October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  A brochure lay on the granite counter. She glanced at the title. Paraiso. The Ultimate in Luxury Living. She waited until her breath slowed to take another drink. She’d scout the whole downstairs and see if Jeremy was here. If not, she’d get out of here on her own. It would be a long walk, but hell, what choice did she have?

  Then she heard a car door, and a voice outside. ‘Quick like a bunny!’ as her dad used to say, she darted through the house in search of a hiding place. She settled on the old standard, a bedroom closet. This was a smallish bedroom, probably more of a den, and the closet was fittingly puny. Overall, Paraiso wasn’t living up to its name.

  As the front door opened and closed, she felt around in the closet, hoping there was something in there she could use to protect herself. What if they did a search, opened the closet door, and she was just sitting there like a dummy? She had to find something, anything to use as a weapon. Footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, coming closer as the man continued talking in staccato bursts.

  Behind her, she felt some kind of panel. She turned and felt along wall, her fingers tracing the edge in the darkness like a mime. A door? Solid. Metal. She felt a small indentation, and her fingers found a keypad. The safe room. But she’d need a combo to get in.

  She’d have to stay still and quiet. She slid down to the floor, held her breath and listened, starting to feel sick from all that water she’d gulped down.

  “Yes.” The heavily accented voice said, close enough now that she could understand it. “She’s dead. There was a…small complication. I took care of it.”

  She breathed out. He was talking about Tanya being dead. She herself was the small complication. Hopefully he wouldn’t go upstairs and realize his small complication had gotten bigger.

  “But I fail to see how this relates to my central concern,” he continued, pacing in the hallway outside the den. “I’ve done these favors for you, but you have yet to pay back even one dollar of what you owe my employers.” There was a weighty pause. She imagined Green Beans shaking his head slowly as whoever was on the phone made excuses. She started to sweat.

  Finally he spoke again, his voice patient like a kindergarten teacher. “It’s the principle of the thing. Like returning a library book on time.”

  Then a pause, and a small impatient sound. “I have someone here you might be interested in. I hope to see you soon.”

  Now she was sure he was talking about Jeremy. This guy was putting the squeeze on his dad, and using him as bait.

  But as she sat in that closet waiting to see if he would leave, the nausea got worse, the sweat turned cold, and when she lay down to let it pass, she blacked out.

  * * *

  IN THE SMOKY DAWN, Deirdre unloaded Clara, Justin, the dogs and cats at Walt’s dad’s mobile home park near the beach.

  “Justin,” she said as she kissed him goodbye in the driveway, “Take care of Clara. Keep the news on. If you have to evacuate, try to head north and we’ll plan to meet at Aunt Bridget’s in Gardena. I’m counting on you.”

  “Evacuate?” he said, furrowing his brow. “Grandad’s across the street from the ocean—” When reality struck he grew serious. “Wait, Mom,” he said as she got behind the wheel. He grabbed her arm. “Be careful.”

  “I will sweetheart. I love you.” As she drove away, he stood in the driveway looking solemn, holding Buck and Granger, twisting on their leashes.

  She kept the local AM station blaring as she sped up Mar Vista Avenue. The ghostly emptiness was punctuated by occasional cars going the other way, and a cop car at supersonic speed with its lights on. Wind whipped the palms around, sending fronds hurtling down into the street. The sky was a strange orange gray, as if it was absorbing color from the fires below.

  An SUV crossed over the double yellow line towards her and she barely avoided it. People were losing their grip on civility, starting to use traffic lights and lines on the road as mere suggestions.

  Her already frazzled nervous system went into high gear. It was every man for himself. Her only source of information was this damn radio station, which she normally found intolerable, what with its conspiracy theories and right-wing rabble rousers. Now the survivalists didn’t seem so silly. And for all her preparations she felt utterly unprepared.

  She tuned from her cataclysmic thoughts back into the radio announcer. “San Amaro Hills, Treasure Lake, and Rancho Esteban are the latest communities with evacuation orders.”

  Shit. She sped towards the intersection of Mar Vista and Rancho Alto Road, wind buffeting the car. Already, she could see a stronger trickle of traffic leaving San Amaro.

  A sheriff’s car blocked the road into San Amaro, while the sheriff stood directing traffic coming out. The stoplights were all flashing red, ricocheting in the wind. Wafts of the orangey grey smoke were floating overhead.

  She drove a short way past the sheriff, hoping the landscaped median would hide her, then at the last minute, pulled across and gunned the engine. She swerved around his car, up on the sidewalk and back down with a thump, and before he could form words to shout at her, she was screaming down the empty two-lane raceway of San Amaro Road.

  On the other side of the median was the worst traffic jam she’d ever witnessed—and she grew up in Los Angeles, so that was saying something. It was backed up all the way to the intersection of Fairy Glen Road. All of the small tributary streets in San Amaro were choked with stopped cars waiting to get in the bigger line and go nowhere fast.

  Fuck. As she raced back into the belly of the beast, her mind raced too. Once she turned onto Fairy Glen Road, she used her horn liberally on the several impatient drivers pulling out into her lane without looking.

  When she turned onto her street and drove past Bonnie loading Gatsby, her two boarders’ horses, and her neighbor’s goats into her trailer, she called out the window, “Don’t go out through San Amaro! It’s jammed!”

  Bonnie cupped a hand to her ear, then nodded. “We’ll go out the back way!”

  “I’m going home to load up, we’ll make a convoy, ok? Is Lina ready?”

  Bonnie gave the thumbs up, while she walked Gatsby around. Even that big old guy knew something was wrong and was refusing to step into the trailer. Crap. What would Scarlet be like? She realized she hadn’t had time to feed them breakfast, but maybe that was a good thing. Hunger was a good motivator.

  She ditched the Bronco in the driveway, leaving the keys hidden under the seat like always in case Rebecca came home and needed it. The house was ready. Windows closed so sparks wouldn’t fly in and ignite a fire from the inside out, with draperies hastily ripped down and tossed with the furniture near the center of the rooms, so they couldn’t flare up from pure heat. Doors unlocked so that if firemen tried to defend the house from inside, they could. Patio furniture and outdoor items pulled far from the house so they wouldn’t serve as kindling. She had done all of this in the hours while she waited fruitlessly for Rebecca.

  Garden hoses were coiled at the ready. She debated giving the roof one last soaking, but out of pure instinct ran to her horses, opening the door of the chicken coop on the way. “Sorry chickies, gotta fend for yourselves,” she said, and ran down the slope to the barn.

  She sopped the ashy soot out of Ginny’s nostrils with a damp rag and rewet her fly mask to shield her eyes from the ash, then led her to the trailer. Bless her old sweet soul, Ginny loaded up easily.

  Back at the barn, Scarlet was running circles around her stall. Deirdre pulled out her cellphone and tried once more to call Rebecca, but all circuits were busy. She wiped the sweat and ash from her forehead with her shirtsleeve and flared her nostrils to break up the crust that had dried inside her nose. Wind ripped through the palm fronds above as she stepped in front of Scarlet, who dusted to a halt. She attached a lead to her halter, led her out of her stall and towards the trailer, where Scarlet promptly pulled back so hard she nearly sat down completely on her butt.

  Bonnie pulled up. “Let’s go! Ready?” she called.
>
  “Not yet!” She was getting frantic, and Scarlet could tell. She thought of all the clichés about horses running back into a burning barn. She knew that if she had to leave, she had to leave. As much as it hurt to even consider, a horse wasn’t worth her own life. Her kids needed a mother. Rebecca needed a mother. But where was she?

  * * *

  APACHE KICKED THE FENCE. He kicked it again, then again, and another time, until the fence board that Scarlet had splintered with her hoof broke in two and fell to the ground. He paused to listen inside the house, then gave an ongoing throaty complaint, begging her to come out.

  To the east, the fire was coming closer. Small animals and birds were fleeing in an almost imperceptible exodus across the hillside above the house, towards the ocean. Panic was rising. It was hard to breathe in this smoke. He trumpeted loudly in frustration.

  Then, he heard a truck. A big dieselly thing came up the driveway, and a small woman popped out and marched to the door. He stood trembling, watching her.

  She knocked, then thumped. Then she pounded and yelled. “Vivian. It’s Wilma. Get up and get out of here. This is your notice to evacuate.” She looked at the second story. “Do you hear me?” she shouted up at the window. “Damn!” she muttered, then looked at him. She walked over to his gate, unlatched and propped it open, then got in her truck and roared away.

  Apache took the opportunity and left his enclosure. He stood at the kitchen door and continued his throaty pleas, punctuating them with his front hoof knocking on the hollow wood. When he’d turned to go, Vivian opened the door. She staggered to him. “Fine. Fine. We’ll leave. For your sake.”

  * * *

  DEIRDRE LOOKED TO THE east. Solid brown smoke. There was no way of knowing if the fire was just over the next hill or still ten miles out. Scarlet’s eyes were wild as she danced around her, snorting and tossing her head.

  A horn honked. Lina had pulled up behind Bonnie, her face looking pale and pinched. How her husband could’ve left her to do this alone, regardless of the state of their marriage, she couldn’t fathom. She turned back to Scarlet. With the long dressage whip in her right hand and the lead line in her left, she cued Scarlet to trot circles counterclockwise around her, transforming the anger she felt for Lina’s husband into ironclad authority over the mare.

  “Keep her moving, that’s it!” said Bonnie beside her. With the noise of the wind in the palms and eucalyptus trees, she’d snuck up on her. Between the two of them, maybe they could convince this 900 pound knucklehead to get in the trailer.

  After they’d worked her into a lather and Bonnie tempted her with some hay and carrots, she finally got in. Deirdre buckled the door shut, climbed into the big Ford, twisted the key in the ignition, slammed it into low gear, and pulled the heavy trailer out onto the street.

  Her neighbors were filing out of their houses carrying boxes, photo albums, pet carriers, even laundry baskets, looking scattered and harried. She rolled down her window and yelled, “Don’t go through San Amaro! Follow us! The back way!” With her in the lead, they snaked through the twists and turns, over hills and down hollows, toward the open country to the south.

  Word must’ve spread. Other cars were heading the same way. She checked the clock on the dashboard, as the apocalyptic scene outside her window gave no indication what time of day it was. Almost 9 a.m. Traffic was the enemy now. At least she knew all of the back roads through Rancho Alto, so they could avoid the major arteries.

  Pale gray ash drizzled across her windshield and she turned on her wipers. The dashboard thermometer read 92. The air conditioner was blasting on recirculate, barely cooling the cab of the truck. She felt sorry for the horses—they didn’t have that luxury.

  She pulled out her phone, texted “Anything from Rebecca?” to Gabe, just on the off chance it went through, then started dialing Rebecca’s number over and over. Where the hell was she? The missing poster of the girl at Gorda’s flashed through her mind, again. What if her disappearance had nothing to do with Jeremy White?

  She passed Vivian’s house on the left. No sign of Vivian or her mustang. A helicopter flew by, dangling a water bag beneath it, and disappeared over the hill. She had to concentrate on driving now, they had gotten to the dirt road, and Wilma was there, standing in front of a shiny red firetruck parked sideways, blocking the road.

  “Spot fire in Dos Olivos. Go the Ramparts way, through Rancho Alto!” Wilma yelled and motioned like a traffic cop to keep moving. “And don’t dawdle. The main fire’s at Lake Hemingway now.”

  Damn it! She was getting frantic, but she had to hold it together. If she could get to Del Rio, drop the horses off and get back—no, she couldn’t do that, they wouldn’t let her back in! If she had to walk back in, sneak past sheriffs, she would. But even if she got back in, that wouldn’t help her find Rebecca. A hard mass burned in her stomach.

  She carefully navigated the rutted road, trying to ease over the bumps while still making good time. At a bend in the road, she saw Sally’s trailer ahead.

  Now, to her surprise, Apache trotted up alongside her. She rolled her window down. “What are you doing?” she asked Vivian, who had a black and white scarf wound around her head, clamped on with swim goggles.

  Vivian pulled the scarf down enough to be heard. “Getting out,” she replied, then trotted on ahead.

  Down into the twisty canyon, to the shallow creek crossing. Halfway through, the cars stopped and she braked hard, cursing. She threw the shifter into Park and waited, tapping her foot on the floorboard and chewing a thumbnail.

  Cars started honking. She got out into the harsh wind, her boots splashing in the creek, and immediately had a coughing fit. When she’d recovered, she walked back to Bonnie’s truck. “What’s the hold up?” Bonnie called out her window.

  “I have no idea!” She decided to go see for herself. Walking up the hill, she realized how trapped they all were. Cars in front and behind. Oak trees, dry from years of drought all around, penning her in. She broke into a jog, passing the cars uphill, ignoring her searing lungs.

  Impatient high-pitched whinnies volleyed back and forth from the horse trailers in line. Deirdre recognized old George’s ancient dust-red Ford pickup, complete with curvy fenders and a wooden tailgate. Furniture was tossed in and tied with a chaotic zigzag of frayed rope, straight out of the Beverly Hillbillies. Her throat caught when she noticed his and his late wife’s rocking chairs sticking out of the top of the ramshackle pile.

  At the head of the line was Sally’s truck and trailer. Now she saw what the problem was: a big metal barricade, flanked by militia dressed in head-to-toe camouflage and armed with assault rifles. Sally stood looking up at the one closest to her, hands on her hips. Emily perched in the passenger seat of their truck, watching.

  “Sally, what’s going on?” she called.

  “These IDIOTS won’t let us through!” Sally said. Her face was crimson.

  “Who are they?”

  The leader spoke. “Rancho Alto Security Force ma’am. No one is allowed through here.”

  Sally yelled over the wind. “You’re telling me that protecting Rancho Alto from looters is more important than our lives?”

  “Sorry ma’am, we can’t let you through.”

  “Our fire captain told us to evacuate via this route. Wilma Wagner, Fairy Glen Fire Department?” Sally said.

  That produced a blank look from the leader.

  “That’s it, we’re going through.” Sally said. She marched towards the barricade looking like she was going to move it herself, although it probably weighed several hundred pounds. The men moved into place to block her. She pummeled them with her fists, and they grabbed her arms and restrained her.

  “Mom!” Emily was out of the truck now.

  “Stay in the truck Emmy!” Sally yelled over her shoulder, struggling fiercely as the militia men engulfed her.

  Deirdre ran towards her, but the man in front stepped sideways and blocked her way. “This is bullshit! You have to
let us through, there’s no other way out!” Deirdre yelled, the anger in her voice turning high-pitched, squeaky, and scared as it came out.

  Vivian appeared from the other side of Sally’s truck. She pulled down her scarf. “We’re obviously not looters. Let us through,” she said from atop her horse. She looked intimidating, like some crazy Afghan rebel crossed with a post-apocalyptic movie heroine, but the soldier was unfazed. That is, until Apache took one big step into his personal space. He’d make a good riot cop’s horse.

  Sally was screaming now. The men restrained her, but she fought like a wildcat. Emily was sobbing.

  Deirdre said, “We can’t turn all these cars and trailers around, not on this road, and we can’t get out any other way! The fire is coming this way!”

  “Those are my orders ma’am,” he said again, and stepped away from Apache and closer to her. He felt intimidated so he was trying to intimidate her now. Just like the chickens, the pecking order went down the line.

  Deirdre let out a cry of frustration. “My daughter is missing, why don’t you make yourselves useful and look for her, instead of blocking law-abiding citizens from evacuating! And let go of my friend!” She was screaming at him now, ripping layers from the inside of her throat. “Vivian, go tell Wilma what’s happening!” she shouted. Vivian nodded, whirled Apache on his haunches, and headed back downhill. Deirdre turned back to the soldier. “And stop calling me ma’am!” she screamed. She put her face in her hands, hiding tears of frustration, and tried to breathe.