Hotshots (20 page)

The flatness of the valley and the road pointing toward the mountains were familiar. It wasn't that
I'd
been in similar sites in New Mexico, although I had. It was that I'd seen this valley before—from the air. The Forest Service helicopter flew over here before it descended into South Canyon. Anyone below could have seen the chopper fly over and land, identifying it as belonging to the Forest Service. A helicopter's insistent buzz is hard to ignore. It's an annoying mosquito. It's a traffic reporter covering a Big-I wreck. It's the sound of surveillance. It's the sound of war. The peak in front of me was the top of Thunder Mountain. If I looked carefully I could see the black.

The road began to climb. The grass turned to piñon and juniper. My ears popped. Piñon-juniper became aspen. I didn't meet another car, which was fortunate because the road was only wide enough for one. This road got so little traffic it hardly even had ruts. My thirty-eight was on the floor, but being out here in the woods made me wish I had a rifle across my rear window. While I was wondering if my thirty-eight could shoot as far as the listening device could hear, the road took a sudden dip. I came up the other side and faced a rock the size of a wall. One fork of the road went to the left of the rock, the other bore right. The left fork had been defaced by hand-painted signs that read “Keep Out,” “No Trespassing,” and “Not Responsible for Accidents on Private Property.” That sign had been pockmarked by bullets. The road on the right said nothing. I took it, looking for somewhere to leave the Nissan.

When I found a place I could pull off I parked, closing the door quietly and locking it. I put the thirty-eight in my backpack and began walking through the woods looking for the “Keep Out” road, listening to the sound of a gurgling stream. When you're lost in the woods the best way out is to find water and follow the flow. I wasn't lost yet, but I'm always drawn to the sound of running water. There are times in New Mexico when I miss water—I'll admit it—but there were times in the East when I thought I'd die without sun. I reached the stream at a place where it could be crossed easily by stepping on stones. When I got to the other side I followed the water until it lapped up against the back side of the rock and formed a pool. The sun was still a couple of steps ahead of the clouds and it turned the water the color of Jack Daniel's. Light reflected from the surface of the pool and flickered across the rock, making it appear to be on fire. I dropped a stone into the pool and watched the rippling circles spread. But the reflections on the rock's surface were less predictable. They boiled and churned and curled in and out of the rough spots like smoke until a cloud covered the sun and put the light show out.

The stream split at the rock. I took the north fork, followed it to a culvert that went under the “Keep Out” road, and continued on the road, staying close to the edge of the forest in case I heard someone coming and needed to duck for cover. I heard nothing but leaves rustling, squirrels chattering, and my footsteps crunching the dirt. The clouds and the sun were doing a little dance, lending me a shadow and taking it away again. I'd walked for about a mile when I saw the sun, which had escaped temporarily from the clouds, beaming into a clearing ahead. I entered the woods and circled around the clearing, keeping trees between me and the open space. When I reached a spot where the undergrowth
was
thick, I got down on my knees and crawled through the brush until I could see into the clearing. I saw a cabin made out of boards that had weathered old-barn gray. The windows had small panes with the opacity of one-way glass. The cabin had a metal chimney, a steep tin roof that the snow would slide off, and a woodpile that was several cords thick. There was a garden with cornstalks tall enough to hide a marijuana patch and staked tomato plants the size of a man. I was looking at subsistence living, maybe even survivalist living. It was the kind of place the FBI likes to stake out and shoot up. Inside an open shed a chain saw, a bunch of tools, and a plow were visible. Parked behind the house was a relatively new brown Ford truck with Colorado plates and a rifle leveled across the rear window of the cab.

I aimed my eavesdropping device at the cabin, turned it on, plugged in the earphones, and heard nothing but the leaves rustling in the trees—which I'd been hearing without the device. Hoping the batteries hadn't gone dead, I gave it a shake, turned it off, then on again, listened, and heard the distant but distinct sound of a cough and a man's voice swearing. Someone was in the house and someone had coughed, reminding me that I hadn't had a Ricola since I'd left the car. I unwrapped one and popped it in my mouth, turned the device off to save the batteries, then lay down on my stomach and settled in to wait. I'd left earlier than intended, but it had taken longer than I expected to find Jake's cabin.

Waiting isn't my forte. I can do it when I have to but this wasn't a very comfortable wait. The clouds had taken possession of the sun and the air had the damp, charged feeling that precedes a hard rain. A fly buzzed in and out of my hair and ants crawled up my legs. I rested my head on my arm and snuggled into the ground, trying not to cough or scratch. My arm went numb, but there was no way to shake some feeling back into it without standing up and blowing my cover. I couldn't see any sign of Jake, but that didn't mean he wasn't inside looking out through the panes of one-way glass.

It wasn't long before wheels came barreling down the road. Ramona's, I hoped. The vehicle I saw through the underbrush was her white truck and she was alone in it. She stepped out, slammed the door behind her, and the sound resounded like a rifle volley through the clear mountain air. It couldn't have been often that Jake Sorrell heard a vehicle approach. That would have brought him out if the sound of the slammed door hadn't.

As he stepped from the darkness of the cabin into the light I saw that Jake Sorrell was my man. He walked toward Ramona with a slight limp that I hadn't noticed when we'd met in McDonald's. He and Ramona hugged. He was wearing black, and next to her he looked even frailer than he had earlier.

I turned on my listening device and heard her say, “Hi, Jackie.”

“Hey, Ramona.”

They stepped apart. Ramona stood in front of him with her arms at her sides, a sturdy, steady figure in her faded jeans.

“How are you?” Jake asked. His gravelly voice crackled though my eavesdropper like static.

“
I'm okay.” Her voice had its measured softness. “Your garden's looking good.”

“It's coming along. How's Hanna?”

“She's good. You don't look well today.”

“It's the weather. Whenever there's a front moving in I hurt. Why did you come back? There's trouble?”

Ramona nodded. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody saw a truck like yours in the drainage the day of the fire.”

“Who told you that?” He raised his head and the hair fell away from his thin face.

“The lawyer who is working for the Barkers. She said she talked to you when she was in Oro.”

“That's who that woman was? The Barkers' lawyer?”

“Yes. She went back to the East Canyon Sunday and talked to some bird watchers. They're the ones who told her they saw the truck.”

“Did they get a license plate number?”

“I don't know.”

“They can't trace the truck if they don't have a license number,” Jake said.

“The lawyer said that because of what happened at Lone Ridge and because you are connected to Forest Sentinels the arson investigator will be looking for you.”

“Forest Sentinels wasn't involved. Nobody will be able to pin anything on them. They don't even know I did it.”

“She said that sooner or later the investigators will find out about the truck and they will find you.”

“Don't worry.” Jake pushed his hair back and smiled slightly. “I can be gone long before they get here.”

“Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

“The arson investigators will keep on looking for you. They know the fire was started by a firefighter. They suspect Mike Marshall. They suspect Eric and Nancy Barker.” What she didn't say was that she had been the prime suspect. “We were all on the mountain that day”

Jake looked down at the ground. His voice turned into a mumble that I needed total concentration to pick up. “You gotta believe that I didn't know any of you were there,” he said.

“I believe you. I already told you that.”

“When I heard the helicopter I thought it was more Forest Service investigators going back to do more studies, to write another report. Did you ever read what they said?”

She
shook her head. “No.”

“They blamed the hotshots.”

“I know.”

“If they'd used my report, nobody would have ever died at South Canyon. The Incident Commander never would have sent a crew in there if he'd been educated about Gambel oak. Joni Barker died because the Forest Service put her life and every other firefighter's life at risk. And for what? To save somebody's goddamn house. Joni was murdered as sure as if they'd put a gun to her head. She was one of the best people who ever lived. The Forest Service fucked up and then they blamed the victims. I was out here when the helicopter went overhead. I cracked. I wanted that house to burn. I wanted the Forest Service investigators to suffer the way Joni and the others did.”

Ramona looked around the clearing in the woods. “You stayed here too long, Jackie, alone with your grief. That's not the way out. Having Hanna and my family has helped me so much. The man who died in the fire had children. He had people who cared about him.”

“What do you think I should do? Turn myself in?”

“It will go better for you if you work with them. The lawyer could find someone to represent you.”

“I could disappear.” He smiled. “I'm good at that.”

“Disappearing won't restore the balance. When there is trouble I go back to the reservation. You could come with me. Talk to the elders.”

The wind was picking up and rustling Jake's cornstalks. “I would never have deliberately endangered you or Mike or Nancy and Eric Barker,” he said.

“It's all right, Jackie. We know fire. We weren't in danger.”

“Does anybody know you're here?”

“Only the lawyer.”

“Did you tell her you knew what I had done?”

“I didn't tell anybody. I will never tell anybody.” She spoke with a ferocity that convinced me.

“Thanks.” He touched her arm. “Let me think and decide what to do.”

“All right,” she said.

“Can you stay?”

“No. I have to get back to Hanna.”

“I'll go into town and call you when I am ready. You want to take some tomatoes back with you?”

“Okay.”

Jake went into the garden and came back with an armful of ripe tomatoes. Nothing tastes as good
as
a tomato fresh from the garden, but neither of them took a bite. Ramona put hers in the truck, got in the driver's seat, and headed back down the road. Jake kept one. He stood still, tossing it from one hand to the other and staring after Ramona. When her truck could no longer be heard tearing up the road, he caught the tomato in his right hand and squeezed it until all the juice, seeds, and pulp ran out. Then he went back in his cabin.

Lightning flashed near Thunder Mountain and I wondered what he'd do next. Being in a fire can damage a person badly. So can seeing your friends die, and so can killing someone. Jake was responsible for one house torched and Tom Hogue's death. He'd known the Forest Service was on the mountain. A good case could be made for premeditation. He might decide to get himself a lawyer, cop a plea, and exonerate Ramona. He might load up his truck, hit the road, and disappear. He might think Ramona was the only one who stood between him and jail. I'd believed her when she said she wouldn't turn him in. It could makes things very difficult for her, except that I had Jake's confession on tape. It was in her and my clients' best interests to get my tape to Sheila McGraw. I put it in my backpack and headed for my car.

24

T
HE THICK
,
DAMP
air settled like a weight upon my shoulders and head. My backpack felt heavier going out than it had coming in, although the contents remained the same. Drops of rain spattered the leaves and pinged the ground. At the moment it was a gentle rain. The Navajos speak of a he-rain and a she-rain. This one felt like a she. I figured I had about a mile to go before I reached the stream that would lead me to my Nissan. I made my way through the woods, mostly aspen, listening to the sound of my footsteps and the sound of the rain until the whooshing, rustling sounds were interrupted by the roar of a vehicle racing down the “Keep Out” road. A door slammed. I hoped it wasn't Ramona coming back. Jake Sorrell had been relatively calm on the outside, but inwardly he had to be a guilt-ridden, desperate man. I stopped and listened, wanting to go forward, wondering if I should go back. After a few minutes the door slammed again and a vehicle sped back down the road.

I continued hiking, one foot in front of the other. An aspen forest isn't as dense as some others. The slender trunks are a silvery color and in the rain the spaces between the trees fill up with shadows and ghosts. I was listening for the smooth sound of the rushing water that would guide me out of the woods when I heard the sharp sound of a twig snap behind me. I spun around, and saw nothing but tree trunks and leaves. I started walking again, but more lightly this time, doing as little as possible to rustle the leaves. I went a few yards further and heard another snap, only this one was louder and closer, a bigger branch, a heavier foot. Even the most dangerous animal you might encounter in the woods—a bear—is only dangerous if you come upon one unexpectedly. Bears don't stalk people. The only animal likely to be stalking me was another human. I thought about taking my thirty-eight out of my pack, but a gun is useless if you can't see what's coming, and I didn't want to give in to paranoia. There was a possibility that Ramona was out there and too much harm can be done by a paranoid with a gun. I called out, “Who's there?” But only the rain answered.