Chasing Fire
Page 93

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 f**k 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 f**king 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 f**king 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 ass**le? 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.