Going back up this hill every night was making him think twice about the bike, though.
The sky was getting dark in the east, and a cool breeze chilled the sweat on his forehead. It still felt more like autumn than winter, despite Christmas being only a couple of weeks away. The air even had that smoky Minnesota fall smell of burning leaves.
Brian paused and sniffed harder. That’s not just nostalgia. He’d thought the low gray haze behind the ridge above him was fog, but as he watched, it thickened and rose, almost invisible against the darkening sky. The smoke scent grew stronger.
Probably someone burning leaves. But it seemed a strange time of day for that. Or a bonfire… It couldn’t hurt to check.
He lowered his bike to the gravel shoulder and cut across the ditch, running up the weed-tangled side of the hill. The smoke tickled his nose and throat. He coughed and glanced back down to make sure he could get to his bike easily if this turned out to be the dumbest idea of the month. The ridge crested a few yards ahead. Brian took a dry, smoke-tinged breath and hurried to the top.
Shit! The grassy hillside below was smoldering. Little red and yellow flames flickered along the ground fifty feet away, where a bent metal tower of some kind lay bowed over, its mechanism toppled into the dirt. Smoke rose thicker every minute.
Brian fumbled in his pocket for his phone. 911? Nick had set a single-touch logo for that and he tapped the screen. Dammit! His stupid, stubby fingers took three tries to hit the right spot.
He heard, “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” and he tripped, the phone flying out of his grasp as he planted hands first into the dirt. When he tried to stand, something tugged at his ankle. He rolled over and found a long rope wrapped around his foot. What—? He unsnagged himself and stood, staring down at the loop in his hands.
A gruff voice off to his left yelled, “Drop the rope! Hands up! Now, boy. I ain’t kidding.”
Brian dropped the loop and turned, but he waved at the burning field with one hand even as he raised the other. “Call nine-one-one! There’s a fire!”
“No shit.” The man hurrying toward him was big and bulky, hard to make out in the uncertain light. His long gun was easy to see, though, pointing right at Brian’s face.
Brian raised both hands fast, his throat dry. “I came to help.”
“Bullshit. Cops’re on their way.”
“Oh, good!” He began to relax.
The man snapped, “Hands up! Now!”
Brian jerked his hands higher again. “Listen, you don’t understand—"
The gun guy said, “I’ll let the sheriff understand. Motherfucker. Don’t move.”
“Huh?” Sirens in the distance cut off Brian’s words. They stood frozen in that awkward pose on the ridge as a cop car, followed by a fire truck, crested over the hill, wailing shrilly, and raced toward them. The emergency vehicles pulled onto the shoulder close below. As the sirens died, he heard others approaching in the distance. The fire truck guys jumped down and began unrolling a hose, while the officer in the cop car charged toward them. As she neared, he recognized Sheriff Gannet.
“Hey, Odell,” she called out. “The fire crew’s setting up to draft from your pond. What’s going on here?”
“Bastards pulled down my wind generator,” the man said. “Sparks started a grass fire. Caught this guy with the rope in his damn hands.”
The firefighters were close behind the sheriff. At the top of the ridge, they let loose a thin spray of water. The stream arced, glittering in the last light, and smoke rose thicker below them. Brian was so caught in watching, it took a moment to realize what he’d heard. “Me?” He turned to the sheriff. “I saw the smoke. I was calling nine-one-one but I tripped over the rope.”
Sheriff Gannet turned to him, her eyes unreadable in the gloom. “You’re Brian Carlson. You were there when Yasmin Wydell’s tractor was damaged.”
“Yes. I mean, no.” He blinked, his eyes smarting from the haze.
A firefighter turned to them. “All respect, but get your asses off this hill till we get the blaze contained.”
“Sure,” the sheriff said. “Odell, quit pointing that gun. You, Carlson, walk ahead of me down to my car.”
“He might run,” the man complained.
“I bet I could catch him,” Sheriff Gannet said dryly. “Move it, guys.”
Brian turned and walked quickly back down toward the road with his hands in the air. He tried to look like he was confident, and not scared, and not guilty of… whatever happened. He didn’t look back to see if the Odell guy still wanted to shoot him, just focused on trying to see through the smoke and not trip over the weeds. His eyes watered. He squeezed them shut for a second and hacked a dry cough, then another. Hidden brambles snagged at his legs, but the air cleared a lot as they reached the road.
“Hands on the roof of the car, Carlson,” the sheriff commanded. “Feet apart.”
He did as he was told, standing on the gravel shoulder, palms on the roof, trying to mimic the stance he’d seen in a dozen movies. Even so, he jumped at her hand on his back.
“Hold still.” She sounded businesslike, not angry, but he shivered. She kicked at his ankles. “Feet wider.”
It was an awkward position. Probably on purpose, no kidding. Still, he found it harder to balance than it should have been. His head was light and floaty. Somehow, this moment fused into a hundred nightmares of getting caught. Anonymous voices in his head said, “You killed Turov.” “You helped murder him.” “You threw him out to drown.” “Killer.” “…going to jail for life.”
A touch on his inner thigh made him buck and pull away, and then a rough hand between his shoulders pushed him toward the car. He collapsed onto it, the edge of the roof catching him on the nose. It hurt. He whined and blinked hard. His eyes suddenly filled with tears from the smoke-sting and he turned to wipe his face on his arm. Hands were on him, all over him, patting. His wallet was pulled from his pocket. He closed his eyes and let it happen. Eventually the touch went away. He didn’t move.
“Carlson? You can turn around now.”
He didn’t move.
“Look at me.”
They always say that before they push you down or sucker punch you or laugh at you with your wet face and fat self. Bullies like to see your fear. He didn’t move.
The sheriff snapped, “Carlson, stand up and turn around. Now!”
He obeyed automatically, straightening up and pivoting on one foot. With his eyes shut, he felt dizzy and put a hand back on the car to steady himself. The bulk was solid, like a metal horse, waiting patiently for duty. He smoothed his palm over the surface, imagining the rump of some robot steed, smooth and shiny—
“Look at me.”
He drew in a long sigh, took one more moment in the dark, then opened his eyes. The flashing lights from the cop car revealed Sheriff Gannet’s craggy features in pulsing red and blue and white. She was hatless, her short hair a bit mussed, her head tilted to one side.
Her voice was softer when she said, “What were you doing up there?”
Odell beside her snarled, “D’you see the damned genny? You know what that cost?”
“Hush.” She didn’t take her eyes off Brian. “Let him talk.”