The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (11 page)

Patience, Jebbedia
h . . .
Out of the blackness and roar and smoke he heard his father’s voice. The sober dad on an early winter hunt. Before he’d started drinking heavily again.

. . .
Patient as that bear up on the ridge, see it? Watching us, scenting us with its open mouth? There, now it’s gone. That’s the dangerous bear, Jebbediah. He’s the one who is going to come quiet from behind. He’s going to track us for days, stalk us, not charge up fron
t . . .
be that bear, Jeb. That’s how you get your kil
l
. . .

Slowly Jeb crept out from under the hemlock. Keeping in shadow, he sifted through the darkness toward a stand of cottonwoods at the far end of the property. But his bike was across the clearing, on the other side of the vehicles and the blazing cabin. He stayed hidden, waiting for his chance.

Fire swelled to a loud roar, licking up surrounding trees. He could feel heat on his face. Flaming debris shot higher and was driven farther by the fierce dry winds into new trees, where boughs exploded into fresh flames, the blaze crackling into the forest with mocking, greedy glee. Those masked men had given life to a hot monster that was feeding off wind and a season of drought. And it was eating hungrily up the forested flanks of the mountain toward the Indian reserve on the other side.

A cold, sick sensation dropped through Jeb’s stomach. They had to know the forest was a simmering tinderbox. Signs warning of the extreme fire hazard were posted everywhere through town. They could see which way the wind was blowing—away from Snowy Creek. Toward Indian land.

Someone yelled down by the water. “Sleeping bag—he’s here!”

They’d found his gear, knew he was here. They were actively looking for him now, a new electricity driving their movements. Pressure built in Jeb’s chest. He had to get to his bike. Sound the alarm before the fire got over that hill and took a small, scattered rural community by surprise.

He made a dash for it, running in a low crouch around the back of the burning house. Heat blasted his face. He was almost there. But as he neared his bike, an explosion ripped through the house behind him. It drew the men’s attention, and the new burst of flames illuminated Jeb with hot orange light. He heard voices yelling. “Over there!”

They raced toward him.

He straddled his bike. No time for the helmet. He fired the ignition.

But before he could move, the tire iron slammed down hard across the backs of his shoulders. Wind punched out of him, the impact lurched him off his bike, which skidded out beneath him and smashed into trees.

Another blow came down for his head. But Jeb rolled to the side as the tire iron thudded into the ground, the point just catching and splitting skin open across his temple. Blood leaked into his eyes, his ear. Jeb sprang into a warrior crouch and reached for a log. No words were spoken as they came for him again. He swung the log up, cracking one of the men across the cheekbone. The man grunted in pain. But the move cost Jeb, and he took a punch in the gut from another assailant. As he stumbled backward, a blow was landed to his head. His vision went red, then black, then spiraled with pinpricks of light. He staggered sideways, taking another violent blow to the stomach.

Winded, he slumped to the ground. He lay there, unable to move, to breathe, the world around him swimming into a slow, hot, syrupy molasses tinged with the acrid scent of fire. One of the men kicked him in the ribs. Steel-toed boot. Pain sliced through his body. Another moved in for a kick. Jeb rolled onto his side, curled into a ball. Through his own blood he saw the tire iron rising high. The eyes of the man holding it glinted in the slit of his mask.

But before his assailant could bring it down for a kill stroke, another
whump
of hot air, rushing heat, and flying shrapnel knocked them all sideways. Someone screamed. There was more yelling. Jeb heard words, disjointed, swimming in his head.

“Old propane tan
k . . .
behind those tree
s . . .
exploded. Fire reaching truck
s . . .
whole place is going to blo
w . . .
”

Jeb rolled onto his stomach and tried to drag himself toward his crashed bike, inch by inch. Heat was all around him. Blood coppery in his mouth. His world a nauseating, spinning kaleidoscope of fire and smoke. Couldn’t make i
t . . .

He rolled sideways, tumbling down into a creek bed of soggy mud, wet leaves.

He heard engines. Vehicles leaving. The roar of fire grew loud.

And his world went black.

I wake to the sound of sirens and lie there listening as the wails thread up the valley, growing louder and louder. They’re coming my way.

In a small town like this, the sound of sirens is different from a big city. It’s personal. Close. The chance you know the person hurt, in need of help, is high, and you always wonder if it might be someone you love. Especially if your loved ones are out on that treacherous highway in winter. But Quinn is safely tucked in her bed.

My bedside clock glows green: 2:02 a.m.

It’s around this time the village bars disgorge their patrons. Likely a drunk driving accident. I reach over to my bedside table, grope for my scanner, turn it on. I’ve gotten into the habit of keeping a scanner close by ever since I took over the newspaper.

Voices crackle over the radio waves. “Fire dispatc
h . . .
Ladder Thirty-Three respondin
g . . .
Code Thre
e . . .
Ladder Forty-Fiv
e . . .
”

I sit bolt upright, adrenaline slamming through me.

Fire.

It’s happened. The worst of fears, given the dryness in this valley. It could turn into an interface blaze where wildfire meets urban development. The whole ski resort could blow. Quickly I get up, grab my robe, go to the window. Over the lake I see nothing but clear night sky, the jagged line of dark peaks and the ghostly glow of the glaciers. From the direction of the flag down by the dock, the wind is westerly. Brisk.

Another voice crackles over the scanner. “Westside Road. Banks of Wolf River. Lot R-one-one-fou
r . . .
the old river lodg
e . . .
”

I freeze as I register the address.

Jeb.

Spinning round, I grab my cell phone and the scanner, and run quickly to the other side of the house, taking the stairs up to the attic two at a time. Out of the attic window facing west, the sky over the mountains glows a soft, dull orange. Horror fills me. The wail of sirens turns piercing as fire engines pass on the highway above my house, then began to twist along the valley to the north. The same direction Jeb went.

Quickly I dial the number Jeb gave me. I pace as it rings. It goes to voice mail. I try again. Same.

I dial my reporter on call.

“Blake, it’s Rachel.” I speak fast. “Big fire up the Wolf River Valley. Can you get there with a camera, or call Hallie?” I hang up before he can even answer. My hands are shaking now, sweat beading as I punch in the phone number for Brandy, my sitter.

After Trey left I developed a network of sitters I can call on, even at crazy hours, because of my search-and-rescue volunteer work and the after-hours business that comes with running a newspaper. The SAR work eventually gave way—I couldn’t keep it all up. But there are still newspaper production days, the schmoozing. Brandy answers on the second ring.

“Brandy, I’ve got a callout,” I lie. I haven’t been paged yet. But Levi, Clint, Zink, and Adam, Luke’s brother, are all affiliated with Rescue One, and Jeb has planted just enough doubt in my heart for me not to trust anyone right now. The timing of this fire, the location, is ominous. I need to get there before the others. “Can you get here stat?”

“Is it fire?”

“Yes.”

I hear a muffled sound, a whisper. I close my eyes. Shit, Brandy is with someone.

“Look, I’m sorry—”

“I’ll be there in five,” she says.

I rush downstairs and fling open my closet door. As a certified SAR volunteer for Rescue One, I always have a full bag of gear ready. Winter, summer, and anything in between. This town has many volunteers like me, all with very full lives, sacrificing their time, sometimes at considerable financial cost, with no other reward than to rescue others. A unique team that helps knit together the fabric of this mountain community.

A team managed by Trey.

A team I’ve been feeling increasingly alienated from.

As I change, I hear more sirens and the staccato chop of a helicopter.

“Quinn!” I knock on her door, then open it. “Quinn, honey, wake up, listen to me. I’ve got a callout. Fire on the west side. Brandy is on her way over. Don’t leave the house, okay? Stick with Brandy. If anything happens, if the wind switches, you listen to her. Do as she says. Okay, honey?”

“Fire?” She sits bolt upright, her eyes instantly wide and full of terror.

It hits me like a brick between the eyes. Her mother and father died in a fire. Her house went up in flames. I crouch down, move a fall of curls from my niece’s brow. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s out in the wilds. Far away.”

Quinn’s hand clutches at my arm. “Aunt Rache
l . . .
you can’t get hurt. You can’t go. You can’t.”

I am all Quinn has left.

Conflict torques through me. I temper my voice, keeping it calm, comforting. “It’s okay, Quinnie. I promise I won’t let anything happen. I’m just going to see if I can help. I’m not going anywhere near the flames, all right?”

She just stares at me, her hand tight on my arm. The sound of the chopper grows loud overhead, rattling the windows as it moves toward the wildfire.

“I’ll wait until Brandy gets here, okay?” I pat the comforter, inviting Trixie to jump up on the bed. Quinn’s shoulders relax and she smiles at the sight of Trixie. This is a treat.

“Trixie will stay with you, keep you comfy.”

Quinn lies back on her pillow and I pace in her room, urgency mounting in me. As soon as I hear Brandy’s truck coming down the driveway, I say a quick good-bye to Quinn and rush down the stairs. I run for my truck as Brandy is climbing out of hers.

“I’ll stay until you get back, no worries!” she calls after me.

“Keep the radio on,” I yell at her, opening my door, tossing my gear in. “Just in case the wind switches!”

By the time my Rescue One pager beeps on my belt, I’m already speeding north on the highway. I’m supposed to call in if I can attend. I don’t respond. I’m afraid to trust anyone. I expected the town to crucify Jeb. But this? Jesus. Could it be possible? Could someone have set fire to his property knowing the drought conditions—someone on the Rescue One team, even? The fact Jeb is not answering his cell has my heart thumping.

I think of Adam’s words.

Hell knows what might happen if he sets foot back in this town. I’m not sure I could control i
t . . .

My heart feels sick as I realize just how deep into the fabric of this town, into my own life, the events of that night still cut.

Wind scatters twigs and debris across the highway. My fists tighten on the wheel as I negotiate a sharp bend, tires squealing. I reach for the truck radio, tune it to the local news station, listening for the weather report. If the wind switches, we risk a serious interface fire. The ski resort would be doomed. Millions in second homes, condos, investments, the mountain infrastructure could go up in flames. Tourists and residents would need to be evacuated. There’s only one road in and out of Snowy Creek. It’s a logistical nightmare.

I smell smoke as I wheel onto the unpaved logging road into the Wolf River Valley, my truck jouncing over ruts. About five miles in, the forest is dense on either side of the road, the trees high. Smoke smells strong and the sky is bright orange. The west side of the mountain is already fully engulfed. Up ahead I can see the pulsing lights of fire trucks, emergency vehicles. Orange cones line the dirt road. A police barricade.

An officer steps into my headlights, holding up his hand. I draw to a stop and lower my window. The cop is young, new—I don’t know him.

“Rescue One,” I say, showing him my provincial emergency membership card. “The rest of the SAR crew is on the way to set up a command base.”

He checks my card, goes round to the front of my vehicle, checks my plate.

“Fire line is about one klick up ahead,” he says, handing my card back. “Started at that old river rafting lodge. Burned clear through there already.”

Jeb’s place.

Sweat breaks out over my body as I take my truck farther down the potholed logging road and enter the burned area. Trees stand black and smoking. I don’t go as far as the flashing lights of the fire trucks and ambulances parked farther up the logging road; I pull off at the top of Jeb’s driveway and get out of my truck. No one is here—they have no reason to be. The fire has already blown through here, and this place has been deserted for years. The fire crews are all up at the fire line, fighting the active blaze.

Clicking on my headlamp, I walk onto what was once the Cullens’ river rafting camp and am stunned. It’s a blackened, scarred mess of smoldering embers and ash. The aftermath of a war. It definitely looks as though the fire started here, given the wind direction. It must have eaten quickly through this place. Wind whips hair across my face, and I hold it back as I cut through the clearing, crunching over burned grass, thankful for my protective boots. The scent burns the back of my throat. The area still feels hot. I tie a bandana over my nose and mouth, then move toward the smoldering house where Jeb and his mother once lived. Fear at what I might find coils low in my gut.