The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (161 page)

“I’ll work in the loft.”

“They’ll get him, Ro. It won’t take them long.”

“Sure.”

He gave her arm an awkward pat. “I’ll roust Yangtree and Stovic. It’ll be fun watching the smoke come out of their ears when they drink the hangover cure.”

In the silence that followed Cards’s exit, Dobie got up, poured himself coffee. “I’m going to say this ’cause I have a lot of respect for you. And because Gull’s got more than that for you. If I took off into the hills back home, if I had the gear—hell, even without it, but if I had the gear, a good gun, a good knife, I could live up there for months. Nobody’d find me I didn’t want finding me.”

Rowan made herself continue eating. “They’ll find his truck, maybe, but they won’t find him. He’ll lose himself in the Bitterroots, or the Rockies. His wife’ll lose her home. She put it up for his bond, and he just fucking broke that. I didn’t believe he’d done it—or not Dolly. He’s running, and left his wife and granddaughter twisting in the wind. He abandoned them.

“I hope he screws up.” She shoved to her feet. “I hope he screws up and they catch him, and they toss him in a hole for the rest of his life. I’ll be in the loft, sewing goddamn Smitty bags.”

As she stomped out, Dobie dumped three heaping spoons of sugar into his coffee. “How do you want to play this, son?”

“Intellectually, I don’t think Brakeman’s coming back around here, or worrying about Rowan right now.”

“Mmm-hmm. How do you want to play it?”

He looked over. Sometimes the most unlikely person became the most trusted friend. “When we’re on base, somebody’s with her, round the clock. We make sure she has plenty to do inside. But she needs to get out. If we hole her in, she’ll blow. I guess we mix up the routine. We usually run in the mornings, early. We’ll start running in the evening.”

“If everybody wore caps, sunglasses, it’d be a little harder to tell who’s who at a distance. The trouble is, that woman’s built like a brick shithouse. You just can’t hide that talent. I don’t guess she’d transfer to West Yellowstone, or maybe over to Idaho for a stretch.”

“No. She’d see that as running. Abandonment.”

“Maybe. But maybe not, if you went, too.”

“She’s not there yet, Dobie.”

Dobie pursed his lips, watching Gull as he drank coffee. “But you are?”

Gull stared down at his half-eaten breakfast. “Fucking lupines.”

“What the hell’s lupines?”

Gull just shook his head. “Yeah, I’m there,” he said as he got to his feet. “Goddamn it.”

Southern, Gibbons and Janis came in, still sweaty from PT, as Gull stormed out.

“What’s that about?” Gibbons demanded.

“Sit down, boys and girls, and I’ll tell you.”

 

 

TEMPER BUBBLING,
Gull tracked down L.B. outside a hangar in conversation with one of the pilots.

“How the fuck did this happen?”

“Do you think I didn’t ask the same damn thing?” L.B. tossed back. “Do you think I’m not pissed off?”

“I don’t care if you’re pissed off. I want some answers.”

L.B. jerked a thumb, headed away from the hangar and toward one of the service roads. “If you want to jump somebody’s ass, find a cop. They’re the ones who screwed this up.”

“I want to know how.”

“You want to know how? I’ll tell you how.” L.B. picked up a palm-sized rock, heaved it. “They had two cops outside the Brakeman house. Shit, probably looking at skin mags and eating donuts.”

He found another rock, heaved that. “My fucking brother’s a cop, over in Helena, and I know he doesn’t do that shit. But goddamn it.”

Gull leaned over, picked up a rock, offered it. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” After hurling it, L.B. rolled his shoulder. “They were out in the front, watching the house. Brakeman’s truck is around the side, under a carport. So he loads it up sometime in the middle of the night, then he pushes it right across the backyard, cuts a truck-sized hole in the frigging fence, then pushes it right across the neighbor’s yard to the road. Then God knows where he went.”

“And the cops don’t see the truck’s gone until this morning.”

“No, they fucking don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?
That’s it?”

“It’s an answer. I do better with answers. She’s third load. Can you put her on Ops if we get a call for one or two?”

“Yeah.” L.B. picked up another rock, just stared at it a moment, then dropped it again. “I’d figured on it. I just wanted to wait until she’d cooled off.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“She’s been known to kill the messenger. That’s why I sent Cards,” L.B. added with a slow smile. “He’s just off the DL, so I figured she’d take it easy on him.”

“That’s why you’re chief.”

Gull swung by the barracks to grab a Coke, considered, and though he thought it the lamest form of camouflage outside a Groucho mustache, he grabbed caps and sunglasses.

On the way to the loft, he pulled out his phone, called Lucas.

Since most of the unit was doing PT or still at breakfast, he found only a handful working in the loft along with Rowan. She inspected, gore by gore, a canopy hanging in the tower.

“Busy,” she said shortly.

He tipped the Coke from side to side. “You know you’re jonesing by now.”

“Very busy.” Using tweezers, she removed some pine needles lodged in the cloth.

“Fine, I’ll drink it.” He popped the top. “L.B. wants you in Ops if we catch a fire.”

She jerked around. “He’s not grounding me.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re third load, so unless we catch a holocaust, you’re probably not going to jump on the first call. You’re a qualified assistant Ops manager, aren’t you?”

She grabbed the Coke from him, gulped some down. “Yeah.” She shoved it back at him, returned to her inspection. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. About this situation.”

“I don’t want or need to be reassured, protected, advised or—”

“Jesus, shut up.” He shook his head at the ceiling towering above, took another drink.

“
You
shut up.”

He had to grin. “I’m rubber; you’re glue. You really want to sink that low? I don’t think Brakeman’s your problem.”

“I’m not worried about him. I can take care of myself, and I’m not stupid. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, here, in manufacturing, in the gym when I’m not out on a fire.”

Meticulously she removed a twig, marked a small, one-inch tear for repair before she lowered the apex to examine higher areas.

“Last night, Brakeman eluded two cops by pushing his full-size pickup across his backyard, cutting a fence, pushing it across another yard until he reached the road. He loaded up everything he’d need to live in the wild. That tells me he’s not stupid, either.”

“So he’s not stupid. Points for him.”

“But he leaves weapons,
twice
, so they’re easily found. A handgun properly registered to him, a rifle that has his name on it. That’s pretty damn stupid.”

“You’re back to thinking he didn’t do any of this.”

“I’m back to that. I’d rather not be, because this way, we’ve got nothing. We don’t know who or why. Not really. On the other hand, I’m also thinking it’s unlikely anyone’s going to be using you or the base for target practice. Unlikely isn’t enough, but it’s comforting.”

“Because it would be stupid for somebody else to shoot at me, when Brakeman’s on the run and the cops know what weapons he’s got with him.”

No, she wasn’t stupid, she reminded herself, but she’d been too angry to think clearly. Gull, it seemed, didn’t have the same problem.

“But if it’s not him, Gull, why is somebody working so hard to make it look like him?”

“Because he’s an asshole? Because he’s plausible? Because they want to see him go down? Maybe all three. But the point is, you’ve got to be smart—and you are—but I don’t think you have to sweat this.”

She nodded, inspected the apex bridle cords, then the vent hoods.

“I wasn’t sweating it. I’m pissed off.”

“Your subconscious sweats it, then.”

“All right, all right.” She inspected the top of each slot, then the anti-inversion net. There she marked a line of broken stitching.

Gull waited her out until she’d attached the inspection tag to the riser.

“I guess I have to call my father. Word travels, and he’ll get worried.”

“I talked to him before I came up. We went over it.”

“He came by? Why didn’t he—”

“I called him.”

She faced him with one quick pivot. “You did what? What do you mean calling my father about all this before I—”

“It’s called male bonding. You’ll never get it. I believe women are as capable as men, deserve equal pay—and that one day, should be sooner than later, in my opinion, the right woman can and should be leader of the free world. But you can’t understand the male bonding rituals any more than men can understand why the vast majority of women are obsessed with shoes and other footwear.”

“I’m not obsessed with shoes, so don’t try to make this something cultural or—or gender-based.”

“You have three pairs of jump boots. Two is enough. You have four pairs of running shoes. Again, two’s plenty.”

“I’m breaking in a third pair of jump boots before the first pair gets tossed so I don’t get boot-bit. And I have four pairs of running shoes because . . . you’re trying to distract me from the point.”

“Yes, but I’m not done. You also have hiking boots—two pairs—three pairs of sandals and three of really sexy heels. And this is just on base. God knows what you’ve got in your closet at home.”

“You’ve been counting my shoes? Talk about obsessed.”

“I’m just observant. Lucas wants you to call him when you get a chance. Leave him a text or voice message if he’s in the air, and he’ll come by to see you tonight. He likes knowing I’ve got your back. You’d have mine, wouldn’t you?” he asked before she could snap at him.

So she sighed. “Yes. You defeat me with your reason and your diatribe over shoes. Over which I am
not
obsessed.”

“You also have a good dozen pairs of earrings, none of which you wear routinely. But we can discuss that another time.”

“Oh, go away. Go study something.”

“You could give me a rigging lesson. I want to work on getting certified.”

“Maybe. Come back in an hour, and we’ll—”

When the siren sounded she stepped back. “I guess not. I’m switching to Ops.”

“I’ll walk you over. Here.”

He handed her her cap and sunglasses, then put on his own while she frowned at them.

“What is this?”

“A disguise.” He grinned at her. “Dobie wants you to wear them. Let’s give him a break, or he might order fake mustaches and clown noses off the Internet.”

She rolled her eyes, but put them on. “And what, this makes us look like twins? Where are your tits?”

“You’re wearing them, and may I say they look spectacular on you.”

“I can’t disagree with that. Still, everybody should stop worrying about Rowan and do their jobs.”

By four P.M., she was jumping fire, doing hers.

J
uly burned. Hot and dry, the wild ignited, inflamed by lightning strikes, negligence, an errant spark bellowed by a gust of wind.

For eighteen straight days and nights Zulies jumped and fought fire. In Montana, in Idaho, Colorado, California, the Dakotas, New Mexico. Bodies shed weight, lived with pain, exhaustion, injury, battling in canyons, on ridges, in forests.

The constant war left little time to think about what lived outside the fire. The manhunt for Leo Brakeman heading into its third week hardly mattered when the enemy shot firebrands the size of cannonballs or swept on turbulent winds over barriers so effortfully created.

Along with her crew, Rowan rushed up the side of Mount Blackmore, like a battalion charging into hell. Beside her another tree torched off, spewing embers like flaming confetti. They felled burning trees on the charge, sawed and cut the low-hanging branches the fire could climb like snakes.

Can’t let her climb, Rowan thought as they hacked and dug. Can’t let her crown.

Can’t let her win.

So they fought their way up the burning mountain, sweat running in salty rivers in the scorched air.

When Gull climbed up the line to her position, she pulled down her bandanna to pour water down her aching throat.

“The line’s holding.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “A couple of spots jumped it, but we pissed them out. Gibbons is going to leave a couple down there to scout for more, and send the rest up to you.”

“Good deal.” She took another drink, scanning and counting yellow shirts and helmets through the smoke. On the left the world glowed, eerie orange with an occasional spurt of flame that picked out a hardened, weary face, tossed it into sharp relief.

In that moment, she loved them, loved them all with a near religious fervor. Every ass and elbow, she thought, every blister and burn.

Her eyes lit when she looked at Gull. “Best job ever.”

“If you don’t mind starving, sweating and eating smoke.”

Grinning, she shouldered her Pulaski. “Who would? Head on up. We’re still making line here so—” She broke off, grabbed his arm.

It spun out of the orange wall, whipped by the wind. The funnel of flame whirled and danced, spinning a hundred feet into the air. In seconds, screaming like a banshee, it uprooted two trees.

“Fire devil
. Run!
” She pointed toward the front of the line as its wind blasted the furnace heat in her face. She grabbed her radio, watching the flaming column’s spin as she shouted to the crew, “Go up, go up!
Move
your asses. Gibbons, fire devil, south flank. Stay
clear.
”

It roared toward the line, a tornadic gold light as gorgeous as it was terrifying, spewing flame, hurling fiery debris. The air exploded with the call of it, with its lung-searing heat. She watched Matt go down, saw Gull haul him up, take his weight. Keeping her eye on the fire devil, she shifted, got her shoulder under Matt’s other arm.