by Todd Borg
“Which is that what actually burned, bad as it was, was nothing compared to what should have burned given the conditions at the time. But by some miracle, the wind shifted suddenly and dramatically. The roiling air masses brought a solid rain from skies where no rain had been predicted.”
“We’ve all seen that happen in the Sierra.”
“Yes,” Frederick said. “But this happened just as the fire got going. It was perfect timing. Luck at its extreme.”
“Yet you called it a blowup.”
“It was.” Frederick opened his folder and flipped through some of his papers. “One eyewitness account said it was a small ground fire one minute and then twenty minutes later the forest exploded. The trees went off like bombs and no man-made intervention could stop it as it raced up the mountain.
“Where did it start?”
He pointed to the map. “It started near the Freel Creek Elementary school and grew slowly into the Freel Creek Subdivision neighborhood. Fortunately, officials got all the nearby houses evacuated before the fire exploded. Once the firemen realized they had a blowup on their hands, they backed off. There was nothing further to do.”
Frederick pointed to arrows on the map. “The fire raced up the mountain at speeds estimated to be as high as fifty miles per hour. The updraft was so intense it created its own thunderhead fifty thousand feet high which produced lightning that started several other nearby fires.”
“Rain and hail?” I was still trying to understand how such monstrous fires worked.
“Yeah. One report said there was hail the size of golf balls. And this from a storm that was created by a fire.” Frederick leaned over the map. “The fire tracked through here, just to the east of Trimmer Peak and then went all the way up to the treeline below the saddle between Job’s Sister and Freel Peak. During all this the air masses were shifting and strong rain came in from the southwest, rain that wasn’t so intense as thunderstorm showers but was long-lasting and thoroughly soaked the entire Tahoe Basin.”
“Total damage?”
“Fifteen houses, ten thousand acres and one fatality.”
“Linda mentioned a woman,” I said.
“Right. Apparently she was hiking with her son when the fire started and she took refuge in a mining cabin on a ridge over Star Lake.”
“I know that lake. Under the peak of Job’s Sister.” I said.
“Yes. She soaked herself and her kid down in the lake before hiking up to the cabin.” Frederick glanced among the papers and scanned down one of them. “His name was Tommy Reynolds. The Hotshots parachuted in and got the kid out.”
I noticed confirmation of the name Tommy. “But mom didn’t survive,” I said.
“No. They should have stayed in the lake.”
“It sounds like a good idea,” I said. “But Star Lake is over nine thousand feet of elevation. The water probably never gets any warmer than forty degrees. You’d die of hypothermia in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Frederick said.
“What was her name?”
Frederick again looked down the paper in his hand. “Melissa Reynolds.”
“When Linda mentioned the fire to me, she said a woman died. But she didn’t mention Tommy Reynolds. Sheila said that Linda’s foster child was named Tommy. I think they were one and the same.”
Frederick was surprised. “Wow, what kind of a coincidence is that? Or do you suppose Linda somehow arranged to take in that particular kid because his mother died in a forest fire?”
“I think the latter,” I said. “I also think that the reason she didn’t mention him was that she suspected him of being the arsonist and she didn’t want to bring attention to him until she was more certain.”
Frederick frowned. “If he is the arsonist, then that means he burned his foster mother to death. What a sick bastard! If she suspected him, why didn’t she say something?” Frederick straightened the papers he’d collected. “Then again, to be fair, Linda might not have known about the boy surviving. Her foster child might not have been the same Tommy.” He tapped on the pile of papers. “I went through all the newspaper articles, several eyewitness accounts, and both fire department and Forest Service reports. While they all mention the fatality of the woman and the damage to buildings, only the newspaper articles mention the boy. I guess the official agency reports aren’t interested in the human interest angle. And Linda moved to Tahoe maybe a year after the fire. I’m not sure when. If she didn’t read the old newspapers she might never have known about the kid.”
“Other people would have talked about it.”
“Not necessarily,” Frederick said. “Think of when skiers or boaters die here in Tahoe. It happens every year, but locals don’t talk of such accidents much at all. Ever since I moved up here, I’ve learned that it’s kind of an unspoken rule that certain subjects are taboo in an economy dependent on tourism.”
“True,” I said. “I can see that people wouldn’t have wanted to speak to Linda about local tragedies right when she had just moved here and was excited about her new job. But I’m going to assume that a strong possibility exists for the boy who survived the fire being the same boy that Linda took care of. I also assume he might be the arsonist. Such assumptions can be wrong, but, if logical, can help us find the firestarter more quickly.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Frederick agreed.
“Frederick, in your opinion, what would have happened if the wind hadn’t shifted and the heavy rain hadn’t come in?”
“The worst you could imagine. A hundred houses and thousands of additional acres might have burned. As it was, the fire wind caused damage to some houses that never felt heat. Without the rain, the fire wind would have been much worse as well.”
“What do you mean, fire wind?”
“When a forest fire creates a large updraft, air has to rush in from the side to replace the hot air shooting into the skies. The fire wind is not hot, but it can be so strong that it blows down trees and buildings, fueling and exacerbating the fire. From what I read in these reports, if the Freel Peak blowup had progressed without the sudden change in the weather, the resulting firestorm would have been like what happened in World War Two when we fire-bombed German cities. South Tahoe would have looked like Dresden, decimated by a firestorm.”
As Frederick talked, I visualized Winton squirting lighter fluid into the charcoal flames, talking dumb in an effort to mislead me.
“Is there any substantial difference,” I asked, “between then and now in terms of the fire danger and our ability to fight it?”
“Well, our strike teams are better equipped and better trained. And we have more patrols and brush rigs than we used to.”
“I don’t know what those are.”
“Oh, sorry. Patrols are basically glorified pickups with water tanks on them. And brush rigs are what we call Type Three trucks, the ones with four-wheel-drive. In the business of fighting forest fires, mobility and speed are everything. Our access to choppers is better. And our fire science is better. We simply know a lot more about how forest fires burn.
“On the other hand, fuel levels are higher in the forest. The drought of a few years ago left tens of thousands of dead trees that still haven’t been cleared out. And there are many more houses out there, all made of wood, I might add. Which means there are many more people at risk.”
“If someone lit a similar blaze today, what do you think would happen?”
“I can’t even imagine. The main portion of South Lake Tahoe has only two escape routes, Highway Fifty east or Highway Fifty west. There is no effective way to move a sizable population. A lot of people could burn.”
“Frederick, I want you to call me if you get any other thoughts on where this guy may strike the next match. You probably heard about the last note?”
“Yeah. What was it? Eighty houses or something? I’m sure the threat is very real. But I can’t see such a specific figure. Having enough control over a fire to burn
one or two houses made sense. But anything close to eighty doesn’t seem possible to predict. Most of the neighborhoods that big have a lot more houses. And once a fire is going to burn more than ten houses in such a neighborhood it seems it would be too unpredictable to plan how far it would go. But if I were to guess, I’d say the arsonist would be looking at Kingsbury Grade. Especially if the wind shifts a touch to the north. That area is very vulnerable to fire in a northwest wind.
At that moment Sheila stuck her head in the door. “Oh, hi, Mr. McKenna. I don’t mean to interrupt. But I thought you should know that the Mutual Aid Coordinator took the advice you gave me, Frederick. The chopper will stand at Red Alert on the Tahoe Keys meadow until further notice.”
“Sounds good,” Frederick said.
Sheila turned to go.
“Sheila,” I said. “I’ve got a quick question. I was unsuccessful at locating any pictures of Linda’s foster child, Tommy. I’m wondering if you thought you’d recognize him today?”
“Well, I suppose he must be all grown up and look a lot different.” She grinned at me. “But I bet I’d recognize that little troublemaker’s mug anywhere, anytime. He made an impression on people, let me tell you.” She stopped and looked at me, eyes wide. “Do you mean to tell me you think the arsonist could be...” Sheila broke off and looked horrified.
“It’s looking like that, yes.”
“Have you found him?”
“Not yet. But when we do, we’ll want an ID. It’ll be the final piece of evidence.”
It took Sheila a moment to respond. “Sure. Just let me know.” She was turning to leave the conference room when Francisco burst in shouting, “Another fire was just reported! Over by the airport!”
THIRTY-SIX
Frederick dropped his papers, pushed past Sheila and was out the door. Francisco and I followed at a run.
The Forest Service was in total pandemonium. People were shouting and running in all directions. I figured I could try to get information while I drove, so I sprinted to my Jeep.
Spot and Natasha were thrown about as I careened out of the parking lot at high speed and headed down Highway 50. My phone rang and I grabbed at it.
“Hello?”
“This is Mallory. We’ve got a fire.”
“I heard. Over by the airport?”
“Yeah. It started in the tall grass near the airport turnoff.”
“How bad is it?”
“Sounds like they’ve got it almost out already. Sergeant Polk spotted the blaze right after it started. A vehicle raced away as he pulled up. He would have given chase, but he figured that his first duty was to try to stop the fire. Another squad was nearby and an El Dorado County Deputy came a minute later. All three officers went into the meadow with the extinguishers they keep in their vehicles. Kind of like trying to put out a big fire by pissing on it, but it made a critical difference. Two fire trucks got there soon after and hit the flames hard before the wind could whip it into something bigger. Just a sec...”
Mallory put me on hold, then came back shortly. “Just got the report that it’s out, Owen. Burned less than an acre. Those boys did good. They’ll stay on the scene for awhile, though. This wind is blowing like a son of a bitch. Never know when that sucker sparks back to life.”
“Any idea how it started?” I asked.
“No. Probably like the others, though. Walked out there and struck a damn match.”
“I don’t suppose Sergeant Polk got the plate?”
“Hell, yes. It’s a California number. We’re running it as we speak. What?” Mallory said to someone else then came back to me. “Here it is, Owen. Vehicle’s registered to a California corporation, name of The Jones Company.”
“That’s informative,” I said.
“Right.”
“How long to get a list of corporate officers?”
“Shit, McKenna, I’d ask a private dick that question.”
“Good point. Maybe I can pull it off the Internet. What about the vehicle make?”
“Polk said he was so focused on the plate as it sped away that he didn’t get the make. All he knows is that it was a white pickup.”
“A dooley?”
“What the hell is that?” Mallory asked.
“One of those big ones with dual rear wheels.”
“Oh. I’ll ask Polk. Shit, I got a red light flashing. Gotta go.”
I drove to the fire site and saw that while there were no flames, smoke issued from a wide swath of burned meadow. It was easy to see that it could have expanded into a major fire. Although, I had to agree with Frederick that if a bigger fire was what the firestarter wanted, then he would have waited until the wind shifted to the northwest.
Then again, maybe that was how he intended to only burn eighty houses. Light a smaller fire.
There was nothing else to do in South Lake Tahoe, so I drove home. Natasha and Spot had been in the Jeep a long time and needed to run.
Treasure came running as we pulled up, her toy-poodle legs moving in a blur. I let Spot and Natasha out and the three dogs ran in figure eights.
Mrs. Duchamp came out of her house wearing some kind of tight white outfit that showed just how well-fed she was. She looked like the Michelin tire man in high heels.
“Yoo hoo, Treasure,” she called out in a sing song. “Yoo hoo.”
I waved.
The dogs went in and out in a complicated pattern as if they were trailing invisible streamers and were weaving them into a complex braid. Then Treasure broke rank and shot up the street toward Mrs. Duchamp.
When I got inside, I picked up the phone and dialed Jake Pooler Construction. I wanted to find out if Betty knew the registration and license number of Jake’s pickup. The phone rang several times and then was picked up by an answering machine. I left a message for Betty, asking her to call me at home ASAP.
Next, I tried Captain O’Reilly of the Truckee PD. He was the one who was going to get a warrant for Winton’s arrest based on the theft of Jake’s pickup. That was before the FBI had found maps of the fires in Winton’s cabin. Nevertheless, he would have looked up the truck’s registration.
A cheerful secretary informed me that Captain O’Reilly was out on a call. She could put me through to dispatch if it was an emergency. I asked if anybody else would know something of Jake Pooler’s truck. She had no idea. She took my number and said she’d have O’Reilly call as soon as he checked in.
I got a beer and sat down, exhausted.
My heart ached for my sweetheart and I felt powerless to help her. Almost for certain, Winton had her in some house in the path of his next fire, maybe out near the airport.
Was she tied up the way Linda had been? I struggled to breathe as I visualized Street lashed to bedposts. The thought was so suffocating it felt like it would crush my chest. Yet Street was counting on me to find her. I could feel it. If she was still alive, she would believe that I’d never give up. And so I couldn’t.
I felt that I was at a second major turning point in my life, a kind of defining moment where my choices and actions were critical and could drastically alter the outcome of my future and Street’s.
The first major turning point was when the kid came running out of the Wells Fargo Bank. In the space of a few seconds, I made a choice that turned my world bleak. By no official mandate, yet as if by decree, my life as a cop was suddenly over just as I had reached my prime. My very existence became tenuous.
But, following some instinct, I left the city for a different environment, one as opposite from my background as I could find. Instead of pavement, there’d be forest. Instead of crowds, there’d be space with few people. Instead of street gangs, I’d find children playing innocent games. Instead of pickup basketball, there’d be skiing and mountain biking, boating and hiking. Instead of sea level fog, I’d find high altitude sun.
Of course, there was another side. Tahoe has no symphony or opera, no art museums or professional theater, no cultural diversity or racial diversity,
no ocean, no significant architecture, few restaurants.
But that was part of moving to a place where everything was different.
I started a second career and rebuilt my life. Day by day. I wasn’t happy, but that kid and the image of his blood and brains spilling out onto the sidewalk faded. Gradually, my life took on shape and form.
Then I met Street and color came back into my world. I had a reason to live, better than all the ones that had come before. My center came back. I felt a balance, fresh energy, a new sense of purpose.
It had been going for several years, this new, wonderful life. The best years I’d ever had. The tragedy of that kid had given birth to something wonderful for me, and though I’d do anything to give him his life back, to restore him to his family and friends, I was eternally grateful that he’d set in motion a chain of events that led me to Street.
And now...
I drank my beer angrily, pounding it down in hard swallows that hurt my throat, then letting the bottle drop to the rug. I stared at the dark glass of the woodstove. Without a fire behind it, the glass was like a smoked mirror reflecting the cold, empty, lifeless room.
If only I knew she was all right. If only she could get a message to me. If only...
I sat up straight.
I jumped up and got a copy of the last fax the killer had sent. Partway down were the words about Street. Words that the killer knew would prove he had her in his possession.
‘She said that not long ago she talked about bugs named Achorutes Nivcolas.’
Was that it? A message of some kind?
I remembered that she mentioned that bug or something similar the night Ellie stayed over. We had been looking at the Bierstadt painting. Street had said that these bugs lived in the landscape of the painting. Something like that.
So when the kidnapper demanded she give him some information that only she would know, information that would prove he really had her, she gave him a bug’s name.
