Chapter 3
Sean Moran stuffed some clothing in the duffel, watching the television broadcast with narrowed eyes. He listened carefully, trying to get information on which roads where open around Lake Arrowhead, but his attention was completely captured as the FBI was mentioned. Feds, the woman reporter said. Now they had feds investigating for arson. Damn.
No matter, he thought to himself. They'd never find who set it. He and his man had been careful.
The Malibu and San Diego fires were what had given him the idea. A few days ago, the governor had come on television, giving an interview on a local L.A. station, discussing potential sources of resources, and had mentioned the possibility of using prisoners from lower security prisons to work the fire lines. Sean had immediately thought of his younger brother, Tommy, serving time for drug dealing. If Tommy could get on a work detail like that, Sean could find a way to get him out of there, he was sure of it. However, that was only if the governor had a bad enough resource problem that he'd have to use prisoners. One way to make sure of that, Sean had thought. Set a couple more fires.
So he did. He picked a Latino gang member he knew named Ramon, someone not connected with Dillon's businesses, and they'd set the Santa Clarita and Lake Arrowhead fires in the middle of the night. Sean had selected them because they were both out in remote areas. They'd be a lot more likely to send prisoners out there to work than to Malibu. The rich Hollywood snots would probably have a fit if they found lowlife prisoners were working in their neighborhoods.
For a couple of days, nothing happened. The state called in the National Guard to help, and Sean cursed, figuring his efforts were going to be for naught. Then yesterday, he'd gotten a call from Jesse Alvarez, the man Sean had chosen as a contact. They were sending the prisoners out, Jesse had told him. They were going to dig trenches out by Lake Arrowhead.
Sean knew enough to conceal his connection with the plan. The man he'd picked as a go-between, Jesse Alvarez, was someone he knew he could trust. Jesse had never had dealings with Dillon, only Sean and Tommy. He had Jesse contact two of the prison guards, men who he knew could be bought, because they owed the bookies money. Jesse told them there was cash in it for them, if they could look the other way and let Tommy conveniently slip away when they were out on the line. Jesse had set it all up with them, and the fires had been raging for two days, when the governor finally decided to send out the prisoners.
Sean finished his packing. He would pick Tommy up out on the road; he had clothes for him to change into. He threw binoculars into the bag, and slung on a jacket, then tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster, and tossed down a hit of meth. In a couple of hours, Tommy, his baby brother, would be a free man. He almost had a hand on the doorknob when he heard the knock. He peered out through the view hole, and frowned. His stepbrother, Lenny Angelo, was standing, with his trademark smirk, on the other side. What in the hell was he doing here? He opened the door. "Lenny, hey man, I was just on my way out."
Lenny grinned, his dark brown eyes sharp in a sharp face, adorned with a hooked nose. His Philadelphia accent was thick. "I know. Dillon tole me. I'm s'posed to go wid you."
Sean felt a sharp jerk of frustration and rage in his chest. What in the hell was this? Dillon didn't trust him? He'd be damned, though; if he would let Lenny know he was upset. He shrugged indifferently, and nodded at his half-brother. "Okay, sure. Let's go. You drive."
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Charlie listened with mounting anger to his brother. Don's irate voice sounded in the receiver. 'Look, Dad's worried sick about you. Give him a call, and don't go being a hero. Just get home.'
The phone clicked off before he could reply, and he shut it with irritation. "Geez, what a grouch," he muttered. His brother had effectively ruined his sense of euphoria.
He sighed, and picked up the cell phone and dialed his father. Busy. Probably talking to Don, getting his side of the story. Voicemail came on, and Charlie left a message. "Dad, just wanted to let you know I'm okay, and I'm on the road again, near Bakersfield. Don't wait dinner for me – I'll probably be late – I'm going to stop off at Lake Arrowhead for a few hours. Don't worry about me; I won't be working anywhere close to the fires. Talk to you later." He tried hard to keep the irritation out of his voice, but he knew it was there.
He shut the phone, then as an afterthought, turned it off. He didn't need a lecture from his father, too. There were hundreds of people in the fight against the fires; trying to help in any way they could. There was no reason why he shouldn't join them.
He stopped for gas and a candy bar outside Bakersfield. He was hoping for something a little more substantial, but the fast food places were swamped and the gas station was out of nearly everything that resembled a sandwich. He washed the poor substitute for a meal down with a bottle of water as he pulled back into the long line of traffic. By the time he made it to the turn off for Lake Arrowhead, he was tired, hungry, and not nearly as eager as he'd been that morning. At Cajon Junction, he pulled off onto Route 138, where he showed his credentials to an officer at the checkpoint. Route 138 would come down on the north side of the fire, and as he made his way toward the command post, he felt some of his resolve return. The Lake Arrowhead fire was a monster- much larger than Santa Clarita was; and he could see the huge pall of smoke to his south. The magnitude of it suddenly hit him – if he could do anything, no matter how small, to help, then by God, he was going to do it.
The command post was set up a little west of the town of Crestline, and Charlie found Mike Jersich easily. Jersich looked exhausted, and so grateful to see him that Charlie's sense of purpose increased. In spite of the larger area to cover, Charlie was able to use some of the equations he had devised for the Santa Clarita fire, and it only took two hours before he had results, and a marked-up map.
He met with Jersich and his team leaders, and explained how the map worked. Jersich nodded in appreciation, but then his brow furrowed. "It should be good for awhile," he said, "but until we completely contain the fire, the borders will be constantly changing. That will change the map."
Charlie nodded. "I know. I downloaded the programming for you, and showed one of your techs how to use it to generate a new map. He has my number if he has questions."
Jersich clasped his hand. "We owe you a big thanks – we're really strapped out here for resources – anything that will make us more efficient is a huge help. You probably ought to hit the road – you'll be taking Route 18 south to get out of here – it runs past the fire. It's okay for now, but the way the wind is coming, we're probably going to have to close it soon. We're going to take one last group down it when it closes, flanked by patrol cars – they'll be leaving in less than a half hour. You might want to make sure you're in that group, or you're going to have to go all the way back north on 138."
Charlie nodded, and picked up his computer bag. "Okay, thanks. Your tech has my card – call me if you need anything."
He looked around as he walked back to his car; there were people moving everywhere, firefighters, volunteers with food and water, reporters, a few state troopers; the place was a zoo. They were set up on the edge of a section of fire that had been contained, and to Charlie's left he could see the blackened terrain stretch away, as far as the eye could see. Over the horizon hung the smoke, ominous, threatening.
He could see part of the parking area now; there were still vehicles coming in, he noted, thinking absently that one of them looked familiar, when a voice called his name. "Hey Charlie!"
He turned to see a face he knew - George – what was his last name – he'd worked with him on an arson case for Don. He searched his memory, as George, wearing an FBI windbreaker, trotted up. 'Thornton,' he thought, with a mental snap of his fingers. 'George Thornton.' "Hey, George," he said, extending his hand. "How are you?"
Thornton pumped it vigorously. "Good. We're out here working the arson angle, and we think we've found something. Do you have a minute?"
Charlie hesitated. "Well, I'm not really cleared to consult on this, at least not with the FBI," he hedged.
George persisted. "We've already done the legwork, I just wanted your opinion – should only take a minute. And since when has it been a problem for you to consult for the FBI?"
"It hasn't, it's just, it's field work, and I didn't submit paperwork…," Charlie broke off, realizing how lame he sounded, and gave George a sheepish grin. "Okay, just a quick question, though."
George pointed to a ridge and a hollow in the burned out area, not too far distant. "Okay, a fire like this, driven by wind, usually catches on a peak first, right? See that hollow over there – that's one of the starting points of this blaze."
Charlie followed his finger to the hollow. "It's less likely it would start in the hollow, correct, but not impossible."
George nodded and unfolded a map. "Well, it was only one of the places. There was another hollow, nearby, here, where a blaze was started almost at the same time." He pointed to the map. "This is the direction of the prevailing winds. Winds were not too gusty that night, they settled down a bit as the sun set. So you had more of a steady state condition. What do you think the probability was that the first fire set the second?"
Charlie did some rapid calculations in his head. "Almost zero. The wind direction is wrong, and there was little gusting, so that means little wind shear, and negligible swirling action. Plus it was another hollow, not a peak. Add that into it, and the fact that they both occurred around the same time, and it looks like you might have a purposely set fire."
George slapped him on the arm with a grin. "That's what we thought. We're gonna get the dogs out there to sniff out accelerant to verify. Thanks, man. Just in time, too." His gaze traveled over Charlie's shoulder, and he nodded a greeting. "Agent Eppes."
Charlie stiffened and turned, to see Don and his team behind him. To the average observer, Don's face was expressionless, but Charlie could see that his eyes were black with anger.
Don nodded. "George. Be with you in a minute. Charlie, can I talk to you for a second?"
He clamped a hand on Charlie's arm, none too gently, and pulled him aside.
Colby raised an eyebrow. He exchanged a glance with Megan and David, and they looked back at George.
"So George," said Megan lightly, trying to divert his attention, "what do you have?"
Don pulled Charlie to the side, a few yards away, but out of hearing of his team. His grip was like a vise, and Charlie hissed at him. "You can let go any time now." His bravado wavered at little, as he faced his brother and saw the anger on his face.
Don realized suddenly that he was still gripping Charlie's arm, and immediately released him, running a hand over his face in frustration. "Charlie – what in the heck is this? Do you want me to lose my job?"
Charlie rubbed his arm, with a quick glance towards Don's team. Thankfully, they weren't watching this – they seemed intent on George's map. Maybe too intent. "This is not what it looks like, Don-,"
"Oh, so you're not standing here; good," Don retorted. "I suppose you're in one of Fleinhardt's alternate universes. The last time we talked, you were at Santa Clarita, and I specifically told you to go home."
Charlie was regaining some of his anger. "I'm not one of your agents, Don. As much as you'd like to, you can't order me around, especially when I'm not consulting for you. If you'd bothered to stay on the phone I would have told you I was going to Lake Arrowhead, to do the same thing I did for the fire marshal at Santa Clarita."
Don looked at him skeptically. "The same thing, huh? The thing that didn't include consulting for the FBI. So I guess you weren't working with George when I walked up."
Charlie shook his head, and his voice had just a hint of a plea in it. "I swear, Don, I was on my way out, he just had a quick question-,"
Don's lips tightened. "Forget it, Charlie. I'm tired of the excuses. The fact is, you're here, meeting with FBI personnel, without clearance." His voice changed, and it sounded tired. "Just go on and get out of here. Dad's waiting for you. Go home."
He knew he was being harsh, and he suspected that part of what was driving his reaction was worry, the unsettled feeling he'd had since Charlie had been attacked a few weeks ago. Feeling suddenly a bit guilty, he lifted an arm to put it around Charlie's shoulders, intending to walk with him to his car, and maybe soften his words a bit, but Charlie misinterpreted his movement and stepped back quickly, his jaw set angrily, and Don dropped his arm, looking a bit taken aback.
Charlie turned, and stalked toward the car with as much dignity as he could muster, his face burning with humiliation, his insides twisted with hurt and anger. He couldn't tell which made him feel worse – being treated like a child who couldn't think for himself, being publicly berated, or Don's reaction. Somehow, by trying to do the right thing, he'd managed to infuriate his brother.
Don watched the slight figure trudge away, resentment and defeat apparent in his brother's body language, the slump of his shoulders. He knew he'd been harder on Charlie than he needed to be, and his guilt deepened, which only added to his frustration. Although, he told himself, maybe it was good to be tough on him – maybe next time his brother would pay attention to the rules. God, Charlie drove him crazy sometimes. He rubbed his face, tiredly, with exasperation, and turned back toward his team, who were all watching him, somberly.
They caught his eye and as a group, turned back toward George, trying to pretend they hadn't been watching. Don stepped up behind them to listen, with one more glance toward the parking lot, as the blue Prius pulled out and away.
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End Chapter 3
