Death Takes a Honeymoon by DEBORAH DONNELLY

ridge. What they call the black zone. The Tyke couldn’t see where he landed. The next stick was Todd Gibson and Danny Kane—”
    “Tracy’s brother?”
    “Half brother, yeah. You know him?”
    “I met him a few times at Cissy’s house.” I remembered Danny as a tall, weedy fellow, his eyes small and worried, his dark hair soft and untidy. “He seemed nice.”
    “I guess so. He’s been jumping quite a while now. Sam says it’s too dangerous, but you can tell he’s proud of him. Only son and all that. Anyway, Todd and Danny and the Tyke headed for the fire, but kept an eye out for Brian. Between the smoke and the rough ground, they got separated...”
    That was the part that amazed me. After jumping from an airplane—scary enough in itself—these people packed up their gear, picked up their chain saws and Pulaskis and meager rations, and tramped through brush and rocks and ravines into a fire. No roads, no trails, just smoking trees and erupting flames and long unrelieved hours of intense physical labor.
    I hefted a Pulaski once, on a tour of the smoke-jumper base in Boise. It’s a double-headed tool, ax and hoe both on a long wooden handle, and I knew instantly that I couldn’t swing one for fifteen minutes, let alone fifteen hours. All wildland firefighters do that kind of backbreaking labor. Smoke jumpers just use different transportation to commute to work.
    “The Tyke spotted his parachute in a grove of ponderosa pines. It had hung up in a big snag, so he’d used his letdown rope. You know, that they rappel down with?”
    I nodded. Smoke jumpers learn to lower themselves from trees with a long rope—actually it’s nylon webbing—that they tie off securely to the trunk or a limb, or else to the risers of their parachute, if they’re certain the chute will stay put.
    “Don’t tell me his line failed?”
    “No, the line was sound. But Brian tied it off wrong. He secured it to his own harness instead of a riser, and he rappelled right off the end of it. Todd found him in the ashes at the bottom of the tree. His neck was broken.”
    “Oh, my God...”
    “Some jumpers are more worried about falling from trees than they are about fires, but not Brian.” B.J. drained her mug. “One night when we...one night he was talking about the training program, and he said letdown was a piece of cake. He was so cocky all the time, like he was invincible.”
    “Wait a minute, B.J., back up. What aren’t you telling me? Were you involved with Brian?”
    “No, I wasn’t ‘involved’!” She glared at me, tears welling in her eyes. “It was just—don’t look at me like that! I should have known you wouldn’t understand!”
    The tears brimmed over and she left the table abruptly, shoving her way through the crowd toward the rest rooms. My own mug, still full, was tepid by now, and I curled my hands around the glass as I put the pieces together. “One night when we...” When we what? I thought I knew, and I wished that I didn’t.
    “Well, if it isn’t long, tall Carnegie Kincaid.”
    I looked up into the face of a man I hadn’t seen in years. I knew every feature by heart. The topaz eyes that met mine in a steady gaze, the narrow face whose high, hard cheekbones were burnished by wind and weather. The thin, mobile lips, as always, seemed to be smiling at some private joke. And the sinewy body, as always, showed a graceful economy of effort as he moved to sit across from me.
    “Hello, Jack,” I said serenely, and spilled Irish coffee all over the table.

Chapter Six
    REDHEADS BLUSH AT THE DROP OF A HAT. OR A DRINK. BUT at least the fuss with the spill covered my reaction to Jack the Knack.
    I jumped to my feet, apologizing, while he backed away from the flood. It spread swiftly to the table edge and cascaded to the floor in long brown streamers. Laughing faces turned toward us from other tables, and then the waitress appeared to mop up the mess with practiced nonchalance. The whole thing took only