All three cars went screaming down the freeway, sirens blaring and lights flashing. As we came to the Eastgate exit, we could see emergency vehicles making their way up the mountain toward the fire. By now the whole neighborhood was illuminated as if by a giant torch. I could see the outlines of houses and roofs on The Summit.
Jonathan Thomas’s parents were losing their good night’s sleep.
“Does anybody know how to get up there?” Sergeant James demanded.
“I know a back way,” I answered. “Go straight up 150th. Left at the flashing light.”
We left the cars on the street and jogged on up the hill. As soon as we topped the rise, we could see what had happened.
The Summit’s developer had left only two trees standing on the top of the mountain when he clear-cut it. B. W. Wainwright had missed the radio antennas with their flashing warning lights, but he hadn’t missed the trees. They had no lights. He had smashed into one of those, setting it afire, while the plane ploughed nose down into the ground.
Firefighters were attempting to spray water on the inferno, but there seemed to be some difficulty with the fire hydrant. They could only get a tiny trickle of water.
Stunned residents, most wearing nightclothes, gathered around to watch. I caught sight of Dorothy and William Thomas standing there on the edge of the crowd, but I didn’t bother to talk to them. If they wanted information, they could read it in the papers.
Sergeant James had made his way to the fire truck. Now he came back to us.
“He didn’t make it out,” James told us.
The announcement was hardly necessary. No one could have survived that scorching fireball.
“Good,” Glancy said with satisfaction as the reflection of leaping flames glowed off his face. “He just saved the state a hell of a lot of time, trouble, and money.”
CHAPTER 26
WE WENT STRAIGHT TO HARBORVIEW. I didn’t want to, but Sergeant James insisted. There, in the emergency room, they cleaned the glass out of my face and hands. It was a time-consuming process. When they finally let me loose, Amy Fitzgerald, Ron Peters’s physical therapist, was waiting for me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Ron asked me to come see how you were. If you’re okay, he’d like you to stop by his room for a few minutes before you go home.”
“Sure,” I said. As she led me to the elevator, I added, “I really appreciate your helping Peters find me last night.”
Amy smiled. “I was glad to help.”
When we reached the rehabilitation floor, she led the way into Peters’s room. She walked straight up to the bed where Peters was lying, bent down, and kissed him. Then she reached down and placed her hand in his.
I stopped at the door, not sure what to do. “What is this, a new form of physical therapy? Or is it the new improved version of a bedside manner?”
Peters grinned at me, the kind of open-faced grin that I had given up hope of ever seeing from him again. “The best,” he said. “How are you, Beau?”
“I’m fine. Just a few cuts from flying glass, that’s all.”
“You look like hell,” Peters said.
“That makes us even,” I told him. We all three laughed at that.
Just then, Sergeant James hustled into the room behind me. “Goddamn it, Beau, I turned my back on you for one minute to take a phone call, and you disappeared!”
“It’s my fault,” Peters said. “I wanted to see him for a minute before he left the hospital.”
“Well, the party’s over,” James said. “We’ve got a mountain of paperwork to do.”
“Paperwork!” I echoed. “Come on, Sarge, have a heart. Do we have to do the reports now?”
Sergeant James looked at me and grinned. “You’d better believe it. You’re doing your paperwork so I can do mine. The only guy in this investigation who doesn’t have to write up a report is Detective Peters. He’s got an excuse. You don’t. Besides, they won’t release Jasmine Day until we get it done.”
James left the room, and I had no choice but to trail along behind.
“Hey, Beau,” Peters called after me. “Are you still going to the airport to pick up the girls?”
I stopped in the doorway. “The girls?”
“They come home today, remember? Their plane is due in about ten-thirty this morning. I told Mrs. Edwards you’d probably be there to meet them, but if you’re not, they should catch a cab.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, beating myself for forgetting their arrival and remembering guiltily that I still hadn’t given Peters the postcards his daughters had sent him from California.