“Yes.” Another ones-syllable answer. Vic pushed out of his chair. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
While the sheriff scrounged through the refrigerator, Eric repositioned himself in the chair. Stretching his legs in front of him, he rested his head on the back of the chair and dragged a hand through his hair. It felt matted, sticky from the heat. He should be home taking a shower. Or at Devlin’s house offering comfort to Jackie and Tamara. He owed it to Wayne.
“Don’t beat yourself up, son. Everybody needs time to process grief in their own way.” The sheriff handed him a can of Coors.
The cold felt good against his palms, and for the first time Eric realized his hands had been blistered in the fire.
“Wayne was a good man,” said Vic.
“That he was.” Eric raised his can in toast, and the two of them slugged down some beer.
“Is what they say about him true.”
“Ja.”
Vic waited, so Eric continued. “Something was going on with him. I’m not sure what. He missed work sometimes, like he forgot he had to be there. Only, he could never tell you where he’d been.”
“Maybe he had a girlfriend?”
Eric weighed the possibility. “I don’t think so. He seemed pretty devoted to Jackie.”
“What about doctor’s appointments?”
Eric cocked his head and stared at Vic. Did the sheriff know something Eric didn’t? “Not that I knew about.”
Vic cradled his beer in his lap. “You know, men hit a certain age, and there are problems we don’t want to discuss.”
Eric let the comment pass, but made a mental note to check it out with Jackie. Changing the subject, he said, “Tell me about the two boys.”
Vic narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “There isn’t much I can say. Their criminal records are confidential. The camp doesn’t even try to order them up anymore.” He rubbed his chin. “But if you’re asking my opinion . . . of the two of them, Justin Suett’s the bigger problem.”
Eric closed his eyes, picturing the dorm room photograph. “The scrawny kid, with the blond hair?”
“Nope. You’ve scrambled them. Suett’s the real all-American type. A real charmer. But there’s something not right about him. You can see it in his eyes.” Vic drained his beer, then crushed the can. “Well,” he said, standing up, “you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to get into town, check on some campers.”
“I should go too.” Eric jimmied himself out of the chair. His muscles screamed from the exertion, and he straightened himself up like an old man. “Are you searching some more tomorrow?”
“Not unless Crandall insists. I don’t see any point in it. We’ve put out an APB. Eventually those boys’ll surface.”
“Well, let me know if you need help.”
Vic put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I appreciate that, Eric. You’re a good man.”
Driving toward Elk Park, the words reverberated in Eric’s head. He slowed near the spot where he’d parked his truck earlier and parked on the side of the road. Thoughts of Wayne triggered the sting of hot tears, and Eric’s memory of the day they’d found his father’s body. Eric had braced himself against the cold and listened as the officer confirmed that his father was dead. His mother had collapsed, and the officer had helped carry her into the bedroom, leaving her in Eric’s charge. It was a role he’d relished, and one he hadn’t relinquished with dignity on the day of her marriage to Lars.
Twenty-three years had slipped by since then. He’d patched up his relationship with his mother, called a truce with Lars, and found a surrogate father in Wayne.
Now, Wayne was dead, and he felt eleven years old again. Certainly not like a man. More like an injured child. In thirty-four years, he’d never truly grown up.
Chapter 9
Cecilia Meyer and Dorothy MacBean were sitting on the front porch of the carriage house when Lark pulled up in the pickup.
“What are you ladies doing here?” asked Lark, clumping up the steps.
“We wanted to hear the story firsthand.”
Leave it to Dorothy to get right to the point.
Both women leaned in anxiously. They were sisters and mirror images of each other, despite the two years that separated them. In their sixties, they colored their hair the same mouse-brown shade, wearing it stylishly permed and cropped just below the ears. They had the same pale skin and gray eyes. The only discernible difference between them was that Cecilia loved the color blue, and Dorothy preferred pink.
Lark stepped into the beam of the porch light. “I don’t think I’m up for this.”
Cecilia gasped. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you need a bath.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We heard that Wayne Devlin’s dead,” said Dorothy. “Have you heard anything about the Wildland Center?”
Located off of Highway 66, Dorothy MacBean’s pet project, the multimillion dollar Wildland Center, had only recently opened. A controversial education facility, it comingled informational displays on the wildlife and habitats of Colorado with zoo-like exhibits of the more exotic animals of the area. Lark knew Dorothy had been filling in as an assistant to the CEO, Forest Nettleman.
“No one said,” Lark answered.
“Dottie,” interjected Cecilia. “Let’s give her a chance to clean up.” She opened the screen door and shooed Lark into the kitchen. “Just drop the pack, and we’ll take care of it. And we’ll make you some tea and something to eat while you go take a shower.”
“Bath,” Lark corrected. Cecilia had been right the first time.
Lark stripped in the laundry room. When she saw the state of her clothes, she wondered what the front seat of her pickup looked like. She’d probably have to vacuum it before driving anywhere tomorrow.
Luckily, she didn’t have to go back out on the fire. Butch Hanley had announced that the seasonal fire crews would handle the mop-up. That meant Eric would be out there working, but not the majority of volunteers.
She wondered how he was doing. He had walked her out to the truck when she left, squeezing her shoulder and telling her to drive carefully. He had looked so forlorn that she’d hesitated to go, but there was something about his manner that told her it was better to go and leave him to his private bereavement. That this was something he had to work through on his own.
For all the sadness of the day, Lark laughed when she saw herself in the mirror. Her hair, face, neck, and hands were black with soot, except for a bowl-shaped circle of blond hair left where her hard hat had covered her head and circles around her eyes where her goggles had been. She looked like a raccoon with large blue eyes.
Cecilia was right. Shower first.
Allowing the water to wash away the grime, she luxuriated in the comfort of the heat and steam, her skin soaking in the moisture like a needy sponge. She shampooed her hair twice, scoured the porcelain, then drew a tub full of water.
The wait proved to be too much for the sisters. Lark had no sooner settled under the bubbles, when Dorothy knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you almost finished in there?”
“Give me a few more minutes?” Lark asked.
“The tea is ready.”
“I’ll be right there.” Lark compromised. She soaked for a minute more, then reluctantly pulled the drain plug and struggled up out of the bath. Her muscles ached with a soreness that went straight to the bone. Toweling dry and putting on pajamas required monumental effort, which was rewarded by hot tea and a chicken pot pie.
“So . . . ,” prompted Dorothy, once she sat down at the kitchen table. “Tell us what happened up there.”
The women flanked her, scooting their chairs up to the table and leaning forward.
“It was scary,” said Lark. “And awful.”
She processed the emotions of the day as she recounted the events. Laughter spilled out when she described the encounter with Ranger Susie; anxiety tightened her muscles, as she recal
led the firestorm, and she found herself clinging to the edges of her seat. Talking about Wayne Devlin proved the hardest.
Lark hadn’t ventured near the body. Twice in the past year she’d had occasion to see dead people. Once in the thicket when her friend Rachel Stanhope had stumbled over the body of Donald Bursau, a reporter from Birds of a Feather magazine. And once when her partner Esther Mills had been stabbed behind the Warbler Café. The first time she’d thrown up in the bushes. The second, she’d kept her distance, and almost thrown up. This time she’d positioned a large rock between herself and the deceased, and breathed.
Harry’d been all business, but Eric had been visibly shaken. He had been close friends with Wayne, practically a member of the Devlin family. Lark had known Wayne in passing, and Jackie only slightly better, because of chance encounters in the grocery store and the café.
“I wonder how Jackie and Tamara are doing,” said Dorothy, settling back in her chair.
“And to think,” added Cecilia. “She was just in the Warbler today, buying him coffee.”
“She’s apt to want a refund.” The words popped out, and Lark buried her face in her napkin. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“You’re just tired,” said Cecilia charitably. “Dottie and I should go.”
“No, wait,” said Lark. “I want to hear your stories.”
Cecilia didn’t have much to say. She’d stayed at the Warbler, picking up tidbits from the tourists. An occasional news broadcast flashed an update of the fire’s progress, but the information tended to be repetitious.
“Then Dottie came in looking like a scared rabbit, and—”
“I was not scared.” Dorothy put on her best schoolmarm expression and turned to Lark. “I may have looked flushed, and I was worried about the Wildland Center, but . . .” She glared at Cecilia. “I was not scared.”
Lark stuffed a forkful of pot pie in her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Anyway, there’s nothing to tell. I went into work early and found Forest already there. He must have come in at the crack of dawn, because the paper, which gets delivered around seven o’clock, was still on the front stoop.”
Lark suspected that Dorothy had a crush on Forest Nettleman. Something in the way she uttered his name. A rabid environmentalist, Forest had been a U.S. congressman, representing the 4th District, up until last year when a reporter had exposed his involvement in the illegal trading of peregrine falcons to a sheik in the Middle East. The scandal had put him on the sidelines. Then, despite his ignoble behavior, he’d been hired as CEO of the Wildland Center by vote of an overwhelming majority of the board of directors, and he’d found himself with a new career. Dorothy’s support of him had been unwavering.
“The police department called and ordered us to evacuate, around quarter to eleven. Forest had already gone home, and I headed straight to the Warbler.”
Their conversation spent, the threesome lapsed into a companionable silence. The sisters helped do up the dishes, then bid Lark goodnight. Lark headed straight to bed. Awake early the next morning, she tried calling Eric before heading to work, and got his answering machine.
“Just checking in,” she said, after the beep. “I’ll be in my office. Call me later.”
When she showed up at the Drummond, Stephen acted overjoyed to see her. She spent the morning plowing through the paperwork on her desk; then, at noon, stopped for lunch, flipping on the TV to catch the latest on the fire.
“This is Linda Verbiscar reporting for KEPC-TV.” A blond woman in a bright pink suit and matching shoes faced the camera. Behind her was a live shot of Eagle Cliff Mountain on fire.
“At a press conference this morning, Pacey Trent, the Intermountain Regional fire management officer for the National Park Service, and incident commander on what’s now being called the Eagle Cliff Fire, announced the death of Wayne Devlin. An eighteen-year employee of the National Park Service, Devlin died yesterday under suspicious circumstances.”
Lark reached for the television controls and turned the volume up. What was suspicious about a fireman dying in a fire?
“According to investigators, Devlin, who was supposed to have served as the ‘burn boss’ in yesterday’s prescribed burn, never reported for work. His body was discovered in a gulch on the backside of Eagle Cliff Mountain at approximately noon yesterday.”
The camera flashed to a studio anchorman. “Is there any speculation on what may have been the cause of his death?”
“Dan, an autopsy is under way,” said Verbiscar, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. “But my source within the Park Service revealed that there may be reason to believe Wayne Devlin died as the result of a fire he himself may have started.”
Lark and the anchorman both sat up straighter.
“Exactly what does that mean?”
Verbiscar turned, facing the camera more squarely. “A little background for the viewers, Dan. According to NPS policy, if an employee working for the Park Service is found negligent in his duties, and that negligence results in the death of someone, or in the destruction of property; then the negligent employee becomes the liable party in the event some sort of restitution of damages is required.”
“So are you saying, then, that Wayne Devlin, if found responsible, could be held liable in his own death?”
Verbiscar hesitated. “Seriously, Dan, I doubt if his family would try and collect against him. However, his insurance company might. According to my source, it is possible Wayne Devlin’s estate could be attached for the damages caused by the Eagle Cliff Fire.”
“What is the official Park Service line?”
Verbiscar remained silent for an extra beat. “Officials here have reserved comment until the investigation into just what did cause the fire that may have killed Devlin is complete. Back to you, Dan.”
The anchorman filled the screen. “There you have the latest from the scene of the Eagle Cliff Fire, where over nine thousand acres have burned. Before this fire was contained, several hundred people were forced to evacuate, many of them teenagers, two developments have been destroyed—the Shangri-la housing development, a model development showcasing upscale homes, and the Wildland Center, a multimillion-dollar complex just recently opened—and, as you’ve now heard, one man is dead.
“In other related news, there is still no sign of the two teenage boys missing from the area, and the mop-up effort continues. Firefighters are . . .”
Lark hit the mute button. This did not bode well.
Chapter 10
Eric spent two days supervising mop-up on the Eagle Cliff Fire. There had been flare-ups—pockets of fire the warm days breathed to life—but then a late spring snow had crushed the embers out of the smoldering logs, and the Eagle Cliff Fire was officially declared “controlled.”
Slogging down from the mountain’s summit, he listened for the crack of branches overhead. Snags breaking under the weight of high-moisture snow had been known to kill a man, and he didn’t relish becoming a victim. Walking was treacherous, the charred earth denuded of undergrowth churned to mud under his feet, and he chose his path carefully, not wanting to add to the erosion.
He jumped down the embankment to the pull out where he’d parked and was surprised to find Pacey Trent waiting beside his truck. Eric slowed his pace. By the expression on Trent’s face, whatever business he had with Eric wasn’t good.
As soon as he came within range, Trent stepped forward. “I thought you might like to see a copy of the investigation team’s report regarding Wayne Devlin’s death,” he said, waving a packet of papers. “we’re still waiting on the autopsy, but the coroner gave me the results over the phone.”
Eric pitched his hard hat and pack into the back of his truck, and waited. Presumably, there was a punch line.
“It seems Wayne died from a blow to the head,” said Trent. He cleared his throat and looked toward the mountain. “In the most likely scenario, he slipped, or stumbled, then fell down and smashed his head on a rock.”
Eric sensed there was more to it, something Trent wasn’t saying.
“So he wasn’t caught when the spot fire swept through?” Remembering the hour he’d spent in the fire shelter—the searing heat, the hot air, the falling embers—Eric took some comfort in at least knowing Wayne hadn’t burned alive.
“Not exactly. There is some evidence of smoke inhalation, but it’s not what killed him.” Trent tapped the report, then thrust it into Eric’s hands. “Everything’s in here. I suggest you take a gander.”
Eric must have looked confused, for Trent reiterated. “Take a look.”
Again, the unspoken inference that there was something more to it. Was he thinking Wayne’s death wasn’t an accident?
An engine revved, and Eric turned in time to see Nora Frank bounce her truck onto the charred dirt. She goosed the gas, crushing a surviving sagebrush plant dusted in snow. What the fire hadn’t destroyed, man would. Maybe he was asking too much to hope a plant survey might find some bitterbrush intact.
Eric focused on the report. It was mostly a listing of physical evidence. Wayne’s clothes were cataloged—remnants of boots, socks, underwear, a T-shirt, Nomex shirt and pants, all covered in bits of plant and wood materials consistent with where the body was found, along with several charred fibers that could easily have come from the seat of his pickup truck.
Oddly enough, the pickup had never been located. Either Wayne had parked it in a well-hidden spot, or someone else had come along and borrowed it. There was no mention of any keys found in the report. But then, it was possible Wayne had left them in the ignition, figuring he wouldn’t be gone long enough for someone to make off with his truck.
A pack found near a tree stump several yards from the body had contained remains of all the expected items: a hard hat, goggles, canteen, fire shelter, snacks, two fusees, a radio, and a knife.
One item was missing from the list. The weather kit. Jackie had said Wayne left early to test the humidity on Eagle Cliff Mountain. He would have needed a psychrometer to do that.
A Nest in the Ashes Page 7
