‘Hate to tell you, but the Feebs are already sniffing around. Wanting to know what they can do to help.’
‘Aren’t they sweet.’
‘Maybe they can show us what to do.’
‘Where are they?’ McGovern asked.
‘In a white Suburban about a mile down the road. Three of ’em hanging out in their FBI flak jackets. They’re already talking to the media.’
‘Shit. Wherever there are cameras.’
There were groans and derisive laughter directed at the Feebs, which was what ATF rudely called the FBI. It was no secret that the two federal agencies were not fond of each other, and that the FBI routinely appropriated credit when it was not always due.
‘Speaking of pains in the ass,’ another agent spoke up, ‘the Budget Motel doesn’t take AmEx, boss. We’re going through the heels of our boots, and we’re supposed to use our own credit cards?’
‘Plus, room service quits at seven.’
‘It stinks anyway.’
‘Any chance we can move?’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ McGovern promised.
‘That’s why we love you so much.’
A bright red fire engine rumbled up the unpaved road, churning dust and small rocks, as help arrived to begin draining water from the scene. Two firefighters in turnout gear and high rubber boots climbed down and briefly conferred with McGovern before uncoiling one-and-three-quarter-inch hoses attached to filters. These they draped over their shoulders and dragged inside the mansion’s stone shell and dropped them into the water in four different locations. They returned to the truck and set heavy portable Prosser pumps on the ground and plugged extension cords into the generator. Soon the noise of engines got very loud, and hoses swelled as dirty water gushed through them and over grass.
I gathered heavy canvas fire gloves and a turn-out coat and adjusted the size of my helmet. Then I began cleaning my faithful Red Wing boots, sloshing them through tubs of sudsy cold tap water that seeped through old leather tongues and soaked the laces. I had not thought to wear silk underwear beneath my BDUs because it was June. That had been a mistake. Winds were now strong and from the north, and every drop of moisture seemed to lower my body temperature another degree. I hated being cold. I hated not trusting my hands, because they were either stiff or heavily gloved. McGovern headed toward me as I blew on my fingertips and fastened my heavy turn-out coat up to my chin.
‘It’s going to be a long day,’ she said with a shiver. ‘What happened to summer?’
‘Teun, I’m missing my vacation for you. You are destroying my personal life.’ I gave her a hard time.
‘At least you have either.’ McGovern started cleaning her boots, too.
Teun was really an odd hybrid of the initials T. N., which stood for something Southern-awful such as Tina Nola, or so I had been told. For as long as I had been on the NRT, she had been Teun, and so that was what I called her. She was capable and divorced. She was firm and fit, her bone structure and gray eyes compelling. McGovern could be fierce. I had seen her anger flash over like a room in flames, but she could also be generous and kind. Her special gift was arson, and it was legend that she could intuit the cause of a fire simply by hearing a description of the scene.
I worked on two pairs of latex gloves as McGovern scanned the horizon, her eyes staying a long time on the blackened pit with its shell of standing granite. I followed her gaze to scorched stables, and in my mind heard screams and panicked hooves battering stalls. For an instant my throat constricted. I had seen the raw, clawed hands of people buried alive, and the defense injuries of victims who struggled with their killers. I knew about life fighting not to die, and I could not bear the vivid footage playing in my mind.
‘Goddamn reporters.’ McGovern stared up at a small helicopter flying low overhead.
It was a white Schweizer with no identification or mounted cameras I could see. McGovern stepped forward and boldly pointed out every member of the media within five miles.