Part 15 (1/2)

”That's my place,” Francis said. ”Oh, Christ.” He'd gone gray and seemed to have sobered up instantly. His lips were wet, his eyes bright.

They drove over at speed, Suzanne wedged into Lester's frankensmartcar, practically under his armpit, and Perry traveling with Francis. Lester still wore the same cologne as her father, and when she opened the window, its smell was replaced by the burning-tires smell of the fire.

They arrived to discover a fire-truck parked on the side of the freeway nearest the shantytown. The fire-fighters were standing soberly beside it, watching the fire rage across the ca.n.a.l.

They rushed for the footbridge and a firefighter blocked their way.

”Sorry, it's not safe,” he said. He was Latino, good looking, like a movie star, bronze skin flickering with copper highlights from the fire.

”I live there,” Francis said. ”That's my home.”

The firefighter looked away. ”It's not safe,” he said.

”Why aren't you fighting the fire?” Suzanne said.

Francis's head snapped around. ”You're not fighting the fire! You're going to let our houses burn!”

A couple more fire-fighters trickled over. Across the river, the fire had consumed half of the little settlement. Some of the residents were operating a slow and ponderous bucket-brigade from the ca.n.a.l, while others ran into the unburned buildings and emerged clutching armloads of belongings, bits of furniture, boxes of photos.

”Sir,” the movie-star said, ”the owner of this property has asked us not to intervene. Since there's no imminent risk to life and no risk of the burn spreading off his property, we can't trespa.s.s to put out the fire. Our hands are tied.”

”The owner?” Francis spat. ”This land is in t.i.tle dispute. The court case has been underway for twenty years now. What owner?”

The movie-star shrugged. ”That's all I know, sir.”

Across the ca.n.a.l, the fire was spreading, and the bucket brigade was falling back. Suzanne could feel the heat now, like putting your face in the steam from a boiling kettle.

Francis seethed, looking from the firemen and their truck back to the fire. He looked like he was going to pop something, or start shouting, or charge into the flames.

Suzanne grabbed his hand and walked him over to the truck and grabbed the first firefighter she encountered.

”I'm Suzanne Church, from the San Jose Mercury News, a McClatchy paper. I'd like to speak to the commanding officer on the scene, please.” She hadn't been with the Merc for months, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to say, *I'm Suzanne Church with SuzanneChurch.org.* She was pretty sure that no matter how high her readers.h.i.+p was and how profitable her ad sales were, the fire-fighter wouldn't have been galvanized into the action that was invoked when she mentioned the name of a real newspaper.

He hopped to, quickly moving to an older man, tapping him on the shoulder, whispering in his ear. Suzanne squeezed Francis's hand as the fire-chief approached them. She extended her hand and talked fast. ”Suzanne Church,” she said, and took out her notebook, the key prop in any set piece involving a reporter. ”I'm told that you are going to let those homes burn because someone representing himself as the t.i.tle-holder to that property has denied you entry. However, I'm also told that the t.i.tle to that land is in dispute and has been in the courts for decades. Can you resolve this for me, Chief...?”

”Chief Brian Wannamaker,” he said. He was her age, with the leathery skin of a Florida native who spent a lot of time out of doors. ”I'm afraid I have no comment for you at this time.”

Suzanne kept her face deadpan, and gave Francis's hand a warning squeeze to keep him quiet. He was trembling now. ”I see. You can't comment, you can't fight the fire. Is that what you'd like me to write in tomorrow's paper?”

The Chief looked at the fire for a moment. Across the ca.n.a.l, the bucket-brigaders were losing worse than ever. He frowned and Suzanne saw that his hands were clenched into fists. ”Let me make a call, OK?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and stepped behind the fire-engine, reaching for his cellphone.

Suzanne strained to hear his conversation, but it was inaudible over the crackle of the fire. When she turned around again, Francis was gone. She caught sight of him again in just a moment, running for the ca.n.a.l, then jumping in and landing badly in the shallow, swampy water. He hobbled across to the opposite bank and began to laboriously climb it.

A second later, Perry followed. Then Lester.

”Chief!” she said, going around the engine and pointing. The Chief had the phone clamped to his head still, but when he saw what was going on, he snapped it shut, dropped it in his pocket and started barking orders.

Now the fire-fighters *moved*, boiling across the bridge, uncoiling hoses, strapping on tanks and masks. They worked in easy, fluid concert, and it was only seconds before the water and foam hit the flames and the smoke changed to white steam.