The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

I was flattered but not interested in the job. I was anxious to try my new one with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. He continued, “There’ve been no verified sightings of Muhammad, but we did learn something interesting. Carl Gunderson withdrew $9,900 in cash from his account at a Chase Bank branch just before it closed at one o’clock this afternoon. We assume it was for his son, but Mr. Gunderson is not talking. Muhammad may have started his escape shortly after he got the money from his dad. We’ve got everyone we can think of looking for him, but he may have a ten hour head start.”

  “Has there been any news about Ali Jumblatt? I still think we should pick him up for questioning,” I said, not mentioning my call to Linda Surrett. Going around the taskforce and the Phoenix FBI office would not be popular. There was no reason to bring it up at this point. Maybe Linda would be overruled.

  “A woman who works nearby said that the sign about an illness in the family was on the door when she arrived at work at 9:45. Ali may be connected to the fires, or he might be a victim of Muhammad because he knew too much. We’ll spend some more time on checking him out tomorrow.”

  Major Ross and I discussed the case for a few more minutes until I said, “I’m going down to the Sedona office to ride out the storm. Call me if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  CHAPTER 39

  As I left the building, I could smell wood smoke in the still air. It was the quiet before the storm. To the south, an orange glow lit the horizon. Overhead, only the shadowy orb of the moon and the red/orange spot of Mars penetrated the haze. The Flagstaff streets were almost deserted a little after midnight on a Saturday night, and the drive down 89A was very different than the angry traffic jam that I passed through on my way to the sheriff’s office. I heard myself humming Hotel California. I was in a good mood because of the promotion and relieved at not needing to terminate a lot of good people in the Sedona office.

  About a mile before the switchbacks that take Highway 89A a thousand feet down into Oak Creek Canyon, the traffic slowed. A tow truck passed hauling a minivan. At least they were able to assist motorists now. The traffic came to a complete halt for five minutes and then we began to move forward at about five miles an hour. No cars passed heading for Flagstaff for several minutes, and I realized there must be an accident that was slowing progress. I gradually worked my way to the top of the switchbacks, driving twenty feet forward and then stopping again.

  From the edge of the canyon, I could see the lightning flashes of the approaching storm. The wind had picked up and cleared the air as it pushed the smoke from the Happy Jack fire straight north and away from Oak Creek Canyon. I could hear the swish of the wind through the pine trees over the hum of my idling engine and see the motion of the treetops where headlights illuminated them. The air felt electric and smelled of vanilla-scented ponderosa and ozone.

  About half way down the switchbacks, I found one of the Flagstaff deputies directing traffic around an SUV that had smashed into a projecting sandstone wall that formed the inside of one of the sharp turns. The deputy had things under control, but there would be a rather long wait for the next tow truck because of the traffic stacked up behind me. The driver wasn’t hurt; he was very lucky to have crashed on the inside of the turn because on the other side he would have fallen 200 feet into the switchback below.

  I was able to pick up speed once I’d passed the accident, but a long line of cars stretched well over a mile in the lane headed toward Flagstaff. Down by Oak Creek, the full moon was obstructed by the canyon wall, and the lightning to the south was even more prominent in the heightened darkness. I suppressed a yawn and began to hum again. This time it was Yellow Submarine.

  I passed it without immediate recognition, maybe because I was thinking of the toast with Chad and the celebration with Margaret that would come when I got home. I wasn’t driving fast, so I was only a hundred yards past the vehicle when my tired and preoccupied mind made the connection. I jerked my Explorer into the next turnoff. I’d stopped about two hundred feet from the truck.

  My heart was pulsing with adrenalin and any thought of sleep was gone. In that fraction of a second, I had seen a white delivery van with its hood up, one of four stalled vehicles I’d driven by since I’d passed the traffic bottleneck. When my headlights illuminated the truck, the markings on its side had briefly been visible. There was an Indian palace painted in green and writing in a florid script.

  I tried my cell phone, but it was useless in this section of the canyon. I got the satellite phone from my crime scene backpack, but it was also useless with the thousand foot high walls on either side blocking access to the proper satellite. I grabbed my flashlight, my vest, and service pistol and rushed back along the busy road to where the truck was parked. It was unoccupied and the back was locked with a padlock.

  After several attempts to stop motorists who fled in terror from being accosted on a dark and stormy night by an armed man, I managed to stop a young man driving towards Sedona. He agreed to stop at the first opportunity and call for backup for me.

  I spent a few seconds examining the environment with my flashlight. Across the road from the truck was a rusted steel sign marking a trailhead. This was a trail that I’d never hiked, but I could see it would lead directly up the steep eastern slope of the canyon. In the 1880’s, homesteaders had built half a dozen similar trails to get their stock and produce up to Flagstaff.

  In the dark, it was difficult to tell for certain, but I thought this was the spot where Chad and I had noticed the grove of ponderosa that had been killed by bark beetle. The steep canyon wall led out of Oak Creek Canyon to the dense forest on the rim. If so, this was the most dangerous possible location for a fire. The canyon walls and strong winds would carry a crown fire up to the dense forest south of Flagstaff within minutes. It was also a nightmare place for a fire because hundreds of motorists were trapped upwind waiting to get around the accident on the switchbacks. The van was pointed toward Sedona for a quicker escape, and I wondered if they had something to do with the accident that I’d passed.

  The wind blasted at me, and lightning flashed nearby as the storm approached. It was not possible to wait for backup; the risk was too high. I crossed to the trailhead and my flashlight lit the old sign: HARDING SPRINGS TRAIL. Icy fingers kneaded my spine, and I uttered an unprintable Ozzy Osbourne obscenity. More than three hundred of Arizona’s most experienced firefighters and hot shot crew members had moved with all of their equipment to a safe area on the west side of I-17 to shelter from the onrushing monsoon storm. Their rest camp was at Harding Springs. This trail led directly up the side of Oak Creek Canyon to the area where these men and women were sheltering from the strong winds in their tents and vehicles.

  Margaret and I do a lot of hiking, including the very strenuous trails at the Grand Canyon. Even though I’m on the down side of middle aged, I charged up the vertical trail at a run with my weapon in my right hand. The flashes of lightning were my only illumination. With the noise from the storm, I might be able to get close, but I couldn’t allow my flashlight to be seen. I was dealing with religious fanatics who might light the fire even if they couldn’t escape it themselves. After climbing a hundred feet above the headlights on 89A, the smell of pine and the coming storm was replaced with a new much stronger odor. Gasoline had been spread on several dead trees near the trail. I stopped and listened for any indication of the direction the arsonists might have taken.

  Between the gust of wind and rumble of thunder I heard a deep voice that faded in and out say, “Therefore we will not fear … though the mountains should shake in the heart of the seas; though … mountains tremble with its tumult.”

  I was momentarily taken aback by the voice. It was not the voice of Muhammad al-Mukhtar chanting in Arabic. It was not the silky voice of Ali Jumblatt the merchant. It was the mellow minister’s baritone of Morgan Campbell. I moved through the steep forest towards the direction of the prayer.

  “Why do you boast, O mighty man, of mischief do
ne against the godly?” the guiding voice intoned. “All the day you are plotting destruction. Your tongue is like a sharp razor, you worker of treachery.” I heard a sharp slap, as if someone had been slugged in the face. The guiding voice stopped.

  Lightning struck nearby, and I was momentarily disoriented by the sound and flash. I wasn’t sure whether to move upslope or down to reach Morgan Campbell, and the little night vision I had was gone. I paused, waiting for a sign to indicate which way to move.

  The voice came again from the darkness above me. “Deliver me from my enemies, O my God, protect me from those who rise up against me, deliver me from those who work evil, and save me from bloodthirsty men...”

  By the time Morgan Campbell had finished the psalm, I’d reached a tree near him. In the next flash of lightning, I saw Morgan and his wife Deidre chained by their necks to a dead ponderosa. The smell of gasoline was intense; they’d been drenched in it.

  A thunderous flash gave me a clear view of the scene. A glistening trail of gasoline led along the needle-covered ground to a tree forty yards away. Four figures were visible around it. On the ground near the Campbells was a discarded backpack of the type called a camelback. They contain a bladder that can be filled with water that can be drunk through a plastic tube without removing the pack from your back. They’re favored by long distance hikers and bikers, and this large size pack will carry several liters of liquid. That was the source of gasoline.

  During the next flash, I focused on the four figures around a nearby tree. The one who was dousing it with gasoline was Ali Jumblatt. Muhammad was standing nearby watching. The other two figures carried shotguns, resting across their arms and ready for quick use. I didn’t recognize the two men with guns, but they were young with black close-cut hair and dark complexions.

  I assumed that all four men had carried packs and that three of them had already emptied their gasoline. My mind raced for a solution. Without a key to their padlock, there was no quick way to free the Campbells. If I fired a shot, I might start the fire myself, and my chance of getting all four terrorists before they got me or started the fire wasn’t good. If I waited, the terrorists would certainly set the fire now that they’d emptied the last of their gasoline.

  CHAPTER 40

  I crept closer to the Campbells, and Mr. Campbell’s prayer stopped abruptly when he saw me. I whispered, “Which one has the key?”

  “Tommy,” Mrs. Campbell said.

  “Help is on the way,” I said. “Keep up the prayers so they don’t know I’m here.” I admit the prayers were a comfort to me as well as to the Campbells. I thought it might take divine help to get out of this fix.

  Mr. Campbell’s strong voice grew loud enough to be heard over the wind. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers assail me, uttering slanders against me, my adversaries and foes, they shall stumble and fall. Though a host encamp against me, my heart shall not fear…”

  Under the cover of Mr. Campbell’s psalm, the gusty wind, and regular rumble of thunder, I moved down slope to a large tree that would provide some protection from shotguns but be in range with my pistol. The next flash showed me that the four men had also been on the move; they were even farther down the steep canyon wall. Ali Jumblatt was leaning against the tallest tree in the grove with a pistol in his hand. The pistol was pointed up slope, but I couldn’t tell at what.

  Sometimes I’m slow witted. In the next flash of lightning I recognized it was a flare gun like those used as distress signals on boats. He was pointing it at the tree where the last of the gasoline had been spread. It looked like the game was up. I raised my pistol to get off a shot, but it would be a very difficult one at this distance in these conditions. I was too late. He fired, and my shot reached him after the flare was on its way. The target tree burst into flame. I ducked behind my stout ponderosa to avoid two shotgun blasts that scattered shot in the needles all around my hiding place.

  When I looked around the edge of the tree, I could see flames leaping up the side of the target tree and spreading along the trail that led to the dead tree where the Campbells lay chained. I charged uphill and dived on the needle-covered ground, scattering the gasoline saturated soil to temporarily stop the fire’s move to the Campbells’ tree. Even as I extinguished the direct trail, I knew that embers would soon fly from the burning tree and reach the gasoline soaked minister and his wife.

  The Campbells knew it too. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul…” they said the 23rd Psalm in unison, embracing as best they could.

  A shotgun blast stung my lower back with a dozen pellets from a near miss. I rolled, and the second shot missed me. I looked down slope, and I saw three figures running straight down toward the road. The scene was illuminated by the torch of the burning ponderosa and the flashes from the frequent lightning strikes. I knew they were headed for the truck and escape. I couldn’t leave the Campbells to burn as long as there was hope.

  I can’t recall the exact second when it happened, but I remember the feel of my hair standing up. I came to my senses lying on dry needles on a steep slope looking up at a burning tree. I remember thinking, so this is what it feels like to die. I thought I had been hit by a shotgun blast from an unseen adversary. Maybe Ali Jumblatt wasn’t dead, and he got me. I couldn’t move, but I could feel the heat of the approaching fire. I could hear the 23rd Psalm end with, “and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Surely, this was the end.

  The first drop hit. I didn’t recognize it. The second and third drops confused me, but in the next instant a torrent of water choked me. It was a downpour like none I’d ever seen in my fifty-three years as a Californian. Within ten seconds, streams were forming around my head, and I felt myself roll over and come to my knees as if directed by someone else. There was the hiss and sizzle from the burning tree, and when lightning lit the night, I could see smoke and steam coming from a tree much farther down the slope.

  I staggered to my feet and looked up slope at the Campbells. The joy was clear on their faces, but Mr. Campbell said rather smugly, “Go get them.”

  That wasn’t part of a prayer, and after a second, I remembered the terrorists were getting away. I staggered down the slope still woozy. Going straight downhill on the slippery needles and through running streamlets resulted in further abuse to my sore rear and shotgun-pellet-damaged backside. I came to a still smoldering old-growth ponderosa about half way down to the highway. It showed a jagged scar from a lightning bolt. Three bodies lay beneath the ancient tree.

  I pulled the shotguns from the arms of the two dead strangers. When I looked for the padlock key on Muhammad, I felt the faintest of pulses, but he was not breathing. I cradled the innocent looking monster in my arms and administered CPR, keeping him alive with my breath until help could come.

  After ten minutes that seemed like ten hours, I heard Chad calling my name. He was the first on the scene because it was easier to get through the traffic from Sedona than from Flagstaff. The wind was howling and the rain was still coming down in a biblical deluge when he relieved me of the CPR duties. I struggled up to where the Campbells lay chained to a gasoline soaked tree and freed them.

  When they learned the fate of the arsonists, they didn’t seem surprised. Mr. Campbell just nodded as if he’d expected it all along, and said, “Thy will be done.”

  They explained that their daughter was bound and gagged in the delivery truck and we went down the slippery trail to free her. A crowd of law enforcement vehicles now choked the road, and officers milled around unsure of where to look for us. I explained to a couple of deputies where to find Chad, and they took a stretcher up to bring Muhammad down. There was no need to rush for Ali Jumblatt or the two unidentified young men.

  We found Ashley wrapped in a black garment, and bound with duct tape lying on an inflatable bed i
n the back of the delivery van. There was a tearful reunion before we got into my Explorer to get out of the pouring rain. I grunted in pain when I sat down on the driver’s seat. I need to get those shotgun pellets out of my backside. As we waited for the paramedics to get through the traffic snarl, I had a moment to think about the close call. The fire on the Harding Springs Trail seemed to be completely out, and this heavy rain would probably stop the Happy Jack fire if it was also coming down this hard east of the interstate. I felt humble. I hadn’t been able to stop the fire, and I wouldn’t have been able to save the Campbells or apprehend the terrorists. I had needed the storm to complete my job. I had needed help.

  CHAPTER 41

  An hour later, I was lying on my stomach on a table at the Sedona Medical Center Emergency Care Facility while a doctor removed the last of the shot. Each pellet was dropped into a metal bowl next to the table with a distinct clunk. There had been eleven clunks so far. They had all entered below the coverage area of my vest. Margaret was there consoling and encouraging me.

  “So who were the two strangers with the shotguns,” she asked.

  “They didn’t have any identification on their persons, but there were a dozen fake driver’s licenses in the truck, three for each person. The ID’s looked perfect, including the photos. They must have had inside help. There was twenty-five thousand dollars in one suitcase, and Muhammad had over nine thousand dollars in his. It may be awhile before we really know who they were. I suspect Ali Jumblatt was not the merchant’s real name: Linda Surrett called him a sleeper agent. He probably killed the real Ali Jumblatt to steal his good name.”

  “Were they going to make a run for it after the fire?” she asked.

  “All their bags were packed, they were ready to go,” I said.

  “They were leaving on a jet plane and didn’t know when they’d be back again?” she said playing along with the Peter, Paul & Mary theme.