Nest in the Ashes (8 page)

Eric spent two days
supervising mop-up on the Eagle Cliff Fire. There had been flare-ups—pockets of fire the warm days breathed to life—but then a late-spring snow had crushed the embers out of the smoldering logs, and the Eagle Cliff Fire was officially declared “controlled.”

Slogging down from the mountain’s summit, he listened for the crack of branches overhead. Snags breaking under the weight of high-moisture snow had been known to kill a man, and he didn’t relish becoming a victim. Walking was treacherous, the charred earth denuded of undergrowth churned to mud under his feet, and he chose his path carefully, not wanting to add to the erosion.

He jumped down the embankment to the pullout where he’d parked and was surprised to find Pacey Trent waiting beside his truck. Eric slowed his pace. By the expression on Trent’s face, whatever business he had with Eric wasn’t good.

As soon as he came within range, Trent stepped forward. “I thought you might like to see a copy of the investigation team’s report regarding Wayne Devlin’s death,” he said, waving a packet of papers. “We’re still waiting on the autopsy, but the coroner faxed me the results.”

Eric pitched his hard hat and pack into the back of his truck and waited. Presumably, there was a punch line.

“It seems Wayne died from a blow to the head,” Trent said. He cleared his throat and looked toward the mountain. “In the most likely scenario, he slipped or stumbled, then fell down and smashed his head on a rock.”

Eric sensed there was more to it, something Trent
wasn’t
saying.

“So he wasn’t caught when the spot fire swept through?” Remembering the hour he’d spent in the fire shelter—the searing heat, the hot air, the falling embers—Eric took some comfort in at least knowing Wayne hadn’t burned alive.

“Not exactly. There is some evidence of smoke inhalation, but it’s not what killed him.” Trent tapped the report, then thrust it into Eric’s hands. “Everything’s in here. I suggest you take a gander.”

Eric must have looked confused, for Trent reiterated. “Take a look.”

Again, the unspoken inference that there was something more to it. Was he thinking Wayne’s death wasn’t an accident?

An engine revved, and Eric turned in time to see Nora Frank bounce her truck onto the charred dirt. She goosed the gas, crushing a surviving sagebrush plant dusted in snow. What the fire hadn’t destroyed, man would. Maybe he was asking too much to hope a plant survey might find some bitterbrush intact.

Eric focused on the report. It was mostly a listing of physical evidence. Wayne’s clothes were cataloged—remnants of boots, socks, underwear, a T-shirt, Nomex shirt and pants, all covered in bits of plant and wood materials consistent with where the body was found, along with several charred fibers that could easily have come from the seat of his pickup truck.

Oddly enough, the pickup had never been located. Either Wayne had parked it in a well-hidden spot, or someone else had come along and borrowed it. There was no mention of any keys found in the report. But then, it was possible Wayne had left them in the ignition, figuring he wouldn’t be gone long enough for someone to make off with his truck.

A pack found near a tree stump several yards from the body had contained remains of all the expected items: a hard hat, goggles, canteen, fire shelter, snacks, two fusees, a radio, and a knife.

One item was missing from the list. The weather kit. Jackie had said Wayne left early to test the humidity on Eagle Cliff Mountain. He would have needed a psychrometer to do that.

Eric skimmed the remaining pages. Wayne had been wearing his gloves, and residue from a fusee was found on the leather. There was no mention of a wet-and-dry bulb kit anywhere.

He leaned back against the side of his truck. Something about the report bothered him. Something more than the missing pickup truck or the missing psychrometer.

“So, what do you think?” Nora asked, strolling toward them, her tone casual. Too casual.

His gut gnawed at him. Rather than answering, he countered back with a question. “What am I supposed to think? It’s thorough.”

“Come on, Linenger. Dig deeper,” Nora prodded. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. “Give us your take on it. Notice anything out of whack?”

Eric wet his lips and glanced between the two supervisors. What the heck? “I noticed there’s no mention of his pickup being found.”

Eric remembered seeing tire tracks near the body. Maybe that’s what chewed at his stomach. He flipped through the report and came up empty.

“There was a vehicle up there,” he said. “I saw the tracks myself. There’s no mention of them in here.”

“I don’t remember seeing any when I arrived,” Trent said.

“They were there,” Eric insisted. “Maybe the firestorm obliterated them.”

Nora shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You’re not suggesting Wayne drove his pickup in there, are you?”

“Are you inferring some sort of foul play?” Trent asked.

Eric’s gaze drifted to the charred and spindly trees on the northern slope. A tight fit for a truck, but not impossible if you came at it from different angles. “It would explain why his vehicle hasn’t been found.”

Nora scoffed at the idea. “Those tracks probably came from someone screwing around on an ATV.”

Eric had to admit there was that possibility. Even with an excess of rules and regulations, some riders ignored the laws. In the summer, rangers struggled with keeping all-terrain vehicles out of the woods, and in the winter, snowmobiles. Areas that bumped up against the national forest, or private lands, were more susceptible.

“Possibly, but that doesn’t address the whereabouts of the missing vehicle,” Eric countered.

Nora shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s my guess he drove it into the trees a ways, then hoofed it from there. I’ll put a few seasonals on it now that the fire’s out, and we’ll find it.”

An expression of annoyance—or was it distrust?—flashed across Trent’s face. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to get right to the point. The fire on Eagle Cliff Mountain appears to have started in a pile of slash a few feet from where we found Devlin’s body. Investigators found fusee residue around the branches.” He met Eric’s gaze. “Devlin had fusee residue on his gloves.”

It took Eric a second or two to absorb the information. What he heard didn’t make sense. “Are you suggesting Wayne built a campfire?”

“More like a bonfire,” Nora said.

Trent shot her another look.

Eric’s mind rebelled. Wayne had been worried about the dry conditions and had gone up on the mountain to test the humidity. There was no way he would have lit a fire. No reason to have done so.

“I don’t believe it.”

“The evidence is there, Linenger,” Nora said. “Wayne had the fusee in his hand. Hey, who knows? Maybe he cracked and went off the deep end. Even you have to admit he’d been acting rather strange lately.”

A chill flashed along Eric’s spine.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter
why
he did it,” she continued. “Based on the report,” she jerked her head toward the papers still clutched in Eric’s hand, “we can now officially state that Wayne was the one responsible for the Eagle Cliff Fire.”

“Blame shifting?” Eric regretted the words the moment they popped out.

Nora stiffened.

“Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Or was it? While Nora had not been the only one anxious to light the burn, she now seemed the most intent on pointing the finger at Wayne. In a broadcast two days ago, Linda Verbiscar had alluded to Wayne’s culpability, quoting a “source within the Park Service.” Had she been referring to Nora Frank? Or maybe the Intermountain Regional FMO?

Eric turned to Trent. “You aren’t seriously considering dumping this burden on Wayne’s family, are you?”

Trent stared down, worrying a charred stick with the toe of his boot—a boot still shiny under a thin coat of dust. “You have to understand, Eric, the National Park Service is in a precarious position.”

Trent looked up, his eyes haunted. Was it forgiveness he wanted?

“You know how long there’s been a federal no-burn policy,” he said. “We’ve only just opened the door for fire management bums.”

“So you’re going to absolve the Park Service by accusing Wayne Devlin of intentionally lighting the fire?” Anger torqued through Eric. He felt his blood pressure jump. “After eighteen years, you’re just going to trash his reputation and destroy his service record?” He frowned. “And what happens if Paxton or the Wildland Center files a lawsuit?”

“His family could lose his pension,” Nora answered.

“She’s right,” agreed Trent. “Any judgment could take the pension and put his personal effects at risk.”

“You do know he has a daughter graduating from high school this year. Have you thought about how this will affect her?”

“Guess her
daddy
should have thought about that.” Nora spat out the words, and Eric figured she was still angry over his “blame-shifting” comment.

Trent cut her off by raising his hand. “Again, Eric, try and see this from my point of view. The Eagle Cliff Fire burned an additional two thousand acres of park land. It destroyed over five hundred acres of national forest and an untold amount of private use land. Damage estimates are in the tens of millions of dollars, and that doesn’t include the cost of the firefighting efforts, or the law enforcement hours attributable to the fire,
or
housing and feeding the two hundred people who were forced to evacuate.” Trent shook his head. “The investigation proves that Wayne Devlin lit the fire. Unfortunately, it’s out of my hands.”

Eric turned away, a sickening thought seeping through his anger. What if Nora was right about Wayne snapping? There was no disputing he’d been acting strangely. What if he’d known something was wrong with him, something terrible, and decided to make a bid for the “101 Club”?

When a firefighter died in the line of duty, their family became eligible for benefits through the Public Safety Officers’Benefit Act. Passed in 1949, in the wake of the Mann Gulch Fire, the act provided that one hundred thousand dollars in tax-free money be paid to surviving children and spouses. With inflation, the current payout amount was upwards of one hundred fifty thousand dollars. If Wayne had wanted to add a bonus to his pension benefits, dying in a fire would do it. It would also account for the fact that he hadn’t used or answered his radio.

“Have you told Jackie and Tamara yet?” Eric asked.

“I… we thought…” Trent’s words stumbled to a halt. “There’ll be a press conference this afternoon. I thought, considering how close you were to Devlin, that maybe you’d want to be the one to give a heads-up to the family.”

Wimping out?
Eric narrowed his eyes at Trent. “That’s Nora’s responsibility.”

“We… I thought it might come easier from you,” Trent said. “Guess it’s your call.”

Eric glanced at Nora, standing with her arms crossed, her hands clenched into tight fists. Then he glanced down at Trent’s shiny boots.

“I’ll talk to Jackie,” Eric said. Better than either of them. Besides, he owed it to Wayne.

Wet, dirty, and depressed,
Eric stopped off at home on his way to see Jackie. Even the sight of the cabin lifted his spirits.

Centered on ten acres of land with views of the park, the cabin had taken two years to design and three years to build. He’d hired contractors to put in a gravel driveway and dig the well. Then with Wayne Devlin’s help, he’d laid the subfloor, pieced together the external log and mortar structure, insulated, and installed white pine walls and floors in the interior. Solar cells provided energy to the generator, and inside they’d equipped the home with energy-efficient appliances—a wood-burning fireplace, a propane stove, and a composting toilet imported from Norway. As a finishing touch, Wayne had suggested galvanized steel for baseboards, cupboards, panel trim, and countertops—giving the cabin the feel of an early settler’s home.

The two of them had spent a lot of time here, working together. Now the cabin stood as a testament to their friendship.

Eric left his pack in the truck and peeled off his sooty work clothes in the mud room. Stuffing them into the washing machine, he climbed into the shower and let the hot spray rinse away the grime, cleansing his body, if not his soul. When the hot water was exhausted, he shaved and pulled on a pair of clean jeans, a “Save the Rainforest” T-shirt he’d bought at the Migration Alliance convention last summer, and a pair of tennis shoes. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and headed back out.

The Devlins lived a mile farther up the road, and Eric decided to hoof it. Nothing cleared the mind like walking, and he was seeking alternatives to the inevitable.

But no matter how he worried the details, the end result was the same. As far as the investigation team and the National Park Service were concerned, Wayne had started the fire that burned Shangri-La and the Wildland Center to the ground.
Why
didn’t seem to matter. How he would explain it to Jackie was his problem.

The Devlin house sprawled at the edge of a small meadow, a flat, ranch-style house with a wide front porch reminiscent of a southern veranda. A split-rail fence ringed the property to keep in two quarter horses that grazed behind the three-car attached garage, which doubled as a barn from the backside.

Jackie answered the front door before he knocked. Slipping outside onto the front porch, she shut the door, blocking his entrance. Draped in black silk, she looked pale in spite of a faint dusting of red rouge on her cheeks, and the lack of sleep had carved dark circles under her eyes. She leaned against the door, resting her hand on the doorknob.

“This isn’t the best time, Eric. Tamara’s finally resting.”

“We have to talk, Jackie.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s so important it can’t wait?”

“Maybe we should go inside and sit down.” The line smacked of cliché, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Why?” Her frown deepened. “What’s this all about?”

“I really think—”

“Just tell me, Eric,” she ordered, her fingers tightening on the doorknob.

Realizing Jackie had no intentions of letting him in, Eric paced the length of the top step, searching for words to soften the blow. He settled on the truth. “The Park Service is holding a press conference in an hour. They’re going to say Wayne is responsible for the Eagle Cliff Fire. They’re going to say he set it on purpose, without authority or reason.”

The color drained from Jackie’s face, her makeup taking on a masklike quality. “That’s absurd.”

“Not according to the investigation team’s report.”

Eric filled her in on the gist of his conversation with Pacey Trent and Nora. Then, feeling guilty for harboring his own sliver of doubt, he searched for something more to say. “I tried to talk Trent into holding off on the announcement for a day or two, but he wouldn’t. He says it’s settled. NPS is going official with the team’s findings on the evening news.”

Jackie released the doorknob, and the door swung open. Afraid she might collapse, Eric looped his arm around her back and steered her toward a couch in the living room.

Decorative, and mostly unused, the room had a plastic-wrapped feeling that made him uneasy. Two white leather couches adorned with colored pillows centered the room. End tables of metal and glass, inlaid wood floors, and an empty fireplace stuffed with a mass of bird’s-nest ferns lent the room a “Parade of Homes” quality. The crowning touch was a pair of lead-crystal candlesticks gracing the mantel.

Given a choice, he preferred the coziness of the Devlin’s kitchen. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d scooted in around the worn mahogany table—Wayne and him drinking coffee and swapping stories, while Tamara watched TV in the adjoining family room and smells of Jackie’s baking permeated the air.

“It’s bad enough he’s gone,” she said, her voice slicing through his memories. “Now they’re going to force us into bankruptcy.”

“You don’t know that.” Sitting opposite Jackie, Eric reached for her hands. They felt ice cold. Gently, he rubbed them, searching for something to say, finding only the question he dreaded asking.

“Jackie, was there something wrong with Wayne? Was he sick?”

She snatched her hands away, folding them on her black skirt and tapping the pads of her thumbs together. “Why do you ask?”

Eric cringed. The truth was, the idea Wayne might have started the fire—intending to make it look like he’d died in the line of duty—had entrenched itself in the back of Eric’s mind. And something Wayne had said to him less than two weeks ago reinforced the thought.

The two of them had been checking a fish ladder on the Big Thompson River. They’d needed a wrench, so Wayne had gone back to the office to fetch one. He’d never returned. Eric had hiked out and found him at home, ensconced in a lawn chair with a Tom Clancy novel. Wayne had sworn he’d never been on the job.

When Eric had asked him if he was okay, Wayne had shaken his head. “No, I’m not sure I am. But, don’t you worry about me, Eric. This old job is going to take care of Wayne Devlin.”

It was a comment anyone nearing retirement might have made, but Wayne still had two years to go. Eric wondered now if maybe he’d meant something else.

“Well?” Jackie asked. She was watching him closely. “You think they’re on to something, don’t you?”

The horror in her voice made him want to backpedal and retract the question. Instead, he forged on.

“We’ve talked about Wayne’s behavior.”

She turned her face away.

“Just hear me out, Jackie.”

An instant replay of their conversations made Eric realize that most of them had taken place after unsettling incidents. And most had been one-sided—him digging for information, and Jackie or Wayne stonewalling. But after the fish ladder incident Jackie had pulled him aside, admitting she was worried. According to her, Wayne hadn’t been feeling well. Yet all Eric had gleaned was that Wayne suffered from high cholesterol and skyrocketing triglycerides.

“Eric, I’m exhausted,” she pleaded. “I’m not up to discussing this now.”

“We have to,” he replied.
If for no other reason than my own peace of mind
. “I need to know if you think Wayne lit that spot fire intending to harm himself.”

She stared at him incredulously. “You’re suggesting he committed suicide.”

Eric looked down at the Persian rug.

“How could you even think such a thing?” Accusation weighted her voice. “Wayne was a churchgoer. In our faith, suicide sentences a person to hell. He would never have done something like that. Never.”

“We both know he wasn’t acting like himself, Jackie.” The words sounded harsh, and Eric paced to the window, staring out at the lake and the cars still parading through town.

A glimpse of a McDonald’s sign through the trees tripped a thought. One of the ramifications of high cholesterol and high triglycerides was an increased risk of heart disease. A stroke—or a series of small strokes—could have triggered Wayne’s forgetfulness.

“Had Wayne ever suffered a stroke?” he asked.

“No!” she answered.

Eric glanced at her. Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, senile dementia, certain types of psychosis—they were all reasons why someone might exhibit patterns of inconsistent and unexplained behavior. He wondered how Jackie would react if he started down the list.

“Let’s get something straight right now,” Jackie said. “I’m getting quite tired of people asking me if Wayne is all right. He’s fine.” She looked up, making eye contact. “Granted, he’s been acting a little odd lately, but he’s had a lot on his mind. His only daughter is about to graduate and go off to college. He’s nearing retirement and trying to figure out what to do with himself. Plus, his father’s been sick.”

She scooted forward and straightened a stack of coasters on the table. “Of course, Dad’s been sick a long time, but things have gotten worse lately.”

“What’s wrong with Wayne’s—”

“I’ll admit, Wayne has been under a lot of stress. But he would never do anything intentionally to cause Tamara or me any pain.”

Eric noticed she spoke of Wayne in the present tense.
Denial
.

Draped in widow’s black, running her finger along the smooth end of a stack of crystal coasters, she seemed lost in thought and unaware that her husband was dead. Suddenly Eric felt like an ass.

“You’re right, Jackie,” he said. “We don’t need to be talking about this.”

Emotion—a cross between guilt and pity—flickered across her face. Her chin trembled. “Oh God, here I am lecturing you, when I know how much Wayne meant to you.”

“Ja, well, just forget I asked.” What difference did it make anyway? Wayne was dead. All that mattered now was making sure Jackie and Tamara were taken care of.

“No, you’re right,” she said abruptly. “We have to fight this.” She stared at him now, her tears gone, her eyes dry and direct. “If they blame Wayne and I end up getting sued, I could lose the pension, not to mention the bonus pay and the house. Tamara might not be able to go to college.”

“Slow down, Jackie. I was asking so that I understood, not seeking ammunition to take on the National Park Service. They’re my employer. The report is considered final.”

“Nothing’s final.”

Except death
.

Their eyes met.

Eric looked back out the window. “I don’t see any way to fight it. The jurisdiction falls to the National Park Service law enforcement officers, and, except for the autopsy, they’ve completed their investigation. According to them, the evidence shows—”

The coasters tumbled, clattering onto the tabletop. “The report didn’t include the autopsy?”

“Only a preliminary,” Eric said. “It indicated that Wayne had fallen and struck his head. Why?”

She gathered the coasters, then stood and crossed the rug toward him. “Maybe there’s something in the autopsy we can use to prove Wayne didn’t start that fire. That’s all we have to do, isn’t it? Prove that he didn’t do it, or that he had a valid reason for doing so?”

“The investigation team was thorough, Jackie. The evidence collected proved Wayne was holding the fusee that started the fire. The NPS isn’t going to reopen the case unless someone comes up with some pretty compelling evidence to refute their findings.”

Jackie straightened her shoulders. “Then we will. I don’t know what happened, but I refuse to believe Wayne did anything wrong.” Her eyes opened wide. “What if someone framed him?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that Trent fellow.”

Pacey Trent had needed a scapegoat, but would he have gone so far as to lay the blame on a dead man?

“Or what if Nora Frank decided she couldn’t wait for Wayne’s job?” Bitterness clung to Jackie’s voice. Eric had thought she liked Nora.

“I seriously doubt that Nora—”

“You know as well as I do,” Jackie interrupted, “that with Wayne gone, his job—along with a substantial raise in pay—belongs to her.” Jackie sniffed. “Unless of course, she screws up.”

Eric swallowed. Spit stuck in his throat. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting someone—”

“Murdered him.”