Nest in the Ashes (3 page)

Within minutes, the fire
had crowned in the ponderosa. Eric searched the crowd for Nora Frank, skimming the worried faces of the firefighters through his binoculars. He didn’t spot her.

“Linenger?” Pacey Trent’s voice crackled through the radio. Up to this point, the Intermountain Regional FMO had been screaming for Nora.

Eric unhooked the handheld from his belt. “Ja?”

“Have you seen your boss?”

“No.” Eric hated the sinking sensation gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Nora should have picked up the summons. Radio range in Colorado was limited only by miles or mountains. Neither reason was applicable, based on where she should be.

“Where the f—” Static deleted the expletive, and when Trent’s voice returned, he was saying, “—evacuate the Visitor Center.”

The Intermountain Regional FMO wheezed, then coughed. He must be eating smoke, Eric thought.

“Then get on the horn,” Trent continued, “and get people up there to evacuate that housing development on the east end of Beaver Meadows, the Wildland Center, and the Youth Mountain.”

“How much time do we have?”

Static hissed across the band. The radio sputtered and popped. Finally Trent answered. “I thought we’d backed her down, but she’s on a run. At this rate, we’ll have fire at the Visitor Center in under an hour.”

“I’m on it, sir.” Eric didn’t wait for a response. He switched frequencies and radioed dispatch. “We need to evacuate all locations along Highway 66.”

Within minutes, the dispatcher on duty radioed back to let him know she’d talked to Dorothy MacBean at the Wildland Center and Vic Garcia, the Elk Park County sheriff. “Vic’s already up at the Youth Mountain Camp,” she said. “But FYI, all I get at the housing development is Gene Paxton’s voice mail.”

Five minutes later, Eric put one wheel in the ditch and jounced his truck around Bernie Crandall’s empty squad car. It was pulled crosswise in the road, preventing travel up U.S. 36—a precaution Nora had instituted when the fire first bolted on them. Fairly effective, when manned. So where the heck was Bernie?

Eric wheeled into the parking lot at the Visitor Center keeping one eye out for Elk Park’s police chief and one eye on the milling throng. The parking lot was jammed full of cars and people.

The press had pitched camp at the western-most end, setting up tripods with cameras near the rear of their trucks. Shutters clicked as occasional spurts of fire erupted above the tree line. Video cameras whirred. News anchors jabbered into microphones and gestured wildly toward the park and the mushrooming cloud.

Eric downshifted. Inching his way through the vehicles and people, he wondered if Linda Verbiscar was among the crowd.

Not likely. Over an hour ago, she and her cameraman had headed around to where the crews were building the fire line. Most likely, the two KEPC-TV employees had come down past the Visitor Center and headed up Highway 66—the next route on the evacuation trail.

Anyway, Eric didn’t have time to worry about them now. If they reached the fire line, Trent would take care of them.

A tourist stood in the road, snapping pictures with a disposable camera. Eric swerved to avoid hitting him, tromping on the brakes and swinging his truck into a “No Parking” zone near the building. Maybe Bernie would show up to give him a ticket, and Eric could put him to work clearing the parking lot.

The Visitor Center overlooked the east end of Beaver Meadows. Built of stone and mortar, it was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and housed Park Service offices, a theater, a bookstore, public bathrooms, and a mini-museum.

Eric skirted the edge of the self-guided nature trail and banged through the wooden doors. Bernie Crandall leaned against a glass-covered counter, flirting with the seasonal park ranger on duty.

Neither one glanced up. The ranger giggled at something Bernie said and pointed to a spot on one of the three-dimensional topography maps—designed more to impress the millions of visitors that passed through Rocky Mountain National Park each year than for the actual convenience of the park rangers. Bernie feigned interest.

“Hey, what’s with the abandoned police car on the road out there?” Eric asked, announcing his presence.

A tourist at the next counter glanced up. Eric ignored him, and the tourist ambled away.

“Yo, Linenger,” Bernie said, straightening up and offering his hand. “I had to use the facilities and got distracted by this lovely Smokey Bearess.” He winked at the girl, and she giggled again. “I was just heading out.”

“Great,” Eric returned the shake. “Because we need to clear the building and the parking lot, now.”

The police chief sobered. “What’s up?”

“The fire jumped the line to the southeast, and it’s spreading. It’s in the trees on Eagle Cliff.”

Bernie let out a low whistle. “How much time did they give us?”

“Give or take? About twenty minutes.”

A gust of wind rattled the Visitor Center’s windows. Bernie donned his “I’m in charge” manner and broke for the door. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he ordered. “You run a sweep in here, and I’ll clear the parking lot.”

The door banged shut behind him, and Eric turned to the young ranger. She looked fresh out of acne and plenty scared.

“Do you have any idea how many people are in the building?” he asked.

The girl shook her head, swishing her ponytail from side to side. “A couple of rangers, and a few tourists, maybe. But…” Embarrassed, she glanced away. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He strained to read her name tag. “Susie?”

She nodded.

“Great, Susie. Let’s start with the other rangers?”

“Someone’s always in the bookstore. And I imagine there’s still somebody in the office. Everyone else went to check on the fire.”

That made sense to Eric. It’s where he would have been.

“No problem. But what we need to do is get everyone out of the building. Everyone. No one should be left behind. Got that?”

“Yeah.” She sounded hesitant.

“As soon as the building’s clear, we’ll lock it up tight.”

Red splotches bloomed on the girl’s face. She nodded, blinking rapidly.

Don’t lose it on me now, ranger
.

“Check the upstairs,” he ordered. “Search the back offices, the ladies’room, the bookstore—anywhere someone might be. I’ll cover the downstairs and meet you back here in five minutes.”

He started to step away, but Susie’s arm darted out, and she grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Are we in any danger?”

Did he hear a tremble in her voice?

“I don’t think so,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. In truth, the fire was too close for comfort. “With any luck, it’ll sweep south.” He glanced out the window toward Beaver Meadows but couldn’t see the fire through the trees.

Susie relaxed her grip.

“You okay?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

“Then let’s get started.”

Susie sprinted toward the offices, and Eric headed downstairs. He rattled the doors of the walk-out basement, then moved to the auditorium where voices spilled from behind the curtain. Yanking it open, he found a small group of people engrossed in watching the endless tape of rangers answering questions about the park. Eric cut the power to the projector. The image flickered to black.

“Sorry folks. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

He fielded a volley of questions, then marshaled them to the stairs. Making a pit stop to clear out the men’s room, he followed them up to the main floor and found Susie waiting for him.

“Do we have everyone?”

She nodded, then handed him the keys. By the time he finished locking the doors, Bernie had cleared the parking lot.

Without the chatter of people, the fire’s growl was audible in the distance. Smoke eddied through the treetops, casting a pall on the landscape. Wind roared in the branches, and wildlife skittered in all directions. Not a single bird sang. Only the shrill call of a raven echoed across the land.

Eric, Bernie, and Susie huddled on the sidewalk. Eric shouted to be heard above the wind. “I sent the check-point ranger to seal off traffic at Marys Lake Road. We need to get him some help.”

Bernie nodded.

“We need to clear that road to Highway 7, plus clear Highway 66 and Bear Lake Road.”

Bernie flashed a thumbs-up. “I’ve already got dispatch rounding up all the reserve officers.”

“Great.” Eric turned to Susie. “I want you to take your truck down to the west end of town. Set up a roadblock. Don’t let anyone except fire or emergency personnel pass,” he ordered. “Understand?”

She didn’t respond.

Small fires glowed through the gaps in the trees, and ash sprinkled around them like snow. Eric gripped the girl’s shoulders, snapping her out of her daze. “Repeat what I said,” he demanded.

“Only fire and emergency personnel.” Her voice sounded flat.

“Good. Now go.” As she scampered away, he turned to Bernie. “We need to post an officer with her.”

“Sure thing.” Bernie rubbed his chin as though testing his shave.

Eric shook his head in disgust. “She’s a kid, Bernie.”

“She’s gotta be eighteen.”

“And you’re what? My age?”

Bernie had to be at least thirty-five, thought Eric. Nearly old enough to be the girl’s father. What the hell was Bernie thinking?

“Youth has its advantages.”

“You’re a sick man,” Eric said. “But, hey, since you like kids so much, I’m sure Vic needs a hand evacuating the Youth Mountain Camp. I don’t know how many adults they have up there, but it can’t be enough.”

The Youth Mountain Camp housed up to 150 troubled teenagers. This time of year it would be chock full. No picnic for the counselors, even on a good day.

“Gotcha,” Bernie said. “Let me get my men situated and I’ll catch up to you there.” He lit out for his squad car, then looked back around. “I take it that’s where you’re headed?”

Eric nodded his head. “But I’ve got two stops to make first. One at the Wildland Center, and one at Shangri-La.”

The Wildland Center was locked up tight by the time Eric arrived. Dorothy MacBean and Forest Nettleman must have wasted no time in clearing out the tourists and heading into town. Dorothy was probably holed up at the Warbler Café by now, recounting the terrible danger to Lark and Cecilia.

He figured Lark was worried about the fire by now. As soon as he had a chance, he’d call.

In contrast to the Wildland Center, Shangri-La bustled with activity.

Named for an imaginary paradise on earth, the housing development squatted two miles off of Highway 66 on the backside of Eagle Cliff Mountain. A large sign marked the entrance. It read, “Buy a Slice of Utopia.”

Beyond the open gate, a pock-marked gravel road wound uphill, dead-ending near a scattered group of slab foundations. Once part of a homestead, the original property had been bought, and subsequently parcelled into eighty thirty-five-acre building lots. The planned homes sold in the eight hundred thousand dollar-plus range, but only two had been finished. In most cases, wells had been dug, septic systems laid and foundations poured, and a smattering of sites had seen some degree of framing.

Today, workers crawled over the roofs of the two roughed-in houses. The bang of nail guns vibrated the air in defiance of the wind. Eric doubted the workers had planned on it either.

A sagging, double-wide trailer marked “Office” stood guard where the gravel ended. Stacks of lumber surrounded the building on three sides, and a red all-terrain vehicle was parked on the other. Overturned buckets, white paint dripping down the sides, blocked access to the Dumpster.

Eric parked his pickup in front and charged up the steps. As he ducked through the doorway, Mandy Hathaway, the developer’s secretary, glanced up from her book.

“Is your boss in?” he asked.

“Nope,” she replied, tucking a long strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Nope.”

A veritable fountain of information. “Well, do you know if he’s somewhere on site?”

Tossing her reading glasses onto the desk, she rubbed her eyes, making him wait for an answer. Finally, she said, “He was around a couple of hours ago. I haven’t seen him in a while.” She jutted out her chin. “Want me to give him a message?”

Eric wondered if this was her way of running interference for Gene Paxton. Rumors were flying that he was in financial trouble, hocked up to his eyeballs to some “good old boys” in New Jersey.

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” Eric said. The last radio contact with Trent placed the fire within two miles of Shangri-La. Unless they hurried, the road back to town would be impassable, stranding them all in the path of the fire. “Here’s the deal. We have a fire burning in the park.”

“I know,” she blurted out. “Ben’s up there.”

Suddenly she frowned and leaned forward. Thin-boned hands clicked the stems of her glasses together. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it?”

Damn
. He’d forgotten Ben Hathaway served on the volunteer fire department.

“Everyone’s fine,” Eric said, raising his hands to stop her from drawing conclusions. “But the fire got away from us. We need to evacuate.”

He watched her closely, making sure his words sunk in, then he pointed toward the finished houses. “Are people living there?”

Mandy sprang into action, riffling through the files in her desk drawer. “The owners of 303 haven’t occupied yet, but the Larsons live in 305. I can give them a call.”

“What about the workers?”

“Gene always goes up there in person. As far as I know, those guys don’t have a radio. Or a cell phone. Even if they did, I don’t have the number.” She yanked a manila file out of the drawer. “Give me a sec, and I’ll try and reach him on his cell phone.”

Gravel crunched in front of the trailer, and Eric glanced out the window. “No need,” he said. “Paxton just pulled in.”

Eric watched as Gene Paxton jammed the gearshift into park and clambered out of the pickup. Five years younger than Eric, he lumbered like an old man. Short and stout, beard tinged gray, his belly protruded out over his belt. Instinctively, Eric sucked in his gut.