Day Into Night, page 41
Looking down through the bubble, pine trees ripple in the wind like wheat in a field. Ready for harvest. Ready for consumption. Nature, begging for a fire. But I’m more interested in the view west, where the fire will start. The wind has thinned the smoke but there’s still enough to give the mountains a distant, tombstone sort of look.
“So what are we doing?” asks the pilot. He’s an older fellow, soft spoken, with grey hair and wrinkled hands. I’ve flown with him maybe a dozen times over the years. He’s worked for the Forest Service long enough to know something unusual is up if he’s been pulled from man-up in these hazard conditions, with only one passenger.
“Just a patrol,” I say. “Keep heading west.”
We pass the small fire by the river, far to our left. Sections of dozerline are visible and smoke blows in a steady stream just above the canopy. Bright spots of orange flicker on the ground. The helicopter bucks and weaves in the strong wind. I look ahead, concentrate on the forest at the base of the mountains, looking for new smoke. The pilot glances at the map, spread out over my lap.
“You got anything specific in mind?”
“When we get to the Rocks we’ll start here,” I tell him, point to a series of circles I’ve scribbled on the map. “Work our way north. Fly at about 2,000 feet. Keep the Trunk Road on my side.”
“You looking for anything in particular?”
“Smoke,” I say, then hesitate. “And a light blue Chev half-ton.”
The pilot nods and we fly in silence. Usually, pilots are fairly talkative, interested in what you’re doing. Flying all day can be boring. But he’s quiet, a concerned look on his face. The helicopter shudders, maxed-out against the head wind; we’re doing half the normal speed. Hanlon’s nervous voice blares in my headset.
“yhh, this is dispatch. You see anything yet?”
I fumble for the volume control, turn it down. “Negative dispatch.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Copy. The cops started the evacuation yet?”
“Roger. They’ve got it on the radio.”
We pass over a road, see a small herd of motorhomes kicking up dust, headed out of the forest. Cindy wouldn’t have taken the kids too far into the bush, but I still worry. You don’t appreciate the power and speed of a fire under these circumstances until you’ve seen one. Close to the first circle on my map the pilot turns against the wind, the helicopter slewing, and we drop to 2,000 feet. I’m interested in a draw of dense spruce in line with a gap in the mountains. It’s next to the road, offering easy access, and a steady wind would push a fire into the crowns of the trees, accelerate it up the slopes.
“This good?”
I nod to the pilot, motion for him to circle the area, stare down through Plexiglass.
Dense green forest. Nothing else. “Follow the road north.”
The Forestry Trunk Road winds along the transition between foothills and the Front Range. Rugged country here, sheathed with dense pine. From above, sporadic cutblocks look like missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. There are few cutblocks this far west as of yet, not many roads; the Trunk Road is the only artery. It’s here that log trucks and campers mix it up during summer, friction running both ways. The Trunk Road is also the only way the arsonist could get here by vehicle and I don’t think Carl has a horse.
Nothing but forest at the second and third spots. We pass several campers tucked in the trees just off the road. I’m tempted to stop and warn them but don’t want to waste precious time finding a landing spot and hiking down the road. They’d be at the tail of the fire anyway and with this wind would be fairly safe. We pass the fourth then fifth circle on my map without seeing anything suspicious.
“Now what?” The pilot has been reading my map. Nothing else is circled.
“Go back. We’ll do it again, heading south.”
The helicopter makes a wide turn. Buffeted by the wind, we fly sideways, the machine jerking. Suddenly we drop, zoom toward treetops, the pilot pointing to something. “You see that?”
I look but his vision is sharper, more experienced. Then a flash off metal or glass. We turn hard, auguring against the wind, G-force pushing bile up my throat. The horizon tilts unreasonably, then levels and I see something among the trees along a trail so narrow as to be nearly invisible from the air. A light blue Chevy half-ton. Carl’s truck.
“Look for a landing spot.”
We circle once more. Not far from the truck there’s a strip of dense spruce along what must be a creek. This is where he’ll be, looking for a spot with a lot of fine fuels and dense low branches. I lose sight of the creek and truck as the helicopter levels, then tilts downward.
“I can set you on the road, about a quarter-mile down.”
“Do it, then take off and land farther away. Monitor the radio.”
I don’t want Carl spooked by shutting down the helicopter so close. I’d rather he think it was just a routine patrol, curious but passing over. As we circle into the wind and settle toward the road, I’m not sure what I’ll do when I come face to face with him. Are we still friends? Will he have his shotgun with him? His rifle?
Will he give me the chance to face him?
The skids settle on the road and we’re engulfed in a coffeecoloured dust storm. I grab my belt radio and step out, eyes squinted against the swirling grit, and crouch on the road. The roar and dust recede and suddenly I’m earthbound, surrounded by trees, smelling a faint odour of smoke. I start down the road, jogging, the radio slapping against my thigh.
I don’t jog far. A half-dozen steps and my injured leg blazes with pain. The dressing wasn’t intended to take this much movement and spots of blood blossom in the fabric of my jeans. I’m weak, dizzy. We should have landed closer. Should have brought the crutches. I stumble into the trees where it’s a bit cooler, where I’m out of sight and there’s something to hold onto. The bruises from Brotsky’s boots come to life and my ankle refuses to take much weight. The forest is dense enough that the lower boles of the pines are branchless and I see the truck soon enough. I approach quickly, in too much pain to be cautious.
It’s Carl’s truck all right: plastic jerry cans full of gas and diesel in the back. The truck is unlocked, a map on the seat similar to the one I left in the helicopter. But there are a lot more circles on this map and I get a really bad feeling — he isn’t just lighting one spot, he’s lighting them all.
Hopefully this is his first stop, not his last.
I take the keys from the ignition, toss them as far as I can, lock the truck and start toward the creek I saw from the air but I’m too faint to go far and decide to wait by the truck, sit on a carpet of pine needles and lean against a tire. A squirrel chatters. Treetops sway against the smoky sky. Trees rub and groan. The forest seems nervous, waiting. I check my radio. It’s fine. I try to think of what to say to Carl. I can’t. I hear footsteps crunching on dry ground, muted whistling. He’s having fun, enjoying his little project. I push myself to my feet, ignoring a swell of nausea, see Carl from across the hood of his truck. He doesn’t notice me right away. He’s carrying a backpack, looks relaxed, like he’s just come back from a fishing trip.
“Hey buddy, what are you up to?”
Carl freezes, his smile vanishing. When he sees it’s me the smile creeps back — a different smile now, wistful rather than relaxed. “Porter, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to stop you. To take you home.”
We’re faced off, on opposite sides of the truck.
“Stop what?” Puzzled, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“It’s just me, Carl. Let’s not play games.”
“What are you talking about?”
I’m dizzy, like I’m still on heavy painkillers, and it makes everything a little unreal, as if this wasn’t unreal enough. I notice I’m not the only one with a Forest Service radio. I swallow hard, force myself to concentrate.
“Look, Carl ... I know what’s going on.”
“What’s going on?” he says. “Tell me what’s going on, then we’ll both know.”
“The fires. The bombings. I know you’re the Lorax.”
“Me?” He looks shocked. “You think I’m the Lorax?”
He can lie better than that. “Your mother passed away years ago.”
He doesn’t answer — he’s been caught and knows it. He frowns, looks away and then walks to the truck and drops his pack in the back. I move along the side of the truck, keeping it between us, face him across the open box. “I want you to diffuse that thing you just set.”
He leans against the truck, stares down like an unresponsive child.
“How long until it goes off?”
He doesn’t respond, just stands there gripping the edge of the truck box.
“How long, Carl?”
Nothing. I unholster my radio — I’ve got to call dispatch, get an initial attack crew out here, mobilize suppression resources. If they can get here fast enough, maybe they can catch it small. But my radio doesn’t work and it takes me a few seconds to realize why. Carl has already keyed his mike, walking over my signal so I can’t transmit. By the time I realize that all I have to do is shout and his radio will pick it up, he’s come around the back of the truck and knocked the radio out of my hand. He backs up, holding both radios.
“Sorry about that, Porter.”
For a few seconds I’m speechless, staring at this stranger.
“Carl, this is crazy. Let’s talk about this.”
He’s staring at me, puzzled. “Jesus, Porter, look at your leg —”
My wound has opened, blood blotted into the cloth of my jeans.
“Just give me a radio, Carl.”
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to, Carl. You have to stop this.”
“That’s not why you came.”
Now I’m the one who’s puzzled. “What?”
“You came because you hate me. Ever since Nina was killed.”
“Carl —”
“That’s why you want to stop me.” The anguish in his features is painful to watch. “But that was a mistake. I never should have pissed around with dynamite. It was just so convenient. Grab a case, toss a few sticks into a machine. But I never intended to hurt anyone.” His voice cracks. “I never could have hurt her —”
“Carl... I don’t hate you. I just want this to be over —”
“I should have started with fire.” His expression changes — he’s determined now. “It’s natural and much more effective. Blowing up a few feller-bunchers was never going to change anything. Insurance pays for them and they’re back in business the next day. I was going about it all wrong. Fire — now that’s a different story. Fire belongs here.”
I catch a whiff of smoke. New smoke, not the stuff blowing in from BC.
“Put it out, Carl, before it grows.”
“It’s all about balance. You of all people should understand.”
I take a step toward him. It’s painful and I’m way too slow.
“The whole system is way out of balance. That’s what the Forest Service is supposed to do, maintain the balance — that’s why I became a ranger. But it’s out of control. So I’m fixing it, Porter. I’m re-establishing the natural balance. You should be able to appreciate that.”
“This isn’t the way to do it.”
“You think there’s another way?” He laughs. “Don’t be naïve.”
“You’ve got to stop.”
“I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.”
I have to get that radio but I’m dizzy, my vision blurry.
“This isn’t the only one, Porter. There’s about 20 more, all with fuses set to go off at the same time. I’ve found something much better than cigars. It’ll be like running a drip torch along the Trunk Road.”
“Jesus, Carl.”
I hear a gush of flame. A few hundred yards away a clump of spruce trees candle like a blazing yellow torch in the wind. The flames turn orange, leap energetically into the air, fanned into the crowns of neighbouring pine. Already, it’s out of control. We need a helicopter with a bucket. In a few minutes, even that won’t be enough. And if there’s 20 more of these —
“Look at that, Porter. See how natural that is?”
Carl looks hypnotized — maybe I can take a radio from him, call dispatch. But in my condition, I doubt it. Turns out I don’t have to. The helicopter is approaching. The pilot has seen the fire or a tower called it in.
“YHH calling Cassel. You want me to put on the bucket?”
Carl lifts a radio. “Negative YHH,” he replies. “Pick me up at the road.”
“Send the bombers!” I holler. Too late — Carl’s no longer transmitting.
Reluctantly, he turns away from the fire. “Time to go, Porter.”
He moves past me, tries to open the truck door. “Okay, give me the keys.”
“They’re gone,” I say quietly, watching the flames.
Carl grabs my arm. “Stop kidding around, Porter —”
He rummages through my pockets, looking for keys. I lean on the truck, watch the sway of the fire, flames leaping high above the treetops. Even at this distance, I can feel the heat. If the wind were blowing the other way, we’d already be dead. Carl swears — I barely hear him over the howl of the fire. Mixed with the roar of burning trees is the thump of a circling helicopter — two sounds which in my mind always exist together. Then I can’t stand anymore and begin to fall. Carl’s arm is around my waist, holding me up. I stumble beside him through the trees, nearly pulling us both down. Ahead on the road the helicopter waits, powered up, its rotors buzzing like an immense angry insect. I’m deafened by the scream of the turbo engine as Carl helps me inside then climbs in next to me.
The ground tilts and drops away. Below us, the inferno is already several acres and running in the treetops, soon to be beyond our suppression capability, creating its own weather, turning day into night. As we go higher, I see more fires — a line of similar spots growing together, driving east. Carl has his blazing conflagration. But he’s not watching his creation. He’s staring at his hands, smeared with blood from when he helped me into the helicopter.
He gives me an anguished look. “Jesus Christ, Porter —”
I notice too late that he isn’t wearing his seatbelt and when he opens the door the most I can do is a frantic, grasping fumble. The helicopter rocks suddenly and he’s gone, the door rattling in the wind. “What the hell was that?” yells the pilot, looking back over his shoulder. For a few seconds I’m too stunned to do anything but watch the chattering door.
Finally, I manage to pull on my headset.
“He fell,” I say slowly. “He didn’t have his belt on.”
30
I WANT TO GO to the ranger station but they take me straight to the hospital. Nurse Betty has been expecting me and I receive a stern reprimand — I’ve opened the wound again and risked infection, not to mention bleeding to death. The doctor is equally unimpressed, seeing his handiwork undone. I’m patched up, given another shot of painkillers and shown to my room. Rachet is waiting for me. He stands as they wheel me in, watches them tuck me into bed, hook up the machines.
“Christ, Cassel,” he says as the nurse leaves. “You just can’t stay away from this stuff.”
“You told me to stick to forest fires.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Well you sure got one going now.”
“How big is it?”
“Big,” he says expressively. “And getting bigger.”
“You get everyone out of the way?”
“I think so. You made a good call.”
“What about my sister and her kids?”
“They never left town. One of the kids wasn’t feeling well.”
I lie back, let out a sigh of relief.
“About Mr. Mackey,” Rachet says. “What exactly happened?”
“He was the one starting the fires,” I admit. “I didn’t figure it out until the end.”
“That’s usually how it goes. I’m sorry it had to be your friend.”
I picture Carl in his buckskin jacket. Sitting in The Corral. At the duty desk. “So am I.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Overtime,” I lie. “He needed the overtime.”
“Hell of a way to get a few extra hours.”
We’re both silent for a minute. The painkillers have reached their full potential; I think they gave me a double this time, to keep me in bed. I blink hard, try to remain conscious. Rachet drums his fingers on the side of my hospital bed. “Tell me about Mr. Mackey’s fall.”
I’m tempted to tell him that I think it started years ago, and that I should have noticed. “He didn’t put his seatbelt on,” I say. “He was peering down at the fire as we lifted off, trying to get a good look. I think he was leaning against the door and it popped open as we banked to that side. He just lost his balance.”
“He lost his balance?”
“I think so, but I can’t be sure. I was a little distracted.”
“I heard an interesting theory,” Rachet says slowly. “One of my colleagues, a Mr. Kirby — I believe you know him. Apparently, he had this notion that whoever was lighting the fires could also be the Lorax. Said there was a possible connection as far as motive might be concerned. Went so far as to suggest it might be worth looking into.”
“That was my suggestion,” I say, looking directly at Rachet. “A misguided notion.”
“You’re sure?” He’s trying hard to read me.
“I didn’t push my friend out of the helicopter.”
He looks at me hard a few more seconds, then smiles ruefully. “Of course not.”
I think that was the question he was waiting to ask because he leaves soon after, unconvinced. For Rachet, nothing is ever over until the evidence has been logged and the case makes it through court. He’s going to be disappointed this time.
I wake the next morning to a familiar face. She’s wearing a dress.
“How long have you been here?” I ask groggily, lifting my head.
She smiles, comes to the edge of the bed and offers me her hand. “Let’s start again,” she says. “From the beginning. My name is Christina Telson, and I’m a journalist, but this isn’t an interview. I’m not a vegetarian and I didn’t grow up on a farm. In fact, hamburgers are my favourite food and I have only a vague inkling where they come from.”
