Day Into Night (41 page)

Hanlon is nodding. “What makes you think he knows that?” “He knows what he’s doing. Think about his other fires.” “Yeah, real burners,” he says. “I was on that Vermilion fire.” Hanlon is leaning on the desk. I turn the screen so he can see better but he’s too intent to back off. “By the looks of this,” he says, “that Vermilion fire was a picnic compared to what this could be.”

I run a few more simulations. They’re all frightening. “If you think you can stop him,” Hanlon says. “You better try.” “You manage to get any more helicopters?” He shakes his head. “They said they weren’t prepared to reallocate resources based on a hunch. They’ve got too much real fire going up north, even had the nerve to ask if I really need the two machines I got left.”

I think of Cindy and the kids, tripping through the woods.

“You call the cops?”

“Yeah —” He hesitates.

“What?”

“They didn’t seem too concerned when they heard your name.”

I grab the phone, call the local detachment, suffer through an overly polite, bilingual, politically correct receptionist. “Is Andre Rachet there?”

“No sir, Mr. Rachet has departed.”

“What’s his mobile number?”

“I’m not at liberty —”

“Put me through. It’s an emergency.”

A stiff silence, then: “I’ll put you through to the duty officer.”

A click, then a casual voice. “Bergren here. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“This is the duty officer at the Forest Service. I have reason to believe a serial arsonist is in the area and intends to start a significant fire in the next few hours.”

“What is your name sir?”

I hesitate. “Porter Cassel.”

“Cassel —” His tone changes. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?”

“Never mind that. I’m a fast healer. We’ve got a situation here —”

“You’re not calling from the hospital are you?”

I grind my teeth. “No, I’m not calling from the hospital —”

“Because this better not be a prank. We still got plenty —”

“Listen Bergren, you may not think much of my contribution to your investigation but I know fire and I can tell you this. The bush out here is drier and more dangerous than it’s been in a century, which is about the frequency of large fires in this area. Most of our suppression resources have been moved out of the area to fight fires up north. The guy who’s been lighting the fires knows this and if he starts a fire today that fire is going to be at your doorstep by nightfall. There are a lot of people camped out in the bush and if the shit hits the fan they’ll be trying to get out at the same time. You ever been in the city during rush hour? Well if you think a few thousand office workers trying to get home is a big problem, imagine them driving motorhomes. Then imagine a one-lane dirt road and a wall of flame two hundred feet high, chasing them. You getting the picture?”

There’s a brief silence. “Yeah, I can picture that. What do you want us to do?”

“Evacuate the campgrounds, do crowd control, make sure everyone is safe.”

There’s a longer pause. “Okay, we can handle that. What are you guys doing?”

“The only thing we can. We’re getting ready for the fire.”

After I hang up, Hanlon looks paler. “You really think it’ll happen?”

“I hope to God I’m wrong.”

“If you’re wrong, they’ll crucify you.”

I don’t answer. If I’m right and can’t stop Carl, there’ll be no way to stop the fire.

For a few minutes, Hanlon and I sit together listening to the radios squelch and crackle, overwhelmed by the task ahead. My leg is throbbing.

“I need a helicopter, Gary. Right away.”

Hanlon stands, goes to the window of the duty room. It’s windy outside, plastic bags and trashcans rolling past like tumble weeds. It gets much windier it’ll be difficult to fly. He watches the street for a few more minutes.

“There’s a machine based at the tower,” he says. “Call him in.”

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.