by Nora Roberts
“It’d be nice if they let us clean up first,” Gull commented, then he got off the van, nodded to the cop and the fed. “Where do you want to do this?”
“L.B.’s office is available for us,” Quinniock told him.
“Look, there are tables outside the cookhouse. I wouldn’t mind airing out some and getting some food while we’re at it. I expect Dobie feels the same.”
“You got that right, son. Did you figure out who’s dead?”
“We’ll talk about it,” DiCicco told him.
“We’ll take care of your gear.” Rowan gestured to Matt, Janis. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Appreciate it.” Gull gave her a quick look.
“Are we suspects?” Dobie wanted to know as they walked toward the cookhouse.
“We haven’t made any determinations, Mr. Karstain.”
“Loosen up, Kim,” Quinniock suggested. “We have no reason to suspect you in this matter. You can tell us where you were the night before you jumped the fire, between eleven P.M. and three A.M., if you’d like.”
“Me? I was playing cards with Libby and Yangtree and Trigger till about midnight. Trig and me had a last beer after. I guess we bunked down about one.”
“I was with Rowan,” Gull said, and left it at that.
“We’d like to go over the statements you gave the rangers on scene.” DiCicco sat at the picnic table, pulled out her notebook, her mini recorder. “I’d like to record this.”
“Dobie, why don’t you go ahead? I’ll go see what Marg can put together for us. Do you two want anything?” Gull asked.
“I wouldn’t mind a cold drink,” Quinniock told him, and, remembering the lemonade, DiCicco nodded.
“That’d be good. Now, Mr. Karstain—”
“Can you leave off calling me mister? Just Dobie.”
“Dobie.”
He went over what happened. What he’d seen, done, what he’d already told the rangers.
“You know, the black looks like a horror show anyhow, then you add that. Gull said it must be connected to Dolly.”
“Did he?” DiCicco said.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Dobie looked from one to the other. “Is it?”
“Dobie, how was it only you and Mr. Curry were in that area?”
Dobie shrugged at DiCicco just as Gull came out, two steps in front of Lynn. Both carried trays.
“We needed most everybody up at the head, digging line toward it, but somebody still needed to scout spots along the flank. So I volunteered me and Gull.”
“You suggested that you and Mr. Curry take that route?”
“She’s big on the misters,” he said to Gull. “Yeah. It’s a longer hike, but I like killing spots. Me and Gull, we work good together. Thanks.” He gave Lynn a smile when she set a loaded plate in front of him. “It sure looks good.”
“Marg said to save room for cherry pie. You just let me know if you need anything else.”
“Let’s save some time.” Gull took his seat. “We took that route because we were scouting spots. You see a spot, you put it out, and you move on. We had that duty while making our way east to join the rest of the crew. The fire’d been moving east, but the winds kept changing, so the flanks shifted. We found the remains because we cut across the burnout, heading to the far flank in case any spots broke out and took hold. If they did, and we didn’t, it could’ve put the visitor center in the line. Nobody wanted that. Clear?”
“That’s the way it is.” Dobie took his bottle of Tabasco out of his pocket, lifted the top of his Kaiser roll and dumped some on the horseradish Marg had piled on his roast beef.
Gull shook his head when Dobie offered the bottle. “Mine’s fine as it is. And, yeah, I speculated this body was related to Dolly. It could be we’ve got a serial killer–arsonist picking victims at random, but I like the odds on connection a lot better.”
“Shot this one,” Dobie said with his mouth full. “Couldn’t miss the bullet hole.”
“Jumpers got hurt on that fire. I heard on the way in a couple of hotshots I know were injured. I watched acres of wilderness go up. I want the person responsible to pay for it, and I want to know why killing wasn’t enough. Because I can speculate again that the fire was just as important as the kill. Otherwise, there wasn’t a reason for it. The fire itself had to matter.”
“That’s an interesting speculation,” DiCicco commented.
“Since we’ve already told you what we know, speculation’s all that’s left. And since neither of you look particularly stupid, I have to assume you’ve already entertained those same speculations.”
“He’s feeling a little pissed off ’cause he’s out here talking to cops instead of taking a shower with the Swede.”
“Jesus, Dobie.” Then Gull laughed. “Yeah, I am. So, since you cost me, maybe you could tell us if you’ve identified the remains.”
“That information . . .” DiCicco caught Quinniock’s look, huffed out a breath. “While we’re waiting for verification, we found Reverend Latterly’s car parked on the service road alongside the visitors’ center. His wife can’t tell us his whereabouts, only that he wasn’t home or at his church when she got up this morning.”
“Somebody shot a preacher?” Dobie demanded. “That’s hell for sure.”
“The Brakemans’ preacher,” Gull added. “And the one rumor has it Dolly was screwing around with. I heard Leo Brakeman made bail.”
“Sumbitch better not come back around here.”
DiCicco gave Dobie a glance, but kept her focus primarily on Gull. “We’ll be speaking to Mr. Brakeman after his daughter’s funeral this afternoon.”
“I’ve got a couple of men on him,” Quinniock added. “We’ve got a list of his registered weapons, and we’ll take another look at his gun safe.”
“It’d be pretty stupid to use one of his own guns, at least a registered weapon, to kill the man who was screwing his daughter and preaching to his wife.”
“Regardless, we’ll pursue every avenue of the investigation. We can speculate, too, Mr. Curry,” DiCicco added. “But we have to work with facts, with data, with evidence. Two people are dead, and that’s priority. But those wildfires matter. I work for the Forest Service, too. Believe me, it all matters.”
She got to her feet. “Thanks for your time.” She offered Gull the ghost of a smile. “Sorry about the shower.”
“Why, Agent DiCicco,” Quinniock said as they walked away, “I believe you just made an amusing, smart-ass comment. I feel warm inside.”
“Well, hold on to it. Funerals tend to cool things off.”
BLOW UP
To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame,
to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.
WALTER PATER
21
Rowan dawdled. She lingered in the shower, took her time selecting shorts and a top as if it mattered. She even put in a few minutes with makeup, pleased when the dawdling transformed her into a girl.
Time enough, she decided, and went to hunt for Gull.
When she stepped out of her quarters, Matt stepped out of his.
“Wow.” She gave him and his dark suit and tie a lusty eyebrow wiggle. “And I thought I looked good.”
“You do.”
“What, do you have a hot date? Going to a wedding, a funer—” She broke off, mentally slapped herself. “Oh, God, Matt, I forgot. I wasn’t thinking. You’re going to Dolly’s funeral.”
“I thought I should, since we’re off the fire.”
“You’re not going by yourself? I’d go with you, but I’ve got to be the last person the Brakemans want to see today.”
“It’s okay. I’m just . . . I feel like I have to, to represent Jim, you know? I don’t want to, but . . . the baby.” He shoved at his floppy, sun-bleached hair with his fingers. “I almost wish we were still out on the fire, so I couldn’t go.”
“Get somebody to go with you. Janis packed out with us, or Cards would go if he’s up to it. Or—
”
“L.B.’s going.” Matt stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out again to tap his fingers on his thigh. It reminded her painfully of Jim. “And Marg and Lynn.”
“Okay then.” She walked over, fussed with his tie though it didn’t need it. “You’re doing the right thing by your family by going. If you want to talk later, or just hang out, I’ll be around.”
“Thanks.” He put a hand over hers until she met his eyes. “Thanks, Rowan. I know she caused you a lot of trouble.”
“It doesn’t matter. Matt, it really doesn’t. It’s a hard day for a lot of people. That’s what matters.”
He gave her hand one hard squeeze. “I’d better get going.”
She changed direction when he left, headed to the lounge. Cards sprawled on the sofa watching one of the soaps on TV.
“This girl’s telling this guy she’s knocked up, even though she’s not, because he’s in love with her sister but banged her—the one who’s not knocked up—when she put something in his drink when she went over to his place to tell him the sister was cheating on him, which she wasn’t.”
He slugged down some Gatorade. “Women suck.”
“Hey.”
“Fact is fact,” he said grimly. “So I’m riveted. I could get hooked on this stuff taking my afternoon, medically ordered lie-down. I get to malinger for another day while I get pretty again.”
She sat, studied the bandage over his cheek. “I don’t know. The hole in your face added interest, and it would’ve distracted from the fact your eyes are too close together.”
“I have the eyes of an angel. And a hawk. An angel hawk.”
“Matt’s leaving to go to Dolly’s funeral.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s wearing Yangtree’s tie.”
“We should get a couple more of the guys to go with him. Libby’s still on mop-up, but Janis packed out.”
“Let it be, Ro. You can’t fix every damn thing.”
He hissed through his teeth when she said nothing. “Look, L.B.’s going to stand for the base, and Marg and Lynn, because they worked with her. Matt, well, he’s like kin now with Jim’s baby and all. But L.B. and I talked about it. The way things ended up here with Dolly, it’s probably best to keep it to a minimum. Probably be easier on Dolly’s mom.”
“Probably,” she agreed, but frowned as she studied him. She knew that face, with or without the hole, and those big camel eyes. “What’s up?”
“Nothing except your interrupting my soap opera. Orchid’s going to get hers when Payton finds out she’s been playing him for a sap.”
She knew a brood when she was sitting next to one. “You’re sulking.”
“I’ve got a frigging hole in my face and I’m watching soap operas, then you come along and start carping about dead Dolly and funerals.” He shot her a single hot look. “Go find somebody else to rag on.”
“Fine.”
She shoved up.
“Women suck,” he repeated with a baffled bitterness that had her easing down again. “We’re better off without them.”
She opted not to remind him she happened to be a woman. “Altogether, or one in particular?”
“You know the one I hooked up with last winter.”
Since he’d mentioned her about a hundred times, shown off her picture, Rowan had a pretty good idea. “Vicki, sure.”
“She was coming out in a couple weeks, with the kids. I was getting a few days off to show her around. The kids were all juiced up to see the base.”
Were, Rowan thought. “What happened?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. She changed her mind, that’s all. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea—I’ve got my life, she’s got hers. She dumped me; that’s it. She won’t even tell me why, exactly, just how she has to think of the kids, how she needs a stable, honest relationship and all that shit.”
He turned, aiming those angry, baffled eyes at Rowan. “I never lied to her, that’s the thing. I told her how it was, and she said she was okay with it. Even that she was proud of what I did. Now she’s done, just like that. Pissed off, too. And . . . she cried. What the hell did I do?”
“I guess . . . the theory of being attached to somebody who does what we do is different from the reality. It’s hard.”
“So I’m supposed to give it up? Do something else? Be something else? That’s not right.”
“No, it’s not right.”
“I was going to ask her to marry me when she came out.”
“Hell. I’m sorry.”
“She won’t even talk to me now. I keep leaving messages, and she won’t answer. She won’t let me talk to the kids. I’m crazy about those kids.”
“Write her a letter.”
“Do what?”
“Nobody writes letters anymore. Write her a letter. Tell her how you feel. Lay it all out.”
“Shit, I’m not good at that.”
“And that’ll make it even better. If you’re hung up enough to want to marry her, you can write a damn letter.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Hell.”
“Women suck.”
“Tell me about it. Write a letter,” he repeated, brooded into his Gatorade. “Maybe. Talk about something else. If I keep talking about her, I’m going to try to call her again. It’s humiliating.”
“How about those Cubs?”
He snorted. “I need more than baseball to get my mind off heartbreak, especially since the Cubbies suck more than women this year. We’ve got murder, and fire starters. I heard there was another one, another body. And whoever did it started the fire. The cops better catch this bastard before he burns half of western Montana. We can all use the fat wallet, but nobody wants to earn it that way.”
“He got a good chunk of Idaho, too. It’s scary,” she said because they were alone. “We know fire wants to kill us when we’re going there. We know nature couldn’t give a damn either way. But going in, knowing there’s somebody out there killing people and lighting it up who maybe wants to see some of us burn. Maybe doesn’t give a shit either way. That’s scary. It’s scary not knowing if he’s done, or if the next time the siren sounds, it’s because of him.”
She looked over as Gull came in. “What did the cops say?” she demanded.
“It’s not official, but it’s a pretty good bet what we found out there is what’s left of Reverend Latterly.”
Cards bolted up. “The priest?”
“Loosely.” Gull dropped down in a chair. “They found his car out there, and nobody can find him. So, either we did, or he’s taken off. They’re going to be talking to Brakeman after the funeral.”
“They think he killed him and burned him up?” Cards said. “But . . . wouldn’t that mean . . . or do they think he killed Dolly and—Her own father? Come on.”
“I don’t know what they think.”
“What do you think?” Rowan asked him.
“I’m still working on it. So far I think we’ve got somebody who’s seriously pissed off, and likes fire. I’ve got to clean up.”
Rowan followed him into his quarters. “Why do you say ‘likes fire’? Using it’s not the same as liking it.”
“I guess since you’re dressed—and you look good, by the way—you’re not going to wash my back.”
“No. Why do you say ‘likes fire’?”
Gull pulled off his shirt. “I increased my passing acquaintance with arson after Dolly.”
“Yeah, you study. It’s a thing with you.”
“I like to learn. Anyway,” he continued, dragging off his boots. “Arsonists usually fall into camps. There’s your for-profit—somebody burning property to collect insurance, say, or the torch who lights them up for a fee. That’s not this.”
“You’ve got the torching to cover up another crime. I have a passing acquaintance, too,” she reminded him as he took off his pants. “Murder’s sure as hell another crime.”
“Maybe that’s what it was with Dolly.” Naked, he walked into the bathroom, turned o
n the shower. “The accident or on purpose, the panic, the cover-up. But this, coming on top of it, when the first didn’t really work?”
He stepped under the spray, let out a long, relieved groan. “All hail the god of water.”
“Maybe it was a copycat. Somebody wanted to kill Latterly. Brakeman had motive, so did Latterly’s wife if she found out about him and Dolly. One of his congregation who felt outraged and betrayed. And they mirrored Dolly because of the connection. It’s the same motive.”
“Could be.”
She whipped back the shower curtain. “It makes the most sense.”
“In or out, Blondie.” He skimmed those feline eyes down her body. “I’d rather in.”
She whipped the curtain back closed. “The third type doesn’t play out, Gull. The firebug who gets off starting fires, watching them burn. It doesn’t play because of the murders.”
“Maybe he’s getting a twofer.”
“It’s bad enough if it’s to cover the murders. That’s plenty bad enough. What you’re thinking’s worse.”
“I know it. If the vibe I got from the cops is right, it’s something they’re thinking about, too.”
She leaned her hands on the sink, stared at her own reflection. “I don’t want it to be somebody I know.”
“You don’t know everybody, Ro.”
No, she didn’t know everybody, and was suddenly, desperately grateful she knew only a few people who connected with Dolly and Latterly.
But . . . what if it was one of those few?
“Dolly’s funeral. Where can they have it?” she wondered. “They couldn’t have planned on Mrs. Brakeman’s church, even before this happened.”
“Marg said they’re having the service in the funeral parlor. They don’t expect much of a crowd.”
“God.” She shut her eyes. “I hated her like a hemorrhoid, but that’s just depressing.”
He shut off the water, pulled back the curtain. “You know what you need?” He reached for a towel.
“What do I need? Gee, let me guess.”
“Gutter brain. You need a drive with the top down and an icecream cone.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, you do. We’re third load on the jump list, so we can cruise into town, find ourselves an ice-cream parlor.”
