Page 6 of The Burning

Discerning the tension in his voice, I grab my Maglite, spot two sets of prints, and follow them through the ditch. I climb the fence, sweeping my beam left and right, and I break into a jog. Twenty yards into the trees, I spot the flicker of flashlights ahead. All the while, I try to imagine a scenario that might’ve led to a fire and dead body. This is a remote area that’s prone to flooding in the spring. There are no farms or houses in the vicinity, and no road or dirt track that would accommodate a vehicle.

So what the hell was someone doing out here and how did they end up dead?

A hundred yards in, I enter a clearing. Ahead, I see the smoldering remnants of a fire, white smoke rising. Skid and Mona are standing about ten feet from the pile of glowing embers. Skid’s holding a fire extinguisher at his side. I can tell by the way they’re pacing around that they’re agitated.

“We got someone in the fire!” Skid calls out.

I break into a run. As I draw closer, I notice the blackened post jutting from the center of the smoldering ash. Foreboding quivers in my gut as I take in the vaguely human form secured to the post.

“Is he alive?” My voice sounds normal as I reach them, but my pulse is racing, the hairs at my neck standing on end.

Of all the officers who work for me—all five of them—Skid is the most likely to put forth some smart-ass comment at an ill-timed moment. Tonight, all I see is disbelief and bafflement on his face.

“Can’t get close enough to tell,” he says. “Too damn hot.”

“Was this burning when you arrived?” I ask.

“Fully engulfed.” He hefts the extinguisher. “Chief, this dude was alive when we pulled up. Mona and I heard a scream. By the time we found him, he wasn’t moving.”

“We just now got the fire out,” Mona says.

I look at her, notice the smaller extinguisher in her hand. “Hit those embers with foam.”

She does.

“We gotta get him out.” I glance at Skid. “Ambulance?”

“En route. Fire department, too.”

In the years I’ve been a cop, I’ve come upon victims with thermal injuries of varying degrees. I’ve responded to house fires. Vehicle accidents. Chemical burns. Smoke inhalation. I’ve never seen anything like this. The torso is in an upright position. The clothes have burned away. The exposed flesh is brown and black with hideous rust-colored patches. The neck is rust colored and wet looking. The head is bowed, the lower part of the face brown, the forehead blistered and bloodied.

“We’ve got to get him out of there,” I say.

“I’m game,” he says.

The problem is the victim is surrounded by four feet of glowing embers on all sides. No way to reach him without getting burned.

“Mona.” I toss her the keys to my Explorer. “Grab my toolbox. Water. Shovel. Hurry!”

She catches the keys with one hand, spins, and sprints toward our vehicles.

I look around for something—a log or flat stone—we can stand on or use to shove away the embers, but there’s nothing around.

“Shit.” I get as close as I can, reach out, but the heat sends me back. No way to reach the victim. It’s an excruciating situation. I speak into my radio. “Expedite ten-fifty-two,” I say, requesting a rush on the ambulance. “I got a burn victim.”

Skid jogs around the periphery of the clearing, looking for something we can use to protect our feet. There’s nothing but scraps of wood and kindling.

I can’t stop looking at the victim. There’s no movement. The body is affixed to the wood post. His hands are behind his back and held in place with something that didn’t burn through.

“Chief!”

I glance toward the woods to see Mona running toward us, my equipment toolbox in one hand, two folding shovels in the other. I rush to her, grab a shovel, snap it to length, and jog to the smoldering ash. Setting the blade to the embers, I scoop away red-hot coals, toss them aside. Skid puts the fire extinguisher to use. Mona yanks a quart-size water bottle from her pocket, squirts it. The embers sizzle when the water hits. In the back of my mind, I’m aware that this is a crime scene. That we’re probably contaminating evidence. No way to avoid it, because the preservation of life always comes first.

“Lay some foam on those embers!” I tell Mona.

She raises the smaller extinguisher and throws foam onto the freshly exposed embers.

I shovel for another minute. When there’s enough room for me to reach the victim without getting burned, I go for it. Vaguely, I’m aware of Skid digging. Heat presses against my calves, walks up my legs. I smell fabric burning, feel the heat coming through the soles of my boots. I keep going.