High Desert Barbecue (28 page)

T
he Park Service man snorted.

“
It won’t matter why the place got burned if we get linked to it, and that’s a distinct possibility with that fiasco in Sycamore Canyon. We need to leave Greenfield and his fanatics holding the bag on this one.”

V
an Kamp hopped from his chair and landed gently on the floor. He began to pace.

“
I think we can do better than that. I mean, if the joint task force—headed by those present—successfully exposes a dangerous ring of criminals threatening the public lands, we’ll be in a nice position. I think we can get a fair share of extra funding and increased resources. I don’t think we can tag Greenfield as an Arab, but he’s a pretty easy sell as a terrorist of some kind or other.”

“
Oh, I like that.”

“
I mean, terrorism is a threat to the American way of life.”

T
he Park Service man frowned.

“
I don’t think an incarcerated Greenfield is going to keep our secrets very well. He can get us in hot water if we hang him out to dry.”

T
he BLM official whistled softly and glanced at the spotty ceiling. He grimaced at the sight.

“
Dead men tell no tales.”

“
Even better,” Van Kamp said. “A martyred Greenfield might just inspire his followers to continue the fight and keep us in business for years to come.”

T
he Park Service man slapped himself in the forehead.

“
Of course! Silly me. He’s going to resist arrest, right?”

T
he fan in the window began spinning once again.

Chapter 62

N
ot far away, Greenfield shared his colleagues’ assessment of their best interests—though he was somewhat less approving of where that assessment led.

“
Those seat-warmers are going to hang us out to dry,” he told Happy, who nervously chewed the end of his whiskers while being led across the asphalt parking lot by a firm grip on his right arm. “I’ll bet on it. They don’t have the balls to tough it out through a little social disorder. Hell, what did they think was going to happen after we set those fires? We
want
social disorder.”

G
reenfield spoke loudly, but his resonant voice was wasted on a one-man audience in the otherwise empty lot south of the railroad tracks that ran through Flagstaff’s downtown. The social disorder that Greenfield celebrated had taken an expensive toll on the city’s usual shopping and tourist trade.

“
Uh huh,” Happy said. “Yeah. Social disorder is good.”

T
he older man paused to turn and glare.

H
appy’s face flushed.

“
Really! I agree. We want people to move along and realize that it’s not worth living here.”

Greenfield nodded and continued on his journey with his sidekick in tow.

“
That’s right! We don’t want people settling here, trampling grass and cutting down trees—
beautiful
trees. And if it takes a little social disorder to do the trick, then that’s what it’ll…” he trailed off, a puzzled look on his face.

H
oping to improve his standing in the older man’s eyes, Happy jumped in.

“
Then we’ll cheerfully cause a little social disorder.”

T
he older man rocked his head, thinking.

“
Sure. Why not?”

T
he journey across the parking lot ended at a mud-spattered jeep that looked as if it had been purchased as surplus after enduring hard duty in the motor pool of some Third-World army. Rust welded the doors shut—an obstacle that Greenfield bypassed by clumsily climbing in the passenger side, leg up and over.

H
appy stood awkwardly in place until his indecision drew notice.

“
Well, don’t just stand there, damn it, drive.” Greenfield shook a set of keys in the air so they jingled, and then tossed them for Happy to catch.

H
appy followed the other man’s example, hopping into the driver’s seat.

“
Where to?”

“
Sycamore Canyon.”

H
appy gaped even as he started the engine. He cranked it once, twice, and then it caught.

“
Why?”

T
he older man smirked.

“
Our allies may want to hang us out to dry, but they can’t if there’s no way to link us to the fires. The only people not involved in our plans who can actually do that—who actually have photos of our people setting fires—are down in Sycamore Canyon.”

H
appy pressed the clutch down to the floor and jerked hard on the gearshift. He backed the jeep out of its parking space, hit the brake and stalled the vehicle.

G
reenfield glared in silent disgust.

H
appy restarted the engine and eased the jeep onto empty West Phoenix Avenue, and then to sparsely traveled South Milton.

“
So, what are we going to do at Sycamore Canyon?”

G
reenfield smirked again.

“
We’re going to get rid of the evidence, of course. They can’t come after us without evidence.”

“
You mean the pictures?”

“
And the people who took the pictures. Do I really have to spell it out for you?

H
appy felt less suited to his nickname than ever before. Maybe he should go back to his given name. Henry wasn’t all that bad. Maybe even Hank. No, he couldn’t pull off Hank. But Henry was acceptable.

T
he older man barked an interruption to Happy’s line of thought.

“
And Jesus Christ, take it easy on that clutch.”

Chapter 63

“
I s-e-e-e y-o-o-o-u,” Rollo yelled over the edge of the new ledge.

W
ell, strictly speaking, the ledge wasn’t new; it had been in place for thousands of years, changed only by the slow erosion of wind and rain, and the comparatively quicker gropings of plant roots into crevices in the rock. As far as Scott and Rollo were concerned, however, it was a new perch chosen in the dark as a replacement for their abandoned station.

S
omewhat more precarious than its predecessor, the ledge sloped toward its edge at a slight angle that promised anybody seeking a resting place a continuing wrestling match with gravity.

I
t wasn’t an ideal location by any means. Aside from its slope, it was also exposed to sun, wind and rain. It had one important advantage over the previous ledge, however: it provided an excellent view of the firebugs below and of their escape routes both up and down the canyon.

A
s Rollo leaned out to heckle the people below, Scott lounged in place, taking advantage of the ledge’s angle to recline in relative comfort with a view of the sky above.

“
Just so you know, Rollo,” the younger man said in a low voice. “You look pretty close to the tipping point to me.

I
f you fall over, there’s no way I can haul your fat ass back up and also fight off the firebugs.”

R
ollo grunted, and then continued his soliloquy.

“
I want to thank you sons of bitches for the gift of this fine automatic rifle. I promise to be a better shot with it than any of you.”

“
Oh, this was a mistake,” Scott muttered. He scrambled to change position and carefully shimmied forward on his belly with the ancient British rifle in his hand. He peered over the edge.

F
ilthy, half-naked and, by all appearances, utterly dejected, the firebugs stood below. Four of them looked reasonably healthy, if not happy. One stood with his right arm held in place by an improvised sling that looked dirtier than his bare skin. The sixth firebug—dressed only in a tattered, silvery loincloth—lay quietly with his face covered by his crossed arms.

I
f he had to guess, Scott figured the prone man to be the one he and Rollo had questioned during their nocturnal raid.

“
I got it under control,” Rollo whispered.

S
cott ignored his companion’s protest.

“
What my friend means is that we’re tired of being chased and shot at. We’ve sent the video we took of you setting the forest fire ahead. Since the evidence is already well beyond your reach, why don’t you sit still and play nice until help comes? You can start by stacking your weapons directly below us.”

“
Oh,” Rollo said. “Good idea.”

N
ot all of the firebugs agreed. Through loud shushing from one of his companions, the man with his arm in a sling defiantly shouted back.

“
Fuck you. Nobody— Back off, Terry. Nobody— I mean it. Grow a spine, Terry. Nobody is coming to help you.”

G
enuinely puzzled, Scott asked the inevitable question.

“
Oh? Why’s that?”

W
ith a triumphant look on his face, the mud-and dust-spattered gimp replied.

“
Because when all this started, we sent somebody for help. By now they’re at the mouth of the canyon. Whoever you sent is probably dead. So why don’t
you
surrender to
us
?”

W
ithout moving, the man on the ground let out a loud groan.

“
It wasn’t my idea!” somebody—apparently Terry—yelled.

“
Wimp.”

“
Grow a spine.”

“
Where are your balls?”

F
or his part, Scott sighed and turned to Rollo.

“
I know,” Rollo said. “I can hold these assholes here. Which gun do you want?”

Chapter 64

“
Way to go, Terry.”

H
is face glowing red, the scrawny ranger stared at his feet. He declined to respond to any of the catcalls of his colleagues.

S
taring at the ledge above, and the barely visible faces at the promontory’s edge, Jason broke in.

“
I’m less concerned about Terry’s spinelessness—”

“
Hey!”

“—
than I am about Bob’s revealing that Tim went for help.”

B
ob’s eyes widened.

“
Huh?”

“
It looks like two people are up there. What if one of them heads down the canyon and shoots whoever Van Kamp sent?”

“
That leaves one guy here watching us. He has to sleep eventually.”

“
Yeah … eventually. In the meantime we’re stuck here.”

A
voice drifted down from above.

“
You heard the man! Stack your damn guns below me, goddamnit!” The command was punctuated by a gunshot, immediately followed by the whine of a bullet speeding down the canyon.

H
opping to comply, Rena dragged her rifle by the muzzle. She tossed it into a bush, from which it slid to the ground with a clatter.

“
Did you hear what he said?”

“
Yeah,” Jason answered, irritated. “I’m getting my rifle already.”

“
That’s not what I mean. He said they sent the
video
up ahead.”