Chasing Fire Part 38

"Holy s.h.i.+tfire!"

"Burns like a helitorch." Struggling with laughter, Rowan ate more sausage. "It may scorch some brain cells while it's at it, but it fires through the bloodstream. You've been purified, my child."

"He's not going to speak in tongues, is he?" Gull asked.

"Holy s.h.i.+tfire. That's a drink. All it needs is a shot of bourbon. Man, makes me sweat."

Fascinated, Gull watched sweat pop out on Dobie's red face. "Flus.h.i.+ng out the toxins, I guess. What the h.e.l.l's in there?"

"She won't tell. She makes you start with the M-and-M Breakfast-Motrin and Move-Free-with a full gla.s.s of water, then drink that, eat toast, drink more water."

"Said I had to do my run, too."

"Yeah." Rowan nodded at Dobie. "And by lunchtime, you'll feel mostly human and be able to eat. Somebody ought to drag Stovic down here- and Yangtree. Hey, Cards," she said when he walked in. "How about hauling Stovic's and Yangtree's pitiful a.s.ses down here so we can pour some of Marg's hangover antidote into them?"

He said nothing until he'd taken the chair beside hers, angled it toward her.

"L.B. just got word from the cops. The rangers found a gun, half buried a few yards from where they found the preacher's car. They ran it. It's one of Brakeman's."

"Well." Deliberately she spread huckleberry jelly on a breakfast biscuit. "I guess that answers that." "They went to pick him up this morning. He's gone, his truck's gone." Jelly dripped off her knife as she stared at him. "You don't mean as in gone to work."

"No. It looks like he took camping gear, a shotgun, a rifle, two handguns and a whole h.e.l.l of a lot of ammo. His wife said she didn't know where he'd gone, or that he'd packed up in the first place. I don't know if they believe her or not, but from what L.B. says, n.o.body seems to have the first G.o.dd.a.m.n clue where he is."

"I thought-I heard they were going to take him in after the funeral yesterday."

"For questioning, yeah. But he has a lawyer and all that, and until they had the gun, Ro, they didn't have anything on him for this s.h.i.+t." "For Christ's sake,"

Gull exploded. "Didn't they have him under surveillance?"

"I don't know. I don't know d.i.c.k-all about it, Gull. But L.B. says he wants you to stay on base, Ro, unless we catch a fire. He wants you to stay inside as much as possible until we know what the f.u.c.k. And he doesn't want to hear any carping about it."

"I'll work in the loft."

"They'll get him, Ro. It won't take them long." "Sure."

He gave her arm an awkward pat. "I'll roust Yangtree and Stovic. It'll be fun watching the smoke come out of their ears when they drink the hangover cure."

In the silence that followed Cards's exit, Dobie got up, poured himself coffee.

"I'm going to say this 'cause I have a lot of respect for you. And because Gull's got more than that for you. If I took off into the hills back home, if I had the gear-h.e.l.l, even without it, but if I had the gear, a good gun, a good knife, I could live up there for months. n.o.body'd find me I didn't want finding me." Rowan made herself continue eating. "They'll find his truck, maybe, but they won't find him. He'll lose himself in the Bitterroots, or the Rockies. His wife'll lose her home. She put it up for his bond, and he just f.u.c.king broke that. I didn't believe he'd done it-or not Dolly. He's running, and left his wife and granddaughter twisting in the wind. He abandoned them.

"I hope he screws up." She shoved to her feet. "I hope he screws up and they catch him, and they toss him in a hole for the rest of his life. I'll be in the loft, sewing G.o.dd.a.m.n Smitty bags."

As she stomped out, Dobie dumped three heaping spoons of sugar into his coffee. "How do you want to play this, son?" "Intellectually, I don't think Brakeman's coming back around here, or worrying about Rowan right now."

"Mmm-hmm. How do you want to play it?"

He looked over. Sometimes the most unlikely person became the most trusted friend. "When we're on base, somebody's with her, round the clock. We make sure she has plenty to do inside. But she needs to get out. If we hole her in, she'll blow. I guess we mix up the routine. We usually run in the mornings, early. We'll start running in the evening."

"If everybody wore caps, sungla.s.ses, it'd be a little harder to tell who's who at a distance. The trouble is, that woman's built like a brick s.h.i.+thouse. You just can't hide that talent. I don't guess she'd transfer to West Yellowstone, or maybe over to Idaho for a stretch."

"No. She'd see that as running. Abandonment." "Maybe. But maybe not, if you went, too."

"She's not there yet, Dobie."

Dobie pursed his lips, watching Gull as he drank coffee. "But you are?" Gull stared down at his half-eaten breakfast. "f.u.c.king lupines."

"What the h.e.l.l's lupines?" Gull just shook his head. "Yeah, I'm there," he said as he got to his feet.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it." Southern, Gibbons and Janis came in, still sweaty from PT, as Gull stormed out. "What's that about?" Gibbons demanded.

"Sit down, boys and girls, and I'll tell you."

TEMPER BUBBLING, Gull tracked down L.B. outside a hangar in conversation with one of the pilots. "How the f.u.c.k did this happen?"

"Do you think I didn't ask the same d.a.m.n thing?" L.B. tossed back. "Do you think I'm not p.i.s.sed off?"

"I don't care if you're p.i.s.sed off. I want some answers."

L.B. jerked a thumb, headed away from the hangar and toward one of the service roads. "If you want to jump somebody's a.s.s, find a cop. They're the ones who screwed this up."

"I want to know how."

"You want to know how? I'll tell you how." L.B. picked up a palm-sized rock, heaved it. "They had two cops outside the Brakeman house. s.h.i.+t, probably looking at skin mags and eating donuts."

He found another rock, heaved that. "My f.u.c.king brother's a cop, over in Helena, and I know he doesn't do that s.h.i.+t. But G.o.dd.a.m.n it." Gull leaned over, picked up a rock, offered it. "Go ahead." "Thanks." After hurling it, L.B. rolled his shoulder. "They were out in the front, watching the house. Brakeman's truck is around the side, under a carport. So he loads it up sometime in the middle of the night, then he pushes it right across the backyard, cuts a truck-sized hole in the frigging fence, then pushes it right across the neighbor's yard to the road. Then G.o.d knows where he went."

"And the cops don't see the truck's gone until this morning." "No, they f.u.c.king don't."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"It's an answer. I do better with answers. She's third load. Can you put her on Ops if we get a call for one or two?"

"Yeah." L.B. picked up another rock, just stared at it a moment, then dropped it again. "I'd figured on it. I just wanted to wait until she'd cooled off." "I'll tell her."

"She's been known to kill the messenger. That's why I sent Cards," L.B. added with a slow smile. "He's just off the DL, so I figured she'd take it easy on him."

"That's why you're chief."

Gull swung by the barracks to grab a c.o.ke, considered, and though he thought it the lamest form of camouflage outside a Groucho mustache, he grabbed caps and sungla.s.ses.

On the way to the loft, he pulled out his phone, called Lucas.

Since most of the unit was doing PT or still at breakfast, he found only a handful working in the loft along with Rowan. She inspected, gore by gore, a canopy hanging in the tower. "Busy," she said shortly.

He tipped the c.o.ke from side to side. "You know you're jonesing by now."

"Very busy." Using tweezers, she removed some pine needles lodged in the cloth. "Fine, I'll drink it." He popped the top. "L.B. wants you in Ops if we catch a fire." She jerked around. "He's not grounding me."

"I didn't say that. You're third load, so unless we catch a holocaust, you're probably not going to jump on the first call. You're a qualified a.s.sistant Ops manager, aren't you?"

She grabbed the c.o.ke from him, gulped some down. "Yeah." She shoved it back at him, returned to her inspection. "Thanks for letting me know." "No problem. About this situation."

"I don't want or need to be rea.s.sured, protected, advised or-"

"Jesus, shut up." He shook his head at the ceiling towering above, took another drink. "You shut up."

He had to grin. "I'm rubber; you're glue. You really want to sink that low? I don't think Brakeman's your problem."

"I'm not worried about him. I can take care of myself, and I'm not stupid. I've got plenty to keep me busy, here, in manufacturing, in the gym when I'm not out on a fire."

Meticulously she removed a twig, marked a small, one-inch tear for repair before she lowered the apex to examine higher areas.

"Last night, Brakeman eluded two cops by pus.h.i.+ng his full-size pickup across his backyard, cutting a fence, pus.h.i.+ng it across another yard until he reached the road. He loaded up everything he'd need to live in the wild. That tells me he's not stupid, either." "So he's not stupid. Points for him."

"But he leaves weapons, twice, so they're easily found. A handgun properly registered to him, a rifle that has his name on it. That's pretty d.a.m.n stupid."

"You're back to thinking he didn't do any of this."

"I'm back to that. I'd rather not be, because this way, we've got nothing. We don't know who or why. Not really. On the other hand, I'm also thinking it's unlikely anyone's going to be using you or the base for target practice.

Unlikely isn't enough, but it's comforting."

"Because it would be stupid for somebody else to shoot at me, when Brakeman's on the run and the cops know what weapons he's got with him."

No, she wasn't stupid, she reminded herself, but she'd been too angry to think clearly. Gull, it seemed, didn't have the same problem.

"But if it's not him, Gull, why is somebody working so hard to make it look like him?"

"Because he's an a.s.shole? Because he's plausible? Because they want to see him go down? Maybe all three. But the point is, you've got to be smart-and you are-but I don't think you have to sweat this."

She nodded, inspected the apex bridle cords, then the vent hoods. "I wasn't sweating it. I'm p.i.s.sed off."

"Your subconscious sweats it, then."

"All right, all right." She inspected the top of each slot, then the anti-inversion net. There she marked a line of broken st.i.tching. Gull waited her out until she'd attached the inspection tag to the riser.

"I guess I have to call my father. Word travels, and he'll get worried." "I talked to him before I came up. We went over it."

"He came by? Why didn't he-" "I called him." She faced him with one quick pivot. "You did what? What do you mean calling my father about all this before I-"

"It's called male bonding. You'll never get it. I believe women are as capable as men, deserve equal pay-and that one day, should be sooner than later, in my opinion, the right woman can and should be leader of the free world. But you can't understand the male bonding rituals any more than men can understand why the vast majority of women are obsessed with shoes and other footwear."

"I'm not obsessed with shoes, so don't try to make this something cultural or- or gender-based."

"You have three pairs of jump boots. Two is enough. You have four pairs of running shoes. Again, two's plenty."

"I'm breaking in a third pair of jump boots before the first pair gets tossed so I don't get boot-bit. And I have four pairs of running shoes because .

. . you're trying to distract me from the point."

"Yes, but I'm not done. You also have hiking boots-two pairs-three pairs of sandals and three of really s.e.xy heels. And this is just on base. G.o.d knows what you've got in your closet at home."

"You've been counting my shoes? Talk about obsessed."

"I'm just observant. Lucas wants you to call him when you get a chance. Leave him a text or voice message if he's in the air, and he'll come by to see you tonight. He likes knowing I've got your back. You'd have mine, wouldn't you?"

he asked before she could snap at him. So she sighed. "Yes. You defeat me with your reason and your diatribe over shoes. Over which I am not obsessed." "You also have a good dozen pairs of earrings, none of which you wear routinely. But we can discuss that another time." "Oh, go away. Go study something."

"You could give me a rigging lesson. I want to work on getting certified."

"Maybe. Come back in an hour, and we'll-"

When the siren sounded she stepped back. "I guess not. I'm switching to Ops." "I'll walk you over. Here."

He handed her her cap and sungla.s.ses, then put on his own while she frowned at them. "What is this?"

"A disguise." He grinned at her. "Dobie wants you to wear them. Let's give him a break, or he might order fake mustaches and clown noses off the Internet."

She rolled her eyes, but put them on. "And what, this makes us look like twins? Where are your t.i.ts?" "You're wearing them, and may I say they look spectacular on you."

"I can't disagree with that. Still, everybody should stop worrying about Rowan and do their jobs." By four P.M., she was jumping fire, doing hers.

CHAPTER 23

July burned. Hot and dry, the wild ignited, inflamed by lightning strikes, negligence, an errant spark bellowed by a gust of wind.

For eighteen straight days and nights Zulies jumped and fought fire. In Montana, in Idaho, Colorado, California, the Dakotas, New Mexico. Bodies shed weight, lived with pain, exhaustion, injury, battling in canyons, on ridges, in forests.

The constant war left little time to think about what lived outside the fire. The manhunt for Leo Brakeman heading into its third week hardly mattered when the enemy shot firebrands the size of cannonb.a.l.l.s or swept on turbulent winds over barriers so effortfully created.

Along with her crew, Rowan rushed up the side of Mount Blackmore, like a battalion charging into h.e.l.l. Beside her another tree torched off, spewing embers like flaming confetti. They felled burning trees on the charge, sawed and cut the low-hanging branches the fire could climb like snakes.