Beneath the Ashes

by Sue Henry

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  her hose and hung it back over the spigot by the shed, ready for use. The bottom two front steps, half charred, stood forlornly leading up into a space that had been porch. Window glass that had blown out crunched

  under her boots. Stepping closer she looked at what was left of one of the wood pilings on its concrete base; it was now only a few blackened inches high.

  “Watch that corner, Jessie. There’s still a hot spot over there,” one of the firefighters called. They were both so covered with smoke and soot they looked as if they were wearing blackface from an old-time minstrel show—their eyes and teeth very white in contrast.

  Looking more closely, she saw that the cautioner was a musher she recognized from evenings at Oscar’s.

  “Thanks, Jimmy. I will.”

  “You need any help with your dogs?”

  “Naw. They’re fine. I’m going to water them again.”

  It was a good idea. The dogs had been up and in motion through the whole event and would be thirsty.

  Knowing they would be more comfortable and less

  stressed in their normal places, she moved those that had been shifted away from the fire back to their own boxes. It made her feel a little better to take time with them. They responded to her attention with friendly nuzzling and licks on her face and hands, relished the petting and affection she gave them, slightly diminish-ing the desperate emptiness she was feeling.

  “Oh, you are such good dogs,” she told them all.

  “The very best dogs in the whole world, I bet.”

  When they were all calmed, settled, and resting, she took Tank with her for company and went to the storage shed where, in the light from the door, she located

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  a couple of sleeping bags that she spread out on a camp cot. Laying an old piece of carpet on the floor for Tank, she folded her filthy parka inside out to use as a pillow, took off her boots, and crawled into the top bag, pulling the quilt that she had rescued over it and up to her chin.

  It smelled strongly of smoke and bore dirty streaks from being wrapped around her grimy self in the patrol car, but it was nothing that couldn’t be cleaned, she thought, glad to have it. Closing her eyes, Jessie lay still and gradually grew warm, but she didn’t think she would sleep. That was all right; under the circumstances she hadn’t expected to. She simply relaxed and allowed thoughts to drift through her mind, good and bad. Slowly, some of her physical tension melted away.

  The question Becker had asked about whether Anne had set the fire had stuck in her mind, and she worried at it a little. Was it possible?

  She was sure the fire had been set. There was nothing under that particular corner of the cabin to cause a fire. She had helped build it and knew the electrical wiring for that room had all been run through the ceiling, not under the floor. There was nothing to start a fire in either the layers of the wood that formed the floor or the urethane insulation that had been sprayed beneath it. Nothing but some purposely instigated source could have struck the spark that made it burn.

  How did it get so hot and spread so fast?

  The why still plagued her. Why would someone start a fire to destroy her cabin? And who? Had it been meant to kill her? Anne? If not, whoever set it clearly hadn’t cared if it did. The idea that Anne would take out her anger over Jessie’s refusal to lie for her seemed

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  ridiculous—much too extreme. But she supposed it was possible. Anything was possible. How well did she know Anne? Not very. Obviously, she hadn’t known her as well as she imagined when they had been neighbors in the Little Peters Hills. If she was responsible for this fire, her leaving so abruptly made more sense, and she could have gone out in the night and set it without waking Jessie.

  She hated to say arson, though she could almost taste the shape of the word, and hesitated to accuse without proof. Had Anne run off because she set the fire, or to escape what she might have seen as Tatum’s inevitable investigation? And where had she gone and how? It was a long walk to Wasilla. Was she now going to leave the state?

  Where could she be? She had said she meant to take the bones of the child she had dug up to the police.

  Would she? Or was that another falsehood? There was so much Jessie didn’t understand or believe, and was too tired to care about now. One way or another, it would eventually clear up and she would have some answers. There weren’t enough pieces to figure out the pattern of the frustrating puzzle.

  Letting it go, Jessie began to mentally walk through her cabin and lay sad, thoughtful, loving hands on everything she could remember, carefully listing it in memory. So much would have to be replaced. Her

  cameras, everything in the bathroom. My toothbrush—

  my hairbrush—dammit. She moved to the kitchen and started her mental inventory with the large things—

  stove and refrigerator—appliances—toaster, coffeepot.

  Dreamily opening cupboards, she imagined their con-

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  tents—assorted plates, wine- and water glasses, the blue bowls she liked for cereal and ice cream . . . the large platter for the Thanksgiving turkey . . . her collection of mismatched mugs . . . a casserole that had been her grandmother’s . . .

  She woke with a start. Tank had laid his muzzle on the back of her right hand to attract her attention. It was broad daylight and someone was calling her name from the yard.

  “Jessie? Are you in there, Jessie?”

  “I’m here. Just a minute.”

  Sitting up and putting her feet into the boots that stood by the cot, she rubbed her eyes, then took Tank’s face between her hands and leaned to lay her cheek on the top of his head. He licked her ear.

  “Good boy. Come now,” she said as she unfolded

  her parka and stood up.

  They walked to the door together, went out, and

  found Becker in the yard with a large Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee in each hand.

  “Give me a minute,” she told him, and went to the spigot to splash water on her face. Running her damp fingers through her short, still-sooty curls, she walked to meet him.

  “Hey, good morning.” He held one of the coffees out to her. “Cream and sugar, right?”

  “Thanks, Phil. Yes.”

  Next to Becker stood a heavyset man she didn’t recognize.

  “This is MacDonald. The new investigator you

  asked for.”

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  “Mac,” the stranger said, holding out a hand.

  Jessie examined his face closely; direct, slightly hooded eyes; dark hair and evenly trimmed beard; a smile that pulled the right corner of his mouth a little crooked; neatly dressed in casual clothes under the open yellow coat of a firefighter; fire boots, well used; dirty gloves sticking out of a pocket.

  “Hello, Mac.” She gave him her hand and liked the gentle strength of his grip, reassuring and solid. “I’d invite you in, but . . . well . . . I got a little carried away cooking breakfast.” She waved a hand at the still faintly smoking rubble that had been her cabin.

  He grinned. “That’s okay, I’ve had mine. Glad to see you’ve survived with some sense of humor intact.”

  Becker, who had been closely following their ex-

  change, released the breath he was holding in a relieved sigh.

  Jessie laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Thanks, Phil. I owe you one.”

  He thumbed back the western hat he wore out of

  uniform. “I’ll keep that in mind. Is there anywhere we can sit down?”

  “Sure,” she told him, “if you don’t mind camp

  stools.”

  Opening the big door to the storage shed to let in the morning light, she led them in and found two of her wood-and-canvas stools, which they set up and

  perched on. She sat on the camp cot she had slept on
and wrapped one arm around a knee, sipping gratefully at the coffee, feeling very much in need of a shower.

  “I smell like what’s left after a forest fire.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Becker grinned.

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  “Pretty quilt,” MacDonald commented.

  “The only thing I saved,” she told him, stroking the smudged, but still colorful patchwork of northern lights and silver stars.

  “The trophy’s in my car,” Becker assured her.

  “You’re staying in here?” Mac asked.

  “Yeah. I have dogs that need a lot of tender loving care after last night.”

  “You need some TLC, too, I imagine. Can’t live in a shed forever.”

  “It’s okay, for now. A neighbor’s bringing me a big canvas tent. Sometime today he’ll haul in a platform to lay down for it. We’ll set it up, rescue my wood stove from the wreckage, and in a couple of days I’ll be fine—back in business. I’m used to camping out on the trail, so this’ll be fine until then.”

  “Just keep in mind that someone started last night’s fire for a reason of their own,” he said, turning serious.

  “You—we—don’t know what it was—why it was

  done. They could make another try, if that motive wasn’t just to destroy your residence.”

  “You mean maybe I wasn’t supposed to get out,” she stated plainly. “I’ve thought of that.” She lifted the edge of a sleeping bag to reveal her Smith & Wesson

  .44. “My dogs would let me know before anyone got anywhere close to this shed. Same goes for the tent—

  when I move into that.”

  He nodded approval. “I’ve already spent an hour

  looking at the remains of your cabin. We look for origin and cause. I found both. Phil says you told him it started under the southeast corner. I agree. I took it back to that point and there are definite signs of arson.

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  Will you tell me what you remember, so I can confirm my findings?”

  “I was in the bedroom,” she began, “sound asleep when the carbon monoxide detector went off—then

  the smoke alarm. I shut them down, then went to the bedroom window and could see a glow that came from under the house. The floor was hot and felt weird—

  sort of soft.”

  “Spongy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were lucky it didn’t collapse under you at that point. So you got out?”

  “And ran around to see what was burning. There was a crack in the skirting that shouldn’t have been there and I could see flames through it, so I yanked a big piece off. The fire just exploded—flashover, I think you call it?”

  “You’ve seen Backdraft.”

  She gave him a very small, rueful grin and nodded, swallowing hard at the memory. “It blew out at me, just like in that movie. If I hadn’t stepped back to toss that piece into the snow, it would have got me. I kept yelling for Anne.”

  “Anne?”

  “A friend who was staying with me. She’s not here now. I got the hose turned on and sprayed water under the cabin, but it didn’t help much.”

  “Too late by that time—too hot—too well involved.”

  “Then I hosed down this shed, just before the fire truck got here. I was afraid that if the cabin went, the shed would, too, and it has all my racing gear in it—

  except for what’s in or on my truck.”

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  “What do you mean— on the truck?”

  “One of my big sleds is on top of the dog box. It’s still packed, because we’d just come back from an overnight with the dogs and I was too tired to unload it.”

  “Jessie, did you see, hear or smell anything un-

  usual?” MacDonald asked, getting back to the fire.

  “Well, I can’t think of anything under that corner of the cabin that could have caused a fire. But . . . Oh, one thing. I smelled something odd as I left the bedroom—

  a smell sort of like cut grass.”

  He frowned in concern. “Phosgene, a lethal gas

  from urethane foam—the insulation under your

  house.”

  “You can die from it?”

  “You can. It’s very nasty stuff. How much did you get?”

  “Not much. Enough to make me think it was a weird smell this time of year, but I went straight outside.”

  “Having any trouble breathing? Any pain or burning in your throat or chest?”

  “No.”

  “Good. If you do, don’t mess around. It can show up hours later. Get to the hospital immediately. Anything else unusual?”

  “No.”

  “When you got outside, what color was the fire and the smoke?”

  “It was so dark it was hard to tell what color the smoke was—sort of blackish brown, I guess. Not

  white. The fire was bright orange and yellow, almost white, very hot looking under the house.”

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  “Do you remember any unusual circumstances be-

  fore or during the fire? Anyone around you didn’t know? Any unusual sounds inside or out?”

  “No strangers, but, like I said, we’d just come home from an overnight trip and were both tired, so we were really asleep. Billy was here the night before and might have heard something. You should ask him.”

  Becker straightened and nodded to MacDonald.

  “There was the prowler Billy heard and called me about.”

  “What prowler?” Jessie asked, startled.

  “Didn’t you notice the lock was broken on the storage shed?”

  “I thought one of the people last night did it.”

  “Nope—a prowler. Nothing missing that Billy could see, but you’ll have to check. But there were footprints—boot prints—that passed and came close to the place where you tore off that piece of skirting, Jessie.

  I should have looked under there, but I thought they were headed for the shed. Sorry.”

  “Is Billy okay?”

  “Fine. He thought he heard something later, but

  checked and didn’t find anything.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have a grudge or a reason to set this fire?” MacDonald asked.

  For a second, Jessie’s face crumpled, then she sat up straight and determined. “I can’t imagine anyone doing this. But we couldn’t imagine anyone burning the Other Place, either. Things have been pretty confused around here the last couple of days—the other fires, Anne coming, trying to get in some training . . .”

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  “How about this friend of yours—this Anne? The one who isn’t here—right?”

  She nodded. “That’s another story entirely, but I’m beginning to wonder if it might be related somehow. It all seems connected in my mind. Maybe just because it’s all happening to me at the same time.”

  “Tell me.”

  Becker leaned forward, elbows on knees, hat in

  hand, to listen, as Jessie began to relate the details of Anne Holman’s unexpected visit and the background of their relationship that had begun at the Little Peters Hills cabins a decade earlier.

  MacDonald took careful notes and listened with a keen expression of interest, periodically nodding, and he interrupted only once early in her story.

  “And this is the same person that Tatum has a thing about—that got him burned in a fire ten years ago—a Marty Gifford, right? Lot of old, personal history there?”

  “Yes,” Jessie told him, “but that was all before I knew her. It’s been pretty obvious that he’s obsessed with proving she’s responsible for that fire—any fire.

  She says she wasn’t. I don’t know. But he’s been a real bastard—unreasonable and way out of line.”

  “Well, Mike Tatum’s a good investigator, but he’s got a few problems of his own. He shouldn’t be back to bother you again. If you need anythi
ng, call me, okay? Go ahead, Jessie. I need to hear this and what you think about it.”

  She told him what Anne had said about the abuse

  she had suffered from her husband, Greg, and her fear that he would follow her to Alaska, the metal box of

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  bones she had taken from the hill above the Susitna Valley, and that Anne had said she intended to take the box and her accusation to the authorities. Then she told about Anne’s sudden disappearance the night before.

  It took a long time, but she felt a little better when it had been shared with someone else. It didn’t bring answers but at least she wasn’t alone with the questions anymore.

  13

  Q

  JUST LOOKING AT THE BLACK RUIN OF HER CABIN MADE

  Jessie want to cry. Grief lay like a stone in the pit of her stomach, and her chest ached with the refusal to allow tears. Control was too hard to come by to risk losing it.

  She simply could not imagine anyone who could hate her enough to do this, but the thought kept recurring that Anne’s problems could somehow be responsible for the disaster. In no way did she think that Anne had told her the complete or even the most accurate account of the history and rationale behind her sudden unexpected trip to Alaska. The woman had told her only as much as she felt was necessary—not the whole truth. Jessie felt used and angry—both at herself for allowing it, for walking into such a situation—and at Anne, who seemed to feel that everyone in her life should exist to respond to her demands.

  More than anything she could think of, Jessie

  wished it were several days earlier, that none of it had happened, and that she had nothing on her mind but the hard work of spring training. As she began the morn-158

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  ing routine of caring for her dogs, she tried to concentrate on their needs and get on with that training, get a team harnessed up, let the rest take care of itself until she had time to accept her losses and decide how she would deal with them.

  But, however much she would like to have taken

  some of her dogs and found solace somewhere on a trail, it was soon clear that it would not be possible to escape the depressing remains of the fire. All through the long day, people kept showing up in her yard—