Firestorm-pigeon 4 by Nevada Barr Page A
Authors: Nevada Barr
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Reading Group Guide, Audiobooks, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Crime & mystery, Mystery & Detective - Series, Crime thriller, Pigeon; Anna (Fictitious character), Women park rangers, California; Northern
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soon. If this sleet holds, the fire will be out by then or close to it. One way or another, we'll get to you."
When the conversation was terminated, Anna felt abandoned. Lindstrom took the radio and relayed their information to LeFleur.
From far away, through the howling of the wind, came soft thuds, the sound a giant's footfalls might make in ash and dirt. Anna grabbed Stephen's arm.
"What the hell..."
"John, do you hear that?" Lindstrom barked.
Bile backed up in Anna's throat. The pounding was directionless. It came in intervals of a few seconds to a minute and seemed to be on all sides.
"Put your hard hats on and hunker down somewhere solid," the crew boss said over the radio. "The wind's felling snags. It'll be like a war zone out there till it lets up."
Lindstrom sat down in the ash, leaned back against the engine block and spread his legs. "A little ninety-eight point six?" he offered. Anna squirmed between his knees and he held her close, retaining what body heat they had left.
His hard hat clanked against hers as he leaned his head down. "I sure wish you were fatter. No offense."
"None taken. I sure wish I was home—no offense."
"None taken."
Chapter Nine
TIMMY SPINKS CALLED Stanton a little after nine p.m. Chicago time. Frederick put down a block of cottonwood and the carving knife, muted the television and answered. As Spinks relayed information he'd received of a radio call from the surviving firefighters, the windstorm and the consequent recall of the rescue crew Base had dispatched up the mountain, Stanton saw the same news marching soundlessly across the TV screen.
He didn't take notes while Spinks talked. Names, dates, places, all the details would be remembered. He wasn't born with the talent. Like a waiter in a fine restaurant, over the years he'd trained himself to use his short-term memory. Later he would make lists. The lists served to make tangible his thoughts. Lists could be thumbtacked on maps, moved around, compared, re-matched like puzzle pieces or decorators' samples.
For now Stanton listened, his eyes on the talking head on channel 4, his fingers running absently over his carving. Emerging from the block of wood was a chimpanzee in a cowboy hat and six-guns. Stanton remembered seeing one dressed that way in an old movie. Monkeys in various activities and ensembles cavorted on the windowsill behind the sofa. Stanton had taken up carving in hopes it would do for his hands what the television did for his brain; keep it occupied in harmless pursuits from day's end till bedtime.
The sculptures were good. He knew it without taking much pride in his achievement. Cynicism, carefully weeded out of his daily dealings with mankind, dripped from every knife cut. His monkeys weren't fun, not even a barrel full of them. Slyness, stupidity, greed, envy, arrogance, lust, deceit: seven sometimes deadly but certainly ubiquitous sins marred the simian faces.
Stanton's first carvings had been of people but they had proved unsettling. Too much disappointment was revealed. With monkeys the whimsy somewhat balanced the cruelty.
"What's closest to Lassen Park and the Caribou Wilderness?" he asked when Spinks had finished. "Reno?" Stanton didn't wait for an answer. A map of northern California and Nevada had risen from some recess of his mind. "Book me a flight out of here to Reno."
There was no hesitation before the "yes, sir." Spinks, deliciously damp behind the ears, wouldn't know Stanton wasn't godlike in his powers, that he didn't choose his assignments nor did he prioritize them.
Careful not to scatter wood shavings, Frederick folded up the newspaper laid across his lap. The air ticket he would put on American Express. The days on either sick leave or annual leave. He'd accrued so much of both, come December he'd be on Use or Lose status anyway. The murder was a bit
When the conversation was terminated, Anna felt abandoned. Lindstrom took the radio and relayed their information to LeFleur.
From far away, through the howling of the wind, came soft thuds, the sound a giant's footfalls might make in ash and dirt. Anna grabbed Stephen's arm.
"What the hell..."
"John, do you hear that?" Lindstrom barked.
Bile backed up in Anna's throat. The pounding was directionless. It came in intervals of a few seconds to a minute and seemed to be on all sides.
"Put your hard hats on and hunker down somewhere solid," the crew boss said over the radio. "The wind's felling snags. It'll be like a war zone out there till it lets up."
Lindstrom sat down in the ash, leaned back against the engine block and spread his legs. "A little ninety-eight point six?" he offered. Anna squirmed between his knees and he held her close, retaining what body heat they had left.
His hard hat clanked against hers as he leaned his head down. "I sure wish you were fatter. No offense."
"None taken. I sure wish I was home—no offense."
"None taken."
Chapter Nine
TIMMY SPINKS CALLED Stanton a little after nine p.m. Chicago time. Frederick put down a block of cottonwood and the carving knife, muted the television and answered. As Spinks relayed information he'd received of a radio call from the surviving firefighters, the windstorm and the consequent recall of the rescue crew Base had dispatched up the mountain, Stanton saw the same news marching soundlessly across the TV screen.
He didn't take notes while Spinks talked. Names, dates, places, all the details would be remembered. He wasn't born with the talent. Like a waiter in a fine restaurant, over the years he'd trained himself to use his short-term memory. Later he would make lists. The lists served to make tangible his thoughts. Lists could be thumbtacked on maps, moved around, compared, re-matched like puzzle pieces or decorators' samples.
For now Stanton listened, his eyes on the talking head on channel 4, his fingers running absently over his carving. Emerging from the block of wood was a chimpanzee in a cowboy hat and six-guns. Stanton remembered seeing one dressed that way in an old movie. Monkeys in various activities and ensembles cavorted on the windowsill behind the sofa. Stanton had taken up carving in hopes it would do for his hands what the television did for his brain; keep it occupied in harmless pursuits from day's end till bedtime.
The sculptures were good. He knew it without taking much pride in his achievement. Cynicism, carefully weeded out of his daily dealings with mankind, dripped from every knife cut. His monkeys weren't fun, not even a barrel full of them. Slyness, stupidity, greed, envy, arrogance, lust, deceit: seven sometimes deadly but certainly ubiquitous sins marred the simian faces.
Stanton's first carvings had been of people but they had proved unsettling. Too much disappointment was revealed. With monkeys the whimsy somewhat balanced the cruelty.
"What's closest to Lassen Park and the Caribou Wilderness?" he asked when Spinks had finished. "Reno?" Stanton didn't wait for an answer. A map of northern California and Nevada had risen from some recess of his mind. "Book me a flight out of here to Reno."
There was no hesitation before the "yes, sir." Spinks, deliciously damp behind the ears, wouldn't know Stanton wasn't godlike in his powers, that he didn't choose his assignments nor did he prioritize them.
Careful not to scatter wood shavings, Frederick folded up the newspaper laid across his lap. The air ticket he would put on American Express. The days on either sick leave or annual leave. He'd accrued so much of both, come December he'd be on Use or Lose status anyway. The murder was a bit
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