studying.
“What’s there, Thomas? I know about your sister. What was she doing?”
He didn’t flinch. “She wanted to see the waterfall.”
“If you go there you’ll get yourself killed.”
Thomas backed away.
“What could be so damned important?”
“Never mind.” Thomas backed to the door. He turned to leave.
“Take him!” Erika said.
Thomas stopped.
“Just take him.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Why not? And take me. Show a girl a good time.”
Thomas studied her, then waited for an answer.
Jack let out a sigh. “I don’t have time for this.”
“In two days?” Thomas asked.
Jack collected himself. “The weekend. Will you tell me what this is about?”
“I’ll tell you now. It’s about three people taking a hike.”
Chapter 11
Mid-afternoon, Erika Jones left to check into a hotel.
Jack sat back and rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the tension. Headache, go away. No time for this. Not with the Director calling Joe to D.C.
The thought sent chills through him.
He made a phone call, to Foss’ supervisor. Scribbling notes, he asked about Foss’ pattern of conduct, at first getting confirmation, but suddenly having the supervisor become tight-lipped, as if realizing his name might be invoked in something that could come back to haunt him.
Was he being the smart one?
Jack ended the call and began to pound out documentation for Joe.
He typed, describing Foss’ refusal to attack the escaping fire, his letting the protected plants burn, and his inappropriate comments to Christy and Johnny. It took more time than hoped, but this had to be thorough. It might get repeated viewings, by all sorts of audiences.
Hell of a lot of good it’ll do. If big brother paints a heroic picture to save little brother’s ass, and if he does as he’s known to do—spare no expense at destroying someone else’s reputation, especially his old buddy Jack Chastain’s—then this effort is futile.
He grumbled to himself, pounding away.
Fill it with facts. Even if it’s political suicide. Make the Director deal with facts. Written statements from Johnny Reger and Christy Manion would make it even harder to sweep under the rug. But why pull them into this? Why put them at risk?
Who are you kidding? The Director won’t care about any of this.
The Director will listen to Foss. You’re dead meat. You’ll end up shipped off again, to who knows where. He shuddered at the thought of saying good-bye to Kelly, to Piedras Coloradas, to Las Piedras, to new friends and colleagues he’d learned to trust and respect.
He sighed and pushed send, emailing it all to Joe. If it left Joe’s hands it would likely be seen by a cast of hundreds. Words would take on lives of their own.
He leaned back, rubbed his eyes, then the back of his head, trying to make the nerves go away.
The thoughts wouldn’t leave. The image of Erika Jones strutted in to join them. Coy, bright, always a mystery. Could she really be another victim of Montana? How could he not have known? Clint Foss—he was a different story. He was no victim. But Erika?
The phone rang. He picked it up. “Yeah, this is Chastain.”
“Boss, I need a favor.” It was Johnny. “I let the fire monitors go for the day before I remembered I have a dentist appointment in forty-five minutes. Could you babysit the fire for a few hours?”
“Sure. Getting out of the office will help my sanity.”
“I’ll be back before dark.”
“Take the night off. I’ll stay up there tonight. It’ll do me good. But I need to be back here by morning.”
“Deal. I’ll relieve you at sunrise. Tonight, I’ll drink one for you at Elena’s.”
“Don’t talk me out of this.”
—·—
Jack reacquainted himself with the northeastern perimeter of the Pistol Creek Fire, plodding the fire line with shovel in hand. The furthest smokes to the west were settling down. Orange skies and still air sat over the fire.
When finished, he walked back to the pickup to set up camp.
The rumbling of an approaching vehicle grew out of the east. He watched, waiting for it to show. A gold sport utility vehicle hit the top of the hill and followed the road, stopping near the pickup.
Kelly lowered her window. “Can I get some help over here?”
She climbed out and popped open the back hatch, pulled out an ice chest and carried it one handed, stumbling toward him.
He jogged over. “Why are you here?”
She let him take it. “Bringing dinner. Leftovers from the other night. My painting’s still arguing with me. We weren’t making much progress in figuring out what it wants to say. You sounded bluesy.” She grabbed a canvas bag from the back and slipped the straps over her shoulder.
“I’m okay, and I’m not sure you should be here.”
“I’m not taking this stuff back.”
Jack laughed. “The enchiladas can stay.”
“And me?”
“Seriously, I’m okay. It’s not a good idea to have you here. There’s a fire I’m supposed to be watching, and you’re not wearing nomex.”
She glanced down at what she was wearing, hiking shorts and a white, V-neck top. “Does polyester burn?”
“It melts. How much are you wearing?”
“Pretty much everything. What if I take off everything that might melt?”
“I’m supposed to be watching the fire.”
“How strict are you with the rules?”
“You’re gonna get cold,” he said, and flashed a smile. “Thanks for bringing dinner. I was about to eat something sealed in plastic three years ago.”
“The enchiladas need to be heated.”
“Follow me.” He led her past the fire line, carrying the ice chest into the black, toward the
