Back at my Jeep, I did my best to scrape the mud off my boots with a fallen spruce branch. I replayed the conversation in my head but recalled nothing that helped explain this enigmatic woman. Ora Stevens had told me that people grieved in different ways. Maybe Jill Westergaard needed a scapegoat.
I did a U-turn and headed back to civilization. When I got home, I would abide by Sarah’s wishes and make my promised call to Kathy Frost. As I pulled onto the Parker Point Road, I passed a white pickup going the other way. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw its brake lights flash, as if the driver had recognized my vehicle, too. Then Stanley Snow’s truck shot forward again at a high rate of speed.
34
The fire on the Drisko property was first reported by an exhausted lineman from Central Maine Power. The electrical worker was suspended thirty feet up in the air in his bucket, repairing a balky pole-mounted transformer-a casualty of the previous week’s ice storm-when he spotted a wisp of smoke rising from a distant wooded ridge. At first, the lineman wondered if it was just someone burning brush in his yard, but as the cloud began to boil up in an oily mass, he quickly got on the radio to his dispatcher, who called in the fire to the Knox County Regional Communications Center, which, in turn, sent word out across the airwaves to the state police, the Seal Cove Volunteer Fire Department, and every other available first responder. That was how I learned about the inferno.
“Attention all units, Seal Cove,” came the call on my scanner. “Structure fire, Five Town Farm Road, time out, nine thirty-five.”
From Parker Point, I didn’t have far to drive.
I was one of the first men on the scene.
Two pickup trucks with spinning red balls clapped to their dashboards had pulled up outside the Driskos’ fence. Flames were shooting through the roof of the trailer and dense smoke poured from the vents and front door.
One of the volunteers was already fully outfitted in all his gear but was struggling to pull a scuba-type tank over his shoulders. The other man, who still had his fire pants around his ankles, kept looking down the drive, waiting for real help. I knew that most local firemen gathered at the station and rode with the town trucks, but all of the volunteers I knew kept their personal turnout gear-boots, pants, coats, gloves, and helmets-bagged in their vehicles.
The first fireman had pulled on his helmet and was plodding heavily toward the building as I leaped from my truck.
“Wait!” I shouted after him. “They have a pit bull!”
The fireman didn’t hear me. He just forged through the gap in the barbed fence. No dog rushed out to attack the intruder. Vicky wasn’t tied to her usual post. Maybe she was out back. I listened for barking, but the only sound was the crackling of the fire.
I stumbled forward to get a better view. Heat radiated down the slope, making my eyes water and smart. Peering through the smoke, I discerned the flatbed pickup, the beat-up Monte Carlo, the two ATVs.
Christ, I thought, both of the Driskos are inside there.
“Aren’t you going in?” I shouted at the other volunteer, who was still struggling awkwardly into his coat.
“I’m not certified,” he said over his shoulder.
I was startled to realize the man I was addressing was Hank Varnum. Then I remembered he lived around the corner. That’s why he originally thought the Driskos were the ones harassing him.
“You can’t let him go in there alone, Hank.”
The lanky grocer then did something nonsensical. He tugged on his Lincolnesque whiskers. “I can’t go in,” he said. “I have a beard.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The mask won’t fit on my face because of the beard. You can’t get a tight seal.”
“Who’s the guy who just went in there?”
Varnum held up a dog tag. The standard practice among volunteer firefighters is to leave a name tag, usually kept attached to the helmet, with someone outside the structure before going in. That way, the incident commander will know who’s inside the burning building.
“It’s Guffey,” he said.
“Dane Guffey?”
“We always go inside in teams of two,” said Varnum. “But Dane wouldn’t wait. He was here when I showed up.”
“I think both of the Driskos might be in there,” I said.
“Oh, damn.” He grabbed the radio from his truck and shouted into it: “Dispatch, this is Unit Fifty-one. I am ten twenty-three at Five Town Farm Road at nine forty-nine.” He coughed into his fist. “We have possible multiple ten forty-eights.”
I glared at the burning mobile home. Should I try following Guffey inside? I wondered. I figured if I crawled on my hands and knees, maybe I could help him. But the heat, even from fifty feet away, was too intense. And without a breathing apparatus, the carbon monoxide would knock me out in seconds.
Varnum looked at me helplessly. “I’m afraid one of those propane tanks is going to blow. That damned Guffey! He knows we’re not allowed to go into the building until the chief arrives.” He glanced down the rutted driveway, but no more help seemed forthcoming.
In Seal Cove and other rural communities, the members of the volunteer fire department half-jokingly refer to themselves as the “Cellar Savers.” Because it takes so long for the team to respond, very often the only thing left of a burning building is its foundation. Every small-town fire department in Maine has its own rules-some departments are exceedingly well run-but I seemed to remember that the Seal Cove volunteers had a reputation for ineffectuality.
With their home ablaze, the words spray-painted on the Driskos’ makeshift fence seemed to take on a new and absurd meaning: KEEP THE FUCK OUT! WARNING, DANGEROUS DOG! TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. I didn’t think Dave and Donnie had ever imagined a day when they would be desperate for visitors to disregard those signs.
“You’ve got to move your vehicle,” Varnum told me.
“What?”
“We need to be able to get the pumper in close to the trailer.”
By the time I’d pulled my Jeep out of the way, more vehicles had arrived: random volunteers, some already in their coats and helmets. Men were shouting at one another. “Did we call for mutual aid?”
“What are you, stupid? It’s a frigging trailer.”
“Hank says there might be bodies.”
“Guffey’s inside, alone.”
“Those propane tanks are going to blow.”
A stocky old man I didn’t recognize was pulling on his own air tank. He handed Varnum his dog tag. “Tell Milton I couldn’t wait.”
A downwind pushed the smoke at us suddenly and we staggered away from the fence, our arms raised to protect our eyes, squinting into the billowing fumes. The smell was an acrid mix of burned metal and melting plastic, which made me choke violently and turn away.
“Where’s the dog?” I asked the men around me. “The Driskos have a pit bull.”
The volunteers looked at me like I’d just escaped from a mental ward. But the absence of the Driskos’ ferocious watchdog seemed important: a key to what we were watching unfold.
Ignoring me, the firefighters continued their frantic conversation.
“We’ve got to turn off the electricity before the pumper shows. Did anybody throw the breaker?”
“Where are we going to get water? Did you see a stream on the way up?”
“There’s a pond down the hill, I think.”
After what seemed like an eternity, two firefighters came backing out of the door of the trailer, dragging a
