Tahoe Blowup

by Todd Borg

  I was just approaching Stateline when my phone rang.

  “Owen?” a taut voice said when I answered. “This is Linda Saronna at the Forest Service.” She sounded so tense it was as if someone had a gun to her head.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Hello, Linda,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I wondered if you could meet me,” she said, ignoring my question.

  “Certainly. At your office?”

  “Uh, no. Could you come to my house this evening at eight?”

  “Of course,” I said. It was clear from her tone that she wasn’t asking me for a date. “Linda, what’s this about?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I might have some information about the arsonist.”

  “Do you suspect who this person is? If so, tell me now. This is too important to wait.”

  “I don’t want to harm someone who may be innocent. We need to talk first. It’s only a hunch, based on something I just heard.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m in Truckee.” As she said it I heard road noises in the background, a car honking, the roar of a truck. “I was in the...” She suddenly stopped talking. When she resumed, her voice sounded perfunctory and business-like. “Can you, today? Good, because the burner keeps kicking out. Maybe it’s the pilot or something. If I lose heat for just one night this time of year my pipes could freeze and burst. Let me give you directions. You know Windsor Shores on the way out toward Emerald Bay? Turn right at the sign and drive down toward the lake. There’s a bunch of vacation homes scattered through the forest. A quarter mile in, you’ll see mine on the right. It’s a little green cabin with a green metal roof. Drive slow because it is tucked in under a thick stand of white firs and it’s easy to cruise right on by without noticing. Okay? Thanks so much for your help.” She hung up.

  Someone must have suddenly appeared, someone Linda didn’t want overhearing what she was saying to me. She said she was just “in” someplace. If I were to make up a scenario that would fit, I’d guess that she’d been in some building where she’d overheard something revealing. So she went outside and called me on her cell phone. As she spoke to me, the person came out and Linda switched gears so that the person in question wouldn’t be aware.

  As I drove home, I wondered what she could have overheard. I thought about the fire that killed Joanie Dove. Linda Saronna had been so distraught that day, even before we knew that a woman would die from the fire. Did Linda know Joanie? Or was it something else? Something she was afraid to talk about? Now she was calling me with a desire to talk. Maybe she’d been doing her own investigating in the meantime.

  A disturbing thought intruded. Could Linda be the firestarter? In many ways, she didn’t fit. The psychologist had said that nearly all arsonists were men. But if she were, and if she didn’t intend to kill Joanie Dove, that would explain her distress when the firemen carried Joanie Dove out from the fire.

  One thing was for certain. Linda’s stress was significant, palpable even over the phone. But I wouldn’t find out more until eight this evening.

  I pulled into Terry Drier’s Fire Department, intending to ask him about his altercation with Jake. Before I could even come to a complete stop, he was out the door, jogging toward me. “Damn it, Owen, where have you been? Either I get no answer or your phone is busy.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “We got another note. This one came by fax, while I was out for lunch. Come in and take a look.”

  I left Spot in the Jeep and followed Terry inside.

  The printing was the same as before, although slightly degraded by the fax transmission. There was nothing printed at the top where the sender’s name and number normally appeared.

  The message was short.

  The next fire will be a test of precision. Can I light a fire that takes just three houses out of a bunch?

  Terry was very agitated. “The phone company can trace this, right? You can get a court order or something and find out the telephone number it was sent from?”

  “Yes,” I said, studying the paper. “It can’t hurt to know, but it won’t tell us who the firestarter is. This guy is smart. He’d use a pay phone and hook up a laptop computer or something to send the fax.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Terry sounded exasperated with me, as if the fires were my fault. “We’re paying you good money, and for what? Everything’s gotten worse, and I can’t even find you when I need you.”

  “I’m making good progress,” I said. “There was one thing that came up, however, that you could help me with. Did you know Jake Pooler?”

  “Like I told you before, I met him. But that was all.” He glanced down for a moment.

  “That’s not what I heard at the High River Saloon in Truckee, Terry. Joe told me about you and Jake getting into a fisticuffs. In fact, Joe seems to clearly remember you threatening Jake, saying you were going to burn his ass.” I sat down on the edge of Terry’s desk. “Do you still not remember?”

  Terry’s jaw muscles flexed, relaxed, flexed again. He looked away. His voice was low and angry when he spoke. “We exchanged some words. Then the asshole sucker-punched me. I was up against the wall, trying to get some air. Next thing, all the guys on the Truckee FD are egging me on, saying Jake deserved to be laid out. So I went in swinging while I was still gasping for air.” Terry looked out the window at the mountain above. “It was the most humiliating moment of my life. An old guy beating the crap out of me. I didn’t mention it because I’ve been trying to forget about it ever since.”

  “What about Joanie Dove, Terry? Is there a humiliating moment with her that you’ve been trying to forget?”

  Terry turned from the window and looked directly at me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t forthcoming before, Owen. I am now. No, I’ve never met Joanie Dove. Never heard of her until her death in the Tallac Properties fire.”

  I believed it to be true even as I realized that he still could have lit the fire that killed her.

  Terry and I spoke for another hour, going over every aspect of my investigation. I told him everything that I knew for a fact, but nothing that I had surmised, not the least of which was that he was one of my prime suspects. I also left out the phone call from Linda. Whatever it was that she was going to tell me was nothing I needed to speculate about with Terry. He’d know soon enough.

  TWENTY-SIX

  When it was time to go see Linda, I didn’t want to take Spot as he’d already spent enough of the day in the car. I was afraid to leave him at my cabin, so that left Street as the obvious alternative.

  Spot sat to my side as I knocked on her door.

  I heard a noise and saw a darkening of the peephole. The door opened.

  Spot wagged eagerly at the sight of Street. Yet he remained sitting, his tail sweeping her doorstep clean.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. I’m wondering if you’d be willing to take in a homeless dog. Just temporarily, of course.”

  Street pretended to look around before seeing Spot. “Oh, you mean this little cutie?” Street grabbed his jowls with both hands, pulled them out like wings and steered his head back and forth. “Look, he’s a fighter bomber!”

  Spot wagged harder.

  Street let go of his lips, took his ears and bent them over like a broken nun’s cap.

  “Now he looks just like the Flying Nun!” She leaned forward and hugged Spot, their heads side by side like dancers. “Okay, your largeness, give me a pooch smooch. Now let’s you and me go inside and watch a Father Knows Best rerun or something.”

  She turned, pulling on Spot’s collar and led him in.

  I followed them in and explained that I was going to see Linda Saronna from the Forest Service and would be back soon. We kissed and said goodbye.

  It was dark by the time I got around the south end of the lake and headed back north toward Emerald Bay.

  Just past Camp Richardson my phone rang.

  “Owen!” Terry Drier said with
out identifying himself. “We’ve got a fire report! In the forest near Cascade Lake. Just south of Emerald Bay!”

  “Can you be more specific? I’m right nearby.”

  “The call came from a house in Windsor Shores. A man said he could see big flames through the trees.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

  I hung up just as the wail of a siren reached my ears from somewhere down the road behind me. The engine roared as I floored it. My Jeep has auxiliary headlights. I flipped them on and punched up the high beams. When the Baldwin Beach entrance flashed by, I hit the brakes, slowing for the steep upcoming curves. The tires screamed as I cranked into the turns going twice the limit. In a few moments the Windsor Shores sign appeared suddenly in the dark and I half slid into the entrance, wheels spinning. My headlights lit up a wide swath of black forest and I shot down the narrow road, bouncing and slamming over ruts and potholes. As I came around the first turn my gut clenched. Up ahead, beyond my headlight beams, the forest was making its own light.

  A distant orange glow made silhouettes of the trees. The glow turned brighter and more yellow as I got closer. Then the yellow turned into a distinct wall of flames. I heard the roar of fire wind over my engine.

  Suddenly, I was at the fire. I stomped on the brakes and jerked off to the side of the road.

  Not far in front of me was an inferno. It engulfed a hundred foot swath of forest. Directly in front of the advancing flames was a small green house with a green metal roof.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I jumped out of the Jeep and ran toward the house.

  The heat was searing. I lifted the front of my windbreaker up and held it in front of my face.

  “Linda!” I yelled as I plunged closer to the house and the wall of fire just behind it. “Linda!”

  My voice was impotent against the roar of the flames. The forest cracked and spit under the assault. Flaming debris rained down around me. Bits of smoldering wood left arcing smoke trails as they curved to the ground like fireworks.

  The back of the tiny house was in flames as I reached the front. Shaded somewhat from the flames, the heat was less intense. I dropped the jacket fabric from my face and tried the door. It was locked.

  Although I knew that an oxygen-starved fire could explode when a source of air reaches it, I didn’t hesitate to raise my leg and kick in the door.

  Black smoke gushed out as the door flew in against an inside wall.

  “Linda!” I yelled again, as I dropped to my hands and knees. The smoke was still thick and I dropped onto my belly and put my nose and lips to the floor. There, the in-rushing air from the open door kept the smoke away and I was able to take a breath. “Linda!” I kept yelling as I belly-crawled through the smoke-thick living room. I couldn’t see where I was going, nor could I get a sense of the house layout. But I knew that there were back rooms already on fire. If Linda was in one of them...

  I hit a wall, and, nose and lips still to the floor, I turned left thinking there had to be a doorway nearby. Some firelight was coming in through a window, but the smoke was so heavy it was nearly black inside.

  I ran my fingers along the wall as I crawled. They soon hit some moulding that ran vertically. A door frame. In it, a closed door.

  I sucked a breath off the floor, stood and groped for the doorknob. Without thinking, I grabbed onto it. The pain from the hot metal was like electricity. I jerked away. Then, still holding my breath in the sea of smoke, I kicked the door in.

  It broke far more easily than the front door. The door slammed open, hit something and bounced back.

  I was yelling Linda’s name when the room exploded.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I didn’t know where I was.

  It was dark, but orange light flickered somewhere. After a minute I figured out that I was lying on my back. Sirens screamed. Truck engines roared. From several directions came the sound of men yelling. I tried to turn and look but my face seemed plastered against a tree trunk.

  What was I doing here?

  My body felt on fire. I looked down without moving my head. I wasn’t burning, but some coals glowed red on my jacket. I tried to brush them off, but couldn’t manage the coordination. I rolled my eyes the other way. The nearby trees were on fire. I forced my eyes to turn further. There was a little house in the woods. It, too, was on fire. One side of the house had broken off and sagged down like a fiery lean-to. I tried to turn away, but I couldn’t make anything move. I turned my eyes a different direction.

  Lying in the woods next to me was a door. It burned with a yellow flame that was bright against the dark soil.

  Someone grabbed my arm and started dragging me. Parts of me hurt as I bounced over rocks and roots. Other parts of me were numb. Two men ran up and set a stretcher down on the ground. One took my head and shoulders, another my feet. A third stood over me, straddling my middle. He reached down and looped his hand through my belt. Somebody shouted.

  “Ready? One! Two! Three!”

  In one smooth motion, they lifted me onto the stretcher. In moments I was in an ambulance, and it bounced and lurched away.

  I tried to speak to the attendant next to me, but my mouth wouldn’t make the words. I worked at it, concentrated on making my lips move. He sat there, a concerned look on his face, as I tried to talk.

  But no words came out. If the attendant smelled the burning flesh, he just assumed it was flesh already burned, not burning still. He didn’t know that a coal had burned through my clothing and was now burning into the flesh of my stomach.

  The pain concentrated my mind. I remembered the time I accidentally flicked a piece of glowing charcoal into the top of my shoe. This pain was much worse. I could think of nothing else. I couldn’t even try to remember why I might have been in the middle of a forest fire. My only focus was my belly flesh, burning away under the insistent glowing coal which was lost under my layers of clothing. I concentrated on that coal until I passed out.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I awoke in a hospital bed.

  For a long time I lay still, reconstructing what I remembered, trying to imagine what I did not. I had a lot of room to imagine because what I remembered wasn’t much more than my name.

  People moved about in the hallway. I saw a policeman standing guard. It was light out my window. Then it was dark. Sleep came and went. I couldn’t place the intervals. I couldn’t place the day. Now and then a nurse would come and do things to the tubes. One time, she noticed that my eyes were open. She left and I heard her talking to someone else. A doctor came in and poked at me here and there. He shined a light in my eyes and ignored me when I tried to express my displeasure. But with no words coming out of my mouth I couldn’t expect him to pay attention.

  At one point I awoke to see Diamond staring down at me.

  “Yo, gringo,” he said. “You talking yet?”

  “Meh...be,” I said. The word was almost unintelligible, but he smiled.

  “You’ve been out two days.’Bout time you start talking. We’ve got questions.”

  “Pro...bly,” I mumbled. I then attempted to rattle off a veritable torrent of words, not one of which Diamond understood.

  “Hey, look, buddy,” Diamond said, leaning in close. “Doc says you ain’t got a stroke or nothing else serious. Just a real bad concussion. I guess the explosion basically knocked your brain senseless, but they expect a good recovery.”

  I could see that Diamond thought he might be talking to a vegetable, but he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  “Besides your head being knocked silly,” he continued, “you’re going to have a macho scar on your stomach. Seems a coal got on your belly and tried to burn its way to China. Doc said they had to cut out some flesh and pull you back together with twenty pound test. Anyway, take care of your head and it won’t be long before you’re back to your normal perspicacity.”

  I tried to repeat his big word, but it came out like perspiration.

  “You get your rehab but
t in gear, Yankee. I’ll be back mañana.”

  When Diamond left I could tell he’d decided my brain was fried. He had no clue that I could actually think a little bit. What I couldn’t do was talk. My verbal center was down for the count. I couldn’t put my thoughts into clear words. And even if I could have, I couldn’t get my mouth around them.

  What scared me, though, wasn’t the way Diamond reacted to what was wrong with me, but something else in his face. I worked on it for awhile, coming up with some vaguely disturbing scenarios, but it was then I realized that not only couldn’t I talk, but I couldn’t track my thoughts, either. All of my ‘what if’ scenarios turned into something more like cartoons than real life. Eventually, I went to sleep, aided, probably, by one of the drugs they were slipping into my IV.

  By the following morning I’d improved dramatically. My thinking was only somewhat muddled, and my speech was mostly clear. Nevertheless, I couldn’t simply talk, but instead had to think about each word as I said it.

  Diamond came back just as I finished nibbling at my first solid food since the explosion. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Intense concern made worry lines where his brown skin used to be smooth.

  “Morning,” I said with only a slight thickness to my speech. I’d been secretly practicing.

  “Your brain back?”

  “Yes. It sort of was yesterday.” I spoke very slowly, forming each word with care. They still came out slurred as if the dentist had shot me full of Novocaine. “I just have trouble talking.”