Someday Alaska is going to be a tropical beach resort,” I said. “So just how many tires are we talking about?”
“If we do this, we better do it right. I’d say a hundred,” he said, ignoring my shocked expression. “We also need to create some artificial wind. If we get the two tractors out there with the sprayers and turn the regulators on without opening the nozzles, that ought to work.”
I had never actually seen anyone burn tires, though I’d read about them being used as alternative fuel at cement kilns and paper mills. Hector and Manolo took care of the fires, dumping diesel fuel on the tires and then throwing lit books of matches at them. César and Jesús manned the tractors and sprayers, turning on the regulators to create high-pressure fans with enough force to blow your clothes off six rows away. Quinn and I stayed clear in the Mini, monitoring the sensors as we had done the night before.
It didn’t take long for everything inside the fire ring—including us—to be coated in a viscous cloud of black smoke. As the orange flames licked the blue-black sky, the tractor headlights cut white swaths through the gritty darkness and silhouetted the rows of nearly bare vines twisted like supplicants. The overpowering stench of burning rubber filled the air as the tires sizzled and dissolved. We could have been in hell, except for the cold.
Funny thing was, tonight I didn’t feel the frigid temperature. The urgency of what we were doing, keeping the fires stoked and the sprayers aimed at the vines to prevent the grapes from freezing, crowded out everything else in my mind. We worked feverishly, mostly in silence.
By the end of the night, I had soot in my lungs, my nostrils, and under my eyelids. It penetrated my clothing and coated my skin. Quinn and I looked like a pair of coal miners. We were checking thermometers in the Chardonnay block when he said, “I wonder who else was out here besides us last night.”
“Any ideas?” I asked. “Who do you think did it?”
He looked away. Then he said softly, “In a way I feel like I did. I should have made sure that stuff was put away. I’m sorry, Lucie, I really am.”
Apologies didn’t come easily to him. My anger melted. “It’s okay. It happened. There’s nothing we can do about it now. But I feel the same about being responsible. The only time we didn’t lock something in the chemical shed…”
“Dammit, after I finished talking to Chris when he showed up with the helicopter I should have gone back and moved those canisters. Instead I went home and crashed for a few hours because I knew it would be an all-nighter. I was beat.” He sounded beat now, too.
“Kit said whoever killed her would have found another way to do it,” I said. “This wasn’t an accident. Someone really went after her.”
“I didn’t like Georgia, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. I hope the cops nail whoever did it,” he said.
“Me, too.”
“Hey,” he said after a moment. “Look at this.” He shone a flashlight on one of the thermometers.
“Twenty-eight degrees,” I said. “Colder than last night.”
“I know. But look at the grapes.”
I looked. “Nothing’s frozen.”
He smiled tiredly for the first time all night, his teeth gleaming white against gritty black skin. “At least we got something right. I think we pulled it off.”
“Thank God. How much longer do we have to keep the fires going? That smell is revolting and we’re almost out of tires.”
“Probably another hour. Until around five.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Come on. You’ve been limping the past hour. You need to get off that foot.”
“I have not been limping. I’m fine.”
I stumbled and his arm tightened around me. “Don’t argue, and get back in the car.”
I obeyed while he went to talk to Hector. He was right about my foot. The skin was scraped raw where the deformed bones had rubbed against my heavy mud boots.
As Quinn predicted, we
“If we do this, we better do it right. I’d say a hundred,” he said, ignoring my shocked expression. “We also need to create some artificial wind. If we get the two tractors out there with the sprayers and turn the regulators on without opening the nozzles, that ought to work.”
I had never actually seen anyone burn tires, though I’d read about them being used as alternative fuel at cement kilns and paper mills. Hector and Manolo took care of the fires, dumping diesel fuel on the tires and then throwing lit books of matches at them. César and Jesús manned the tractors and sprayers, turning on the regulators to create high-pressure fans with enough force to blow your clothes off six rows away. Quinn and I stayed clear in the Mini, monitoring the sensors as we had done the night before.
It didn’t take long for everything inside the fire ring—including us—to be coated in a viscous cloud of black smoke. As the orange flames licked the blue-black sky, the tractor headlights cut white swaths through the gritty darkness and silhouetted the rows of nearly bare vines twisted like supplicants. The overpowering stench of burning rubber filled the air as the tires sizzled and dissolved. We could have been in hell, except for the cold.
Funny thing was, tonight I didn’t feel the frigid temperature. The urgency of what we were doing, keeping the fires stoked and the sprayers aimed at the vines to prevent the grapes from freezing, crowded out everything else in my mind. We worked feverishly, mostly in silence.
By the end of the night, I had soot in my lungs, my nostrils, and under my eyelids. It penetrated my clothing and coated my skin. Quinn and I looked like a pair of coal miners. We were checking thermometers in the Chardonnay block when he said, “I wonder who else was out here besides us last night.”
“Any ideas?” I asked. “Who do you think did it?”
He looked away. Then he said softly, “In a way I feel like I did. I should have made sure that stuff was put away. I’m sorry, Lucie, I really am.”
Apologies didn’t come easily to him. My anger melted. “It’s okay. It happened. There’s nothing we can do about it now. But I feel the same about being responsible. The only time we didn’t lock something in the chemical shed…”
“Dammit, after I finished talking to Chris when he showed up with the helicopter I should have gone back and moved those canisters. Instead I went home and crashed for a few hours because I knew it would be an all-nighter. I was beat.” He sounded beat now, too.
“Kit said whoever killed her would have found another way to do it,” I said. “This wasn’t an accident. Someone really went after her.”
“I didn’t like Georgia, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. I hope the cops nail whoever did it,” he said.
“Me, too.”
“Hey,” he said after a moment. “Look at this.” He shone a flashlight on one of the thermometers.
“Twenty-eight degrees,” I said. “Colder than last night.”
“I know. But look at the grapes.”
I looked. “Nothing’s frozen.”
He smiled tiredly for the first time all night, his teeth gleaming white against gritty black skin. “At least we got something right. I think we pulled it off.”
“Thank God. How much longer do we have to keep the fires going? That smell is revolting and we’re almost out of tires.”
“Probably another hour. Until around five.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Come on. You’ve been limping the past hour. You need to get off that foot.”
“I have not been limping. I’m fine.”
I stumbled and his arm tightened around me. “Don’t argue, and get back in the car.”
I obeyed while he went to talk to Hector. He was right about my foot. The skin was scraped raw where the deformed bones had rubbed against my heavy mud boots.
As Quinn predicted, we
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