The Lemon Orchard (25 page)

“Their child?”

“Yes,” Marcie said. “She was pregnant even before they left Veracruz—she just didn’t know it.”

“Do you have her address?” Jack asked.

Marcie’s face closed off. She tightened her lips and looked away.

“Look,” Jack said. “I swear I won’t turn Felicia in. I’m trying to find a little girl and get her back to her father. This man lost his daughter on the crossing, and we think Felicia and her group might have found her.”

Marcie looked at him again. “Felicia would have helped if she could.”

“I believe that,” Jack said.

“How old was the little girl?”

“Six. Do you have Felicia’s phone number?”

Marcie shook her head. “No, but she sent me a card for my birthday. It had an address.”

“Could you look for it?” Jack asked.

Marcie disappeared into her store. Jack looked out to sea, facing east, the way he’d do as a boy in South Boston. The light glinted on the harbor and the Caribbean beyond. Jack heard the metal shutters of the shops clanging up as they opened for business. Mariachis had started playing at the far end of the walkway. The music sounded happy and sad at the same time.

“I found it,” Marcie said. “But you have to swear to me you won’t do anything to hurt her. You won’t turn her in.”

“I swear.”

“On something that matters to you—more than anything in this world.”

“Louella,” he said without thinking. “My wife.”

She nodded and handed him the envelope. Jack copied down the address. He recognized it as being in rural West Tuscon, out beyond I-10, past the Tucson Mountains.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

People strolled around him. Families, couples linked arm in arm, young people on cell phones. He listened to them speaking. He loved Spanish spoken by Mexicans. It had a softness and kindness to it, and when he heard it spoken he could always hear the love.

That’s what Louella had seen in him. He’d been a hard-ass in a uniform for a long time, but that was his job. After a while the job wore him down. He got tired of arresting people trying to be with their families. His wife had loved him enough to see the best in him—he knew she was the reason he wanted so badly to find Rosa, to give Roberto some peace.

chapter fourteen

Roberto

The Rileys’ orchard was the most tranquil place Roberto had ever been on earth, but today he felt restless and full of dread as they waited to see which way the fire would move. It was still far off, but the wind roared and shook the trees, and dense clouds of smoke darkened the mountains. In the near distance the sky glowed red; that meant the fire was just a ridge or two away.

Roberto was usually good at waiting. He always had been. Maybe it came from growing up in the country, knowing that there are some things you can’t rush, stop, or control. He waited by working, doing the best he could. But Malibu fires were fast and unpredictable. This one could zigzag into another canyon or march straight to the orchard.

Right now he and Serapio were using the backhoe and shovels to dig a fire line, a wide trench that ran along the orchard’s northern border. Two water tank trucks stood by, and Roberto had set up a tender, hoses, and a 350-gallons-per-minute pump to soak the vulnerable north side.

Until dawn, they’d had ten additional workers. Day laborers whom Roberto had found standing in the usual spot, hoping for a job. They had worked all night. When the sun came up, the fire marshal and sheriff arrived to give Roberto a report on the fire. As soon as their cars drove away, the men started leaving.

“Hey,” Roberto had called to Geraldo, a Oaxacan he had used many times before—very reliable and hardworking. “Where are you going?”

“Lo siento, amigo
.
Too dangerous,” Geraldo said.

Roberto knew he didn’t mean the fire—he was worried about the officials.

“They’re not going to be checking papers,” Roberto said. “All they care about is saving the property.”

“Too dangerous,” Geraldo repeated.

Roberto could only watch him leave with the others. They crammed into two old vehicles, both without inspection stickers, and drove away. Cops couldn’t just ask for papers, but if they got you on motor vehicle violations or saw something about you they didn’t like, they could search you for probable cause. If you didn’t have a driver’s license, which none of them did, they impounded your vehicle, no questions asked.

So now it was just Roberto and Serapio.

“Tell me what do to,” Julia said, striding over from the house.

“Julia, no,” he said. “The smoke will burn your eyes.”

She smiled and shook her head.

He tried again. “Julia, it might not be safe. They told us this fire is moving quickly. Feel the wind?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s strong.”

“Sixty miles an hour.”

He had promised her everything would be okay, but now, seeing the red sky, he wasn’t so sure. The fire had been declared Level 2, maximum emergency, and if it cleared the next peak, Casa Riley and surrounding properties would be evacuated.

“Did you talk to your uncle?” Roberto asked.

“Yes. He told me to leave—all of us.”

“I think that is a good idea. The fire department might evacuate us soon. You go now just in case, and I’ll stay until they come.”

“I’m staying with you,” she said. She looked back and forth along the gully they had dug. The backhoe had scored the earth, left bare dirt where before had been rosebushes and morning glories. One area was confined by boulders and too narrow for the heavy machine, so Serapio was attacking it with a pickax.

She grabbed a shovel from the pile the workers had left. He hesitated. She was the owner’s niece, she didn’t have to do this. He watched her pull yellow garden gloves from the back pocket of her jeans. He had seen Señora Riley wear them to clip roses.

Julia carried the shovel over to where Serapio was digging, and went to work on the trench. Serapio beamed at her—his face was black with soot, just like Roberto’s probably was. Roberto took off his red bandanna and soaked it in the water tender, then went to Julia and tied it around her neck.

“Pull it up over your face,” he said. “Around your mouth and nose. It will help you breathe.”

She did. Reluctantly, he left her there, climbed onto the backhoe, and went back to extending the fire line. Every time he turned to look over his shoulder, he saw her digging as hard as any worker, casting the dirt in a pile behind her, moving with an insistent rhythm.

Sirens sounded down the mountain, and the tanker planes flew back and forth overhead. They swept up water from the Pacific, dumped it on the fire. A sheriff’s car from the Lost Hills station came up the hill, parked in the turnaround. The officer got out and started waving his arms.

Roberto shut down the backhoe, climbed down to see what he wanted. Julia was already there, talking to him.

“Man, you can’t use that equipment right now,” the sheriff told Roberto. His nametag said
Hernandez
. “You want a spark to set off the orchard?”

“Okay,” Roberto said, feeling embarrassed, chastised in front of Julia. But she seemed not to notice.

“What about the fire?” Julia asked. “How bad is it?”

“Over twenty homes lost so far. I came to tell you to get ready to evacuate,” the sheriff said. “We’re starting to contain the fire in the next canyon, but you are smack in its path.” His radio crackled and he silenced it.

“We really have to leave?” Julia asked.

“It’s the best idea, ma’am.”

Roberto felt chills run down his spine. They’d had fires in Mexico, set off by dry lightning strikes. He’d seen what a wildfire could do to acres of farmland, and that was without the special conditions set up by the Santa Monica Mountains. Señor Riley had told him the day he’d offered him the job.

“The winds come in the fall,” he’d said. “They blow through the canyons to the sea, and after a hot summer, the chaparral is pure dry tinder. If a fire starts, the Santa Anas will push it all the way to the sea. It follows established wildlife trails—like the ones we have crisscrossing the orchard. And the fire won’t stop until the winds stop blowing.”

“We had fires in Mexico,” Roberto had said.

“So you know what to do.”

“Sí
.
Dig fire lines, put out the flames the best we can.”

Riley had laughed. “Yes to the first part, no to the second. The local fire station will deal with the actual fire. Your job is to prepare for the worst, then get out safe before the fire comes. See those trees?”

He’d pointed to the tall, broad, ancient live oaks, their branches curving and curling all the way down to the ground, their trunks scarred black.

“Those trees caught fire in both ’70 and ’78. We’ve been lucky with the house, but we lost the orchard once. The main thing, Roberto, is we don’t want to lose you or anyone here. That’s rule number one.”

“Gracias, señor,” Roberto had said.

Now helicopters were flying overhead and the sky was darkening with smoke.

“Time to go,” the cop said.

“But the orchard,” Julia said.

“Julia, we have to get out,” Roberto said, taking her arm.

“Hey,” Officer Hernandez said, “don’t panic, we have seventy engine companies on the fire and it’s partly contained. Just get in your vehicles and go.” Roberto caught him eyeing the black Tundra. It had barely passed inspection the last time, and his tailpipe was held on with baling wire.

“What is it?” Julia asked Roberto.

“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s get Bonnie. Serapio!”

Serapio also had his eye on the sheriff, who was walking around the two trucks. Roberto’s was at least registered and insured. Serapio could be in real trouble because his was neither.

“Don’t worry, man,” Hernandez said. He was stocky and broad with a moustache, probably a Mexican lucky enough to have gotten papers. Or maybe he’d been born here. “I’m not giving you shit on a day like this. Just get out of here safe, okay?”

Julia had registered Roberto’s alarm and was running toward the house to find Bonnie and the car keys. Roberto took off after her, not wanting to let her out of his sight for a second.

The canyon let out a howl, as if monsters had come alive. Roberto turned to see flames leap a thousand feet into the sky. The line of fire advanced like a lit fuse, across the nearby ridge, moving so fast Roberto could feel the heat.

“Go!” he yelled to Serapio. His friend ran to his truck—Hernandez was in his patrol car, on the radio, calling for help, but sirens were already sounding nearby.

If he didn’t get Julia out of here right away, the fire would block their driveway. He tore into the house, up the stairs to her bedroom. There she was, on her knees, halfway under the bed. He didn’t ask, just knelt beside her and looked.

Bonnie was huddled as far back along the wall as she could get. She was panting hard, her whole body trembling.

“I can’t get her to come out,” Julia said.

Roberto stood, walked around to the other side of the bed, nearest to where Bonnie was lying. He picked the heavy wood bed up with one arm and reached for Bonnie with the other. Scooping her against his chest, he felt her shivering uncontrollably.

“Move fast, amor,” he said to Julia.

She nodded and he nudged her to run, and he followed her down the stairs. Sirens screamed up the hill, and Bonnie whimpered in terror and squirmed to get out of his arms.

“Shh,” he whispered to calm her. “Estas tranquila, niña . . .”

They exited the house into billows of smoke. Flames licked the rock cliff just north of the fire line, fifty yards from the first row of lemon trees. Fire engines came from two directions: the driveway, and the unpaved fire road to the northwest.

Helicopters hovered just overhead, and Roberto felt the rush from the rotors and blinked against all the dust and dirt stirred into the air. The smoke was thick, black as night. He adjusted Bonnie and tried to put his arm around Julia, to keep her close.

Bonnie yelped, scrambled from his grasp, and took off.

“Bonnie!” Julia yelled. “Come here!”

Firefighters swarmed through the orchard, wearing heavy coats, helmets, and breathing equipment. Roberto saw Hernandez and pushed Julia straight at the him. But she tore free of both of them and ran straight into the smoke, after Bonnie. Roberto was right behind her.

He sat beside Julia and tried to catch his breath. He had thought both she and Bonnie were lost. Running through the black smoke was a nightmare—he could hear her voice but couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from. He knew every inch of the orchard; he’d walked through it on the darkest nights. So he trusted his own compass, and the feel of his feet on the ground, and made sure he got between Julia and the cliff.

Bonnie had such good instincts. Moisture from the sea below swept up the hillside from the beach and provided a narrow strip of clear air along the cliff path. The old dog was panting, pacing back and forth right along the edge. Out over the ocean, the air was clean, except for one thick plume of smoke. Behind them was a wall of it. Roberto was ready to take off his shirt, cover her eyes and run her back to the truck when they heard Julia calling.