Buster?
CHAPTER 11
I thank God FBI Agent Emma Frazier is here.
Not in an actual prayer—just a momentary flash in my head. I’m still working out the religious side of my life. My second chance with my daughter, and my new life in the Rockies, isn’t luck. It’s something more powerful. I just haven’t paused long enough to ponder what that something is.
What I do know is I can’t handle a wildfire evacuation and an art theft without Agent Frazier.
I scan the room. Duane has his arm around Monica, who shudders into his shoulder. Julie’s eyes shift between her sisters, as if she’s positive one of them is at fault. Bruce Davis is former law enforcement—maybe he can help Frazier. But he lacks a certain credibility after running from the art heist on the pass. The prospective art buyer, Martin Algood, stands to the side shaking his head and checking his watch, while Tristen appears to be waiting for me to speak. Nate is head down, fumbling with his cell phone. I’m unsure why these last three men haven’t left like everyone else.
The only others in the room wear black slacks and white shirts. I’m guessing these are Laura’s caterers with additional duties as movers of art. They hadn’t left after all.
Frazier looks up. “Can you sit with Laura? I need to talk to everyone here.”
I kneel on Laura’s other side. Her back quakes under my hand. I lean forward, whispering in her ear. “Hey, it’s Tyler. I’m here.” Laura’s sobbing continues. She gives no sign she’s heard me.
Frazier moves to the front of the fireplace. “Here’s the deal, folks. Normally, in a situation like this, we would lock this place down until we could log all the attendees’ contact info and do some preliminary interviews.” She looks around the room. “This scenario is going to play out a little differently. You’ve all heard about the wind shift and the fire.”
Heads nod. Everyone knows about the fire.
“So we’re going to need to leave. Mr. Zahn will help me with your names. I’m asking you to reconvene down at the police station after we depart here. Does everyone understand?”
More bobbing heads. Except for one.
“Uh, no.” Martin Algood shakes his head. “I don’t believe I have time for that.”
“My God, man,” Tristen LaFrance interjects. “You, of all people, should understand what’s happened. Do your part.”
Algood provides LaFrance with a tight smile before facing Frazier. “I didn’t see who took the painting.” He sweeps his hand toward the small group of people. “And just like everyone else in this room, I doubt I’m a suspect. After all, they have just stolen it in the last minutes and they took it frame and all. We’re all still here. Unless you think one of us has it under our jacket?” He coughs a dry laugh. Even from where I kneel, I can tell no one laughs with him.
Algood has a point about Broncho Buster. It’s the size of a card table in the frame. Even if someone cut out the canvas, the rolled-up painting would be over three feet long. And what about Laura’s thick, textured style? I’m not sure you can roll Broncho Buster without destroying it.
I’m sure Frazier wasn’t expecting arguments, so I marvel at her poise. She clasps her hands. I detect zero tension in her posture.
“Mr. Algood, correct?” Frazier says. It occurs to me the two probably haven’t yet met. She had wisely ducked inside when Algood made the scene at the door about seeing Broncho Buster.
Algood nods.
“You both have a point,” Frazier continues, glancing from Algood to LaFrance. “You are correct in your assumption that you all are not suspects. But you all are potential witnesses.”
Several people nod, but not Algood, who seems to wait for Frazier to continue.
“But Mr. LaFrance also has a point. I am asking everyone in this room to do their part so we can track down this painting. We don’t have time for me to ask the right questions here. So I’m asking—not demanding—you to agree to meet me at the station where I will arrange an interview schedule. Does that sound reasonable?”
“No.” Algood says. “I’m not doing it.”
“I will.” LaFrance dips his chin toward his photographer. “And so will Nate.”
“I’m in,” Davis says. He glances at Duane and Monica, who both nod.
“Thank you. Mr. Algood, find a pen and paper and leave me your contact info. Do it now.”
Algood stiffens, obviously unaccustomed to taking orders. He heads toward the reception desk to follow Frazier’s instructions.
Frazier’s eyes follow Algood for several seconds before focusing back on me. “Do you know everybody else?”
I survey the group surrounding Frazier, pausing at the staff members in the rear. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your names.”
“I’m Mike. Mike Ove.” A bearded young man, who looks a couple years older than my college-aged daughter, swings his hand toward the two women beside him. “These are my coworkers—they’re my friends, too. They can leave their contact info.” The women raise their hands in a motion so tentative, I wonder if they are certain of their own names. “The Lodge’s owner, Mr. Harris, isn’t here today. We’re the set-up crew. And the caterers. Mr. Harris gave us the keys. He told me I’m in charge of the premises. I can be the last out and lock up.”
Frazier nods. “Did you all ride together, or do you have your own cars?”
“Own cars,” Mike says. “We’re parked out front. My coworkers have been loading the food trays in the van.”
No wonder Laura thought the set-up crew had deserted her.
Frazier points to the two women. “You all leave your contact info, then head out. I want to minimize the number of people staying behind. Mike, you provide yours as well. I want you to stay. Can you help us load the art and close up behind us?”
“Yep.”
“Mike. You said you’re responsible for The Lodge?”
“That’s what Mr. Harris said.”
“Do I have your permission to search The Lodge?”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Of course.”
Frazier eyes the crowd. “I want the rest of you to leave.” She turns to me. “Get Laura in your truck, then you and Mike load the art. I’ll do a walk-through of The Lodge while you guys are packing and see what I can find.”
She turns to the cluster still surrounding her. “I’ve given you instructions. Move out.” Frazier has added a sharpness to her tone that seems to penetrate the audience’s inertia. I watch as Tristen, Nate, and Algood head for the door.
Duane grabs Monica’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Monica resists momentarily, glancing at Laura, but Julie steps to her side and nudges her toward Duane. “I’ll help with Laura. You go.”
Two minutes later, it’s just five of us: Frazier, Julie, Laura, Mike the caterer, and myself. Julie helps me get Laura on her feet.
“Let’s get you out of here.” Julie wraps her arm around Laura.
Her voice seems to snap Laura out of her shock. “What do you mean out of here? We’re not going anywhere until the cops get here. I want my painting.”
Julie raises her eyebrows in my direction. Laura’s voice carries a tone I’ve never heard. I step forward, but Frazier intervenes and approaches Laura.
“Law enforcement isn’t coming, Laura. Not until this fire warning lifts. We need to load the rest of your work into the truck and get out of here.”
“You expect me to leave Broncho Buster? To just let it burn?” Laura turns to me, as if expecting support.
Frazier looks like she’s thinking the same thing I am—that The Lodge is the last place we’d expect Broncho Buster to be. Odds are, someone took advantage of the evacuation turmoil and bolted with the painting.
Frazier explains this to Laura in a quiet voice, assuring her she will search the building while we’re packing. Laura’s shoulders shake again.
“Take care of her.” Frazier grips Julie’s arm before heading for the stairs.
I turn to Mike. “Let’s move the packing material from the pantry out here. We can decide how much wrapping we’re going to do.”
He joins me as I stride across the exhibition area.
A voice stops me in my tracks halfway across the room. “You know she did it.”
Laura stands in front of Julie, shaking her finger.
Julie backs away. “Who?”
“Our little sister and her crooked boyfriend. They knew about that thing on the mountain. They are in on this. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know they’re involved.”
Mike seems to recognize family drama when he sees it, continuing through the door to the kitchen. I am mesmerized by the venom in Laura’s voice. Obviously, she remains in shock.
Julie has made the bad blood between Laura and Monica very clear, as if she’s trying to use their relationship to drive a wedge between me and Laura. But this is the first time I’ve seen Laura say a bad word about Monica.
And it’s more than bad words. Laura just accused her sister of robbery.
CHAPTER 12
Mike and I wedge among the crates of paintings shelved in the bed of my truck. Smoke drapes the loading dock in an orange haze, like an Iraqi sandstorm from my Air Force days. I twist toward the cab, slapping the truck’s side.
“Ready back here,” I call to Laura, who grips the steering wheel. She’s not happy about leaving without Broncho Buster, but Agent Frazier has searched The Lodge and come up empty. We have no reason to think the painting’s still here.
Laura shifts into gear. We pull from the loading dock and maneuver around The Lodge. My truck decelerates as we skirt the front parking lot on the access road. Just past the junction at the parking lot exit, a line of four vehicles clogs the single lane to the main road. I stand between the crates, resting my hands on the cab’s roof. Monica and Julie are in what appears to be a heated discussion with Martin Algood. I tap the side of the truck again. Laura brakes.
“I’m getting out. Be right back.”
Laura doesn’t answer. I hop from the truck bed to the ground. “Stay here with the paintings,” I direct Mike. I’m not exactly sure who would hijack Laura’s remaining work during an emergency evacuation, but I wasn’t prepared for the theft of Broncho Buster either. I err on the side of caution.
“I don’t care. If it won’t start, push it out of the fucking way.” Algood isn’t screaming at Monica and Julie—yet—but he’s definitely not using his milk and honey voice either. His shoulders and upper body are so rigid, I wonder if he’s considering striking either woman. Tears stream down Monica’s face. Julie has positioned herself so she’s partially blocking her sister from Algood. As I approach, I look past the small group and spot the issue.
The back end of a quad-cab Dodge 1500 pickup angles toward me on the far side of the bridge. The front end folds around an upright log framing the small bridge’s exit. The base of the bridge is splintered, and a section has fallen into the ravine below. Vehicles can’t cross because the truck has both blocked and damaged the bridge.
I scan the parking lot for alternatives, even though I already know the answer. The rear of The Lodge borders a lake. A mountain blocks the view up Cottonwood Pass. This creek, an outlet from Aspen Lake two miles up the basin, wraps around the parking lot before flowing into Middle Cottonwood Creek. Both creeks have to be crossed to get to the main road.
Unlike Middle Cottonwood Creek, which is really more like a river, this first one is shallow enough to ford—if it didn’t run through a steep gully. No one is leaving The Lodge in a vehicle until someone from the other side of the bridge moves this truck.
Julie’s eyebrows raise as I approach. She flicks her eyes back to Algood, as if signaling, “we have a problem here…a little help, please?”
“What happened?” I pause next to Julie, facing Algood. It doesn’t really matter what happened; what matters is how we’re going to fix it. But I’m trying to defuse this confrontation.
“These fucking—” Algood starts. I cut him off.
“Is it your truck?”
“No,” he sputters. “But—”
I interrupt him again: “Then let them tell me.”
I turn to Julie and Monica, but can sense Algood fuming at my side.
Julie rests her hand on Monica’s shoulder. “Are you OK? Can you tell Tyler what happened?”
Monica takes a breath like she’s steeling herself to speak. She pauses, breathes out, and takes another one. Julie pulls her sister closer.
“Duane was driving. Bruce was in the back. I had my head down because he’d asked me to find his pen he’d dropped on the floor. I didn’t even see him hit the bridge. I mean, it felt like we were driving fast, and then all of a sudden, we crashed. My head was down. I slammed into the space under the glove box.”
I had assumed Monica’s tears resulted from the shock of the accident—or maybe the pressure from Algood. There’s no blood on her. But definitely a scrape near her eye. I nod at Monica and turn to the truck. The impact was on the passenger side. She was lucky.
The door to the driver’s side of the Dodge hangs open. I search for Duane, expecting to find him working on a solution to clear the bridge. I don’t see him.
“Duane?” I turn back to Monica. “Where is he? Did he get hurt?”
Monica doesn’t answer.
“What about the security guard guy? Bruce?”
Monica sobs again. Julie answers. “Duane went to get help. Like a tow truck or something. At least that’s what Monica said, right, honey?”
