Vanessa’s voice echoes in the night like the howl of a coyote.
The thought occurs to me that the pack of them I saw earlier could descend on her. Coyotes don’t attack people, though. Do they? Guilt washes over me. I shouldn’t have left her. But what choice did I have?
She didn’t leave me with one.
I emerge from the trees and see the two Jeeps parked side by side, the driver’s side door of Vanessa’s still standing wide open. I go to mine and lay the baby in the passenger seat. The drive requires all my focus to keep from jarring the newborn too much with each bump and rut that I pass over.
The fire becomes clear again.
Orange reaches up to the inky blackness of the sky and they meet where the smoke plumes. A sinking feeling overtakes me. There’s no way that Birdie survived if she didn’t make it out of the studio.
I stop the Jeep and look at my passenger.
Just then, I see headlights speeding towards me. I jump from the driver’s seat to the ground, waving my arms trying to flag them down. They stop.
It’s a Humvee. Black, probably armored. Two men hop out in full tactical gear, weapons raised.
“Get on the ground!” the first one out shouts at me. His voice is gruff and brusque. The kind of voice that’s had to make such demands on people before only to have them test his patience.
I don’t have any intention of doing that tonight.
I kneel slowly, keeping my hands raised in the air.
“Who are you?” the second man demands, their weapons trained on me.
“Ione Larsen,” I say. “I’m a journalist.”
They drop their guns.
“Did you get Birdie?” I ask.
They look at each other and then back at me.
“We need you to come with us,” they say.
One of them moves forward to help me off my knees.
“Vanessa—Tom’s wife—she’s still out there,” I say, breathless. The adrenaline that dumped into my system at the sight of a loaded weapon pointed in my face starts to subside, leaving me shaky.
“We’ll get her,” the other one says.
“The baby!” I cry.
One of the men runs around to the passenger side of the Jeep after I tell him what’s going on. Visible relief washes over his features when he brings the baby over to the Humvee.
The three of us get back into the Humvee, me in the back. The SWAT team officer in the passenger seat holds the baby and I’m grateful. I don’t think I have the energy required to care for her right now. I don’t know if my arms have the strength to hold her.
We pass by the burning ranch.
I ask again about Birdie.
“She’s on her way to the hospital,” the one driving says.
I sigh audibly.
“She’s not out of the woods, though,” he adds. I make eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. “She’s lost a lot of blood.” The way he says it, slow and soft, makes me think that there’s more he’s not saying. Like he’s holding back making the speculation that she won’t make it. I’m glad he does. Whether that’s denial or not, I’m not sure. But right now, I’m not prepared to deal with the reality of things.
We pass by the ranch, driving through the field to get back to the road.
Firetrucks wait at the gate, not having been given the go-ahead yet. It’s a crime scene, I realize. The place that I’ve spent the last few days is now a crime scene. As we pass through the gate, I spot the journalist that tipped me off on how to get the best shots of Revelation Ranch. I look out the window, staring into his eyes, but he doesn’t see me. He stares at the flaming compound, entranced by the tragedy unfolding.
Others surround him, watching, too. News vans with satellite dishes adorning the tops wait for the signal to go live. Reporters brush lint from their clothes, getting ready for the perfect shot. A shot that will make a career.
And for them, that’s all this is. A defining moment of their careers. Someone they loved isn’t lying dead inside the walls of the compound, hair being singed from his body, flesh melting on the bone, and scarce layers of fat combusting as flames engulf what’s become his tomb.
I turn and look out the rear window as I’m jostled over the cattle guard. The place is rubble, reduced to a shadow of what it was. Everything that Tom built turned to ash.
We stop a little way down the road. Other SWAT team members and FBI agents are waiting to receive us. I climb out of the back, my legs like gelatin. I feel like I’ve just run the Boston marathon.
A man steps forward.
“Wyatt Davis,” he says, holding out a hand. “You must be the journalist.”
He’s strikingly handsome. Young, too. Maybe my age. His black hair is neatly trimmed and his facial hair matches. He’s clean cut and his handshake is strong. Something that my grandpa would have appreciated.
“Ione Larsen,” I say.
“Come with me,” he says.
He turns and quickly we’re walking right into the middle of the FBI’s set up.
“Miss Hauer told us that Mr. Wolsieffer has died,” Wyatt says. He says this so matter-of-factly that it takes a moment for me to absorb it. The names, both familiar, but the verb phrasing is impossible to digest. How can Tom be dead?
It takes me a minute to answer. I open my mouth, ready to affirm the facts, but the urge to deny reality creeps up on me like a stalker in a dark alley.
Finally, I nod.
“And his wife stabbed him?” Wyatt asks.
I notice that another FBI agent is taking this down.
“I’m sorry if this is difficult, but it’s important that we get your statement right now,” he says. He forces a smile. It’s sad but comforting and I feel a connection to him immediately.
I nod and I go through the motions with Wyatt and the other FBI agent. He talks to
