Breaking Point

rivers of flame. It was ravenous and craven, without thought or mercy, and it either roared up ravines from the ground up or jumped from crown to crown of high dead pine trees like a manic gremlin, consuming everything it wanted to consume. The fire was so huge and so voracious that it seemed to be creating its own weather; hot blasts of air rocketed up the mountain and primed the dry timber for oncoming destruction. Long-standing trees went
whumpf
and exploded into flame, and the underbrush snapped and crackled with a high-pitched fury.
    At one point he saw a wall of flame shoot through a stand of aspen, linger a moment among the live green trees as if taking a breather, then squirt out the side onto low-hanging dead pine boughs and continue its course. Ash behaved like snow, either swirling horizontally along the ground as if in a ground blizzard or floating down softly through the air, depending on the wind speed and direction of the moment.
    It was a maelstrom. The hot dry wind blew steadily to the east, but at times it swirled and reversed direction and blew like a blowtorch and blew north, then west.
    Twice, he witnessed fire whirls that emerged from the trees in thirty-foot columns of flame. The whirls whipped back and forth as if they were being shaken. One fire whirl was slapped down by a gust of wind but continued to burn as a horizontal fire worm that ignited all the grass in its path.
    Joe knew from the speed of the fire’s advance that there would be no putting it out. This fire, in perfect conditions of hot, dry weather with an endless supply of dead and low-moisture fuel, would burn until it burned out. Joe had heard of fires that burned so hot they literally sterilized the ground for years after they’d passed through, and he guessed this was going to be one of those.
    He could only speculate how big the fire would become, because it was already out of control and growing. If it found enough fuel at the summit, it could flow over the top and into Big Stream Valley. Airborne embers could be blown through the wind to land on dry trees hundreds of yards from the source. He felt both sick to his stomach and humbled by the awesome power of nature at the same time. It wasn’t the first forest fire he’d seen—far from it—but it was already the biggest and fastest. Previously, he’d observed fires from a safe distance.
    Fire was natural, he knew that. Forests had to regenerate, and fire jump-started the process by opening the canopy, clearing debris, and activating aspen shoots and pine seeds. The mountain had burned countless times over the ages, long before there were humans to run from it.
    Yet . . .
    So he continued to head south, toward Savage Run Canyon. Not only because he’d speculated that Butch had chosen the same route and everything else was misdirection but because it was the only terrain that wasn’t yet in flames.
    —
    A S J OE RODE UP on the three men, he said, “Butch, when this is over I’m going to place you under arrest. You understand that, right?”
    Butch nodded.
    Joe said, “Just so we’re clear. I’m going to try to get this handled aboveboard and locally. I’ll get Dulcie involved, and we’ll do our best to keep the Feds out.”
    “I appreciate that.”
    “But right now we’re going to put that all aside and try to survive this. Does that sound like a deal to you?”
    “Yes, Joe.”
    “Okay, then.”
    “How far from here to the canyon?” McLanahan asked Joe, without any preamble.
    “Couple of miles,” Joe said.
    “Can you get us across?”
    “I can’t promise it,” Joe said. “It’s been years and I haven’t been back.”
    “Jesus Christ,” McLanahan said. “We’re going to burn to death up here.”
    Joe shrugged. He didn’t have the time or inclination to talk to McLanahan, even when there wasn’t a forest fire racing toward them.
    “I thought you were dead,” Joe said to Farkus, as he climbed off Toby.
    “So did I,” Farkus said, rolling his eyes toward Butch Roberson. “That trick was his idea.”
    Joe asked Farkus, “Why is it you always seem to be in the middle of every bad situation there is?”
    “I don’t know!”
Farkus said, almost howling. “But the same could be said about you.”
    “Point taken,” Joe said.
    “It was spur-of-the-moment,” Butch said, referring to his claim that he killed Farkus. “That guy Batista just pissed me off so bad I needed to convince him I was a serious man and I’d kill hostages if I had