“I’m on my way,” Estelle said. Martinez was chief of the Posadas Village PD, a force of two and a half, including himself. If people drove slowly through the school zones, Eduardo was happy. Anything more serious he gladly handed off to the county Sheriff’s Department.
“The fire chief has his command post set up on State Sixty-one in that wide spot in the highway in front of the wrecking yard. There’s another traffic jamb on Escondido, a ways past my place.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“Right now, I’m with Cameron Florek. He’s trying to clean out his office in case they can’t get this thing under control.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She switched off the phone and swung her legs out of bed. Francis hadn’t moved, but his voice was calm in the dark.
“The world is coming to an end?”
“Just about, querido. Una conflagración espectacular. Down behind the wrecking yard, south of Padrino ’s place.”
“Down where you were taking pictures of los burros?”
“That’s it.”
“So now they got roasted burritos. No wonder Bill is down there.”
She tossed her pillow at his dark form. “A propane tank exploded, querido. And now the fire’s spreading into the wrecking yard. Lots of gasoline, oil, all those neat things.”
His tone turned serious. “Injuries?” She turned on the light, and he flinched, sitting up in bed.
“Sin duda,” she replied. “You might as well get dressed. Your phone rings next.”
“I’m not on call tonight.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then slipped into running shoes. “Everybody is going to be on call by the time this mess is cleaned up.” She hesitated, thinking about the roster of volunteer firefighters—and the names included most of the Posadas County sheriff’s deputies. With both hands behind her back, she worked the stiff clip of her holster over her belt. “Will you give Irma a call?”
He grimaced as he rolled across the bed and picked up the phone. “She’s going to love that. If she’s in bed with Manny, what do you want me to say?”
Estelle flashed a smile. “Tell her to bring Manny with her.” She leaned over the bed and Francis caught her around the small of the back.
“Monday nights are supposed to be her reprieve from los locos,” he said. “Somebody’s not paying attention to our schedule.” He looked hard at Estelle. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing okay. I slept for a little while.”
Their eyes met for a long moment, and he reached up and swept the fall of hair away from her face. “Remember that Mamá expects you to take her to Tres Santos today.”
She kissed him and pushed herself up right. “She won’t even remember that she wanted to go when she wakes up in the morning,” she said.
“Oh, sure.” Francis pressed the phone buttons with his thumb.
“Maybe it can be an outing for Irma and the boys.”
Francis glanced up at her, skeptical. “She wants to go with you, querida. ”
Estelle nodded impatiently. She padded down the hall, footsteps inaudible on the carpeting, and peered into the boys’ room. Both were asleep. Irma had aired out the room during the day and changed the bedding again. If not smelling like a flower garden, at least the small room was fresh and welcome. For what seemed like a long time, she stood silently in the doorway, hand on the knob, listening to her husband’s quiet voice down the hall. Of course Irma Sedillos had answered promptly. The thought of leaving her phone off the hook would never have occurred to her.
Her mother’s door was closed, and for a moment Estelle hesitated. The knob turned noiselessly and she cracked open the door.
“Estelita?” Her mother cleared her throat and repeated her name.
“I have to go out for a while,” Estelle said. She crossed to the single bed and knelt down.
“I heard the sirens,” her mother said in Spanish. “And an explosion.”
“It’s a bad fire, Mamá. Over by Padrino ’s house.”
“Then you be careful.”
“I will. Oso is on call, too. But I think Irma is coming over.”
“That’s not necessary, Estelita. I’m awake now.”
Estelle reached out and took her mother’s hand. “The boys are sound asleep. They’ll be fine.”
“They wear me out.”
Estelle laughed. “I know. Me, too.”
“You be careful.”
“I will.”
“Does Irma drive?”
“Of course she does, Mamá. ”
“Then maybe she can take me to Tres Santos later today.”
Estelle bent over, holding her mother’s hand in both of hers. “I want to do that, Mamá. But maybe not today. We’ll see.”
“It’s something I want to do.”
“I know it is.”
“Then maybe we won’t wait too long,hija.”
In the distance, the wail of another siren floated on the night air. “You better go. Be careful.” The old woman’s tiny, thin hand pressed Estelle’s with surprising strength.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“That’s good. Close the door, please.”
Estelle left the room to find Francis standing in the hall, phone in hand.
“She heard the sirens,” he said.
“Irma did?”
He nodded.
“I seem to be the only one who didn’t,” Estelle said.
“Sleep is a good thing,” her husband said. “If only for an hour.”
“You sound very doctorly,” Estelle grinned. She took her coat off the back of one of the kitchen chairs and shrugged into it, then grabbed her husband in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
She stretched up and kissed him. “Just on general principles.” She turned toward the door just as the phone in Francis’ hand rang, and she stopped in midstep. She could hear the loud, clear voice of dispatcher Ernie Wheeler from three paces away.
“She’s on the way, Ernie. She’s just walking out the door now.”
He clicked off the phone. “They found Denton Pope.”
Chapter Fourteen
Denton “Woody” Pope didn’t look much like Denton Pope any longer.
The corpse lay against the back of what once might have been a freezer. Small patches of the appliance’s white enamel showed between the tears, dents, smudges, and scorch marks. Originally, the freezer had been in a small utility room immediately beside the furnace closet. Blackened stumps of wall studs marked where the furnace closet had been. The freezer was skewed out into the middle of the utility room.
Heavy smoke and the heat of the mobile home’s buckled steel chassis had kept firefighters at a respectful distance, but it was obvious that heroic resuscitation efforts for Denton weren’t necessary.
“You shouldn’t be here yet,” Tom Mears said. He’d traded in his deputy’s uniform for the bulky yellow and black firefighting apparatus, an airpack strapped to his back. He reached out a protective hand and touched Estelle’s elbow as she stepped through the twisted rubble that surrounded the mobile home. A section of wall had crumpled to form a jagged barrier. Behind them, three firefighters kept a constant stream of water directed at the two hundred and fifty gallon propane tank, even though the fire had moved on to more productive pastures.
“I just need a quick look,” she said.
“Be careful where you step. We’ll be setting up a generator here after a bit. Then we’ll have some light.”
Estelle nodded. She held the flashlight over her head and directed the beam through the debris. Denton Pope’s corpse was wedged between the bulk of the freezer and a pair of charred wall studs. One hand was visible, nothing more now than a stump, clawed upward as if he’d thrown up an arm to ward off the explosion even as the blast was sifting him through the wall. Estelle leaned forward, putting her weight against a section of the trailer’s unburned skirting. De
nton Pope was clearly holding something.
Perhaps mistaking her movement, Mears shouted in her ear, “You okay? There’s an awful lot of smoke still.” She glanced at him and saw the anxious expression of a fireman feeling sidelined. He knew that Denton Pope would keep, and there were other places he needed to be.
“What’s that in his hand?” Estelle asked. She directed the beam of light, squinting against the sting of the smoke.
“A screwdriver or something,” Mears said. “Nobody’s going to touch it.”
“That’s good.” She shifted the light. “Does anyone have any idea what he was doing with it?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Mears said. “Adjusting the furnace, is my guess.”
Estelle shook her head in wonder. “He adjusted it, all right.” She glanced back at Mears just as a dull, heavy whump jerked his head around. Behind them, the fire had found interesting feeding in the wrecking yard. A plume of flame and a great rolling ball of smoke billowed upward, followed by the raucous bawl of a fire engine as the driver leaned on the air horn.
“Go ahead,” she shouted. “We’ll make sure this stays cordoned off.” Mears nodded and moved off, a walking mound of protective gear.
For a few moments, Estelle was by herself. She could feel the heat radiating out of the destroyed home. Picking her way carefully, she circled the structure, keeping away from the snarl of barbed wire fencing on the southeast side.
Denton Pope’s car was a black puddle of melted plastic, metal, and rubber in the driveway, its yellow license plate incongruously unscathed.
Unsure of herself, Estelle stood very still. What was left of the dwelling’s floor tilted at a crazy angle in front of her, the steel floor joists of the mobile home melted and twisted. There was no obvious place to step that wouldn’t send her crashing through the sodden, smoking wreckage.
She tried to find an island of silence in her mind, a place where she could push away the assault of the senses. A cacophony of voices, all high-pitched and frantic, competed with the roar of vehicles, the incessant shriek of sirens, and the distant jet-engine bellow of the flames, contained now in the wrecking yard behind the Popes’. Her eyes stung from the acrid smoke. Out of reflex, she raised her arm and buried her nose deep in the folds and creases of her elbow.
“I’m establishing a line…”
She heard the shout and turned. One of the village part-timers, Perry Kenderman, waved his arm toward the knot of people who stood in the middle of Escondido Lane, front row seats for the show. “I’m establishing a line right there,” he shouted again. Estelle saw the village patrol car turned sideways in the street, roof rack flashing.
“This whole area needs to be cordoned off,” Estelle replied. She saw Mears making his way back toward her. “Has anyone called the Fire Marshall’s office?”
“I don’t think so, sheriff.”
“But Perrone is on his way?”
He nodded. “I’ll put a call in to the state.”
Estelle caught him by the forearm. “Let me,” she said. “You’re needed here.”
The Popes’ home was a conglomeration of two trailers with a pitched roof added over the junction. Estelle caught up with the village cop. She swept her arm in an arc to include the whole thing. “Make sure that nobody gets anywhere near any of this, Perry,” she shouted as he bent close to hear. “And if I don’t see them first, make sure you contact me when either the coroner or the state investigators show up. All right?”
He nodded, knowing as well as she did that the first investigator from the state office could be expected by late morning, if they were lucky. Estelle was surprised that Alan Perrone, the coroner and assistant state medical examiner, wasn’t on the scene already. But Denton Pope could wait.
“We’ll get everyone here to help you that we can,” she added, and grimaced as a wave of heat touched her face. She turned toward the backyard and saw that the fire had leaped from the house to a brush hedgerow that had provided a windbreak for the barns, and then had found the dry wood and straw of the burro hotel. Beyond those buildings, an empty lot had offered two acres of winter-dried brush and unkempt bunch grass, and the fire had darted there eagerly while the flank of the blaze ate into the board fence around the wrecking yard.
“Where’s Mrs. Pope?” she shouted. “Her car’s not here. Did somebody locate her?”
“She’s at bingo,” Kenderman shouted.
“Where?”
He stepped closer. “Bingo.” He waved a hand in the general direction of Escondido Lane. “One of the neighbors said that she goes to Monday Night Bingo at the First Baptist Church.”
Estelle glanced at her watch. “That’s long over with.”
Kenderman shrugged. “I don’t know, ma’am. You want me to check on that?”
Estelle nodded. “And did anyone have a chance to move the animals?” she shouted, but Perry Kenderman had already hustled away.
She surveyed the backyard and its hard shadows cast by the flames and floodlights from the fire trucks. The fire had scorched a crescent, leaving the southwest corner, that area that included the goat pens, untouched. The goat pens were empty.
Picking her way carefully, using the heavy body of her flashlight for balance, she followed the black avenue left by the fire. Through the remains of the wrecking yard boundary fence, she could see that the firemen had managed to contain the blaze in an area triangulated by two of the lanes that meandered through Florek’s property.
The spot where she and Bill Gastner had stood to take photographs of the burros earlier was now a gaping, smoking hole fifty yards long. She turned and looked at the sheds, wincing at the thought of the twenty-odd animals trapped and driven to panic as the flames burned their woolly hides.
She had no desire to peer into the pens, but found herself drawn there anyway. With a mixture of relief and puzzlement, she found the pens empty. The remains of the wooden half doors that secured two of the pens were open, standing ajar the width of a donkey. Short steel livestock panels had been used for the other two stalls. The chain that secured each panel would wrap around one of the stanchions and then be spring-clipped to itself. Both chains hung loose, the panels open.
Estelle allowed a small sigh of relief. Goats, dogs, donkeys—maybe even a few ducks and geese—who knew what else, except Eleanor Pope. Estelle stood in front of the barns, feeling the heat and smelling the sweet-sour odor of things burned. She tried to visualize a neighbor, perhaps glued to the late night television, hearing the karrump of the exploding stove. From any window in the neighborhood, the soaring flames would have been visible.
Within minutes, the joined, aging mobile homes would have been consumed, the sort of blaze that firemen hated. The blaze, with oxygen chimneys formed by the narrow hallways and fueled with the thin press-paper paneling and polyester carpeting, would have erupted throughout the dwelling long before the first firefighting units of the volunteer department arrived.
Had Denton Pope been snoozing on a living-room couch instead of dinking around the furnace when it blew to pieces, he still might not have escaped as the dense fumes from melting plastic and polyester overwhelmed him.
Estelle thrust her hands in her pockets, trying to replay the scene in her mind, trying to understand the awkward geometry of the property. Seeing the blaze, the neighbor would have had to run across the front yard, down beside the burning buildings, and then, ducking the sparks, embers, and roaring jets of propane-powered flame, dash to the barns and release the livestock…running in exactly the same direction that the wind drove the flames.
Maybe, when the first firemen arrived on the scene, during the initial moments of confusion and disorganization, they had had the heroic moment necessary to turn the livestock loose.
“You can’t be here!” a voice shouted behind her, and Estelle startled and turned. One of the firefighters had scrambled along the charred fence line, with two others following close behind. He held a lethal-looking ax in his hand. “We’re going to move one
of the pumpers in along here,” he shouted at Estelle, and stepped close, flipping up his visor. Under the burden of his equipment, with a grimy face and a sheen of sweat on his forehead, Dennis Collins looked as if he’d aged a decade.
“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first,” he bellowed. He turned to face the wrecking yard. “I think we’ve got it pretty much contained, sheriff. We’re going to circle around and mop up some along the fence.” He flashed a smile of confidence. “It ain’t going anywhere now.”
“Good!” Estelle shouted back. “Where are all the livestock? Do you know?”
“Scattered all over hell and gone, as far as I can tell,” Collins replied. He waved a hand toward the south, through Florek’s. “I saw a bunch headed through there, ahead of the fire. Maybe four or five little horselike things.”
“Donkeys?” Estelle said, and Collins nodded and started to move away.
“You ought to have some gear on if you’re going to be in here,” he said. “There’s still a lot that’s unstable.”
“I’m leaving,” Estelle replied. “And by the way—I need to talk to you about what you found out from Perry MacInerny earlier.” Collins stopped in his tracks, puzzled by the sudden switch from fire to law.
“Who…” he started, then nodded quickly. “Oh. Sure. I’m off on Tuesdays, but anytime, sheriff.”
“Later this morning would be fine,” Estelle said, and caught the flicker of resignation on Collins’ face. “I’ll catch up with you. Don’t worry about it.” Her radio squawked 310, and she pulled it out of its belt holster, holding it close to her ear.
“Guzman.”
Static cracked dispatcher Ernie Wheeler’s voice. “Three ten, be advised that the information you wanted from Sheriff Torrez is here in the office.”
For a moment, Estelle’s mind went blank, and then clicked into gear. “Ten-four.” What a bizarre time to call, she thought, but her puzzlement didn’t last long.
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