A Nest in the Ashes

by Christine Goff

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A NEST IN THE ASHES

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Christine Goff

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 9781101372531

  A BERKLEY PRIME CRIME BOOK®

  Berkley Prime Crime Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the “BERKLEY PRIME CRIME” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic Edition: August, 2002

  To Janet Grill, for always being there to give me the speech. You truly are a sister of my heart.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  Several people helped me to bring this story to life, by providing technical information. My deepest thanks to: Bill Maron and Pete Anderson, old friends and firefighters extraordinaire, who were kind enough to supply me with insider info; Jeff Connor and Jesse Duncrack of the National Park Service Fire Management Offices; Tasha Kotliar, USGS, who is studying the effects of fire on avian populations; and Ronda Woodward, an amazing birder who helped me spot my first green-tailed towhee.

  Additional thanks goes to my fellow writers and friends who supported me through the process. To my RMFW buddies, you know who you are; to members of my critique group who made me go back and work the material again, and again, and again, ad nauseam—Bob Strange, Diane West, Janene McCrillis, Suzanne Proulx, Steven Moores, Georgeanne and Steven Nelson, Janice Ford, Louise Woodward, James Faber, and Gwen Schuster-Haynes; and to the WRW Retreaters, especially Janet Chapman, Jan Chalfant, Rhonda Foster, John Getze, Roman White, Jason Sitzes, Loren Oberweger, and Gail Stockwell who offered encouragement during the soggy middle.

  And to my family and friends, without whose support I’d be nothing: Mardee, Danielle, and Addie, who ate too much take-out; Mike, Krista, Hunter, Kayla, Gin, Kenny, Cherie, and Travis, who offered support from a distance; Tom, Monk, and Laura Ware; Aunt D, Cynthia, and Aja; and my beloved and beleaguered husband, Wes Goff.

  Finally, I’d like to thank my editor, Cindy Hwang, for her unwavering confidence and patience; Peter Rubie, my favorite agent; Georgie Nelson and Mike Milligan, for the dynamite website; and Ann Elphick, my publicist, for helping me feed the birds.

  Chapter 1

  A flicker of orange caught Eric’s attention, and he squinted toward a small stand of bitterbrush some fifty yards southeast of the turnaround. Under the cover of branches, a green-tailed towhee foraged in the grass.

  He knew the bird, even without his binoculars. A classic double-scratcher, it jumped forward, then back, searching the dirt for insects and seeds.

  The towhee turned, its rust-colored cap aflame in the sunlight. Then, as if sensing the danger, it darted back into the safety of the shrub.

  Eric walked toward the back of his pickup and triggered the mike on his handheld radio. “Devlin, do you copy? Over.” He enunciated carefully, worried that his Norwegian accent might garble his words on the airwaves. It was important Wayne Devlin understood who was calling.

  No answer.

  “Devlin, what’s your ETA? Over.” Come on, Wayne. Where are you?

  Silence. Not even a burst of static.

  “Give it up, Linenger.” Nora Frank brushed past him and hoisted herself into the bed of a nearby National Park Service truck. Crawling forward, regulation-green pants stretched tight across her rear end, she hauled out a box of fusees. “Devlin’s AWOL, again. And if experience is any indicator, he’ll most likely stay that way.”

  “AWOL?” After seventeen years of living in the United States, it surprised Eric that there were still some American expressions he didn’t know.

  “Absent without Leave,” she explained, sitting and dangling her feet from the tailgate of the truck. “Which, I point out, as Wayne’s second-in-command, puts me in charge.”

  Now there is a frightening thought.

  Eric stepped closer. “Does that mean the burn is still on?”

  Surprise flickered across her face. “You bet. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a go.”

  He had expected the answer, had even braced himself for it, so he managed not to curse out loud. Annoying her would only complicate matters.

  Nora smirked.

  Had she picked up on his struggle to keep his mouth shut?

  Pulling two paper-wrapped fusees out of the box, she deftly linked them together and measured the length against the side of her leg. “Look long enough?”

  Eric shook his head, not that he wanted her to continue construction. “You’re short.”

  “Yeah,” she drawled. “And you’re tall.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He picked up a fusee, spun it in his hand, then pressed circles into his open palm with the coupling end. “Is there any way I can convince you to call off the burn?”

  Nora grinned, added another fusee to the chain she was working on, then pointed it toward the far end of the turnaround. “You don’t cancel a party once the guests have arrived.”

  “Wayne would,” he mumbled.

  Still, Eric realized she had a point. The staging area teemed with people. Butch Hanley, the holding boss, held court from a picnic bench, doling out assignments to Nomex-clad personnel—a mixture of Elk Park Fire Department volunteers and trained NPS employees—responsible for containment of the fire within the prescribed perimeters.

  Beyond them, Ernie Beal, the burn’s ignition specialist, hunkered down in the grass with the two firefighters responsible for lighting the burn. Near the tanker, Howard Stevens, the fire observer, pored over burn maps with several people from Intermountain Regional NPS. And, from the meadow, a woman with a cameraman in tow shot footage of the operation.

  “We’ve got the manpower, and the equipment,” said Nora. “The hoses are laid. The hand lines are dug. Not to mention we’ve sunk six thousand dollars into this burn, before even lighting the sucker.” Nora shrugged. “Besides, Pacey Trent’s here to watch the show.” Setting aside the joined fusees, she reached back into the box. “You can sweet talk me all you want, Linenger, but I’m giving the order to go.”

  Eric frowned. Was this the same woman who’d once shared his passion for the woods?

  He’d met her four years ago at a National Park Servi
ce party held at Wayne Devlin’s house. She was fresh out of training—enthusiastic, energetic, and idealistic. He’d factored in her dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and the smattering of freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks, and decided she was perfect girlfriend material.

  Fortunately, it didn’t take long to figure out that beneath the wholesome image lay a bobcat determined to rise to the top of the food chain. But, up until now, her ideals had held strong.

  “What ever happened to preserving habitat, Nora?”

  “Oh cut the melodrama, already. Trust me, the bitterbrush and sage will grow back. The towhees and warblers will return. Hey, in three or four years, you’ll be hard pressed to prove there ever was a burn.”

  “Ja? Have you’ve forgotten about the herbivary? New shoots may come up, but they’ll be ravaged by the Elk.” Eric clamped his hands on the rail of the pickup. Why couldn’t she see what they were doing?

  “At least tell me you read my report,” he said.

  “I read it. Your concerns were duly noted, considered, and . . .” She placed her finger alongside her cheek and looked toward the sky before fixing him with a hard stare. “Denied.”

  Eric banged his fist against the truck’s wheel well.

  Nora ignored him. “So, where do you suppose Devlin is?” she asked.

  Eric wished he knew. As Rocky Mountain National Park’s fire management officer, Wayne Devlin was the only one besides Nora Frank or Pacey Trent with the power to stop the burn. Wayne should have been on the job hours ago.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” replied Eric. “I don’t know why he isn’t answering the radio, unless he’s somewhere out of range.”

  “Did you try calling Jackie?”

  He nodded. “I talked to her around eight o’clock. She said he left before six this morning, mumbling something about too much fuel on Eagle Cliff Mountain.” Eric shrugged. “Maybe he’s reconsidering.”

  Nora chuckled. “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

  “Ja, well, as long as there’s hope.” It was the only straw left to grasp.

  “Ja, well,” she singsonged, mimicking his accent, “take my advice. Chill out, and go with the flow.”

  Eric gritted his teeth. Too bad she wasn’t a man. He wouldn’t mind decking her.

  “Nora Frank?” called out a booming voice.

  Nora straightened and smiled at someone behind Eric. “Good morning, Mr. Trent.”

  Eric turned around to find the Intermountain Regional NPS fire management officer storming toward them like a charging grizzly. At fifty-something, his brown hair shot with silver, the FMO walked hunched over as though still humping a firefighter’s pack. A gigantic man, he stood six-foot eight, dwarfing Eric by half a foot.

  “Where in the hell is Devlin?”

  “We don’t know,” replied Nora, sliding onto her feet from the tailgate. “Sir,” she added. “We just tried raising him on the radio. He didn’t answer.”

  Eric winced at her use of “we.” Being lumped into a category with Nora made him nervous.

  Trent pointed at Eric. “Try him again.”

  Eric keyed the mike on his handheld. “Come in, Devlin. Over.”

  The radio crackled, and Eric strained to pick out words among the hisses and squawks. “Wayne, is that you? This is Linenger. Over.”

  A responding burst of static fueled Eric’s hopes. “Did anyone else copy that?”

  “No,” responded a voice from his radio.

  “Nope.”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone seen him?” asked Eric.

  Another volley of negative replies hammered home Eric’s burgeoning headache. “Look, Devlin, if you can hear me, you’re needed at the main staging area, immediately. Over.”

  Nothing.

  “He must still be out of range,” said Eric, afraid to voice his real concern—that something worse had happened. Wayne had disappeared with no explanations a few times in the past, and Nora was keeping score. Give her too many incidents to report, and Wayne would be out of a job.

  “Yeah, or maybe he’s out to breakfast,” muttered Nora.

  Trent’s eyes narrowed. “Ms. Frank, would you care to explain that comment?”

  Nora skimmed her hands along her hips, brushed nonexistent dirt from the seat of her fire pants. “Let’s just say, Wayne Devlin is getting more and more unpredictable. There are days, like today, when he doesn’t even bother to show up.”

  She scooped up the pile of fusees, and Trent reached for the bundle. “Here, let me help you with those.”

  Nora rewarded him with a smile.

  “If what you say is true, it sounds like we’ve got a problem.” Trent lit out across the parking lot, and Eric and Nora fell in sync, one on either side of him.

  “Mr. Trent, Wayne usually has a reason for not coming in,” said Eric. He knew he sounded defensive. And he’d stretched the truth. The bottom line was, Wayne hadn’t been acting much like himself lately.

  “Either way, we can’t afford to stand around here all day. Every second we do costs the Park Service money. Who’s in charge when Devlin’s gone?”

  “I am, sir,” said Nora.

  “Good. Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  Thirty minutes later, with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky, Ernie Beal lit the first fusee, and Eric resigned himself to the burn. He’d done his best to stop it, done everything possible to convince Nora to change her mind. He’d even tried calling Wayne at home one more time. His wife, Jackie, still hadn’t heard from him. Now all Eric could do was try to minimize the damage.

  So far, things looked good. The humidity had bottomed out at fifteen percent, and winds, drifting out of the west at one to five miles per hour, had nudged the temperatures into the forties. By all accounts, it was the perfect day for a fire. Just enough breeze to push four-inch flames through the bitterbrush.

  Pulling a ragged breath, Eric gazed out over Beaver Meadows. Composed mostly of big sagebrush, antelope bitterbrush, and grasses, the meadow spread to the east and south, blanketing the valley floor in pale green shrubs. Along its southern edge, the meadow thinned, becoming understory for the ponderosa pines, before giving way to the dense stands of Douglas fir and spruce that climbed Eagle Cliff Mountain’s north face.

  In two days, it would all be char. What a waste!

  Eric flinched watching the fire bite in the grass. Brush shriveled against the advancing heat. Smoke spiraled into the air, hazing the view of Longs Peak.

  The flames grew in intensity, searing the air, and lapping forward through the grass and sage in speeds up to seventeen chains. At this rate, the fire would consume nearly two acres an hour.

  Helpless to prevent the holocaust, he focused on the task at hand. As RMNP’s fire monitor, it fell in his lap to track the fire’s progress. If the fire ran ahead too quickly, it was his job to notify Butch Hanley and slow things down. If the fire slopped over its boundaries, Eric would scream for more manpower. If it threw spots, he would report the location, then report to the scene.

  Bottom line? It was his job to avert disaster.

  It took six minutes for the flames to flush the green-tailed towhee. Other birds and animals followed. Drab-colored Virginia’s warblers darted here and there. Rabbits hopped. Mice scurried. Two dove-gray loggerhead shrikes with black wings flashed white-wing patches in retreat, and brownish-gray house finches in bright red plumage escorted their mates to safety. It was like a scene out of Bambi.

  “Lookin’ good,” said the woman he’d seen earlier in the meadow. She signaled to her cameraman, who stepped around her, then she moved in beside Eric.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. This is a restricted area.”

  “Press.” She flashed a picture credential showing bleached hair and a toothy smile. “Linda Verbiscar, KEPC-TV.” She stuck out her hand.

  Eric hesitated, then shook. “Eric Linenger, National Park Service.”

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” On her signa
l, the cameraman tipped back his cap and trained the camera on Eric’s face.

  Eric held up an arm and turned sideways. “I’m a little busy right now.”

  “What about freedom of the press?” she asked, producing a microphone. “We’re live in five, four, three, two, one.” She turned to face the camera. “Hello, Dan. We’re live on the scene of the first prescribed burn of the season here in Rocky Mountain National Park, and we’re talking with Eric Linenger of the National Park Service. Tell us, Mr. Linenger, what is the reason for today’s fire?”

  Eric glanced nervously at the camera. Nothing like being put on the spot. “The intent is to burn off a thousand acres of dense vegetation.”

  “Why? To what purpose?”

  “Strictly preventative. By removing the fuel, we hope there will be less risk of catastrophic wildfire.”

  Linda turned to face the camera, and Eric tried edging away. Verbiscar placed her hand on his arm. “A quick explanation for our viewers, Dan. Since 1910, when a fire known as ‘the Big Blowup’ consumed three million acres of forest and killed eighty-five people in Idaho and Montana, fire suppression has been the policy of the federal government. In fact, by the 1970s, vigorous firefighting efforts had knocked the number of consumed acres from fifty million to five million a year.”

  So far she had the facts right.

  “But now, natural fuels have accumulated in our forests, creating tinderbox conditions, and specialists recommend thinning them through the reintroduction of fire. The hope is, that by returning the forests to a more natural, fire-resistant state, the forests will burn more or less as nature intended them to.”

  She turned back to Eric. “What I’d like to know is, in the wake of the Cerro Grande prescribed burn near Los Alamos . . . a fire which jumped its prescribed boundaries, burned over forty-five thousand acres, destroyed two hundred thirty-five homes, and caused eighteen thousand people to be evacuated. . . how do you justify taking the risk?” She shoved the microphone in Eric’s face.