by Rich Foster
Lucas was always amazed, not that there was cruelty and violence in the world, but that so many people chose not to practice it. Man was by nature a predatory creature. What was it that made people hold their avarice and violence in check? What caused a man to give up his life for another? Where did the nobleness in man’s nature come, apart from God?
A knock intruded upon his thoughts. Walter Swanson was at the door. He wore trouble on his face like a mask.
“Come in Walter.”
Swanson looked sheepish. “People call me Walt, pastor.”
Lucas came around the desk to remove the physical barrier between them, leaving only the emotional to deal with.
“Have a seat.” He pointed to a padded chair. “What’s on your mind?”
Walter tried to start, but stumbled on the words. Powerful emotions tugged at his face. It seemed to twitch from the tensions inside.
“I killed all those people!”
“Which people?” Lucas knew the answer but he had learned the hard way never to assume that he knew what someone meant when the words were ambiguous. He once mistook a soldier’s guilt about being a killer as the result of killing the enemy in war. It turned out his guilt was tied to the family he gunned down while on patrol in Iraq. The man’s wife had left him. He took his anger out on six frightened people had never done a thing to him.
“Lisa and May Goodman. Jason. Even the folks in the church. It’s my fault! I killed them all.”
Guilt oozed out of the man like whey passing through cheesecloth. Lucas waited.
“I let the bus pass inspection. It was a wreck. It shouldn’t have even been registered, much less be on the road. Jason was going to fix it up. I never should have signed it off.”
His head sagged under his burden of guilt. He looked up after several moments. “I don’t know what I should do.”
“What do you think you should do?”
“I don’t know. I could confess but I’d lose my job. I’ve got a family, we need that paycheck.”
Lucas had seen the symptoms before. Walter wanted to off-load his guilt but at a discounted price.
“You could do that. Would it bring any of them back?” Walter shook his head slowly. “Would it make you feel better to be punished? If you went to jail would it ease your conscience?”
Lucas did not think there was much likelihood of that, but Walter’s eyes grew large at a prospect he had never considered. He came to his minister to feel better, not to be threatened with arrest.
“But I never meant to hurt anyone!”
“Walter, we all break things in life. Some things can be repaired, some can be replaced, but others are just gone. It’s like dropping a beautiful priceless vase; there is nothing you can do. You own the guilt. It is yours.”
Walter was dismayed. He wanted to be told it was all right. He wanted to get past this. He didn’t like what he was hearing at all.
“I thought God forgave!”
“Of course he does Walt. But that doesn’t mean there are no consequences, at least in this life. You have a burden to bear. There is nothing I can say that will change what has happened. There is nothing I can do to erase your guilt in this tragedy.”
Walter stared at the floor. “I thought you could help.”
“I can. I can be your friend. I can tell you that we all carry guilt, we all have shortcomings; everyone has words or acts they wish we could take back. It is part of being human.”
“But they’re dead. It’s not like lying or cheating on your taxes.”
“How many ink stains does it take to ruin a white shirt?”
Walter looked down at his own shirt pocket, where a pocket protector held the pens of his trade. “Just one.”
“There is no hierarchy of sin with God, Walter. It’s not like our temporal law where some crimes are more heinous than others. Our beliefs are more absolute, one mark and we have failed. Before God, lying, stealing, cheating, gluttony, avarice, killing, they’re all the same. We all have the same need for forgiveness.”
“So I should do nothing?”
“I think you have to wrestle with that question. I believe that if you seek, you will eventually find an answer.”
Walter left. Lucas was not sure if he had helped the man. It came down to whether Walt was concerned with what he did wrong or concerned with not feeling bad about what had happened. Lucas believed there was resolution to the first, but if Walt’s concern were the latter, then it would continue to fester, longer after the bullet hole in his hand was healed.
Chapter Twenty
After a brief respite, the heat returned in September. People sweltered. Conversation withered. Brownouts slid across the area, as every air conditioner and fan within five hundred miles was switched on. Children sat in class fanning themselves with paper fans made from class worksheets. People stood in front of their A.C. unit arms outstretched gaining momentary relief.
The water level in Red Lake steadily fell. After Labor Day water demand normally declined as tourists left and people shut up their seasonal cabins. However, litigation concerning flow volumes for downstream users forced a settlement whereby Red Lake was required to dump water over the dam. The sluice gates were now open. A broad cataract of emerald water flowed down the dam face. Between that and evaporation the lake was down four feet over the last two months.
Not far offshore from the Kellner house a father and son spent a day together fishing. It was too hot to catch much; the larger fish would be in deep water. But a promise was made and now the father was diligently keeping it. The two drifted in their rowboat making small talk while idly flicking their lines in the water. Occasionally a perch would strike the bait and with much glee the young boy would land his fish.
The father opened a beer. The boy cast. His hook caught the father’s hat sending it into the water. The dad lunged for the hat but it floated just out of his reach. Looking down into the shallow water, he saw a pistol lying in the sand beneath the boat. The man reached down with his net and scooped it up. It did not appear to have been on the bottom long. He put the gun in his ice chest intending to drop it off at the Sheriff’s station on his way home.
*
Around the lake the mountains were scorched. Pine trees withered in the sun, needles turned brown on any that were far from a water source. The duff was thick on the hills and the field grass was like stacked tinder awaiting a flame.
Parked by the lake, Sheriff Gaines looked across the water that was being whipped by winds rolling down from the surrounding hills. A lone sailboat heeled over, making slow progress beating into the teeth of the wind. The white caps appeared to saw at her bow. Spray splashed up, and was sent whipping aft across the deck. Gaines could see the helmsman duck behind the dodger. He was probably refreshingly soaked, unlike Gaines who sweltered in the arid wind. The dry air sucked life’s moisture from everything. His mouth was parched. Looking toward town, heat mirages danced above the flat asphalt roofs and pavement.
It had not rained since early July. Again today, the sky was an expanse of blue, without a cloud in sight except for a small puffball above the ridge. He soon realized it was a plume of smoke. That would be Cold Creek campground, he thought. No one should be having an open fire. Not this time of year, certainly not today!
While he watched the plume rapidly grew, like Aladdin’s genie rising from his lamp. Then the first spot of orange nipped above the treetops. By the time Gavin reached the car radio, he could see spikes of flame shooting up. The wind made the smoke lie over and begin sprawling out toward his town.
“Gaines here. We have a fire up near Cold Creek. Get our people on it and patch me through to the U.S. Forest Service.”
Soon the radio was a crackle of activity. Sirens wailed. The smoke cloud grew both darker and larger as the flames quickly spread out. The dry timber sucked the fire to itself like a funeral pyre ready to be consumed.
Gavin started his car and flipping on the siren, rushed back to his office to coordinate eme
rgency planning.
There had not been a major forest fire in the county for years. Decades of fire suppression left the area vulnerable to one they could not stop. Considering today’s conditions, this might well be it. It was a relief that most of the tourists were gone. He looked at the wall map of the county. From the direction of the wind, and the location of Cold Creek Campground, it seemed likely that highway 218 to Beaumont would eventually need to be closed to traffic. He called the State Police to request coordination in blockading the road on the Beaumont side of the range.
A command post was established at the fairgrounds. Gaines left his office to meet with the fire chiefs and emergency responders from the city, county, and state. The damn politicians would probably also show up, he thought, all craving their fifteen seconds in the news camera’s eye.
The odor of burning wood wafted toward him. Overhead the sky was no longer blue, but a mixture of grays, oranges, and reds. The filtered sunlight gave an ominous tinge to the morning sky. The first bits of white ash fell, like flurries of snowflakes before the storm.
At the fairgrounds the air was clear, as the smoke was pushed toward the east. Gavin nodded at people he knew. Scott Scotia, the County Fire Marshall waved him over.
“We’ve got trouble. The weather boys say a high-pressure ridge is jammed up against the Lazarus Mountains. It’s a cooker. We’re in for strong winds, high temperatures, and very low humidity for at least twenty-four hours. The only bright spot is; a storm front might be heading this way. If it drops low enough across Canada we would get rain. Right now, though, the way the prevailing wind is driving this fire, we could lose the eastern side of the city.”
“I already called for a shut down on 218 except for emergency vehicles. That should help get people off the hill.”
“We have help coming up from the City of Beaumont and Parsons County Fire. We can also get a few line crews of inmates from the prison and two crews from the Forest Service. Other than that we’re on our own. They say the rest of their boys are tied up over in Utah.
Our fire chopper can’t fly until the wind lies down. The state’s three fire bombers are currently grounded for inspection, since that one went down near the Airedale Fire a week ago.”
Gaines looked at the situation map on the wall. A jagged line was penciled in across the mountains above the city. Arrows were pinned onto the map showing wind velocity and direction. Smaller “airflow” pins marked the direction and pattern they thought the fire would spread. Chief Scotia pointed to the map.
“I think the fire will split here. This face is a large rock wall. The fire is going to begin driving up Badger Canyon but the other flank is going to drive down toward town. Your problem Gavin is that your jail is smack-dab in its path! By six o’clock tonight this could be a wall of flames.” Scotia swept the tip of his finger across the hills behind the jail. “You’ve got to get the inmates out.”
Gaines thanked the fire marshal and sought out the Mayor. The city and county had a contingency plan for this. Everyone would need to be moved. The Mayor declared a state of local emergency in Red Lake. Reverse 911 calls began to go out telling the citizens of Red Lake to be prepared to evacuate. If it turned into a firestorm they were to flee to the lake.
The sheriff called Judge Gunther Huffman. In accordance with the Emergency Action Plan he ordered the immediate release of any inmate who had less than thirty days to go in the county jail. The jail staff pulled the roster list for the month and immediately began the release. The majority of other prisoners, those serving time for minor offenses, would be transported to the St. Catherine’s Hospital. They would be held under armed guard in the auditorium. The hospital cafeteria could feed them. With only two doors and a stage, the prisoners could be easily controlled. To facilitate this, the sheriff announced a “shoot to kill” order for any attempt to escape during the state of emergency. That left Gaines with less than two-dozen prisoners to be transported to a secure location. Beaumont County was the nearest facility.
The fire continued to spread. Air quality in Red Lake was insufferable. People wore masks as they packed possessions in their cars. The wall of flames that rose high on the hills was all the persuasion most people required to leave.
By twelve o’clock, in the county jail parking lot, they were loading prisoners onto school buses under the watchful eyes of guards carrying shotguns. In the secure area, behind concertina wire capped fences, the sheriff’s transport bus was also loading. The bus’s windows had bars. Inside a cage separated the driver from the prisoners.
The men came out wearing only handcuffs, there not being enough shackles. Among those being held for drugs, murder, and other felonious crimes was Robert Goodman.
The bus was soon loaded. The driver made a radio check to see if Highway 218 was still open for emergency vehicles. “Roger that,” he said, and closed the door.
“Stay seated and shut up. There is a State of Emergency. If you leave your seat, you will be shot. Do I make myself clear?”
Someone in the back shouted an obscenity. The guard brought his shotgun came up. All talking stopped. The bus rolled through town. Soon it was grinding its way up the mountain. Three fire trucks, heading to Red Lake from the other side of the mountain, emerged from the smoke that swirled across the highway and were just as quickly swallowed up. Ash blew thick in the air. The wipers pushed it off to the side of the windscreen. On the ground it drifted like snow flurries as the wind drove it across the pavement.
Up on the ridge, the wind began to back, driven by the heat of the day, which had built over the plains to the west. The flames rapidly moved into dense forest that suffered from bark beetle infestation. Acres of pines stood, like dead Christmas trees, waiting to be ignited. The heat of the flames began to generate hurricane force winds on the front edge of the fire. The flames lashed out spreading down the mountainside toward the pass road.
On the highway, the sheriff’s bus was forced to a crawl, as the smoke grew thicker. Inside, the stench of burning wood grew overpowering. Ash drove in blizzard-like intensity at the wall of the bus. The driver frequently scrunched down trying to look up at the sky overhead.
“I think we should turn around.”
The other guard looked out the window. The smoke was lit with an intense orange glow. Burning embers fell around them. Sticks a foot long dropped from the sky, trailing flames. Visibility was almost gone. The bus was being buffeted by gale force blasts of wind. The driver turned the wheel attempting to make a three point turn.
“I can’t see back there! Go back and signal me.” The driver opened the door. Wind and ash blasted in. The guard hurried to the back of the bus. The ash bit at his eyes and despite his face mask, he began coughing. The bus edged backwards. The guard waved with his arms. Overhead flames became visible between the treetops, like hard, sharp knives bent forward thrusting at the sky. The driver pulled too close to the edge of the shoulder. The front tire sank in. He reversed the engine and tried backing up. The engine whined but the bus barely moved. The driver tried to rock the bus back and forth, quickly shifting gears. It jerked backward. The guard behind lunged out of the way, barely missing him as it rolled back off the pavement.
Flames were now rapidly crawling toward them through the brush. Overhead the treetops appeared to be unify into a single mass of flames. The guard rushed forward.
“It’s a firestorm! We need to get out of here!” The driver nodded. The man’s words were barely audible above the din of the wind and fire that was now a steady roar. “We need to shelter in place!”
The driver shook his head no, and again tried to rock the bus out of the ditch, but to no avail. The guard ran down the road looking for shelter. He disappeared in the smoke. In the back of the bus, agitated prisoners shouted and jangled their chains. Up front a prisoner banged on the wire mesh, demanding to be let out. The driver pulled his service revolver and ordered them to calm down. Reluctantly they obeyed.
It was sweltering. The smoke was so th
ick that it was hard to breath. The driver, suffering from asthma, sucked on an Abuterol inhaler trying to force air into his lungs.
The other guard returned.
“Lets go! There’s an under-crossing down the road. We need to get out of here or we’re toast.”
The driver nodded, but could hardly move. His lungs felt as if a constricting band was wrapped around his chest. The guard unlocked the metal screen. He shouted to be heard above the growing din of the fire.
“Down the road a hundred and fifty yards. Go halfway and I will send the prisoners to you. Get down in the creek.”
The driver stumbled off the bus, his shotgun in hand. He trudged down the road.
“Okay! Listen up! Get to the creek. When you’re there, soak your clothes in the water. Breathe through your shirt. Now get moving. Try to escape and you will be shot!”
One at a time, he unshackled the men. The group needed no urging. They scuttled off the bus and were soon swallowed up in the ash and smoke. The forest around them was engulfed in flames. Embers were driven horizontally by the wind. The air was so hot and dry that it seared their skin. The odor of singed hair merged with the aroma of odor.
Ahead, a wall of flames leapt across the road. The prisoners scrambled off the highway, down into the creek. They crawled under the low bridge, where they were partially sheltered from the heat and the ash.
Robert was one of the last prisoners to get off the bus. Moving down the road he could barely see the guard who was eyeballing the men as they hurried past, his shotgun at the ready. Goodman moved slowly, allowing a couple men to overtake him. As he neared the guard he calculated his chance of making a run for it. The odds seemed slim against a twelve-gauge.
The guard fumbled with something in his free hand. Then oddly, his knees buckled. The man pitched forward on his face. Robert hurried over. Near the man lay the inhaler.
