Chapter 15: They Wouldn't? Would They?

After three hours in Silvercreek Library’s research room, Grace sat back and stretched her arms. Reports were spread across her table—a maze of politics intertwined with timber markets and just about everything else. Ingrid caught the exhausted look on Grace’s face and smiled.

“As I’m starting to see this,” said Grace, “the campaign to save the forests has become something of a franchise business, a consortium of sorts, with four major players calling the shots.”

Ingrid nodded. “The Natural Forest Council, Washington Resources Defense Council, Association for Environmental Forest Ethics and the Ancient Forest Fund—the Gang of Four.”

“And if I’m reading their annual reports correctly,” interjected Grace, “they’re bringing in something like half a billion a year. Serious cash.”

“It wasn’t always like that—big corporate campaigns,” said Ingrid. “The first people raising concerns about old growth forests only saw two states—the forest with all its values versus no forest because loggers were cutting down everything! The serious foresters ignored them, but the public uncritically accepted these fears and donor income soared. At that point, the bigger organizations took over—both the agenda for actions to save the forests and its income stream. They consolidated. We consolidated.” She sighed. “The politics are complex.”

Grace considered the issue before answering. “Their public image of impassioned, caring people is just so at odds with cut-throat corporate competition.”

“A cultivated image with key messages,” said Ingrid. “Over the decades their message morphed from sustainable logging to zero cut on federal and private lands. Toss in the Clean Air Act which made it very difficult to use fire as a tool and, well, it’s not good.”

“Anything negative is blamed on loggers, ranchers, fishermen, climate change. Never bad policy,” said Grace. “These messages are repeated by the mainstream organizations: the Audubon Council, Wildness Society and the Sequoia Club,” said Grace. “Add in those budgets and it’s probably closer to a billion a year.”

“It’s just oodles of money,” said Ingrid. “Income sources for nonprofits are not public. The nonprofit tax returns used to give detail on large donations so we could see who was behind them. Not anymore. All those websites, all that free editorial space—they’ve gone global with subsidiaries and affiliates. We assume the money comes from members, but only their bankers know for sure.”

“Some of their revenue goes to scientific groups for research,” said Grace. “Some probably goes to land trusts and smaller groups capable of managing animal stocks and habitat. But most seems to go to education, another name for digital content. Then they have legal fees and administrative costs.”

“On the other end of the spectrum,” said Ingrid, “the American Forestry Council and the Forest Freedom Society push for no regulations at all, not even safety regs to protect workers.”

“Who runs those?” asked Grace.

“No idea,” said Ingrid. “I don’t know any of the people on their boards. They want governments to transfer public land to private companies and a lot of timber companies are now incorporated in tax havens,” said Ingrid. “Local communities who build the infrastructure, provide the workers and live with the impacts get less tax revenue every year. We wouldn’t be sitting in this library without the taxes paid by the mills. I used to hope that people would stake out their positions—far left or far right—and we the people would land somewhere in the middle, hopefully with policies that show some common sense.” She shook her head. “I think I was naive.”

“Maybe,” said Grace. “Let’s take a break. I need to check messages.”

“I’ll give you some privacy,” said Ingrid, lifting a stack of books onto a cart and rolling it away.

Grace had phone calls and emails from co-workers, sources, family, and friends. There was a text from her editor, Chase Stanford:

I want to see your notes, Grace. ASAP.

She texted him promising she’d get him her notes as soon as possible.

Lauri at The Tribune’s research department emailed that the vehicle used by the three men who stirred up the crowd at UCLA was registered to a Robert Patton in Los Angeles. Grace called her and asked, “What else you got, Lauri?”

“Robert Patton, 3057 Saltair Drive, 90049. It’s a postal box. I found a pilot’s license issued to a Robert Patton at the same address. An older license, though, had his address at 4455 Canyon Drive, 90049. Brentwood. A Seamus Boyle also had a pilot’s license at the same Canyon Drive address years ago. There was also a Seamus Boyle who had a pilot’s license at a Philadelphia address a decade ago. I pulled the licenses. Pictures match. Robert Patton, Seamus Boyle. Same guy. Not sure which name is the real one. Might be able to figure it out if I can carve out an hour or two. Enough, Grace?”

“More. I need more,” said Grace.

Lauri laughed. “4455 Canyon in Brentwood is a townhouse, tax value $825,000, purchased 1984 by Marston & Miller, a Massachusetts corporation. No mortgage. He’s a renter, Grace.”

“Why do you make me beg?” asked Grace.

“I’ll email you what I have, see what else I can find,” said Lauri.

After the call, Grace studied her notes. Dead ends and loose ends, she thought.

“Take a break, Grace,” said Ingrid, setting out water and fruit on one of the long library tables.

Grace stretched. “Thanks,” she said, biting into an apple. “The Armstrongs were kind to put me up,” she said. “Nice family. Tell me, how’d Tom lose his arm?”

Ingrid chewed her lower lip. “There was a piece of somethin’ or other in a tree he was cutting.” She shook her head. “It was a hard time. I imagine it’s still difficult for Tom and Sara.”

“What about Jackson? Why doesn’t he live in his own home?” asked Grace.

“He did ’til Molly died. Three years ago last Spring.”

“I’m sorry,” said Grace.

“The Peterson’s youngest,” she said. “She must have read every horse book we have in this library and we have a lot. Pretty girl.” She studied Grace. “You remind me of her.” Ingrid straightened up piles of paper, stacked books. She paused, a book in one hand and gazed out the window, watched rainwater flow down the street. “They wanted a family, but some form of blood cancer took Molly—far too young,” she said, tearing up at the memory. “She died at home, that’s what she wanted.” She sighed. “It tore Jack up something awful. He gave away their horses, boarded up the house and just never looked back. Doesn’t talk about it. Can’t say as I blame him.” She dabbed her eyes.

“Thank you for telling me, Ingrid,” said Grace. “People mentioned an Erica White. Know her?”

“Erica, yes,” said Ingrid. “Bit rough ’round the edges, street girl from Portland, but I heard she was a real hard worker. Died in a wildfire a few months ago, last fall, up on Hunger Mountain—same area where Tom Armstrong lost his arm.” She shook her head. “The tribes believe that place is cursed. Might be true.”

“Was Jackson there?” asked Grace.

“He was. Standing on another ridge. Saw it coming, warned them, watched it happen. Nothing he could do.”

“How horrible,” said Grace. “How does one recover from memories like those?”

“Family. Friends,” said Ingrid. “Faith.”

“Ginnie and Jackson seem like good friends,” said Grace.

“Grew up together,” said Ingrid. “Dated for a bit in high school.” She paused, “Her husband’s working overseas. It’s hard keeping a long-distance marriage going, but they have a daughter and they’ll make it work.” She stacked a couple more books. “Well, that’s enough local gossip,” said Ingrid. “What now?”

“Chamber of Commerce?” asked Grace.

“Closed. Ten years ago.”

“Arson reports?”

“Sheriff Russo,” said Ingrid. “Walk north. You’ll see the Sheriff’s Office on the corner across the street.”

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Sheriff Dave Russo—a burly cop, close to 60—looked surprised. “You want the fire inspector’s arson reports for the last two years?” he asked. “All of them? Residential? Commercial?”

“Timber,” said Grace. “Government and private forestland.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That narrows it down.” He printed out a report.

Grace quickly scanned the document. Several fires were the work of the same person who’d been caught trying to set another. Most were unsolved. “That’s it?” she asked.

“Got natural fires and lightning strikes, if you want those,” he said. “Different intensities.”

Grace nodded. “I’ll take ’em.”

He printed out an extensive report and watched as she scanned it. “Course, this doesn’t mean these were natural,” he said.

“Oh?” she asked.

“A big lightning strike, well, there’s just nothin’ like it. Explodes hundred foot trees, blows ’em right up. Unmistakable. Others? Who knows how they start anymore? There is so much fuel load now that fires that used to roll on through the forest get out of control PDQ.”

“Could someone set a fire, make it look like lightening, not leave any sign of arson?” she asked.

“It’s possible,” he said. “Without clear evidence to the contrary, suspicious fires get classified in the official stats as natural. Not arson. Muddles investigations, is my opinion.”

“Are you saying you keep your own stats?” she asked.

He smiled, shuffled paper and mused, “Most lightning strikes are caused by a combination of sun heated surfaces and moist air. Florida gets thirteen times what we do. Several of what I’d call suspicious fires started on cold, windy days. Rangers insisted there was no lightning those days—just mild rainstorms with nice breezes. Came and went in a couple of hours.”

“So, what’s your theory?” Grace asked.

“Could’ve been set. The Fire Chief had concerns.”

“So, you haven’t ruled out arson?”

“No way,” he said. “I wouldn’t put anything past certain characters in this town. We’re had our share of businesses burn, most likely for the insurance money—always happens when times are tough. These people are handy and could build a rig with enough juice to blow up a snag, make it look like lightning—like the real deal.”

“What would such a rig look like?” asked Grace.

The Sheriff leaned in. “Well, it would have to have its own power source to make it portable. A generator runnin’ on gasoline or diesel would do. The average taser has about 400,000 volts, but lightning can deliver a hundred million volts—you’d need to generate at least a million to fool a fire inspector. You could cobble together several tasers or use a Tesla coil.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

He lowered his voice. “Include a starter rigged to a moisture sensor set to trigger when the moisture in the air gets to a certain parts per million.”

“Like during a rainstorm,” said Grace.

“Like during a rainstorm,” echoed the Sheriff. He stood up straight, gave her a big toothy grin. “The Fire Chief and I play poker and plot.” He laughed, added, “No need to get techie with tasers and Tesla coils. The Forest Service’s using unmanned aerial systems, UAS, drones, rigged with fire ignitors, dragon eggs, for what they call ‘managed fire for ecosystem benefit'. Dragon eggs pop sparks where they’re dropped.” He grimaced. “It’s controversial. People are nervous—with unthinned fuel loads, dragon eggs plus wind can torch entire towns. Suggest you Google the Hermit’s Peak fire in New Mexico—landowners won a suit against the Forest Service because it lit fires during high winds. Read ‘Burning Ruth’ in Evergreen Magazine.”

Grace took notes and asked, “What’s in these dragon eggs?”

“Potassium permanganate. When injected with glycol, triggers a delayed chemical reaction in under half a minute. With enough fuel, it’ll burn so hot any evidence would go up in smoke. They can be used at night, far away from where the operator actually is. It’s an arsonist's techie wet dream, excuse my French.”

He crossed his arms and asked, “Now unless you want to talk geo-engineering, satellite laser beams and alien tech—which always get my attention—is there anything else, Miss?”

“No, but thanks for the insight,” she said, waving the print outs. “May I keep these?”

“Sure,” he said. “You have a nice evening.”

Grace left and stood outside on the sidewalk. She watched a group of men across the street studying her. They huddled and talked, looked back at her again. She started walking, thinking, Unemployed loggers have motive and access to drones, accelerant. Many have military training. She thought about Tom’s anger; warnings that Jackson and his friends were dangerous; the logger who advised others to “pray for lightning.”

They wouldn’t, she thought. Would they?