Grace and Jackson took a long time walking back, Scout trailing along behind them. Grace picked flowers on the way, pressed a few sprigs between the pages in her grandfather’s bird book. Jackson stopped to kiss her every time the urge hit. The urge hit often.
At the house, Grace arranged green branches and white Queen Anne’s lace in a vase and placed it on the kitchen table while Jackson made coffee. They carried their mugs into the living room where they snuggled together on the couch. Jackson thought about starting a fire but didn’t want to let Grace go. He smiled as he thought about how unexpectedly wonderful the day was shaping up to be.
Grace worried about how complicated her work had just become, about the potential wrath of Chase Stanford, her editor, over her indiscretion—if he ever found out. Chase has a way of finding out, she thought. He knows everything.
The phone rang in the office and then Jackson’s phone vibrated—a text from Ginnie with GPS coordinates. He sighed and listened to his voice mail:
Jackson, it’s me, Jess. Me and some of the boys are doing a little civil disobedience. Out past Ripple Mountain; Ginnie’ll text you where. Pass it on, eh? If we get arrested, can you bail us out? See ya!
Jackson dropped his head back and ran his fingers through his hair. Not again, he thought.
Grace lifted her head. “What’s up?” she asked.
He explained, adding, “Anyone who worked the fire isn’t expected to show.”
Grace crinkled her nose. “If I miss it, my editor will be very displeased.”
“Displeased? What about me?” groaned Jackson. “I want a little peace. Too much history making, not enough lovemaking.”
He kissed her but finally gave in to her pleading. “There’s no takeout where we’re going,” he said so, as Jackson pulled on his work clothes, Grace packed a lunch. They were out the door, with Scout, in ten minutes.
It took an hour to reach Ripple Mountain where Jackson joined the men clearing an area damaged by fire a year ago. Logs were stacked neatly by the side of the road—the Forest Service could do whatever it wanted with them, but the loggers would take none of it—that would be theft.
Ginnie’s mother, Ingrid Hopewell worked a video camera for the Historical Society archives while Grace interviewed loggers, starting with the biggest man she’d ever seen. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Fire hazard to the fifty people livin’ ten miles to the west in Rippleton” He shook his head. “Enough fuel here to burn so hot it’ll crack granite boulders, sterilize the soil and boil the salmon streams.”
“You’re exaggerating a bit, aren’t you?” asked Grace.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Suppress fires and then let ’er rip? Not good.” He tapped his finger on Grace’s notebook. “You can quote me on this: the Olympic Peninsula is a tinderbox. Politically. Socially. Environmentally. Lord help us when it blows!”
His wife added, “Good wood wasted in a country that can’t afford it, jobs lost; bad for us, bad for the environment. Some laws are so wrong you just have to break ’em.” Grace nodded, took their names, cellphone, email addresses. Their two teenage sons watched the exchange intently. Grace thought, Nothing like civil disobedience to get the pulse racing, teach the kids about life.
Mid-afternoon, lookouts spotted Sheriff Russo driving in from the south. They radioed an alert down the hill and the operation came to an abrupt halt.
People gathered around picnic baskets laid out on tarps under a canopy of evergreen branches where yellow ribbons that the kids had tied to the trees streamed in the breeze. A teen cranked up the speakers; Bruce Springsteen told the tale.
Now Main Street's whitewashed windows / And vacant stores / Seems like there ain't nobody / Wants to come down here no more / They're closing down the textile mill / Across the railroad tracks / Foreman says, “These jobs are going, boys / And they ain't coming back / To your hometown / To your own town / To your hometown / To your own town”
Last night me and Kate we laid in bed / Talking about getting out / Packing up our bags, maybe heading south / I'm thirty-five, we got a boy of our own now / Last night I sat him up behind the wheel / And said, "Son, take a good look around / This is your hometown"
Sheriff Russo parked and strode over, feigning anger as he looked over dirty picnickers, their families and a neat stack of logs. There wasn’t a chainsaw in sight, but a banner, strung high between two trees, was painted neatly in black letters 20 inches high: FOUL PLAY PICNIC.
“Well,” he bellowed, hooking his thumbs into his belt and acting fierce, “any of you willing to make a cut in front of me?”
No one stepped forward. “Was like that when we got here, Sheriff!” yelled a man's voice from the rear to laughter.
“How about a turkey sandwich, Sheriff?” asked Ginnie, smiling that pretty smile of hers. “What you say, leave arrests for another day?”
Sheriff Russo sighed and settled his big bulk down on the blanket next to Ginnie. Her little daughter Cheryl snuggled in next to him. Ginnie popped open a beer and handed it to the Sheriff.
“Ya got a permit for that, Ginnie?” he asked as the lawbreakers and the law broke bread together.
<><><><>
Nate Halpirn had followed Seamus Boyle—the man Nate knew as Mark Reading—to a cheap motel in Seattle where Boyle rented a room, number 16. Nate parked and took the opportunity to write some notes, snap a few pictures. He checked his rear-view mirrors frequently, finished off two apples and a bottle of water.
An hour passed and Nate thought the man might not resurface, considered driving home. Just then, Boyle came out in clean clothes and drove—with Nate following him—to an alley. He parked his black Suburban in front of an old garage and removed a padlock from its double doors, then entered via a side door.
Nate parked at the end of the alley and watched as the garage doors opened and Boyle drove the Suburban inside, pulled the doors shut. Nate noticed he was wearing gloves and wrote down the details.
Half an hour later, Seamus Boyle appeared, padlocked the garage doors and started jogging in Nate’s direction. Nate lay down on the front bench seat and the man ran by. Boyle, wearing a backpack, jogged a block to a restaurant. Five minutes later he was out with his meal, ate a burger and fries at an outside table and washed it all down with a large soda.
Shortly after, Boyle hailed a yellow Toyota. It parked and he got in the back seat. Uber? thought Nate as he jotted down the time and license plate, started up his truck. Traffic got heavier and Nate’s heart beat faster when a red light caught him.
He slammed his steering wheel in frustration. I came all this way just to lose him now, he thought as he pulled over to the side of the road and parked. Still filthy from fighting the fire, Nate climbed onto the running board and scanned the area with his binoculars. He spotted the yellow Toyota at a minimart on the next block and jumped back behind the wheel, drove slowly to the corner.
As Nate pulled up, Boyle exited the minimart carrying coffee and a grocery bag and got into the back seat of the Toyota. Nate gave a sigh of relief and followed the yellow Toyota to the private hangers at Boeing Field at King County International Airport, five minutes south of downtown Seattle. Boyle paid the driver cash and disappeared into a hanger. Nate parked and wrote notes, added the time.
Boyle reappeared and walked to a white Cessna with green stripes. Nate zoomed in with his binoculars; wrote down the identification number on the side of the aircraft.
The engine roared to life and the propeller spun; the plane taxied down the runway. As the Cessna lifted off the ground and made a great circle to the south, Nate checked the time and made his final note: CESSNA HEADING SOUTH. FLIGHT PLAN?
Nate drove back to the alley, snapped pictures of the garage door. He drove around the corner and got the address and a picture of the house in front.
His stomach growled and he badly needed a bathroom, so he drove to a restaurant and used the restroom, tried to clean up. Better get it to go, eat outside, Nate thought as studied his exhausted and filthy self in the mirror. While he waited for his food, he forwarded his notes and pictures to the Sheriff’s Office.
It was late when Nate arrived home. He was so weary he could barely think.
Enough 007 for one day, he thought, wanting a hot shower and a warm bed. Tomorrow is plenty soon to call Jackson and the lady reporter.
<><><><>
The cellphone’s vibration on the nightstand woke Jackson who was wrapped around a naked Grace. He ignored it.
When they came home last night, Grace had made a move toward the guest room, but Jackson stopped her. He grabbed her and carried her, laughing, to his bed. They couldn’t get enough of each other and fell to one pleasure after another. They didn’t talk about the future. Jackson didn’t want to know and Grace didn’t want to think about it. They made love late into the night, fell asleep exhausted.
The office phone rang faintly downstairs. It stopped and rang again. Jackson sighed and untangled his legs from Grace’s, put on a robe and thick wool socks. He went downstairs and checked messages, listening to them on speaker.
Sara and Tom had called to say they’d be back in another day and Nate Halpirn had left a message:
Jackson, tell Miss Newman I followed her Mickey Mouse mystery man. Sheriff’s got the details and I’ll send them to you too.
Jackson turned from the office. Grace was standing on the last step of the staircase, looking great in one of his big shirts. She was oblivious to his smile of appreciation. She’d heard Nate’s message.
“He followed him?” she asked. Jackson nodded. She ran over, asked for Nate’s number and quickly called it. Nate was calm and organized in his thoughts and gave a detailed accounting of yesterday’s spy episode. Grace thanked him profusely.
“Ah, was nothin’. Really,” he said. “I emailed the Sheriff and Jackson photos I took and pictures of my notes—bit messy, but they’ll do.”
She thanked him again and hung up. Down the hall, she could hear U2 playing “Where the Streets Have No Name”.
I want to run, I want to hide / I wanna tear down the walls that hold me tonight / I wanna reach out, touch the flame / Where the streets have no name
I wanna feel sunlight on my face / I see that rain cloud disappearing without a trace / But I can dance, dance, dance in the dirty rain / Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name / Where the streets have no name / We're still building then burning down love / Burning down love / And when I go there, I go there with you / It's all I can do
Jackson was in the kitchen. Fire glowing, coffee brewing. Grace explained about Nate’s detective work.
“That’s great, Grace,” said Jackson, but what does it mean? Arson or just a good person helping put out a fire?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Grace, taking the coffee Jackson offered her. “I’m sure this guy was the driver with three guys who disrupted the UCLA meeting. Had a Mickey Mouse air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror at UCLA and in Silvercreek and at the fire scene. Do you remember them from UCLA?”
“No,” he said. “Once things started flying, I left. Too old for bar fights.”
“The vehicle at UCLA is registered to a Robert Patton,” said Grace. “Robert Patton has a pilot’s license and has overlapping addresses with a Seamus Boyle who also has a pilot’s license. Their pictures match and now he shows up saying he’s Mark Reading from Seattle.”
“Triplets?” asked Jackson.
Grace laughed. “I want to check out the garage where he’s storing his Suburban. May I use the truck to go to Seattle? Want to go with me?”
“A Sunday morning drive to Seattle? Not my favorite thing to do. A Sunday morning drive to Seattle with you? Love to.” Jackson grinned.
Grace opened his robe and pulled herself in close to him, kissed his naked chest.
Nice breakfast, he thought.
<><><><>
Ginnie Anderson was writing a press release on the porch of her pale green bungalow. She was wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and slippers. The sound of Cheryl’s Sunday morning cartoons floated from the living room as Jackson pulled into the gravel driveway and parked. Ginnie stood and pulled her robe closed, cinched it at the waist. Her golden retriever Shaka wagged his tail.
“Morning, Jack, Grace,” said Ginnie and Grace wondered again about their relationship. She looked at Jackson, but he was petting Shaka and she couldn’t see his face. “Coffee?” offered Ginnie.
“No thanks,” said Jackson. “Just a quick heads up. Nate saw you talking to a guy at the burn site. Drove a black Suburban?”
“Yeah,” replied Ginnie. “Nate was watching?”
“He was and it’s believed this guy might be a firebug,” said Jackson.
“Hell, I shook his hand!” said Ginnie. “He said his name was Mark; said he was hiking, stayed to help, then slept, ate, was heading to Seattle. Does the Sheriff know?”
“Yep,” said Jackson. “Nate followed him, flew out of Boeing Field. Sheriff’s got the details.”
“Write up what you remember and get it to the Sheriff too?” said Grace.
“I can do that,” said Ginnie. “Ya know, a black ball rolled out of the back of his Suburban—at least I thought it was a black ball. It was the size of a dragon egg. Painted black?” she asked.
“Could be,” said Jackson. “Who knows if there are others involved, so maybe you should go to your mom’s? Or stay at our house maybe? Key’s in the usual spot, if you need it.”
“Thanks, but Shaka’s a great watchdog,” Ginnie assured them. “I’ve got my gun. We’ll be fine.”
Grace watched as Jackson gave Ginnie a good-bye hug, placed his hand on her shoulder in a familiar way. As the truck crunched down the gravel driveway, Grace looked back to see Ginnie standing on the porch in her fuzzy pink bathrobe and with her hand on Shaka’s golden head. Ginnie waved and Grace waved back, then they turned onto the road and the little green house faded from view.
