by Nora Roberts
She started to speak, then just backed out, realizing she didn’t want conversation until she had no choice.
Besides, looking at the torn and trampled, the strewn and defaced, only heated up her already simmering temper.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of the hoodie she’d pulled on over her nightclothes.
Halfway to Operations, Gull cut across her path. He handed her a Coke. “I thought you could use it.”
“Yeah, thanks. I thought you’d headed down for breakfast.”
“I’ll get it. It’s a bump, Ro.”
“What?”
“This.” He gestured behind them, toward the ready room. “It’s a bump, the kind that gives you a nasty jolt, but it doesn’t stop you from getting where you’re going. Whoever did that? They didn’t accomplish a thing but make everybody on this base more determined to get where we’re going.”
“Glass half full?”
She honestly couldn’t say why that grated on her nerves. “Right now my glass is not only mostly empty, it has a jagged, lip-tearing chip in it. I’m not ready to look at it in sunny terms. I might be once her vindictive batshit crazy ass is sitting in a cell.”
“They’ll have to call in the rangers or the feds, I guess. U.S. Forest Service property that got messed with, so it’s probably a felony. I don’t know how it works.”
That stopped her. She hadn’t thought it through. “L.B. called the locals. The feds aren’t going to waste their time with this.”
“I don’t know. But I’d think if somebody wanted to push it, that’s where it would go. Destruction of federal property, that could land her a stiff stint in a cell. What she needs is a big dose of mandatory therapy.”
The man, she concluded, was a piece of work. Good work at the core, and right now that core of good made her want to punch something.
Possibly him.
“You’re telling me this because you’re not sure if I want her to do time in Leavenworth, or wherever.”
“Do you?”
“Damn it. Right now I wouldn’t shed a tear over that, but at the bottom of it, I just want her out of our hair, once and for all.”
“Nobody can argue with that. Whoever did that to the ready room has some serious problems.”
“Look, you’ve had a few weeks’ exposure to Dolly. I’ve had a lifetime, and I’m finished having her problems become mine.”
“Nobody can argue with that, either.” He cupped a hand at the back of her neck, catching her off-guard with the kiss. “Let’s see if we can squeeze in a run later. I could use one.”
“Will you stop trying to settle me down?”
“No, because you probably don’t want to talk to a cop when you’re pissed off enough to bite out his throat if he happens to push the wrong button.”
He took her shoulders, got a good grip. And, she noted, his eyes weren’t so calm, weren’t so patient. “You’re smart. Be smart. The ready room wasn’t a personal attack on you; it was a sucker punch at all of us. Remember that.”
“She’s—”
“She’s nothing. Make her nothing, and focus on what’s important. Give the cop what he needs, go back to work on fixing the damage. After that, take a run with me.”
He kissed her again, quick and hard, then walked away.
“Take a run. I’ll give you a run,” she muttered. She veered off toward L.B.’s office, and realized Gull unsettled her nearly as much as Dolly’s sudden bent for violence.
Lieutenant Quinniock sat at L.B.’s overburdened desk with a mug of coffee and a notebook. Black-framed cheaters perched on the end of his long, bladed nose while eyes of faded-denim blue peered over them. A small scar rode high on his right cheek, a pale fishhook against the ruddiness. And like a scar, a shock of white, like a lightning bolt blurred at the edges, shot through his salt-and-pepper hair between the left temple and the crown.
She’d seen him before, Rowan realized—in a bar or a shop—somewhere. His wasn’t a face easily overlooked.
He wore a dark, subtly pin-striped suit like an executive—pressed and tailored, with a perfectly knotted tie of flashy red.
The suit didn’t go with the face, she thought, and wondered if the contrast was deliberate.
He stood when she came into the room. “Ms. Tripp?”
“Yeah. Rowan Tripp.”
“I appreciate you taking a few minutes. I know it’s a stressful day. Would you mind closing the door?”
The voice, she decided, mild, polite, engaging, fit the suit.
“Have a seat,” he told her. “I have a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve met your father. I imagine most around these parts have at some time or other. You’re following in big footprints, and I’m told you’re doing a good job of filling them.”
“Thanks.”
“So . . . you and a Miss Dolly Brakeman had an altercation a few days ago.”
“You could call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
She wanted to rage, to jab a finger in the middle of that flashy tie. Be smart, Gull had said—and damn it, he was right.
So she ordered herself to relax in the chair and speak coolly. “Let’s see, I call it trespassing, vandalism, defacing private property and generally being a crazy bitch. But that’s just me.”
“Apparently not just you, as others I’ve spoken with share that point of view. You discovered Miss Brakeman in your quarters here on base in the act of pouring animal blood on your bed. Is that correct?”
“It is. And that would be after she’d poured it, tossed it, splattered it over the walls, the floor, my clothes and other assorted items. After she wrote on my wall with it. ‘Burn in hell,’ to be precise.”
“Yes, I’ve got the photographs of the damage Mr. Little Bear took before the area was cleaned and repainted.”
“Oh.” That set her back a moment. She hadn’t realized L.B. had documented with photos. Should have figured he would, she thought now. That’s why he was in charge.
“And what happened when you found her in your quarters?”
“What? Oh, I tried to kick her ass, but several of my colleagues stopped me. Which, given the current situation, is even more of a damn shame.”
“You didn’t notify the police.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Partially because I was too pissed off, and partially because she got fired and kicked off the base. That seemed enough, considering.”
“Considering?”
“Considering, at that time, I figured she was just sublimely stupid, that her stupidity was aimed solely at me—and she’s got a baby. Plus, within an hour we caught a fire, so she wasn’t a top priority for me after that.”
“You and your unit had a long, hard couple of days.”
“It’s what we do.”
“What you do is appreciated.” He sipped his coffee as he scanned his notes. “The baby you mentioned is purported to have been fathered by James Brayner, a Missoula smoke jumper who died in an accident last August.”
“That’s right.”
“Miss Brakeman blames you.”
It hurt still; she supposed it always would. “I was his jump partner. She blames the whole unit, and me in particular.”
“Just for my own edification, what does ‘jump partner’ mean?”
“We jump in two-man teams. One after the other once we get the go from the spotter. The first one out, that would’ve been me in this case, checks the location and status of the second man. You might want to make adjustments in direction, trajectory, give the second man a clear stream. If one of you has any problems, the other should be able to spot it. You look out for each other, as much as you can, in the air, on landing.”
“And Brayner’s accident was ruled, after investigation, as his error.”
Her throat burned, making it impossible to keep the emotion out of her voice. “He didn’t steer away. We hit some bad air, but he just rode on it. H
e pulled the wrong toggle, steered toward instead of away. There was nothing I could do. His chute deployed; I gave him space, but he didn’t come around. He overshot the jump site, kept riding, and went down into the fire.”
“It’s difficult to lose a partner.”
“Yeah. Difficult.”
“At that time Miss Brakeman was employed as a cook on base.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you and she have any problems prior to the accident?”
“She cooked. I ate. That’s pretty much it.”
“I’m under the impression the two of you knew each other for quite some time. That you went to school together.”
“We didn’t run in the same circle. We knew each other. For some reason she was always jealous of me. I know a lot of people. I know Jamie and Barry, down doing their cop thing in the ready room; went to school with them, too. Neither one of them ever pulled a Carrie-at-the-prom on my quarters.”
He watched her over that long, narrow nose. “Were you aware she was pregnant at the time of Brayner’s death?”
“No. As far as I know nobody was aware except, from what she said when she came back, Jim. She took off right after the accident—I don’t know where, and don’t care. As far as I can tell she came back with the baby, got religion and came here looking for work, armed with her mother, her minister and pictures of her chubby-cheeked baby. L.B. hired her.”
To give herself a moment, she took a long drink from her Coke. “I had one conversation with her, figuring we should clear the air, and during which she made it crystal she hated every linear inch of my guts, wished me to hell. She dumped blood all over my room. L.B. fired her. And that brings us up to date.”
She shifted in her chair, tired of sitting, tired of answering questions she suspected he already had the answers to. Focus on what’s important, she remembered. “Look, I know you’ve got ground to cover, but I don’t see why my past history with Dolly applies. She broke into the ready room and damaged equipment. Essential equipment. It’s a lot more than inconvenient and messy. If we’re not ready when we’re called, people can die. Wildlife and the forests they live in are destroyed.”
“Understood. We’ll be talking to Miss Brakeman. At this time, the only possible link between her and the vandalism in your ready room is her confirmed vandalism of your quarters.”
“She said she wanted us all to die. All of us to burn. Just like she wrote on the wall. I guess she couldn’t get her hands on any more pig’s blood, so she used spray paint this time.”
“Without equipment, you can’t jump. If you can’t jump, you’re not in harm’s way.”
“Logical. But then logic isn’t Dolly’s strong suit.”
“If it turns out she’s responsible for this situation, I’d have to agree. Thanks for your time, and your frankness.”
“No problem.” She pushed to her feet, stopped on her way to the door. “I don’t see how there’s any ‘if.’ People around here understand what we do. We’re part of the fabric. Everybody on base is a thread in the fabric, and we do what we do because we want to. We depend on each other. Dolly’s the only odd man out.”
“There are three men who got their asses kicked last month outside Get a Rope who might enjoy fraying those threads.”
She turned fully back into the room. “Do you really think those assholes came back to Missoula, snuck on base, found the ready room and did that crap?”
Quinniock removed his cheaters, folded them neatly on the desk. “It’s another ‘if.’ It’s my job to consider all the ‘ifs.’”
The interview left Rowan more annoyed than satisfied. Though her appetite barely stirred, she hit the buffet, built herself a breakfast sandwich. She ate on the way back to manufacturing.
Nobody complained. Not about the extra work or the tedium of doing it. While she’d been with Quinniock, Janis set up her MP3 with speakers so R&B, country, rock, hip-hop softened the clamor of the machines. She watched Dobie do a little boot-scoot across the floor to Shania Twain with a load of Smitty bags in his arms.
Could be worse, she thought. It could always be worse, so the smart thing to do was to make the best out of the bad. When Gull hauled in chutes for repair, she figured the cops had cleared the ready room.
She left her machine to go to the counter and help him spread the silks.
“How bad is it?” she asked him.
“Probably not as bad as it looked. Everything’s tossed around, but there’s not as much actual damage as we thought. Or I thought, anyway. A lot just needs to be sorted and repacked.”
“Silver lining.” She marked tears and cuts.
“With a rainbow. Maintenance is setting up tables outside. Rumor is Marg is putting a barbecue together, and she’s got a truckload of ribs.”
Rowan marked another tear. Men who hadn’t bothered to shave or shower that morning were singing along with Taylor Swift. It was just a little surreal.
“When the going gets tough,” she decided, “the tough eat ribs. We’ve got nearly all the chutes that were in for rigging and repair done, and nearly all of those packed. Coming along on PG bags, Smitties, ponchos and packs.”
She paused, met his eyes. “If it keeps moving, maybe we’ll fit in that run.”
“Ready when you are.”
“I hate being wrong.”
“Anybody who doesn’t probably has low self-esteem. Low self-esteem can lead to a lot of problems, many of them sexual.”
She knew when she was being ribbed, so nodded solemnly. “I’m lucky I have exceptionally high self-esteem. Anyway, I hate being wrong about thinking this was a shot at me. I’d rather she’d taken a shot at me. I’d rather be pissed off about a personal vendetta than this.”
“It sucks, but there’s something to be said about listening to Southern and Trigger singing a duet of ‘Wanted Dead or Alive.’”
“They weren’t bad. No Bon Jovi, but not bad.”
“If your glass is half empty and has a chip in it, you might as well belly up to the bar and order a fresh one. I’ve gotta get back.”
Bright side, she thought. Silver lining. Maybe it took her longer to find them—or want to—but what the hell. She might as well toss away her crappy glass.
She examined every inch of the chute before turning it over to repair, then started on the next. She was so focused on what she thought of as an assembly line of life and death, she didn’t hear L.B. walk up beside her.
His hand came down on her shoulder like a spotter’s in the door. “Take a break.”
“Some of these need rigging, but most of the ones coming up just need patching.”
“I’ve been getting updates. Let’s get some air.”
“Fine.” The bending, hunching, peering left her stiff and knotted up. She wanted that run, she decided, wanted to burn off the tension and hours of standing.
Then she caught a whiff of the ribs smoking on the grills, and decided she wanted those even more.
“Holy God, that smells good. Marg knows exactly the way to get the mind off problems and on the belly.”
“Wait’ll you see the cornbread. I just got off the phone with the police.”
“Did they arrest her? No,” she said before he could speak. “I can tell by your face. Goddamn it, L.B.”
“She claims she was home all night. Her mother’s backing her up.”
“Big surprise.”
“The thing is, they can’t prove she wasn’t. Maybe when they go through everything, they’ll find some evidence. You know, fingerprints or something.”
He thumbed out a Life Savers to go with the one already in his mouth, and made her realize the stress had him jonesing for a Marlboro.
“But right now,” he continued with cherry-scented breath, “she’s denying it. They talked to the neighbors, too. Nobody can say for sure if she was home or wasn’t. And since none of us saw her, they can’t charge her with anything.”
L.B. puffed out his cheeks. “Quinniock wanted us to know she
’s making noises about suing us for slander.”
“Give me a break.”
“Right there with you, Ro. She won’t, but he thought we should know she got up a pretty good head of steam when he questioned her.”
“The best defense is offense.”
“That could be it, sure.” He looked out over the grill and she imagined the dozens of things on his mind, the load of weight on his shoulders.
“Hell, all that’s for cops and lawyers anyway.”
“Yeah. The main thing is if we get called out, we’re okay. We can send out twenty at this point.”
“Twenty?”
“Some of the mechanics pitched in to help out the ready room team. They’ve been working like dogs. We’ve got gear and supplies for twenty squared away. I’ve already requisitioned replacements for what’s damaged or ruined. This isn’t going to slow us down. You’re back on the jump list.”
“I guess it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
“Well, it looked pretty damn bad.” She watched him, very deliberately, roll off some of that weight. “We’re smoke jumpers, Swede. We can saw a line from here to Canada. We can sure as hell handle this.”
“I want her to pay.”
“I know, and by God, so do I. If they find anything to link her to that ready room, I want them to toss her in a cell. I felt sorry for her,” he said in disgust. “I gave her a second chance, then a third one when I fired her instead of calling the cops. So believe me, nobody wants her to pay more than I do.”
The phone in her pocket jingled.
“Go ahead and take it. I’m going to pass the word on lunch.” He headed back, turned around briefly to walk backward. “Keep clear of the stampede,” he warned.
Laughing, she pulled out her phone. Seeing her father’s ID reminded her of the messages she’d left him.
“Well, it’s about time.”
“Honey, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I got in late, and didn’t want to chance waking you up. I’ve been busy all morning.”
“Here, too.” She told him about the ready room, the police, about Dolly.
“For God’s sake, Ro, what’s wrong with that girl? Do you want more help? I can reschedule some things, or at least send over a couple men.”
