Cast the First Stone (Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  Robert’s hands skimmed swiftly over him. The guard struggled sluggishly but being short on air his motions were awkward and ineffective. Robert quickly took the man’s wallet, shades, badge, pistol and handcuff key.

  In less than ten seconds he was sprinting across the small bridge crossing the road toward the approaching flames. He glanced back, another prisoner chased after him. Already, the downed guard was hidden by the smoke and ash.

  “I’m coming with you, friend.” The prisoner said as he caught up. Goodman shoved the muzzle of the gun against the man’s forehead as he flipped back the safety.

  “Then you’re gonna’ be dead. I’m going left, you better damn well be heading the other direction.”

  Robert trotted off the road, heading up hill into the flames. Looking back, he saw the other prisoner crossing the road, running downhill.

  The guard on the bus hurried after the last prisoner. Visibility was nil. Nearing the bridge he found his partner collapsed on the shoulder of the road. He picked up the shotgun, grabbed his partner by the belt and dragged him down into the creek. Lying in the water, he checked his partner for signs of life. The man’s lips were blue. His pulse pounded as he fought to force air into his lungs. Wheezing was audible above the roar of the fire.

  Desperately the driver jabbed at his mouth with one finger, and depressed the tip of his finger. His partner scrambled back up onto the road. Among the drifting ash he found the inhaler. Quickly he retreated below the bridge. He put the container to the driver’s mouth and depressed the button several times. It was hard to tell if anything came out.

  When he tried to radio in, he found the fire played havoc with the radio reception. While he listened to static, he tried to count his prisoners. Intermittently, he heard his call answered.

  “We are trapped by the fire. My partner is down. Two prisoners are…”

  The radio slipped from his hands as the wind blasted under the bride. It fell into the water. When he picked it up it was dead.

  Giving up on the radio he finished his count. Two men were missing. If the stupid S.O.B.’s wanted to die, then fine, he thought, let them get barbequed. He wasn’t going after them. All he could do was wait. The only relevant question was, would the firestorm suck all the oxygen from the air and leave a couple dozen lifeless bodies beneath the road?

  On her break, Calley looked out the hospital window. A smoke cloud encompassed the city. Large patches of orange flames were visible on the mountainside. Anxiety rose. She wanted to rush home to her kids, but her shift wasn’t over for another three hours. Nervously, she reached into her purse and discretely felt the pill bottle. Simply, knowing it was there gave her comfort. Then sensing her relief, she paused to wonder if maybe Lucas James was right. After all, she was almost arrested. Perhaps she had a small problem with the pills?

  No, that was ridiculous; she only used them when she needed them. She gave the pill bottle a little shake to hear their comforting rattle, but heard nothing. Opening the plastic bottle she was distraught to see it was empty. The mere fact of being out of pills, made her more anxious than before. If only she had one or two more pills left, she thought.

  Calley looked at the prescription to see whom it was from. She had obtained pills from five different doctors, using her acquaintance with them to ask for a small prescription to help her during the bad nights. They graciously helped her, writing script, without requiring an office visit. The pills were gone at a prodigious rate. The doctors weren’t fools; she knew it was too soon to ask for a refill. For the first, the thought of pilfering pills from the hospital crossed her mind.

  At the command center, Tanya Talbot prepared for a live telecast. Her cameraman captured some excellent footage of the advancing flames, which they loop-fed as a backdrop for her report. Dressed in a khaki jacket she would appear to be in the midst of the action, though strangely undisturbed by the wind and ash.

  Her cameraman came racing back from the bathroom. His eyes were bright. He held un-rewarded yearnings for Tanya and hoped to curry favor with a scoop for her broadcast.

  “I overheard two deputies talking. They’ve lost a bus on the mountain. It was loaded with prisoners in transport to the Parson’s County Jail over in Beaumont.”

  “What do you mean lost?”

  “They can’t reach the deputies. It’s past due over the hill. And a firestorm broke out while they were up there!”

  Moments later, an excited Tanya Talbot breathlessly announced that a busload of prisoners was missing in the flames. Seeing Sheriff Gaines, she rushed over and pushed the microphone toward his face. He palmed the mike with his broad hand. Pushing it away, he said, “No, comment!”

  In Mason Forks, the smoke wreathed Desolation Peak like Fire of God descended on Mount Sinai. Large flaky ash fell like inedible manna from heaven. The sunlight carried an opaque reddish-orange hue, like an early sunset gone to rot. The smog blotted out the horizon.

  The afternoon crowd was building for happy hour in Moses’ bar. Men lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the television. Tanya Roberts was impeccably dressed; a gentle breeze stirred her long hair. Behind her was a wall of flames.

  “That’s a sweet piece,” said one drinker, before sucking down some beer. “She could set me on fire!”

  “Who the hell knows what she’s got under all that make-up,” answered another.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Will you shut-up and let us listen? Turn it up, Moses!”

  The volume rose.

  “Winds are expected to be strong for the next twenty-four hours. At this time there is no containment. Already approximately 1,100 acres have burned. The fire was moving toward Red Lake this afternoon when the wind shifted and drove it across the pass road. Dense old growth timber in the area is said to be burning intensely.

  At this hour the road is impassable for all vehicles. Spotter planes flew over the area earlier this afternoon but at this time they cannot bring in aerial bombers due to the high winds, even if they had them, which they don’t. The State’s fire bombers remain grounded for inspection.

  This fire is completely out of control. An emergency evacuation order is in place for residents in the Greenbrier housing tract and the Woodlands Mobile Home Park. The Red Cross has set up an emergency shelter at the Red Lake high school gymnasium. Face masks are available there. People with respiratory problems are urged to leave the area.”

  Outside the bar, more fire trucks rolled past. Overhead they heard the “whock-whock-whock” of a helicopter. On the television, Tanya returned the audience to the studio. Moments later the station switched to a live feed from their news copter. The screen filled with flames racing up mountainsides. The camera bounced slightly leaving a grainy picture.

  “The winds have laid back a bit, but we’re being tossed around up here pretty good. It’s a wild ride. Conditions look tough on the ground.”

  The camera panned in close to a fire crew that was spraying water down a slope. The water appeared to be sheared off and carried away by the driving winds.

  “Look at that!” A voice cried, as the camera panned through the smoke. A gutted bus emerged in the middle of a sea of flames. Large numerals on the roof were legible despite the scorched metal.

  “We had a report of a missing sheriff’s bus. It would appear this might be that bus. It has been completely burned. From here, we can’t see any signs of life.”

  Static filled the screen as Channel 13 lost signal from the helicopter. They returned to the anchor in the studio.

  Someone at the bar commented, “The whole range might burn.”

  “That’s our living going up in flames, boys. How many board feet of timber do you reckon has already burned?”

  “Why don’t the damn politicians get off their fat ass’s and get some aircraft up here?”

  “Somebody said they were tied up in Utah.”

  “Screw Utah! Who gives a rip about a bunch of crazy Mormons? I pay my goddamn taxes, I want to see some
fire bombers here!” he said, slamming his fist on the bar for emphasis.

  The talk went on. The drinkers lamented the sad state of politics while actually worrying about losing their livelihood to the fire. Unexpectedly, the conversation halted, as all eyes turned to the television screen. The camera gave a long shot of a World War II Martin JRM fire bomber flying low over the lake scooping water.

  “Let’s here it for the Canucks!” A cheer rose from the bar as the Canadian based plane loaded without stopping. Climbing slowly, burdened by its load, the plane lumbered over the treetops edging the shore. Minutes later it made a low pass across the blazing hill above the city. A white plume of water spilled from its belly. The dump momentarily gutted a patch of fire, but soon the flames were ascendant again.

  Robert had thought he was already in the heart of the fire. He was wrong. At the time, it seemed a simple matter to dash through the flames rather than attempt to outrun them. He soon discovered the fire by the road was only a precursor of the coming firestorm. With maniacal zeal he drove forward through a maze of burning trees. Embers and burning limbs fell around him. The noise was maddening and the heat unbearable. He felt the air begin to rush back uphill, pushing on his shoulders as the fire sucked the oxygen toward it. The fabric of his jumpsuit was scorched. His throat was parched. It was painful to swallow. Somehow, his skin seemed to be shriveling on his frame.

  Through a break in the treetops, he now saw the firewall, an approaching orange hurricane of a hundred-foot wall of flames. The fury of the air rushing uphill toward the flames buffeted him.

  Overhead a great roar surged above the noise of the fire. Robert caught a glimpse of an airplane that seemed intent on crashing. Water cascaded down with enough force to knock him to the ground. The flame wall paused in its advance.

  Momentarily cooled, he sought a refuge, hurrying toward the foot of a rock face. The stone shielded him from the heat. He worked his way along the base, moving toward where the cliff appeared highest and offering the most shelter.

  A cave mouth in the base of the rock offered potential escape. Robert stumbled in. He moved deeper into the cave, relieved to be out of the wind and driving ash. In the dark he stumbled. Water splashed on his hands and face. Feeling around in the dark he felt a small rivulet of water that trickled from the rocks. It formed a small pool. He shoved his face in, lapping up the water. He splashed the chilly water on his clothes and then sagged back against the cave wall, relieved to be away from the oven outside. His eyes found the cave’s cool air a relief. As they adjusted to the darkness, he could see the cave mouth, which dimly glimmered with the orange glow of the flames. With increasing force the cave’s air rushed past him, drawn up from the bowels of the earth by the fire outside.

  Robert smeared mud on his jumpsuit, covering the county jail imprint. He removed his tee shirt, cut two holes for his eyes and tried it on. It would help filter the ash.

  An hour later, he cautiously crept out of the cave. The land was a charred yet still burning landscape. “Welcome to hell,” he muttered.

  Trudging uphill, he felt steam pressed as his sodden clothes rapidly dried in the heat. He sweated profusely. The soles of his feet were excessively warm. His feet were slowly cooked as he walked on red-hot embers and through patches of smoldering duff. His face was protected by the tee shirt over his head and his eyes were spared from the drifting ash by the sunglasses he had lifted from the guard.

  Often, he stumbled. Burns and blisters covered his hands. Hot specks of embers scorched small holes in his clothes, then bit at his skin like needle pricks. The soles of his feet blistered, as the soles of his sneakers softened in the heat. If Calley Haskell wished him to burn in hell, she was having her wish come true.

  Gradually, the flames became less intense. The ground was a blackened wasteland. Downed tree trunks slowly burned and stumps smoldered but there was increasing open space between the areas of fire. The pines, denuded of needles, continued to lazily burn. Flames licked at their trunks and disappeared into the smoky haze.

  He worked his way through a jumble of rocks. Overhead, the sky became a dirty blue as the winds pushed the smoke downhill toward the lake. The air was pungent with the odor of fire, but it became easier to breathe. However, it was increasingly difficult to walk as the blisters on his feet broke, leaving his socks feeling sticky.

  A half-hour later he came to a fire road, identifiable only because it was free of stumps. Like the rest of the landscape it lay buried by a blanket of ash. Exhausted from climbing, Robert was relieved to find the road ran level along the mountainside. In this wasteland he was uncertain where he was; so he simply trudged on. He began to stumble. Frequently he fell. Gradually his feet were failing him.

  He stumbled on. Twenty minutes later he saw a building. The windows were shattered from the exterior heat but the concrete walls and steel roof were undamaged. Cautiously he approached, on the lookout for policemen or firefighters. Anyone else would be long gone.

  The site was empty. On the front door, block letters read, “Boulder Basin Fire Station.” He tried the handle; it was locked. He slammed his shoulder against the door but the metal didn’t budge. He reached through the broken window opening and cranked the sash open. Climbing inside he found the office coated with ash that had blown in through the shattered windows. Small clouds stirred as he feet shuffled through it.

  It was a relief to be out of the gusting wind. Overhead, another plane roared past. It faded down slope toward the fire.

  Robert pulled the tee shirt off his head. He drank copiously from a water cooler in the corner of the office. Opening a side door he found the garage. It was empty. The fire trucks were gone.

  He worked his way down a row of lockers that lined one wall. Most were empty. He found a pair of sturdy boots but they were too small. A few lockers over he had better fortune, finding a pair that fit. Soon he had a change of clothing and a set of fire gear. He shed his jail jumpsuit and pushed it to the bottom of a trashcan. Then he put on his new clothes.

  Using the station’s first aid kit he bandaged his blistered feet. A couple painkillers would have been nice, he thought. He had to settle for aspirin. Vaseline soothed his swollen lips. He dabbed antibiotic suave on his numerous cuts and burns. As he prepared to leave, he shoved the pistol into the waist of his new jeans. Then donning fire bib overalls, a jacket, and hat he was transformed from a county prisoner into a public servant.

  Outside, he smeared ash on his suit so it appeared he had been out fighting the fire. Robert resumed walking down the road. Smoke sprawled across the basin obscuring any view of the lake. In the distance he could see the Lazarus Range. Desolation Peak, Mount Justice, and the Four Apostles rose above the haze. Around him lay an unfamiliar landscape, punctuated by the remains of gutted cabins and empty rocky foundations.

  He reached the highway within half an hour. Cautiously, watching for possible search parties, he hiked to the top of the pass where he came to a control base. In his fire suit, no one took notice of him. A row of county fire vehicles were parked, waiting along the ridge in case the wind changed as the sun moved low in the west.

  The late afternoon sky was a deep orange and red, laced with long wisps of brownish haze that moved like sludge in a dirty river. Nearby, a Department of Forestry truck disgorged a crew of trustees from the Beaumont County jail. He ambled over and bummed a smoke from the driver.

  “Not enough smoke in the air for you?” the man joked.

  Robert grunted as he lit the cigarette from the proffered lighter and asked, “Can I catch a ride with you?”

  “Roads closed into Red Lake.”

  “I know, I need to get down to Beaumont, I thought I might go back with you.”

  “Suit yourself. Where’s your crew?”

  “I was working the Boulder Creek Station. They went down the hill to cut a line. I stayed behind to coordinate with the strike team from the county. Before they arrived, the station was about to get overrun. I had to hightail it out of
there.”

  The man nodded toward the cab. They climbed in. The truck shuddered as the diesel whined to life, it rolled forward, and they turned toward Beaumont.

  Robert settled back and closed his eyes. He pushed his helmet low over his face. The driver was a taciturn man and accepted Goodman’s silence. Robert feigned slept as the truck rolled around the curves, descending the mountain. The steady roar of the engine melded in Goodman’s mind into the sound of the fire tearing past him. Soon he was engulfed in a sea of flames. Consumed by the fire, he was dragged down into hell.

  He sat up with a convulsive start. The driver glanced over. Robert held up a hand covered with small burns and blisters, waving off the feeling. “Just a bad dream,” he said, before drifting off again. He slept until they reached the edge of Beaumont.

  The driver had avoided unwanted small talk. Robert appreciated a man who could keep his mouth shut. At the County yard, he slid down out of the truck, said thanks, and disappeared into the gathering gloom.

  A fire suit made a good disguise in the fire zone. In town it would stood out. He took off the suit and stashed it behind some bushes. The tail of his stolen shirt hung out, covering the gun.

  Robert walked along the street, easily passing for any law-abiding citizen heading home from work. Within forty-eight hours he hoped to be in Mexico, but first he had unfinished business in Beaumont.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  That afternoon, as Robert made his way south, the fire consumed the mountains to the north. A broad swath of flames extended for several miles across the range.

  Gaines readied a strike team to go in after the bus. They had only caught a portion of the bus’s last transmission. One man was down? Gaines had no idea what that meant. Was he dead? And what had the deputy tried to say about two prisoners? There were twenty-one dangerous men on the bus. His deputy would need back up as soon as possible.