Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (23 page)

In the closet, Rosswell
whispered,
“You can’t trust anyone. Has a single person told us the
truth about anything?”

“No and shut up.” Ollie pressed his ear against the
door of the closet. Rosswell did the same.

Rosswell didn’t recognize the voices that he’d heard
shouting and screaming. Then there had been a couple of gunshots. Or maybe cars
backfiring. A thump or two, maybe signifying that a body had hit the floor. Next
the sound of a couple of cars or trucks starting and leaving. It was several
minutes after Rosswell heard the front door slam that he voiced his observation
about trust, only to be shushed by his research assistant.

No sounds reached Rosswell’s ear after several more minutes
of listening. “They’re gone.”

“Who are they?”

“I didn’t recognize any voices.”

His pistol at the ready, Rosswell tried to open the
door. Locked. The foot with the broken toe was useless. The foot that had been
trapped in the spittoon hurt, but not as much as the other one. A few kicks
proved useless.

Ollie said, “Let me do that.”

“No. I can do this.” Rosswell kicked the door several more
times with the spittoon foot. He should’ve let Ollie do the kicking. It didn’t
seem the pain would ever subside. On the next kick, the feeble lock gave way. Rosswell
stepped into the hallway, which, after a thorough inspection, proved empty. “No
one in the hallway.” He eased open the front door, slipping out, leading with his
gun. No reaction. With the rising of the sun came an increasing wind. “The sun’s
coming up.”

Ollie hovered close behind Rosswell. “It does that
every morning.”

“Up to this point.”

Standing on the porch of Jill’s house, Rosswell swept
his gaze across the yard and the highway beyond. “I don’t see any bodies
littering the place.” Without thinking, he jumped to the ground. The pain
dropped him to his knees. With a resolute moan, he stood. Ollie merely watched,
shaking his head. Now both of Rosswell’s feet hurt worse than they had before.
He hobbled to the driveway. “I don’t see any cars, either. Where did everybody
go?”

The wind’s intensity grew. Leaves and bits of litter
swirled on the ground, then blew upward, circling, forming dust devils full of grit
and debris.

Rosswell coughed and sneezed. “I don’t trust Jill. It
seems mighty convenient that someone showed up at her front door after she
rescued both of us.”

“I’d say it was more of a capture than a rescue.” Ollie
shined his flashlight around in the yard, the dawn light not yet being much
help. “There are two, maybe three, different sets of tire tracks.” He knelt on
the ground, swiping his finger through a red puddle of something, then sniffing
it. “Someone’s vehicle is leaking transmission fluid.”

“They won’t be going far.”

Ollie stood and followed the dripping trail out to the
highway. “They went south, toward town. Or maybe to Nathaniel’s.”

Rosswell perched on the shoulder of the highway. “Let’s
take a brief intermission.”

“Let’s all go to the lobby to get ourselves a treat,”
Ollie said, mimicking the tune from the advertisement that movie theaters and
drive-ins played in the olden days.

“Why aren’t we dead?”

Ollie didn’t hesitate. “Because we are still alive.”

“And why is that?”

“Death cuts down your options.”

Rosswell ground his teeth. “Pay attention.
Why
aren’t we dead?”

“Is this catechism class? Or a philosophy roundtable?”

“Did luck befriend us? Think about it.” Rosswell
tapped the side of his head. “Nathaniel could’ve killed us a couple of times.
He may even be waiting in the woods over there with a high-powered rifle ready
to nail our empty heads when it gets light enough.”

“He kidnapped Tina and he’s wanting a huge ransom from
you.”

“I could pay a small ransom but not a huge one. You
know I don’t have that kind of money. You’ve seen my bank account.”

“Judge Carew, are you accusing me of hacking your bank
to look at your assets?”

“That’s an argument for another day. Now, let me
think.”

Rosswell discerned patches of the river through the
trees on the other side of the highway, the whitecaps on the water growing
larger and more frequent. Big white birds—some kind of gull—chased a barge,
gorging on the fish churned up in its wake. The angry squawking birds mirrored
his mood. Jill, patently unaware of the need to water her lawn, had let her
parched yard morph into a dry plot of decay. Even the tree leaves, rustling in a
barely perceptible breeze, displayed their stress by curling and turning
yellow. Millions of gallons of water flowed daily past a land dying of thirst.

“You smell that?” Rosswell smelled smoke. “Some damned
farmer got the bright idea to burn his fields today. People are so stupid
sometimes.”

Ollie licked a finger and stuck it in the air. “Wind’s
not too bad. Blowing from the south.”

“Why don’t they plow under the leftovers from last
year’s crop instead of burning a field? It would do more to help the soil.”

“Farmer Rosswell, let’s get the hell out of here and head
back to town.”

“Amen.”

When they topped a rise, Rosswell beheld the blaze,
its color a sickening white near the ground where the fire burned hottest. The
flames above the white area turned yellow, then, the higher the flames raged,
orange and red. Above the red, where combustion no longer occurred, the
unburned fuel produced smoke.

Rosswell sniffed the air. “The smoke’s getting thick.”

“Hope you can see to drive.”

“Hope I can find the truck.”

The smoke increased to the density of a heavy fog.
Rosswell and Ollie hoofed it north toward where Rosswell hoped the truck was
parked. Disorientation set in. He was lost in the smoke.

The fire beast increased in strength from every bit of
grass and brush it devoured, then grew ever hotter. The heated air drew in more
and more of the surrounding cooler air, creating a draft. The updraft ballooned,
sucking air in, mushrooming the fire. The sound reminded Rosswell of the growl
of a tornado at the height of its fury.

A deer, her tail raised in alarm, vaulted from a
ditch, surprising Rosswell and Ollie when they weaved by her. She squealed a
cry of distress, sounding a lot like Ollie. Three fawns also jumped up from the
ditch and hovered around the doe. The fawns bumped the doe, as if urging her
on, signaling her to move out of the path of the fire. The four deer locked a
stare on Ollie and Rosswell, then galloped toward the men.

“Man the battle stations!” Ollie swiveled his head
around in all directions, no doubt looking for the best way to escape. “We’re
being run over by deer!”

Rosswell drew his gun with the thought of firing into
the air to scare the deer away from them, or, if necessary, shooting them in
the head to stop their progress. But it was too late. The animals buffeted the
men, knocking them to the ground. All four of the deer ran onto the highway. They
stopped, befuddled by a smoke that rivaled the thickest fog ever seen in the
river bottoms.

Rosswell, on his belly in a prone shooter’s position,
aimed at the deer. “I’m killing them before they hurt somebody.”

“Yep. The smoke is screwing up their sense of smell.
They’re dangerous.”

Rosswell lost his chance at a clear shot when the
critters instantly bolted into a smoke bank. “Fracking deer.”

A wind gust cleared the smoke from the highway. A car
traveling south slammed on its brakes, skidding sideways in the highway, away
from the deer.

The doe snorted and she and the three fawns wheeled
around, galloping on again toward Rosswell and Ollie, still lying on the
ground.

Rosswell aimed at the deer again. He couldn’t shoot. The
deer were helpless animals caught in the smoke the same as he and Ollie. “The
smoke’s screwing up my aim. Head for lower ground. Momma’s back with her
kiddies and she doesn’t look happy.” Why should the deer pay with their lives
when they hadn’t started the fire?

Ollie scurried into the ditch, Rosswell behind him.
Both men hunkered down, folding their arms over their heads. The noise of the
fire ramped up to the sound of a train hulking down the tracks at full speed.
Rosswell began coughing as the smoke and flames sucked up the available oxygen
around them.

Ollie said, “Have the critters gone?”

Rosswell’s vision blurred as the hot mist closed in
around them. “Let’s get out of here right now. Head for the highway.” Through
the smoke, though, he spotted flames. Lots of fire. On every side.

A crash resounded from the highway. Rosswell knew what
had happened. Some fool decided to drive through the smoke even though
visibility was zero. That fool had hit the car that had earlier swerved to miss
the deer. Another crash resounded. Another fool.

There’s no end to fools.

“Get out of that car,” Rosswell heard one voice say. The
noise of the fire couldn’t match the screams of road rage. Another voice said, “Can’t
you drive, you idiot!” A third voice said, “There’s gasoline leaking and it’s
all over the road. Get the hell away.”

The fireball that erupted didn’t light up the sky
because the smoke was too thick. But it did manage to make a flash bright
enough for Rosswell to see the highway.

“Now, Ollie. Quick. Make for the truck.”

“Where’s the truck?”

“North of us.”

“Damn.” Ollie circled twice in the smoke. “I forgot my
Boy Scout compass.”

Rosswell shouted, “Can
you see
the highway?” He pressed both hands around his face until he
realized that shading his eyes from the flames surrounding them wouldn’t help
him spot the road.

Ollie gawked. “No.” Rosswell doubted if Ollie could see
any better than he could.

“If we stumble onto it and some other fool comes
tearing down the highway, we’re dead.”

Ollie grabbed his chest and coughed. “We’re dead if we
stay here.”

Smoke wafted up Rosswell’s nose—his love of the
nostalgic scent of burning leaves in the fall had fluttered away—and he gauged
the strength of the fire around them. “I estimate we have five minutes before we’re
crispy critters.” He could hardly breathe. When a gust of hot air rushed around
them, fanning the flames, singeing his hair and evaporating the sweat from his
brow, he said, “Maybe less. Let’s run that way.”

Rosswell was certain that Ollie couldn’t see where his
finger pointed, but the faithful research assistant stayed within a foot of him
as they ran for what Rosswell hoped was the highway.

Ollie could get killed if I’m wrong. Or, worse, I
could get hurt.

Through the smoke ahead of them, Rosswell spied cars
burning. Burning cars in front of them meant they were headed for the highway.

I don’t see any bodies. Maybe the drivers and
passengers made it to safety before the explosion. Or the explosion ripped
everyone to shreds.

Ollie tripped over a thick poison ivy vine and slammed
into Rosswell,
knocking them both to
the ground.

Ollie rolled to his back. “I don’t think I can make
it.”

“Don’t crap out on me now or I’ll kill your ass.” Rosswell
tried breathing shallow breaths. If he continued sucking in smoke, he estimated
that soon he’d be at the pack-a-day level with a twenty-year head start.

Through the thickening smoke, Rosswell spotted a round
opening slightly downhill from him. “Ollie,” he screamed. Ollie’s eyes lacked
depth, shiny as old glass in a deserted house. Ollie didn’t respond, even after
Rosswell yelled at him again. Rosswell smacked Ollie across the face. When
Ollie’s eyes seemed to focus, Rosswell said, “Follow me.”

“That’s what I was doing before and look where it got
me.” Ollie gasped and choked between every word.

Rosswell slipped his arms under Ollie. “Move, damn it.
I’m trying to turn you over.” Ollie wriggled enough, allowing Rosswell to flip
him onto his stomach. “Start crawling. It’s only a couple of feet.” Rosswell slithered
like a snake on an oily slide down the embankment into a culvert running under
the highway. On his way down, the rocks along the embankment cut into his face
and arms. Scuttling around to where he could see out the end of the pipe where
he’d entered, he couldn’t find Ollie. Scrambling out of the culvert, then
digging his shoes in the dry ground for purchase, he gained the top of the embankment,
grabbed the neck of Ollie’s shirt and dragged him down to what he hoped was
safety.

Rosswell cupped his hands and splashed water from the
ditch onto Ollie’s face. “Where’s this coming from?” Ollie dipped his hand into
the trickle of water running through the pipe. “We’re having a drought.”

“From a spring? We’ll do a geological survey if we
survive.” Rosswell ripped off his shirt, dunked it in the water, and covered
his face. “Protect yourself.”

When Ollie didn’t follow suit, Rosswell unbuttoned
Ollie’s shirt, wet it, and covered his research assistant’s face. “That will
save you.”

“I’m being waterboarded!” Ollie choked, then coughed. “This
water stinks.” Ollie’s words, dampened by the cloth over his head, sounded to
Rosswell like a badly tuned radio broadcasting incomprehensible news. “Torture
is a felony in this state. You’re using tainted water!”

“Since when did you get so picky?” Rosswell’s voice
was also muffled when he spoke. “I know a fire marshal who will be interested
in our blackened corpses. In a couple of minutes, we’re going to get fried by
hot air.”

“No.” Ollie gagged. “We’ll be broiled, not fried. When
you’re cooked by direct exposure to intense heat, that’s broiling.” Ollie tried
and failed to sit up.

Rosswell thought he should shoot Ollie, but he didn’t
want to give his research assistant the pleasure of dying before he did.

Rosswell said, “This water is coming from a sewage
lagoon.” He lied, hoping to shock some sense into Ollie.

Ollie gagged again. “I’m ready to die now.”

“The oxygen is being sucked into the firestorm.”
Rosswell wheezed. If his lungs survived this onslaught, he promised himself he’d
never fear anything again. Except the loss of Tina. “We’ll suffocate before we
fry. Or broil. Or baste.”

Without a word or a sound, Ollie slumped to the bottom
of the pipe.

Rosswell said, “Goodbye, Ollie. This is it, my friend.”

Ollie didn’t stir. Rosswell knew his research
assistant was dead and it was his fault.

“At least you went before me. I’m going to suffer a
lot, but you’re now at peace.” Rosswell placed his right hand on Ollie’s heart.
“Peaceful trip.”

Rosswell heard a sound cut the air. It sounded like a building
collapsing. Trees falling? Another car exploding? He was beyond caring.

“Ollie.” Still no response. “Ollie, are you dead?”

“Yes.”

“All right, you stay here. I’ll fetch the coroner to
make it official.”

Ollie struggled to a bent over position, vomited, and
waddled from the pipe. Rosswell followed. Ollie managed to put his shirt back
on, but it was inside out.

“There’s a break in the fire.” Rosswell pointed to a
place where the fire didn’t look quite so dangerous. “Through there. Run for
the highway.”

Behind them, the farm truck—or what was formerly the
farm truck—cooled in the morning sun, its frame bent into the shape of a
humpbacked whale.

“Judge, you’re mighty hard on vehicles.”

“Walk north, away from the fire.”

“Yeah. Great idea.”

“Ollie, stick your thumb out. We’re hitchhiking back
to town.”

“Then we’re going the wrong way. Sainte Gen is south
and we’re going north.”

“We’ll take the long way around. I’m not going back
into the flames.”

“Let’s hope Nathaniel doesn’t stop to pick us up.”