Fire Page 10

  “Twelve-hour shifts until this is past us. Roadblocks, extra patrols, coordinating search and rescue teams.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  So did he. He went to his car and turned around. “Hey!” he yelled, running back toward her.

  She had been backing the car up. She stopped and rolled down her window. “Yes?”

  “Is it clear? The state highway, I mean. Can I take it down to Nevada City?”

  “Yes, it’s clear. I’ll call down to the roadblock so they won’t be shocked to see you coming through from the wrong direction.”

  “Thanks.” He went back to his car, found another bottle of water in his pack, and drank it down. Despite himself, he was hungry. He ate an energy bar. It sat uncomfortably on his stomach, so he only had the one.

  After Venita left, he got back out and checked the burned-out cars. Sedans, SUVs and trucks, he could rule out. The only sedan there had a burned child seat in the back, though thankfully no bodies were in any of the vehicles. None of the cars was Sylvia’s.

  He drove to the highway and back toward Nevada City. Just past the roadblock, his cellphone came on. Several calls and messages, from the sound of it. He drove to Nevada City, pulled in for gas, scrolled through the messages while it pumped. His mom, Sylvia’s mom, Pasquale, his boss, Sylvia’s old boss—somehow he’d forgotten about making that call—and two other friends.

  No Sylvia.

  He pulled away from the gas tank and parked in front of the convenience store to return the most important calls. Sylvia’s mom first. When she’d got done screeching at him over not calling her back sooner, he delivered the message she wanted. “No news,” he said. “I went up to the house.”

  “I’m getting on a plane.”

  He hesitated but said, “Okay.” He didn’t tell her why he thought she should be here. But she should be. “I went by the house,” he said again.

  “How is it?”

  “It isn’t. It’s a pile of ash and rubble. Burned to the ground, like most of the houses in town.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Sylvia?”

  “She made it out. The car was gone. I saw some burned-out cars at other houses, and along the road, so I knew what to look for, and her car definitely wasn’t there.”

  “So why hasn’t she called?”

  “She might be stuck somewhere without cell service. I just drove out of the area without any. That’s why I didn’t call you sooner.”

  “I hope so. Have you checked the hospitals?”

  “I have, earlier. She’s not there.”

  “Can I check again?”

  “Absolutely. It’d be helpful, to tell you the truth.” He gave her the name of the nearest small hospital and the big one in Sacramento, where they’d airlift critical cases to. “They may not give out information, but I bet you can talk them into saying for sure she’s not there. Explain about the fire and the house.”

  “I will. And I’ll text you with my flight information.”

  “Okay,” he said. He didn’t know how he’d handle having Francine around. He liked her fine, but he just wanted to be alone right now. No, he wanted to be with his wife. But barring that, he’d rather be alone.

  But other people had needs too. He understood that. He phoned his mom, and suffered through the same yelling for his not calling back sooner, though his mother managed to yell without ever once raising her voice. He explained everything.

  His mother was more blunt than Francine had been. “Is she dead?”

  “I hope not.”

  “I hope not too, but is she, do you think?”

  “Mom, I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I need to sleep, and I’ll call you back then and be able to make more sense.” He wasn’t sure he’d live up to that promise, but it satisfied her for now.

  Sylvia’s ex-boss was worried when he heard the story in the message, and he said he’d find her friend’s number and call her, and take care of that so James could focus on hunting for Sylvia.

  “I know she knows Sylvia’s other good friend in the city.” James named her. “Ask her to call her too, and if Sylvia’s with either of them, it’s imperative she call me now. Otherwise, they can text me and I’ll get back to them when I have a moment.”

  “Of course. I’m really sorry to hear this. I hope you find her soon.”

  The other calls he returned with a text, except Pasquale’s. He dialed him and then got on the road, heading back to his hotel room.

  “Pasquale. I’ve been to Pinedrops.”

  “Did you find Sylvia?”

  “No.” He tried to say that he’d been asked for dental records, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. For now, that was his private burden to bear, and it was a lesser burden for not being shared. “I’m sorry, man, but your house is gone.” It was close to the center of town, and James had passed it without looking any more closely at it.

  “Ah, shit. Yours?”

  “Burned down to a concrete foundation. There’s nothing left. Nothing.”

  “I guess I need to call my insurance.”

  “Oh God, I hadn’t even thought of that.” One more thing to do. But not right now. Right now, he needed sleep. He didn’t want to need sleep. But his brain wasn’t working right and he knew sleep would fix part of that.

  The other part of his slow thinking was overwhelming grief, too much to handle.

  He said, “I gotta go, man. If I don’t catch a few hours of sleep, I’m going to be in trouble.”

  “I’m sorry about Sylvia. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  He wasn’t a person to ask favors normally. This was not a normal day. “Keep an eye on the news for me while I sleep. Or ask Lindsey to, if you need to catch some Zs yourself. If you see her in the background of a shot or something, call me.”

  “That’s easy enough.”

  He clicked off the call and made it back to the hotel without falling asleep on the road. He even checked at the desk for messages. And he asked for another room for Sylvia’s mother. There were none to be had.

  He’d deal with that later. For now, sleep. He stumbled into bed, totally dressed, and was out within moments.

  Chapter 22

  When he woke, James smelled smoke, and he panicked. It took him a moment to realize he was only smelling himself, the scent he’d picked up in Pinedrops when walking through the ruin. He wondered, for the first time, how much of that odor came from the ash of burned human flesh.

  Sylvia.

  The thought was a stab straight to his heart. It was like waking up, reaching out for the one you love and finding the bed empty, but multiplied times a million. What if the bed was empty from now on?

  He shook off the wave of grief, and he shook off the last of his sleep. Time to check the news and his messages.

  His phone had been on vibrate but none of the calls had woken him. He had managed about five hours of sleep, and now he had a ton of calls to answer. He scrolled through. Nothing from Sylvia. One was from the Nevada County Sheriff. That was the one he called back.

  A recording started that told him about Sheriff’s services and use of 911. He climbed out of bed and paced while it talked nonsense at him. Finally, he was given a human being, who put him on hold again while transferring his call.

  “Mr. Teschler?”

  “Yes. I mean, I’m James Chang, but I’m Sylvia Teschler’s husband.” Torn between hope for good news and terror of bad news, he waited for the answer.

  “I’d like to send you a photo.”

  “A photo?”

  “Of a victim’s tattoo.”

  Relief won over the dawning horror. “Sylvia didn’t have any.”

  “You’re sure?”

  What a strange question. James had been over every inch of her body multiple times, so yes, he was sure. “No tattoos. No major scars. Only piercings are one each in the ear lobes.”

  “Let me note that.”


  “So you haven’t found her.”

  “Rescue and recover operations are ongoing.” That was said robotically. Then the sheriff said, more like a human being, “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried. We’re working as quickly as we can.”

  “How many are missing?”

  “Thirteen. We’re looking for every single one of them with the same focus. We’ll find every one too. Including your wife.”

  “Thank you,” James said.

  “This is the only number I have for you. Is there another?”

  “No.” He said it automatically. They hadn’t had a landline. And they sure didn’t now. But he realized he was wrong. “Wait. There is. I’m staying at the Grass Valley Best Western.” He read the number off the room phone. “But the cell is probably the easiest way.” The sheriff ended the call.

  He was glad he hadn’t had to look at what the sheriff had wanted to send him. A tattoo from a woman’s corpse. No, he didn’t want to see that.

  James went back through the messages and texts and took them in the same order as before. Parents first. Pasquale next. Everyone else got a text this time.

  Strange numbers included two journalists. He was angry at first that they’d found his name and were bothering him at a time like this. Then he wondered if he should call them anyway. If a line in a news account about Sylvia could bring her home to him, it’d be worth the trauma of answering their stupid questions. “How do you feel?” How do you suppose, morons? He saved the messages but didn’t return the calls. Later on, he’d decide if speaking to them was worth it or not.

  He texted Sylvia’s friends and boss, who had left messages, and the closer of his friends who’d called him. I’m alive. Sylvia’s still missing. More later.

  He stripped his filthy clothes off and realized he needed to buy more. Or no, just wear these again for now. When he quit hunting through the fire debris for the day, he’d buy more. He had to, after all, build up a whole wardrobe from scratch.

  He showered, put on the dirty clothes, and turned on the TV to catch up on local news reports of the fire. The weather was on. Hot and dry. Wind. Then an upbeat story to finish the half-hour. After commercials, the TV news cycle started again. There was a second fire, in Napa. It took the bulk of the fire news. He wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news. Bad news for people in Napa, of course. But for his finding Sylvia? Was it better to have the glare of the media on the search for survivors and victims here, or off it?

  He had no idea. Probably off was better. The local sheriff could commit more people to search and rescue and fewer to dealing with crowds and the media, who would run off to Napa.

  Then he got online on his phone, wishing he had a laptop. He could buy a cheap one at Walmart. Should have before. His laptop was gone. Everything was gone. Everything. That stopped him and he stared into space, thinking of treasures he’d lost. A geode. A piece of glass art he’d bought in San Francisco, probably shattered or melted away to nothing. Records from school, awards, cameras, favorite clothes. Sylvia’s wedding dress, which she might have given to a daughter one day.

  Sylvia.

  A new wave of grief threatened to drown him, but he turned away from it and went back to hunting online. He discovered that the Red Cross had set up a shelter for survivors in North San Juan. He’d check there. He doubted Sylvia would be there, unless she had no memory of who she was or something wild like that. But maybe another survivor would have seen her, and he’d have a better idea of where to look next.

  The sun was going down soon, and he wouldn’t be able to look for Syl effectively. But he’d look anyway. Walmart had flashlights. He’d buy the biggest, brightest one they had and lots of batteries for it. He’d search the whole damned county inch by inch if he had to.

  They had released figures for missing and dead. Six dead, eleven missing. They weren’t up to date, for the sheriff had said thirteen were missing. Numbers like that would have made him think, a mere two days ago, “Not bad.”

  He didn’t think that way now. Every one of the six was precious to someone. Twelve other families—or more people, including friends—were going through what he was going through, waiting, hoping, losing hope, hoping again. That wasn’t “not bad.” That was pain beyond belief.

  He drove through a place to get a deli sandwich and went to Walmart. He was in a hurry, but he didn’t want to forget anything he might need. He picked up a crowbar just in case he needed to pry up something, which would also serve as a weapon if he needed one, two flashlights, big and small, a headlamp, and a sleeping bag. He wondered what people at the Red Cross center might need that wasn’t supplied to them. They probably had food and sample-size toiletries supplied. He found playing cards and simple board games near the sleeping bags, and grabbed fifty dollars’ worth of those, and he grabbed some paperback books and magazines as well. He wasn’t religious, but other people were, so he even grabbed a bible. He knew he and Syl made more money than a lot of folks. He could afford this, if the insurance company didn’t screw them over too badly, and those were his neighbors in need in that shelter, even if he’d never met most of them. He was here, unharmed, able to afford a hotel room, and they might not even have a car remaining to sleep in.

  Next, he got a lot more clothes for himself and a suitcase to put them in. Scissors to cut off the tags. Unwilling to give up hope that he’d find Sylvia, he bought a T-shirt and jeans in the women’s department in her size and flip-flops for her because he didn’t remember her shoe size and he only needed to get close to it with flip-flops.

  There, he was rebuilding a normal life of ownership. None of it mattered without his wife, but it all mattered. A person needs scissors, after all. He grabbed a few bananas and apples to eat tonight, and a package of jerky. Total damage, only $762. He had to show his ID to have the credit card charge accepted. Another thing to be grateful he still had, his driver’s license.

  He drove up Highway 49, which was no longer blocked off. The clouds of smoke were gone, the fire burning well off to the east now, having jumped over the ridge. He hit the point of destruction and it shocked him as much as it had before.

  He arrived at the Red Cross shelter around sundown. There was a TV van parked in front of it, a sheriff’s car, and a banner hung on the front of the building identifying it. It had been empty, an old general store long out of business, so they’d moved into it and apparently had set up shop quickly.

  There was a receptionist inside the front door with a volunteer badge. “Do you need assistance?” she said.

  “I’m looking for my wife. Our house burned down in the fire.”

  “What’s her name? I have a roster here.”

  He gave her name and his own. The receptionist shook her head. “I’m sorry, no, she’s not here.”

  “Could I go in and talk to people? My neighbors may have seen her. Also, I brought this.” He held up two bags with the cards and games and books in them.

  “What it is?”

  He showed her. “A donation.”

  “That was kind of you. I’ll make sure this gets to the people who need it. Okay, if I can see some ID, I’ll let you back.”

  He pulled out his driver’s license again, proving he was a resident of Pinedrops, thinking how difficult this last day would have been had he just moved there without changing his ID yet. Or what if someone had fled the fire and not taken their ID? Think of the hassles that would result. How would be you even begin to prove that you were you? You might end up grateful that California fingerprints all drivers.

  He was surprised to see the deputy Venita there. She really was working long shifts. She saw him and raised a hand, but she was involved in conversation with someone seated in a chair, someone looking stunned.

  James sympathized.

  Glancing around, he saw a number of familiar faces. He didn’t have names to put to most of them, but they were people he saw in passing from time to time. His eyes finally lit upon a man whose name he did know, Kevin. He was
alone, reading a book.

  James made his way over. “Kevin.”

  He looked up and a tired smile crossed his face. “James. Glad to see you made it.”

  “I did. They’re saying only six dead.”

  “I suspect there’s more. They just haven’t found them yet.”

  James tried to keep his face from showing how that made him feel. “You were still living alone, right?”

  “Right. No new girlfriend. So I lost the house and everything I owned. How’s your wife?”

  “Missing.”

  He looked surprised, and then slowly shook his head and looked sad. “I’m sorry, man.”

  James nodded. People were sorry. It wasn’t just words. They actually did feel bad for him. But it didn’t help. All the sorrow in the world would not bring Sylvia to him. “I’m not giving up hope.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “But I’m out of ideas. Where could she be?”

  “Your house?”

  “Nothing but cinders.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Yeah, I snuck in this morning. She did make it out, that much is obvious.”

  “I haven’t seen yet, but I know mine is gone. They told me.”

  “I only saw one standing, so most people are in our shoes.”

  He gestured around the room. “We were all lucky to get out.”

  James sat cross-legged on the floor. “Tell me about it. Trying to get out, I mean.”

  Kevin told a similar story to Pasquale’s, though he hadn’t gone to help move the fallen tree. He’d waited at the other end of the loop, where people had been arguing, and the police had come, and broken up the fight and gotten the cars moving. “It was terrifying though. The fire was closing in. I was one of the last to escape. I know I’ll see it in my imagination until the day I die, driving with both sides of the road on fire, cinders flying, and the noise. The heat. Overwhelming.” His eyes went unfocused as he remembered.

  James waited it out.

  Kevin came back to the present, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I get it, I think. Did you see Sylvia?”