Day Into Night Read Free Page A

there’s a small smooth black wafer the size of a dollar coin. I photograph and measure this, use tweezers to place the wafer in a plastic container padded inside with cotton. The remainder of the ash from the pan looks unremarkable and I turn my attention to the pan, black and warped, the bottom discolored by heat, hues of purple and blue visible through a coat of char. There’s no brand stamped on the pan but it’s the same type used in the other fires, which I remark on to Berton.
    “You’ve had this happen before?” asks Malostic.
    I pause, look at Berton, who shrugs. “Are you serious?”
    Malostic frowns. “You didn’t read the files?” I ask, incredulous. “Or talk to Bill?”
    Malostic’s frown deepens. “I came on short notice.”
    “Well,” I say. “This fire is number five.”
    Base camp is pandemonium. Helicopters land, refuel and take off. Piles of equipment — groceries, fire hose, chainsaws and pumps — are everywhere. Hastily erected wall tents occupy the forest along the edge of the clearing. A Caterpillar dozer is pushing over trees to make more room. Trucks and vans clog freshly scraped earth and men in orange coveralls and red hardhats scurry back and forth. Two office trailers have been dragged in for the overhead team. One of the trailer doors opens and a tall Ranger in uniform steps out, scans the chaos. He has grey hair, is wearing a green ball cap, and is looking for something. As soon as I recognize him, I swear.
    Berton looks up from where we’re sitting at a picnic table, reviewing our notes. He looks past Malostic, who’s sitting at the other side of the table, then over at me. The man in the ball cap is coming our way, an intent look on his face.
    Berton sighs heavily. “Uh-oh.”
    Malostic looks up. “What?”
    “You’re about to meet the new fire boss.”
    By the time Malostic turns to look, the man in the ball cap is standing behind him, glaring at me. Malostic extends a hand.
    “What the fuck are you doing here Cassel?”
    Arthur Pirelli, 55 years old and chief ranger of the Fort Termination Ranger District, he used to be my boss back when I too was a full-time ranger. We’ve had what you could euphemistically call a falling out since then. Right now, he’s dangerously close to a stroke.
    “I’m investigating this little fire you have here, Arthur.” Malostic finally gets the impression that his hand will not be shaken, and withdraws his offer.
    Pirelli grinds his teeth. “You’ve got about two fucking minutes to get off my fire.”
    I smile, as professionally as possible. “Well, we’re not quite done here, Arthur.”
    “Two minutes,” he says. “Before I rip you a new asshole.”
    Then he’s gone, stomping back to the trailer. Malostic looks like a fish pulled suddenly from deep water. “What was that all about?”
    I don’t want to talk about it. “Arthur and I don’t get along.”
    Malostic means to pry and asks why. I swallow, look away. “He has this crazy idea I killed his daughter.”

2
    THE PAST HAS a way of trespassing on the present. You can try to forget it but sometimes it doesn’t want to forget you. For me, Arthur Pirelli is the past that won’t forget. Not that he doesn’t have good reason. At the end of the fire season one year, he threw a party at his acreage to show his appreciation to the staff for a job well done. His daughter Nina was home. She was tall, slim, black-haired and mysterious. While the other guys were busy draining a keg of beer donated by a local helicopter company, I was talking with Nina, drawn by something deeper than pure physical attraction. She had just dropped out of university — business and finance, didn’t want to spend her life in an office cubicle, wanted to take journalism instead, work in a field for which she had passion. I told her I knew how she felt; I’d dropped instrumentation in favour of forestry for roughly the same reasons.
    Kindred spirits, we began to see each other on a regular