Up in Smoke by Charlene Weir Page B

could be seen. They died within view of camcorders held by people in the valley filming the walls of flame.
    When Fromm raced to the top of the ridge, he thought he was the only one left alive on Pale Horse. With flames at his heels, he fled in such panic that he ran into a tree and knocked himself unconscious. He didn’t know how long he was out. The next thing he knew, Jack Garrett was dragging him and a tree fell on them. He remembered thinking the fire’s roar was more deafening than the rage of a tornado funnel.
    When Fromm came to, on the other side of the ridge, Vince Egelhoff, another smoke jumper, was screaming. Ribbons of flesh hung from his burned hands. Garrett was wrapping them with wet T-shirts. When they stumbled down to the highway, Garrett made Egelhoff lie in the shade of a county car and watered him down to lower his body temperature, trying to ward off shock.
    The incident commander was yelling names at the radio.
    Six did not respond.
    Sean leaned back. A stray thought wandered into mind. Friday night at the farm when he’d dumped Fromm in bed, Fromm was mumbling about horse’s teeth. A touch of posttraumatic stress here? Horse’s Teeth Ridge on Pale Horse Mountain? It certainly had sharp teeth. It had taken the lives of six firefighters. Why wasn’t Garrett using this stuff?
    â€œHey, Dudly! You hear they found her?”
    Sean turned around to see who was yelling.
    A kid, early twenties, buzz cut, jeans and sweatshirt, clattered down the stairs. “Dud?”
    â€œBack here,” a lugubrious voice came from somewhere in the rear.
    â€œDid you hear me? They found her. Deader than yesterday’s news.” He trotted over to Sean and stuck out his hand. “Ty Baldini. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
    Sean shook his hand. “Sean Donovan.”
    â€œYes, sir, I know. I’ve been following—well, covering the Garrett campaign. Just for, you know, the Herald. While he’s in town. I work here. Reporter for—”
    A loud snort came from the murky gloom. Sean assumed it was Dudly giving his opinion.
    â€œLet me tell you, sir, I’m really blown by meeting you. I’ve read all your stuff and—well, sir, it’s just great—”
    â€œThanks,” Sean said. He could do with a little less of the sirs, they made him feel a hundred years old. Ah youth, so fleeting. “Who was found?”
    â€œOh that. Local news, sir. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
    â€œI’m always interested.”
    â€œYeah? Well, it’s the woman who called 911 and said she was in a car trunk and didn’t know where the car was. The cops tried to find her, but they didn’t even know where to look.”
    â€œWho is she?” Sean was thinking Susan wouldn’t be happy about this.
    â€œDon’t know yet, I’m birddogging out to see.”
    â€œMind if I tag along?”
    â€œNo, sir, that’d be great, sir.”
    â€œCall me Sean,” he said as he got in Ty’s Trans Am.
    Ty drove most of the way across town before he turned into a small park. There were cop cars, ambulance, uniformed cops, and silent onlookers. Sean followed Ty down a gravel path to a blue Mustang with its nose bashed into a concrete circular base around a statue of Horace Greeley. Go west, young man. Seemed like good advice to him.
    The trunk lid was open. A kid was snapping photographs. He didn’t see Susan anywhere. Just as well. She wouldn’t be happy he was here. He edged up behind Ty and looked in the trunk. A woman was curled up next to the jack, head resting on one arm as though trying to make herself comfortable. The shape of her head wasn’t quite right, one side was sort of flattened. Dark hair, tangled and bloody, matted to her cheek, pale skin, bluish in the fading light. She had on jeans and a white sweater. The sweater was hiked up in the back exposing two inches of bluish skin. From the side of her