Clean Burn (14 page)

I laughed. “Old war injury.”

We moved on. She’d slowed her pace imperceptibly. I chose to believe it was to better assess the terrain for clues. “How’d it happen?” she asked.

I briefly considered fabricating a heroic story where I saved the life of a hostage nun. I went with the ordinary truth. “Rookie partner’s backup gun fell out while he was getting out of the patrol car. After I’d told him to stay put.”

She glanced back at me over her shoulder. “I thought Ken was your partner.”

“He’d left the department by then.” And I’d be walking on two good legs right now if Ken and I had still been a team. As always, it didn’t bear thinking about.

She stopped, bending to more closely examine something wedged between the rocks. She pulled a small orange flag from her backpack and marked the spot. “A candy wrapper. Looks old, but you never know.”

She took a photo with her digital, then we moved on. “What are the odds we’ll actually find this kid?” I asked her.

“His body will turn up eventually,” she said matter-of-factly. “Best case scenario, he washes ashore and foot search finds him or he’s wedged under a rock and swift-water locates him. Sometimes it isn’t until the end of summer when the water level gets low enough and a hiker gets an unpleasant surprise.”

We continued in silence, the shooting pain in my leg retreating to a sullen ache. My powers of observation had always been sharp, but Charlotte’s were preternatural. She’d spy out a speck of something from a distance of several feet that I likely would have missed. We each marked and photographed a number of areas of interest, but she had me beat two to one.

As we passed the command post, I heard a dog barking; apparently a canine team had arrived. The antennas of a couple of news vans were visible through the brush and trees on the bank and I wondered if the networks were interrupting the afternoon’s soaps with the breaking story.

About a quarter-mile downstream from the place last seen, the river turned especially ugly. The bank on the opposite side rose high and sheer, granite thrusting from the water like a massive wall. Boulders jutted from the river bottom, an impossible obstacle course for a raft, let alone an eight year-old boy.

The roar of water canceled any traffic noise from the highway above us, the sound digging into my ears. “Does anyone live out here?”

“It’s all Bureau of Land Management on that side of the river,” Charlotte said. “There used to be some old cabins on leased land, but most of those leases have run out by now. BLM hasn’t been renewing them.”

Up ahead, an oak had ripped its roots from the near bank and fallen in the river. Its base a good three feet in diameter, what was left of the branches reached ten feet into the river.

Charlotte climbed partway up the bank to see if there was a way around. “Be easier to just go over.” Charlotte picked her way through the roots to the gnarled trunk. She gave me a hand up, then steadied me as I slid down the other side.

Her hand on a stout branch, Charlotte studied the water where it foamed and crashed through the branches. “A good chance he’s down there tangled in the tree. I’ll have to contact the swift-water team.”

As she made the radio call, I took up her post by the tree. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the eight year-old’s terror as he struggled to surface, trapped under water. If there was a God, Brandon would have already drowned by then. Better that than be bashed on the boulders just downstream.

As I scanned the length of the tree, my gaze fell on the raw edges of what was left of a broken branch. It looked as if it had struck a rock as the tree fell, then snapped off in the rush of water. It was probably half-way to Jenkins Lake by now where Greenville River spilled the last of its wrath.

Charlotte moved up beside me and gave the water another look. “They’ll send the team up this way next.”

We resumed our search, just as attentive for clues, but despair burned a hole in my stomach. Tommy always seemed to hover in my mind’s eye by the river, recrimination clear in his sad-eyed face. Forgetting I wasn’t alone, I muttered an imprecation under my breath of what Tommy could do with his guilt trip. Charlotte’s quick look back told me she’d heard. No doubt she was wondering if I’d forgotten to take my medication.

As Tommy’s imagined face dissolved in the river’s mist, a glint of something shiny caught my eye. I made my careful way over, then crouched to take a better look. A pair of little boy glasses, one of the temple pieces missing, lay half-buried in mud.

“Shit.” I backed away, struggling to wipe the memory of that smiling eight year-old face I’d glimpsed in the school photo. As brief a look as I’d given the photo, I remembered the brown hair, brown eyes and Harry Potter glasses.

“What?” Charlotte asked.

I pointed wordlessly at the mud. Charlotte noted the spot with her GPS, then turned away and pressed the button on her radio. “Sergeant Russell, we have an item of interest here.”

She took a photo, then stabbed an orange flag into the mud next to the glasses. She had her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes looked suspiciously wet. She wouldn’t look at me.

We resumed our slow progress back to the PLS, passed one of the dogs on our way. The black shepherd’s handler, a beefy mid-forties guy with a spare tire around his middle, kept up with the enthusiastic canine with surprising agility. The dog had her nose riveted to the ground, and swept from side to side as she followed the scent.

I dragged my sorry self up the bank to the turnout, muttering my favorite four-letter words under my breath with each excruciating cramp of my leg. Still unsettled by the discovery of Brandon’s glasses, I didn’t see Ken until I’d reached the top. I nearly fell over backwards when he stepped out from between the willows.

I pushed past him. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“I’ve got to get back into town. I can take you to your car now or you can stay and catch a ride with someone else later.”

Considering the state of my leg, I wasn’t really fit to continue searching. Still, I hated being a wimp.

Charlotte solved my problem for me. “We’re pulling back some of the foot search team to give the dogs a chance to work. If you have to go, now would be a good time.”

I nearly wept as I climbed into the Explorer and relaxed my leg. It clamored at me as I tried to knead out the knots. I told Ken about Brandon’s glasses, about swift-water’s plan to investigate under the fallen tree.

We’d nearly reached the exit for Greenville when Ken’s radio spat out a call. “Residential structure fire at 9003 Old Ranch Road,” the anonymous dispatcher said, followed by a series of tones. “Engines 21, 25, 49, Battalion 7604, Medic 24 and 28 respond. One victim with burns. Another possible victim inside the structure.”

“Shit.” Ken hit lights and sirens. He gunned the engine, roaring past the Greenville exit.

“Do you know the place?” I asked.

“That’s the Double J Cattle operation. If it’s Abe or Mary trapped in that shed...” His hands tightened on the wheel as he turned off the highway. “They’re both in their seventies and Abe has a heart problem.”

The Explorer bumped along a rugged gravel road through pasture dotted with cattle. The rolling hills were still lush green, the oaks dotting the landscape giving the place a picture-postcard look. Except for the column of smoke off in the distance.

“You think this is another arson fire?” I asked.

“That remains to be seen,” he said grimly.

“But you think it is.”

He didn’t answer as an ambulance closed on us from behind. Ken veered off the narrow track as close as he could to the barbed wire lining the road to give the EMT clearance. Once the paramedic had passed us, Ken pulled back onto the track, spitting gravel. We banged into a pothole, and my fillings jiggled in my molars.

One last rise and we drew in sight of the old homestead. The house sprawled on top of the next hill, an authentic ranch style with a front porch that ran its full length. Late afternoon sunshine spilled over an ancient barn, a sprinkling of newer sheds and outbuildings.

Smoke belched from the shed nearest the barn, oily and silky black, a thundercloud demon towering over the structure. Fingers of flame decorated the demon’s waist, red gold baubles flung skyward. The hell-born creature expelled embers in all directions, and they floated gracefully from the sky, their brief, searing heat dissipating as they settled on the dirt and green grass surrounding the shed.

It was glorious. It was beautiful. If not for the man trapped inside, the hysterical screams of the seventy-something woman Alex struggled to restrain, I might have begged the firefighters to leave the thing to burn.

Ken parked the Explorer beside Alex’s Crown Vic. The three fire engines and the battalion chief’s truck were already on scene. Firefighters worked to knock down the fire, inundating the structure with a steady stream of water from 2½-inch hand lines. A firefighter in full rig wielded his ax on whatever blocked the doorway.

A second ambulance pulled in, stopping beside the first. An EMT was working on an Hispanic man at his rig. From the bandages on the Hispanic man’s hands, I guessed he’d burned himself, maybe trying to rescue whoever was still inside.

The firefighter disappeared into the smoke and flames. The woman stopped her screaming, maybe letting hope take hold, maybe praying. She extended her hands toward the shed, as if to pull her husband from inside.

It couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds, but it seemed forever before the firefighter emerged with Abe over his shoulder. I could see charring across Abe’s back, down his left arm. When the firefighter put enough distance between himself and the fire, Alex let the wife go, and she ran screaming toward her husband.

The fire company continued to dump water on the nearly extinguished flames. Alex leaned against his patrol car, shoulders hunched. He’d lost his ready smile. “Any luck with the kid?”

“Found his glasses,” I told him.

He nodded as the ramifications sank in. “I knew his mom in high school. Was a couple of years ahead of me.”

“You got here fast,” I said.

“In the area,” Alex said. “On my way to another call.”

“How did Abe end up in the feed shed?”

Alex’s expression grew grimmer. “He thought one of the ranch hands was inside. Abe saw the smoke and went after him.”

I glanced over at the Hispanic man. He stood staring at the other ambulance as the EMTs worked on Abe.

“Apparently he was never in the feed shed at all,” Alex said. “His name’s Esteban Rodriguez if you want to talk to him.”

“Who called 911?” Ken asked.

“Abe’s wife, Mary.” Alex pointed a thumb back at his cruiser. “Should I head over to that burglary call?”

“Go,” Ken told him. “I’ll handle this.”

With the fire reduced to smoldering charcoal, the battalion chief came around the engine to meet us. His name tag identified him as Peterson. “Rodriguez tried to pull Abe out, burned up his hands pretty good. The paramedic patched him up, but he refused further treatment.”

The young Hispanic man paced beside the ambulances, soot covering his T-shirt and jeans.

“How’s Abe?” Ken asked.

“Second-degree burns, I’m guessing,” Peterson said. “Likely some third-degree as well. Don’t know how much smoke his lungs took. All in all, not good for a seventy-six year-old man.”

“Damn it,” Ken muttered, glaring at the shed. “Do you know what time Abe spotted the fire?”

“Based on what we’ve been able to piece together, around three o’clock.”

Ken’s gaze swung toward Peterson. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. We haven’t even begun the investigation. Mary’s in hysterics, and our only other witness
no habla inglés
.”

Esteban watched as the EMTs pushed Abe’s stretcher into the back of the ambulance then shut the doors. Esteban couldn’t have been much older than twenty, young and scared and likely far from home.

Ken still had his teeth sunk in the fire’s timeline. “It doesn’t fit. It’s too late in the day.”

We stepped out of the way as the ambulance with Abe inside pulled out. Esteban looked ready to follow it all the way to Greenville Memorial.

“But no flashover this time, thank God,” Peterson said, “or Abe would have been charcoal.”

“What about the ignition source?” Ken asked.

“If suppression didn’t wash it away, we might be able to see if it was another candle,” Peterson told him. “From the way it burned, it could have been kerosene as an accelerant.”

“Maybe. Could have.” Ken shook his head in frustration. “Just get your samples to my DOJ contact ASAP.”

I followed Esteban’s agitated path. “He doesn’t speak any English?”

“
Muy poquito
,” Peterson said. “And I speak even less Spanish.”

“A couple of our deputies are fluent.” Ken handed me his notebook and a pen. “See what you can find out in the meantime.”

Two years of high-school Spanish hadn’t made me an expert, but my time with SFPD had given me ample opportunity to practice. I was beyond rusty now, more capable of ordering
pollo molé
and
cerveza
than conducting a cogent conversation.

I wandered over to the young man, in my mind cobbling together a few Spanish phrases from my limited lexicon. I motioned toward the burned out shed. “
¿Qué pasó?
”

He rattled out a torrent of Spanish words, overflowing my capacity to understand. I waved my hand to stop him. “
Mas despacio, por favor. No entiendo.
”

He took a breath, then recited his story more slowly. I still didn’t catch every word, but with some judicious interruptions and requests for clarifications, I managed to patch together a story, scribbling it as fast as I could in Ken’s notebook.

“
¿Todo lo demás?
” Anything else? I asked when Esteban had finished.

He thought a moment, swiping sweaty soot from his forehead with the back of his hand. “
Anoche. Oí los perros ladrando.
” I heard the dogs barking.

“
¿Cuándo?
” I asked. When?

“
A las cinco o cinco y media
,” he said. “
Momentos antes de amanecer
.”