Dies the Fire (3 page)

Thank God the moon's up
.

He strained his eyes . . . yes, a slightly flatter, calmer section. It ended in a boulder about the size of the mobile home he lived in, water foaming white on both sides.

In. In. Sinking into night, shadow reaching up. Gliding, the valley walls rearing higher on either hand, trees reaching out like hands out of darkness to grasp the Piper and throw it into a burning wreck.
Lightly, lightly, bleed off speed with the flaps but don't let her stall, keep control . . .

Then he was nearly down, moving with shocking speed over the churning riffled surface silvered by moonlight.
Here goes.

“Brace for impact!” he shouted, and pulled the nose up at the last instant, straining at the control yoke. They were past the white-water section; it should be deeper here.

“Come on, you bitch,
do
it!”

The tail struck, with a jolt that snapped his teeth together like the world's biggest mule giving him a kick in the ass. Then the belly of the Chieftain pancaked down on the water and they were sliding forward in a huge rooster tail of spray, scrubbing speed off in friction. And shaking like a car with no shocks on a
real
bad road as they hit lumps of floating ice. Another chorus of screams and shouts came from the passengers, but he ignored them in the diamond clarity of concentration.

Too fast,
he thought.

The boulder at the end of the flat stretch was rearing up ahead of him like God's flyswatter. He snarled at death as it rushed towards him and stamped on the left rudder pedal with all his strength and twisted at the yoke—the ailerons would be in the water and should work to turn the plane. If he could—

The plane swiveled, then struck something hard below the surface. That caught the airframe for an instant, and inertia punched them all forward before the aluminum skin tore free with a scream of rending metal.

Then they were pinwheeling, spinning across the water like a top in a fog of droplets and shaved ice as they slowed. Another groan from the frame, and he shouted as an impact wrenched at them again, brutally hard. Loose gear flew across the cabin like fists. Things battered him, sharp and gouging, and his body was rattled back and forth in the belt like a dried pea in a can, nothing to see, only a sense of confused rushing speed. . . .

Then the plane was down by the nose and water was rilling in around his feet, shocking him with the cold. They were sinking
fast
, and there was almost no light now, just a gray gloaming far above.

With a gurgling rush the ice water swept over the airplane's cockpit windows.

Hopping Toad Tavern, Corvallis, Oregon
Tuesday, March 17th, 1998
6:14:30 P.M., Pacific Time—Change minus thirty seconds

Juniper Mackenzie dropped her guitar at the intolerable white spike of pain driving into her eyes, but she managed to get a foot underneath it before it hit the floor. Shouts of alarm gave way to groans of disappointment from the crowd in the Hopping Toad as the lights and amplifier stayed off.

Whoa!
she thought.
Goddess Mother-of-All! That
hurt!

But it was gone quickly too, just the memory and no lingering ache. There was a flashlight in her guitar case; she reached in and fumbled for it, searching by touch in complete blackness, with only a fading gray gloaming towards the front of the café—the sun was just down behind the Coast Range. The batteries were fresh, but nothing happened when she thumbed the switch except a click, more felt through her thumb than heard.

She could hear a tinkling crash, and shouts, faint with distance.
This isn't a blown fuse.
Plus every dog in Corvallis was howling, from the sound of it.

“Well, people, it must be a power failure,” she said, her trained singer's voice carrying through the hubbub and helping quiet it. “And in a second, our good host Dennis will—”

The flick of a lighter and then candlelight broke through the darkness, looking almost painfully bright. The Toad was a long rectangle, with the musicians' dais at the rear, the bar along one side and a little anteroom at the front, where a plate-glass window gave on to Monroe Avenue. The evening outside was overcast, damp and mildly chilly; which in the Willamette Valley meant it could have been October, or Christmas.

With the streetlights out, the whole town of Corvallis, Oregon, must be dark as the proverbial porker's lower intestine. There were more crashes, a few more shouts, and more sounds of bending metal and tinkling glass, and the chorus of howls gave way to ragged barking.

Dennis at the bar was a friend of hers; he got her drinks for free, not to mention gigs like this now and then. Wearily she cursed her luck; it was a pretty good crowd for a weekday, too; mostly students from OSU, with some leftover hippies as well—most of the valley towns had some, though Corvallis wasn't swarming with them the way Eugene was—and they'd all given a good hand to the first two tunes.

She'd been on a roll, hitting the songs the way they were meant.
And
if this power-out hadn't happened, she'd have made a decent night's take for doing the thing she liked best in all the world. There were already a scattering of bills in the open guitar case at her feet for gravy.

More candles came out, and people put them in the wrought-iron holders along the scrubbed brick walls—ornamental usually, but perfectly functional, hand-made by Dennis's elder brother John, who was a blacksmith, and even more of a leftover hippie than Dennis was. In a few minutes, the tavern was lit brightly enough that you could have read, if you didn't mind eyestrain.

The waxy scent of the candles cut through the usual patchouli-and-cooking odors of the Toad; the stoves were all gas, so food kept coming out. Juniper shrugged and grinned to herself.

“Well, you don't have to see all that well to listen,” she called out. “It's the same with music as with drink:
Sé leigheas na póite ól aris.
The cure is more of the same!”

That got a laugh; she switched to her fiddle and gave them a Kevin Burke tune in six-eight time, one of the ones that had enchanted her with this music back in her early days. The jig set feet tapping and the
craic
flowing; when she'd finished she got out her seven-string and swung into her own version of “Gypsy Rover.” The audience started joining in the choruses, which was always a good sign.

Maybe being in a mild emergency together gave them more fellow-feeling. Some people were leaving, though . . . and then most of them came back, looking baffled and frustrated.

“Hey, my car won't start!” one said, just as she'd finished her set. “There's a couple of cars stopped in the road, too.”

Off in the distance came an enormous
whump
sound not quite like anything she'd ever heard. Half a second later the ground shook, like a mild compressed earthquake, or standing next to someone when they dropped an anvil. A shiver went through her heart, like the snapping of a thread.

“What the hell was
that
?” someone shouted.

“Looks like a big fire just started downtown, but there aren't any sirens!”

The hubbub started again, people milling around; then two young men in fleece vests came in. They were helping along an older guy; he had an arm over each shoulder, and his face was streaming with blood.

“Whoa!
” she said, jumping down from the dais. “Hey there! Let me through—I know some first aid.”

By the time she got there Dennis had the kit out and the two students had the injured man sitting down in one of the use-polished wooden chairs. One of the waitresses brought a bowl of water and a towel, and she used it to mop away the blood.

It looked worse than it was; head wounds always bled badly, and this was a simple pressure-cut over the forehead, heading a ways back up into the scalp. The man was awake enough to wince and try to pull away as she dabbed disinfectant ointment on the cut and did what she could with bandages. Dennis put a candle in her hand; she held it in front of one of the man's eyes, and then the other.

Maybe the left is a
little
less responsive than the right,
she thought.

The man blinked, but he seemed to be at least minimally aware of where he was. “Thanks,” he said, his voice slurred. “I was driving fine, and then there was this flash and my car
stopped
. Well, the engine did, and then I hit a street-lamp—”

“I think this guy needs to get to a hospital,” she said. “He might have a concussion, and he probably ought to have a couple of stitches.”

Dennis looked sad at the best of times; he was a decade and change older than her, in his late forties, and going bald on top with a ponytail behind. As if to compensate he had a bushy soup-strainer mustache and muttonchops in gray-streaked brown, and big, mournful, russet brown eyes.

He always reminded her of the Walrus in
Alice
, even more so given his pear-shaped body, big fat-over-muscle arms and shoulders and an impressive gut. Now he turned his great hands palm-up.

“Phone's out,” he said. “Shit, Juney,
everything's
out.”

Juniper swallowed. “Hey!” she called. “Has
anyone
got a working car? A motorbike? Hell, a bike?”

That got her some yeses; it was a safe bet, right on the edge of a university campus. “Then would you get over to the clinic and get someone to come?”

Another student went out, a girl this time. Juniper looked around at a tug on her arm. It was Eilir, her daughter—she'd be fourteen next week, scrawny right now to her mother's slimness. She had the same long, straight-featured face and the same pale freckled skin, but the promise of more height, and hair black as a raven's wing. Her eyes were bright green, wide now as her fingers flew.

Juniper had been using Sign since the doctors in the maternity ward told her Eilir would never hear; by now it was as natural as English.

I saw a plane crash, Mom
, Eilir signed.
A big plane; a 747, I think. It came down this side of the river—right downtown.

Are you sure?
Juniper replied.
It's awful dark.

I saw bits of it after it hit,
the girl signed.
There's a fire, a really big fire.

Dennis Martin knew Sign almost as well as Juniper did—mother and daughter had been through regularly for years, when Juniper could get a gig like this, and for the RenFaire and the Fall Festival. She knew he had a serious thing for her, but he'd never been anything but nice about its not being mutual; he was even polite to her boyfriend-cum-High Priest Rudy, and he really liked Eilir.

Now their eyes met.

I don't like the sound of this at all,
Dennis signed.
Let's go look.

Juniper did, with a sinking feeling like the beginnings of nausea. If there was a fire raging in downtown Corvallis, where were the sirens? It wasn't a very big town, no more than fifty thousand or so.

The brick building that held the Hopping Toad was three stories, a restored Victorian like most of the little city's core, built more than a century ago when the town prospered on shipping produce down the Willamette to Portland.

They went up a series of narrow stairs until they were in the attic loft Dennis used for his hobbies, woodworking and tooling leather. Amid the smell of glue and hide and shavings they crowded over to the dormer window; that pointed south, and the other side of Montrose was Oregon State University campus, mostly grass and trees.

The two adults crowded into the narrow window seat; Dennis snatched up a pair of his binoculars that Eilir had left there. After a moment he began to swear; she took the glasses away from him and then began to swear too. There
was
a fire over towards downtown, a big one, flames towering into the sky higher than any of the intervening buildings. It was extremely visible because there wasn't a streetlight on, and hardly any lit windows, or a moving car.

She could see the distinctive nose of a 747 silhouetted against the flames, pointing skyward as if the plane had hit, broken its back, and then skidded into something that canted the front section into the air. She could even see the AA logo painted on its side.