Firestorm-pigeon 4 by Nevada Barr Read Free Book Online Page A

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Roaring drowned even thought. Heat scorched her back, she could feel the burning through her left sleeve below the elbow. Air, sucked deep into her lungs, scalded and she screamed without sound. Her legs were growing heavy, sodden. Instead of carrying her she now had the sense of dragging them.

The ridge top rolled beneath her as if she'd flown in. Suddenly she was aware the way had grown easier: the beaten earth of the old camp. Paula's truck, the hood up, was parked where they'd left it. Two gasoline cans sat by the front wheel. Both were puffed up like roasted marshmallows, ready to blow. It crossed Anna's mind to move them before any of the others reached the ridge but she knew if she touched them she would die and she kept running.

Across the camp, clear of the pines, and over the crest of the ridge, Anna could see Jennifer ahead of her crashing down the slope toward the creek bed. Anna stumbled after, falling and pulling herself up time after time. Like a woman in a nightmare, she thought, like the Japanese maidens in monster movies.

Howard Black Elk ran out of the trees just above. He'd lost helmet and gloves. His hands were over his ears trying to protect them from the burning. Both arms were seared, the flesh hanging in ribbons.

Anna caught him by the shoulders.

"The creek," she gasped. "Fire'll slow when it reaches the ridge." While she talked she ripped her bandanna in half and bound Black Elk's hands. The last of the water from the bottle on her belt she poured over the bandages.

"The creek," she repeated.

"Safety zone," Black Elk said. He hadn't panicked. He knew where he was going. Together they ran again, flying downhill on legs that felt made of rubber and sand. Anna slid on rocks, fell over bushes and swung around trees. She heard the gas cans explode and looked back to the ridge top.

Flame was cresting in a wave. Burning debris shot over, tumbling down and starting new fires. A hundred yards and Anna would reach the creek. She turned to run and felt a sharp pain shoot through her ankle.

Fuck, she thought, I've broken it. Fear narrowed to that one place in her body and she put her weight on it. It held. The pain melded into the others as she ran.

The creek was sunken, the banks several feet high and she tumbled over the lip into the sand. Already it was hot to the touch.

"Deploy!"

Maybe it was LeFleur. Smoke blinded her. Hacking coughs tore the air from her lungs. Fumbling behind her back, Anna pulled her plastic-encased shelter from its pouch. She hadn't checked it in years. They were supposed to be checked every two weeks but no one did it. No one thought they would have to use them.

Ripping it out of the plastic, she clawed it open; a small silver pup tent. Firefighters called them shake 'n' bakes. It no longer struck Anna as funny. Scorching wind snatched at the flimsy shelter, threatening to wrench it from her grasp. Fire poured down the mountain, burning embers exploding in its path.

Anna dragged the silver tent over her and anchored it with her boots to hold it down. Pulling it along her back and up over her head, she gripped the front edges in her gloved hands and fell face forward into the sand.

The roar engulfed her. Scouring sand and debris rasped on her shelter and she felt the skin on her back begin to burn. Pressing her face into a hollow in the sand, hoping for air cool enough to breathe, she thought of her sister. If she didn't get out of this alive, Molly would kill her.

Chapter Five

FOOTAGE OF THE firestorm was on the six o'clock news. The shots were from a distance of several miles and cut short when the helicopter carrying the cameraman hit rough weather. Still the explosive sense of power carried through, the might of nature unleashed.

Frederick Stanton relaxed in the living room of his one-bedroom apartment in Evanston, Illinois. An overstuffed couch, bought for comfort, not looks, dominated the room. In the grate of a defunct fireplace, a television took the