“Especially when it turns downtown into a smoking war zone,” The Park Service man muttered.
“True,” Van Kamp allowed. “The news cameras love that.”
“Cops are all over the place,” The BLM man said. He peered through the motel room window above the now-dead fan at Route 66 outside. “So are some of your trucks.” He glanced at his pint-sized colleague perched on a chair near the dark television.
“I loaned personnel to the Flagstaff police—the ones who aren’t heroically fighting the forest fire.” Van Kamp said. He chuckled—an abrupt, nervous sound. “It was the least we could do to help a sister agency suppress the hoodlum element.”
“S-m-a-a-a-r-t,” the BLM official said. “Great way to distance yourself from Greenfield’s people. I’ll send some of mine, too.”
“Even better,” the Park Service man muttered,” if your guys shoot some of Greenfield’s people. That’ll give you plenty of distance.”
Van Kamp giggled again.
“So you’ve had it with Greenfield?”
“Haven’t you? Isn’t that why we’re meeting in this roach motel?”
The BLM official stepped away from the window.
“Damned straight it is. We’ve got rednecks from Williams hunting college kids through the streets of Flagstaff. Tree-huggers are pounding on animal lovers when they’re not dodging the cowboys. And a perfectly good downtown Chinese restaurant is a smoldering ruin because, depending on who you ask, they murdered animals or slaughtered plants.”
“I think it was torched just because it was there,” Van Kamp said. He sighed again. “I’ll miss their potstickers. Pork and vegetable both.”
The Park Service man snorted.
“It won’t matter why the place got burned if we get linked to it, and that’s a distinct possibility with that fiasco in Sycamore Canyon. We need to leave Greenfield and his fanatics holding the bag on this one.”
Van Kamp hopped from his chair and landed gently on the floor. He began to pace.
“I think we can do better than that. I mean, if the joint task force—headed by those present—successfully exposes a dangerous ring of criminals threatening the public lands, we’ll be in a nice position. I think we can get a fair share of extra funding and increased resources. I don’t think we can tag Greenfield as an Arab, but he’s a pretty easy sell as a terrorist of some kind or other.”
“Oh, I like that.”
“I mean, terrorism is a threat to the American way of life.”
The Park Service man frowned.
“I don’t think an incarcerated Greenfield is going to keep our secrets very well. He can get us in hot water if we hang him out to dry.”
The BLM official whistled softly and glanced at the spotty ceiling. He grimaced at the sight.
“Dead men tell no tales.”
“Even better,” Van Kamp said. “A martyred Greenfield might just inspire his followers to continue the fight and keep us in business for years to come.”
The Park Service man slapped himself in the forehead.
“Of course! Silly me. He’s going to resist arrest, right?”
The fan in the window began spinning once again.
Chapter 62
Not far away, Greenfield shared his colleagues’ assessment of their best interests—though he was somewhat less approving of where that assessment led.
“Those seat-warmers are going to hang us out to dry,” he told Happy, who nervously chewed the end of his whiskers while being led across the asphalt parking lot by a firm grip on his right arm. “I’ll bet on it. They don’t have the balls to tough it out through a little social disorder. Hell, what did they think was going to happen after we set those fires? We want social disorder.”
Greenfield spoke loudly, but his resonant voice was wasted on a one-man audience in the otherwise empty lot south of the railroad tracks that ran through Flagstaff’s downtown. The social disorder that Greenfield celebrated had taken an expensive toll on the city’s usual shopping and tourist trade.
“Uh huh,” Happy said. “Yeah. Social disorder is good.”
The older man paused to turn and glare.
Happy’s face flushed.
“Really! I agree. We want people to move along and realize that it’s not worth living here.”
Greenfield nodded and continued on his journey with his sidekick in tow.
“That’s right! We don’t want people settling here, trampling grass and cutting down trees—beautiful trees. And if it takes a little social disorder to do the trick, then that’s what it’ll…” he trailed off, a puzzled look on his face.
Hoping to improve his standing in the older man’s eyes, Happy jumped in.
“Then we’ll cheerfully cause a little social disorder.”
The older man rocked his head, thinking.
“Sure. Why not?”
The journey across the parking lot ended at a mud-spattered jeep that looked as if it had been purchased as surplus after enduring hard duty in the motor pool of some Third-World army. Rust welded the doors shut—an obstacle that Greenfield bypassed by clumsily climbing in the passenger side, leg up and over.
Happy stood awkwardly in place until his indecision drew notice.
“Well, don’t just stand there, damn it, drive.” Greenfield shook a set of keys in the air so they jingled, and then tossed them for Happy to catch.
Happy followed the other man’s example, hopping into the driver’s seat.
“Where to?”
“Sycamore Canyon.”
Happy gaped even as he started the engine. He cranked it once, twice, and then it caught.
“Why?”
The older man smirked.
“Our allies may want to hang us out to dry, but they can’t if there’s no way to link us to the fires. The only people not involved in our plans who can actually do that—who actually have photos of our people setting fires—are down in Sycamore Canyon.”
Happy pressed the clutch down to the floor and jerked hard on the gearshift. He backed the jeep out of its parking space, hit the brake and stalled the vehicle.
Greenfield glared in silent disgust.
Happy restarted the engine and eased the jeep onto empty West Phoenix Avenue, and then to sparsely traveled South Milton.
“So, what are we going to do at Sycamore Canyon?”
Greenfield smirked again.
“We’re going to get rid of the evidence, of course. They can’t come after us without evidence.”
“You mean the pictures?”
“And the people who took the pictures. Do I really have to spell it out for you?
Happy felt less suited to his nickname than ever before. Maybe he should go back to his given name. Henry wasn’t all that bad. Maybe even Hank. No, he couldn’t pull off Hank. But Henry was acceptable.
The older man barked an interruption to Happy’s line of thought.
“And Jesus Christ, take it easy on that clutch.”
Chapter 63
“I s-e-e-e y-o-o-o-u,” Rollo yelled over the edge of the new ledge.
Well, strictly speaking, the ledge wasn’t new; it had been in place for thousands of years, changed only by the slow erosion of wind and rain, and the comparatively quicker gropings of plant roots into crevices in the rock. As far as Scott and Rollo were concerned, however, it was a new perch chosen in the dark as a replacement for their abandoned station.
Somewhat more precarious than its predecessor, the ledge sloped toward its edge at a slight angle that promised anybody seeking a resting place a continuing wrestling match with gravity.
It wasn’t an ideal location by any means. Aside from its slope, it was also exposed to sun, wind and rain. It had one important advantage over the previous ledge, however: it provided an excellent view of the firebugs below and of their escape routes both up and down the canyon.
As Rollo leaned out to heckle the people below, Scott lounged in place, taking advantage of the ledge’s angle to recline in rela
tive comfort with a view of the sky above.
“Just so you know, Rollo,” the younger man said in a low voice. “You look pretty close to the tipping point to me.
If you fall over, there’s no way I can haul your fat ass back up and also fight off the firebugs.”
Rollo grunted, and then continued his soliloquy.
“I want to thank you sons of bitches for the gift of this fine automatic rifle. I promise to be a better shot with it than any of you.”
“Oh, this was a mistake,” Scott muttered. He scrambled to change position and carefully shimmied forward on his belly with the ancient British rifle in his hand. He peered over the edge.
Filthy, half-naked and, by all appearances, utterly dejected, the firebugs stood below. Four of them looked reasonably healthy, if not happy. One stood with his right arm held in place by an improvised sling that looked dirtier than his bare skin. The sixth firebug—dressed only in a tattered, silvery loincloth—lay quietly with his face covered by his crossed arms.
If he had to guess, Scott figured the prone man to be the one he and Rollo had questioned during their nocturnal raid.
“I got it under control,” Rollo whispered.
Scott ignored his companion’s protest.
“What my friend means is that we’re tired of being chased and shot at. We’ve sent the video we took of you setting the forest fire ahead. Since the evidence is already well beyond your reach, why don’t you sit still and play nice until help comes? You can start by stacking your weapons directly below us.”
“Oh,” Rollo said. “Good idea.”
Not all of the firebugs agreed. Through loud shushing from one of his companions, the man with his arm in a sling defiantly shouted back.
“Fuck you. Nobody— Back off, Terry. Nobody— I mean it. Grow a spine, Terry. Nobody is coming to help you.”
Genuinely puzzled, Scott asked the inevitable question.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
With a triumphant look on his face, the mud-and dust-spattered gimp replied.
“Because when all this started, we sent somebody for help. By now they’re at the mouth of the canyon. Whoever you sent is probably dead. So why don’t you surrender to us?”
Without moving, the man on the ground let out a loud groan.
“It wasn’t my idea!” somebody—apparently Terry—yelled.
“Wimp.”
“Grow a spine.”
“Where are your balls?”
For his part, Scott sighed and turned to Rollo.
“I know,” Rollo said. “I can hold these assholes here. Which gun do you want?”
Chapter 64
“Way to go, Terry.”
His face glowing red, the scrawny ranger stared at his feet. He declined to respond to any of the catcalls of his colleagues.
Staring at the ledge above, and the barely visible faces at the promontory’s edge, Jason broke in.
“I’m less concerned about Terry’s spinelessness—”
“Hey!”
“—than I am about Bob’s revealing that Tim went for help.”
Bob’s eyes widened.
“Huh?”
“It looks like two people are up there. What if one of them heads down the canyon and shoots whoever Van Kamp sent?”
“That leaves one guy here watching us. He has to sleep eventually.”
“Yeah … eventually. In the meantime we’re stuck here.”
A voice drifted down from above.
“You heard the man! Stack your damn guns below me, goddamnit!” The command was punctuated by a gunshot, immediately followed by the whine of a bullet speeding down the canyon.
Hopping to comply, Rena dragged her rifle by the muzzle. She tossed it into a bush, from which it slid to the ground with a clatter.
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Yeah,” Jason answered, irritated. “I’m getting my rifle already.”
“That’s not what I mean. He said they sent the video up ahead.”
“Huh?”
“We might have argued that photos were taken out of context, but video will be a clincher.”
Jason stood dumb for a long moment. Then he sighed.
“This just gets better and better.”
Standing at his side, Samantha rested a hand on his arm, but said nothing.
Jason sighed again.
“Shit. This is why I hate technology.”
Chapter 65
Step after plodding step, Lani climbed the steep path to the trailhead. Hot, sweaty work, it was an accomplishment, but a small one. Miles of empty, unpaved road awaited her unless somebody was parked at the trailhead. She’d seen nobody but the crazed ranger on the trail, so she prepared herself for an extended hike.
Lurking in the back of her mind, pushed there by conscious effort, was the memory of Champ shot and lying in the dirt. As her self-appointed guardian and constant companion, the dog had earned her love and respect. Champ had placed himself in harm’s way more than once to protect his mistress, and she knew his loss would hurt even when the memory was no longer fresh.
As for the dead ranger … Fuck ‘im.
Maybe she should feel remorse for shooting the man, but she felt only satisfaction. The ranger was an arsonist and had threatened Lani and her friends even before he’d shot Champ. Killing him couldn’t bring Champ back, but it protected her own life. It even, she felt, balanced the scales a bit for the death of the dog.
She’d had a cell phone signal—however tentative—for a while, now, and she’d considered following Scott’s instructions for uploading the video from the phone. But the rest of his plan—specifically, the mailing list of journalists—required a computer, and she felt more comfortable at a keyboard than picking her way through a smart phone with her thumbs anyway.
She’d also considered calling for help, but who? It was tough enough before she shot the ranger. So far as she knew, the Forest Service had jurisdiction out here, with maybe some input from the county sheriff’s department. Calling the Forest Service to complain about homicidal, naked Forest Service employees running amok struck her as a risky venture at best. Calling any law-enforcement agency after she’d plugged a psycho in a uniform smacked of suicide. Cops might have their intrafamilial spats, but she had no doubt that, like members of a dysfunctional family, they’d close ranks very quickly against an outsider who’d proven a quicker shot than one of their own, however deranged that one had been.
No, she couldn’t risk calling for help until the video was in public view.
The trailhead sign came into view, and with it, the possibility of assistance for her mission. Summoning her reserves, Lani pushed her way up the last few steps and discovered that she had company. Two large people—a man and a woman—stood in place studying a piece of paper tacked to the trail sign. They were dressed in matching straw cowboy hats, collared western-style denim shirts and blue jeans.
“Closed?” the man asked, tugging at the brim of his hat. “Why is the trail closed?”
The woman next to him shrugged. Her face was hidden in shadow under her own hat, but she seemed as puzzled as her companion.
The man turned to Lani as she stepped out past the sign.
“Was the trail closed when you went in?”
Lani shook her head.
“What? I don’t think so. There’s no reason for the trail to be closed.” She stopped speaking as she saw the hand-lettered sign. Her mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut.
“Oh. I bet that was put there by the ranger I shot.”
She caught herself.
“Oh shit. I know how that sounds. I mean he deserved it because he shot my dog and was part of a gang of crazy arsonists.”
The large couple stared. The man scratched at his jaw. The woman twirled a canteen by its canvas strap.
“Umm … ” Lani said. “I’m not really presenting this right, am I?”
“Well,” the man said, worrying again at the brim of his hat. “The part
about shooting a ranger might put most folks off, but we like to think of ourselves as open-minded. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Chapter 66
Desperate as he was to reach Lani, Scott knew he had to move carefully. Rather than drop down to the canyon floor and risk a confrontation with the firebugs below, he climbed to the top of the mesa to find a trail that paralleled the lower trail and intercepted it near the trailhead. Rollo had used the higher trail when he’d buried his cache, and he said it was an easier hike than the canyon floor.
Of course, easier was a relative term. By the time he made it to the mesa’s top, he was already out of breath. Scrapes oozing blood marred his forearms and a spot on his left shin promised to swell and turn purple.
He then lost precious minutes following game traces and meandering tracks stamped by grazing cattle. Each path started out promisingly before wandering in circles and then petering out—or forking into multiple trails.
One promising lead faded, only to be followed by another, and another—each ending in a cactus, a cliff or a mess of hoof prints left by cattle seemingly as confused as he was himself.
Panic had begun to set in when he stumbled on a cairn marking the true trail. A small pile of rocks left by hikers, rangers or cattlemen, its sight removed a huge burden from Scott’s shoulders. Once the first cairn was spotted, the next followed in short order. From then on he hopped from cairn to cairn, following the stones through the desert as if they were breadcrumbs.
The hours passed in a blur. Despite his best intentions, his pace slackened. The sun was high, the day was hot, and he had few reserves left after the chase through the canyon.
Scott bypassed a muddy bowl in the ground even though his pack grew lighter with each sip taken from the drinking tube. The water was brown, opaque with dirt stirred up by the dumb beasts cooling themselves in the liquid. He wasn’t yet out of water, and was far from thirsty enough to be tempted by the cow shit-tainted muck.
The sound of a shot in the distance sent an almost electric surge through his body.
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