Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [53]
“Not your fault.”
They approached the turnoff for West Thumb. “Pit stop?”
“Never pass up an opportunity,” Clare agreed.
When Javier turned into the parking lot, afternoon light had turned the water midnight blue and the wind whipped whitecaps. Her throat constricted at the memory of the day they had rushed to the beach, looking for survivors.
She hadn’t seen Steve since she’d turned down his dinner invitation. At the time, he’d been hung-over and she’d thought it the right decision. On the other hand, he’d been perfectly clear and very knowledgeable about the history of her Nez Perce ancestors.
Clare opened the passenger door and started toward the restrooms.
“What’s going on?” Javier pointed offshore where a sturdy vessel with a prominent pilothouse and broad deck rode at anchor. The workboat was the type Clare was used to seeing in the Gulf of Mexico, hauling equipment for the oil industry.
Following Javier down the walk, she was nearly run down by Chris Deering. He brushed past her with a purposeful stride.
“There you are.” Deering shook hands with an Asian woman wearing a red suit and matching pumps. Her wedge of sculpted black hair rippled in the breeze until she looped it gracefully behind her ear.
A twinge shot through Clare, aware of her own dirty hair and filthy yellow shirt. Soot streaked her arms.
“Call me Suzanne,” the woman offered in a flat Midwestern accent.
Deering’s eyes lighted as he saw Clare. “You’re just in time to watch my helicopter rise from the deep. Turns out she’s only in eighty feet of water.”
A surge of gladness at his smile put her off balance. She shaded her eyes and looked out over the water at the workboat.
“They’ve got divers down now, placing flotation,” Deering explained, including both women by looking from one to the other. “Clare Chance, Suzanne Ho of First Assurance Aviation Underwriters.”
“Let’s go and watch.” Deering put a guiding hand beneath Clare’s elbow. “Can you stay?”
Javier joined them.
They went down the curving boardwalk past mud pots. Most were stagnant matte circles of drying, cracked clay, but one spattered thick glots. Where bleached earth marked prior spring activity, a lone buffalo with a dusty coat posed next to a dead pine.
Suzanne Ho tapped along on high heels, ignoring the springs and wildlife. “So, Mr. Deering, you say you lost control after you flew through a cloud of smoke.”
“The air turbulence was murder.” Deering pointed to where the fire had burned down to the lake. Stark skeletons of trees and their ash created a colorless landscape.
Clare stopped. She was struck again by the memory of blistering heat beside the chill lake, of kneeling beside Steve’s motionless form. Hot and cold . . . life and death, while she waited to learn which card he had drawn. “That’s where I found Dr. Haywood.”
Suzanne frowned.
“Look!” Deering said quickly.
The surface of the lake boiled. Rotors emerged, followed by a dark blue fuselage. Last to surface was a pair of pontoon-like floatation devices that the divers had attached and inflated from an air compressor.
“It’s not that far from shore,” Clare said.
“It looked like forever.” The edge on Deering’s tone said he’d wondered if he were going to make it. “When I was out there swimming by myself.”
She’d seen him rescued and wondered how Steve had made it to shore. “What about . . .? “ A sharp look from Deering stopped her.
“What about Dr. Haywood?” Suzanne Ho finished.
Small waves slapped below the boardwalk. Deering didn’t say anything for a long moment. Such a silent beat that Clare suspected he hadn’t mentioned Steve to the insurance company. “What about Haywood?” he finally asked.
“You never spoke of a passenger. Yet, when I was getting your treatment records from Lake Hospital, the doctor told me. Apparently, Haywood checked himself out within a few hours of the accident.”
“Yeah, to get stinking drunk,” Deering gritted. “I was trying to keep this simple, but you want to know about Steve Haywood, I’ll tell you. He lost his wife and baby