Jeb could almost see her face in the patterns of light on the river—the flare of her high cheekbones, her almond-shaped eyes, her coppery-brown skin. Grace and strength. Beauty and wisdom. A passionate love of her heritage.
Things that Jeb’s father had whittled down.
Jeb’s first memories were of the Wolf River and salmon. His mother hanging orange-pink strips of flayed flesh over wooden racks to dry in the brief warm winds of a Pacific Northwest summer, her dark hair hanging in a fat braid down the center of her strong back, swatting at clouds of mosquitoes, her wolf dog watching, waiting for her to toss him a scrap.
Another memory washed through his mind, his father returning at the helm of the Jolly Roger, his dancing eyes the color of wild irises, his cheeks ruddy and wind-burned as he dragged in his wake a flotilla of shrieking and wheeling gulls. The briny smells of the harbor where they’d traveled down to meet him. The excitement, the industry along the docks. The noise of his boyhood when the boats came in. The worry in his mother’s eyes as they had met those boats.
Then would come the autumn hunts, just him and his dad weighed down with packs, trekking out from the trailhead into the endless wilderness in search of caribou. Moose. Whitetail deer. The crack of gunfire in a misty dawn. Blood, warm, slippery and viscous on his hands, steam rising from hot entrails as he learned to gut and to sever limbs, field dress and pack out his kill before the conservation officers got to them—because his father had never played by the book.
Those autumn kills had meant survival through the winter when blankets of snow lay quiet and heavy, before the salmon teemed up the coast again and his father could take the Jolly Roger back out into the ocean.
And when winter grew deep and dark, his father would start to drink again. The low Pacific Northwest clouds and the long, dark days would sink his Irish-Canadian father into a deep depression. He’d self-medicate. It would make his moods worse, and the violence would start, a cycle as predictable as the run of the salmon. The flight of the Canada geese. The return of the hummingbirds. The coming of the snows.
After his dad’s death, as Jeb grew older, he’d helped his mother start the river-running business. In the fall he’d pick mushrooms; he made a small fortune in chanterelles each season. He’d do some trapping during winters, between school. And later he started guiding fly fishers to the best trout streams, secret places only he knew. Places he’d taken Rachel.
Yet another memory washed through him—his arms wrapped around Rachel as he showed her how to hold the light bamboo rod, how to cast the fly so that it flicked lightly on the surface of the water just at the edge of a deep, shadowed pool. She laughed, and he saw wonder in her big brown eyes as she cradled her first rainbow in her hand, keeping it underwater as she unhooked it and gently freed it from the cup of her hands.
She’d had tears in her eyes when she’d let it go. She’d told Jeb it was like holding, controlling, the pulse of life itself in her palms. It was a connection he’d given her and it warmed his heart.
He inhaled deeply, drawing his mind back to the present as he made his way back to his bike and untied his bedroll. His plan was to sleep for a few hours, recharge. He’d do some work around here in the morning, then tomorrow afternoon was the interview he’d arranged. He brought his gear down to the river’s edge and unrolled his mat under the gentle, nurturing boughs of a hemlock.
Jeb climbed into his down sleeping bag, and lay on his back, one arm hooked beneath his head as he listened to the water and watched the ghostly play of aurora across the sky. As he lay there, he wondered if he could ever win Rachel back. Was it even possible?
The idea had lodged like a barbed hook, muddying his purity of focus. He’d have to be careful. His desire to see his daughter, his impulse to follow his heart, had already cost him today.
He closed his eyes, drifting into a light sleep.
Jeb jerked awake.
He lay dead still, trying to discern what it was that had disturbed the rhythm of his sleep. Was it that the aurora had stopped playing across the sky? That the pattern of the river had changed? The wind had increased, a steady rushing sound like an ocean on a distant shore. A sharp westerly.
But there was something else. A cold sensation of malintent snaking through the trees, fingering toward him—he couldn’t explain it. Yet the sixth sense of a hunter told him something bad was out there, coming.
Cautiously he extricated himself from his sleeping bag and moved into a crouch on the dry bed of needles, listening intently as he peered with naked eyes into the blackness. The moon had sunk behind the peaks and the stars had moved across the sky. It was much darker than when he’d arrived. Jeb waited for the soft crunch of dead leaves that would signal a big cat’s careful approach, or the familiar cracking and breaking of brush that foretold the presence of a large ursine beast. He inhaled gently, mouth slightly open, testing the wind. He used to be able to almost taste the fetid scent of a bear or the horsiness of a moose.
That was when he heard it. Engines approaching. Very distant, layered under the swish and rush of wind through forest. The engines grew louder. More than one vehicle coming. Tension whipped through him.
There was no other development along this road. Only this place. Beyond it was mountain, then another valley, which was Indian land.
Could it be kids returning for another night of drunken vandalism?
From his blind under the heavy hemlock boughs, Jeb watched as headlights swung into the property. A truck and an SUV came bumping down the rutted track, stopping near the log house.
The truck was dark blue, maybe even black. Four doors, long box. He could make out a D on the plate, but nothing more. The SUV was pale. Silver? Hard to tell in darkness.
Doors opened and three men got out. The interior lights lit them up briefly, showing black clothing, dark ski masks pulled low and tight over their heads. They left engines running and headlights on bright. Moving like ninja silhouettes across the glare of the headlights, they made for the house. One carried a flashlight and a tire iron. The other two lugged gasoline cans. Every muscle in his body went wire-tight.
With fast and choreographed intent, they glugged gasoline around the house, splashing it across the porch, the steps.
Jeb drew back into the shadows, rage mushrooming inside him—they hadn’t even checked if anyone was inside.
One of the men threw a match. The whoosh and crackle was instant. Flames, orange against black, licked quickly up the walls and ate into the old rafters, bright sparks and burning chunks shooting up into the night.
Two of the men lit the ends of sticks. Carrying their fiery torches, they ran down to the old wooden cabins on the river, lighting one after the other. Fire rushed and roared, flame light dancing like molten copper over the river surface as the fruits of Jeb’s mother’s hard labor burned.
He was unprepared for the power of pure hatred that burned through his blood. Those men knew he was back. They’d come to send a message with gasoline and a tire iron. Or worse. And with the drought, they risked burning the whole goddamn forest.
He’d expected the establishment to turn on him. Vilify him. Try to run him out of town. But not so soon, not being preempted like this. Was this what his mistake today had cost? Had Rachel betrayed him?
He fought the urge to break cover, go after them, smash them down, rip the masks from their faces. But he was unarmed. Outnumbered. And he refused to do it this way, to be tempted back into violence by faceless cowards who crept in under the shadow of darkness and masks.
Patience, Jebbediah . . . Out of the blackness and roar and smoke he heard his father’s voice. The sober dad on an early winter hunt. Before he’d started drinking heavily again.
. . . Patient as that bear up on the ridge, see it? Watching us, scenting us with its open mouth? There, now it’s gone. That’s the dangerous bear, Jebbediah. He’s the one who is going to come quie
t from behind. He’s going to track us for days, stalk us, not charge up front . . . be that bear, Jeb. That’s how you get your kill . . .
Slowly Jeb crept out from under the hemlock. Keeping in shadow, he sifted through the darkness toward a stand of cottonwoods at the far end of the property. But his bike was across the clearing, on the other side of the vehicles and the blazing cabin. He stayed hidden, waiting for his chance.
Fire swelled to a loud roar, licking up surrounding trees. He could feel heat on his face. Flaming debris shot higher and was driven farther by the fierce dry winds into new trees, where boughs exploded into fresh flames, the blaze crackling into the forest with mocking, greedy glee. Those masked men had given life to a hot monster that was feeding off wind and a season of drought. And it was eating hungrily up the forested flanks of the mountain toward the Indian reserve on the other side.
A cold, sick sensation dropped through Jeb’s stomach. They had to know the forest was a simmering tinderbox. Signs warning of the extreme fire hazard were posted everywhere through town. They could see which way the wind was blowing—away from Snowy Creek. Toward Indian land.
Someone yelled down by the water. “Sleeping bag—he’s here!”
They’d found his gear, knew he was here. They were actively looking for him now, a new electricity driving their movements. Pressure built in Jeb’s chest. He had to get to his bike. Sound the alarm before the fire got over that hill and took a small, scattered rural community by surprise.
He made a dash for it, running in a low crouch around the back of the burning house. Heat blasted his face. He was almost there. But as he neared his bike, an explosion ripped through the house behind him. It drew the men’s attention, and the new burst of flames illuminated Jeb with hot orange light. He heard voices yelling. “Over there!”
They raced toward him.
He straddled his bike. No time for the helmet. He fired the ignition.
But before he could move, the tire iron slammed down hard across the backs of his shoulders. Wind punched out of him, the impact lurched him off his bike, which skidded out beneath him and smashed into trees.
Another blow came down for his head. But Jeb rolled to the side as the tire iron thudded into the ground, the point just catching and splitting skin open across his temple. Blood leaked into his eyes, his ear. Jeb sprang into a warrior crouch and reached for a log. No words were spoken as they came for him again. He swung the log up, cracking one of the men across the cheekbone. The man grunted in pain. But the move cost Jeb, and he took a punch in the gut from another assailant. As he stumbled backward, a blow was landed to his head. His vision went red, then black, then spiraled with pinpricks of light. He staggered sideways, taking another violent blow to the stomach.
Winded, he slumped to the ground. He lay there, unable to move, to breathe, the world around him swimming into a slow, hot, syrupy molasses tinged with the acrid scent of fire. One of the men kicked him in the ribs. Steel-toed boot. Pain sliced through his body. Another moved in for a kick. Jeb rolled onto his side, curled into a ball. Through his own blood he saw the tire iron rising high. The eyes of the man holding it glinted in the slit of his mask.
But before his assailant could bring it down for a kill stroke, another whump of hot air, rushing heat, and flying shrapnel knocked them all sideways. Someone screamed. There was more yelling. Jeb heard words, disjointed, swimming in his head.
“Old propane tank . . . behind those trees . . . exploded. Fire reaching trucks . . . whole place is going to blow . . .”
Jeb rolled onto his stomach and tried to drag himself toward his crashed bike, inch by inch. Heat was all around him. Blood coppery in his mouth. His world a nauseating, spinning kaleidoscope of fire and smoke. Couldn’t make it . . .
He rolled sideways, tumbling down into a creek bed of soggy mud, wet leaves.
He heard engines. Vehicles leaving. The roar of fire grew loud.
And his world went black.
I wake to the sound of sirens and lie there listening as the wails thread up the valley, growing louder and louder. They’re coming my way.
In a small town like this, the sound of sirens is different from a big city. It’s personal. Close. The chance you know the person hurt, in need of help, is high, and you always wonder if it might be someone you love. Especially if your loved ones are out on that treacherous highway in winter. But Quinn is safely tucked in her bed.
My bedside clock glows green: 2:02 a.m.
It’s around this time the village bars disgorge their patrons. Likely a drunk driving accident. I reach over to my bedside table, grope for my scanner, turn it on. I’ve gotten into the habit of keeping a scanner close by ever since I took over the newspaper.
Voices crackle over the radio waves. “Fire dispatch . . . Ladder Thirty-Three responding . . . Code Three . . . Ladder Forty-Five . . .”
I sit bolt upright, adrenaline slamming through me.
Fire.
It’s happened. The worst of fears, given the dryness in this valley. It could turn into an interface blaze where wildfire meets urban development. The whole ski resort could blow. Quickly I get up, grab my robe, go to the window. Over the lake I see nothing but clear night sky, the jagged line of dark peaks and the ghostly glow of the glaciers. From the direction of the flag down by the dock, the wind is westerly. Brisk.
Another voice crackles over the scanner. “Westside Road. Banks of Wolf River. Lot R-one-one-four . . . the old river lodge . . .”
I freeze as I register the address.
Jeb.
Spinning round, I grab my cell phone and the scanner, and run quickly to the other side of the house, taking the stairs up to the attic two at a time. Out of the attic window facing west, the sky over the mountains glows a soft, dull orange. Horror fills me. The wail of sirens turns piercing as fire engines pass on the highway above my house, then began to twist along the valley to the north. The same direction Jeb went.
Quickly I dial the number Jeb gave me. I pace as it rings. It goes to voice mail. I try again. Same.
I dial my reporter on call.
“Blake, it’s Rachel.” I speak fast. “Big fire up the Wolf River Valley. Can you get there with a camera, or call Hallie?” I hang up before he can even answer. My hands are shaking now, sweat beading as I punch in the phone number for Brandy, my sitter.
After Trey left I developed a network of sitters I can call on, even at crazy hours, because of my search-and-rescue volunteer work and the after-hours business that comes with running a newspaper. The SAR work eventually gave way—I couldn’t keep it all up. But there are still newspaper production days, the schmoozing. Brandy answers on the second ring.
“Brandy, I’ve got a callout,” I lie. I haven’t been paged yet. But Levi, Clint, Zink, and Adam, Luke’s brother, are all affiliated with Rescue One, and Jeb has planted just enough doubt in my heart for me not to trust anyone right now. The timing of this fire, the location, is ominous. I need to get there before the others. “Can you get here stat?”
“Is it fire?”
“Yes.”
I hear a muffled sound, a whisper. I close my eyes. Shit, Brandy is with someone.
“Look, I’m sorry—”
“I’ll be there in five,” she says.
I rush downstairs and fling open my closet door. As a certified SAR volunteer for Rescue One, I always have a full bag of gear ready. Winter, summer, and anything in between. This town has many volunteers like me, all with very full lives, sacrificing their time, sometimes at considerable financial cost, with no other reward than to rescue others. A unique team that helps knit together the fabric of this mountain community.
A team managed by Trey.
A team I’ve been feeling increasingly alienated from.
As I change, I hear more sirens and the staccato chop of a helicopter.
“Quinn!” I kno
ck on her door, then open it. “Quinn, honey, wake up, listen to me. I’ve got a callout. Fire on the west side. Brandy is on her way over. Don’t leave the house, okay? Stick with Brandy. If anything happens, if the wind switches, you listen to her. Do as she says. Okay, honey?”
“Fire?” She sits bolt upright, her eyes instantly wide and full of terror.
It hits me like a brick between the eyes. Her mother and father died in a fire. Her house went up in flames. I crouch down, move a fall of curls from my niece’s brow. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s out in the wilds. Far away.”
Quinn’s hand clutches at my arm. “Aunt Rachel . . . you can’t get hurt. You can’t go. You can’t.”
I am all Quinn has left.
Conflict torques through me. I temper my voice, keeping it calm, comforting. “It’s okay, Quinnie. I promise I won’t let anything happen. I’m just going to see if I can help. I’m not going anywhere near the flames, all right?”
She just stares at me, her hand tight on my arm. The sound of the chopper grows loud overhead, rattling the windows as it moves toward the wildfire.
“I’ll wait until Brandy gets here, okay?” I pat the comforter, inviting Trixie to jump up on the bed. Quinn’s shoulders relax and she smiles at the sight of Trixie. This is a treat.
“Trixie will stay with you, keep you comfy.”
Quinn lies back on her pillow and I pace in her room, urgency mounting in me. As soon as I hear Brandy’s truck coming down the driveway, I say a quick good-bye to Quinn and rush down the stairs. I run for my truck as Brandy is climbing out of hers.
“I’ll stay until you get back, no worries!” she calls after me.
“Keep the radio on,” I yell at her, opening my door, tossing my gear in. “Just in case the wind switches!”
By the time my Rescue One pager beeps on my belt, I’m already speeding north on the highway. I’m supposed to call in if I can attend. I don’t respond. I’m afraid to trust anyone. I expected the town to crucify Jeb. But this? Jesus. Could it be possible? Could someone have set fire to his property knowing the drought conditions—someone on the Rescue One team, even? The fact Jeb is not answering his cell has my heart thumping.
The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) Page 12
