Paul Doiron - Trespasser

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 crispy black-and-brown thing that might once have been a human being. Men rushed forward to help them. I took a step forward myself-a reflex action.

Just then, one of the propane tanks at the back of the building exploded, and we were all thrown off our feet. I landed facedown in the mud. When I looked up again, men were scurrying back from the building, terrified that the gas tanks of the Driskos’ vehicles, or some hidden cache of explosives, might detonate next. Guffey and the other man who’d gone inside had dropped the incinerated body, but they bravely returned to haul it outside the perimeter of the fence.

At that moment, the pumper truck came screaming up the road. If anything, the scene became even more chaotic as men gawked at the charred remains of either Dave or Donnie Drisko. The eye sockets were gooey and the gums were burned back from the teeth. Other men scrambled around to unroll hoses. The chief arrived, a tubby little character who ran an auto-repair shop in town that specialized in bilking out-of-staters. He began barking orders.

The firemen pulled this immense canvas object out of the pumper truck and then unfolded it next to the vehicle. It looked like a kid’s swimming pool, only on a giant scale. The tanker truck arrived and began dumping water into the pool. The engine inside the pumper truck functioned basically like an enormous squirt gun, sucking water from the canvas pool through one set of hoses and then blasting it out again at high pressure through others. The firemen used this second set of hoses to fight the fire.

Whenever the tanker truck became empty, the driver would rush away down the road to the nearest stream or pond to replenish the water supply and then would come racing back to refill the canvas pool. In a land without fire hydrants, this is how you fight a fire, and if you are skilled or lucky, it’s how you keep buildings from burning down.

The Cellar Savers were neither skilled nor lucky.

The Driskos’ trailer was made of aluminum, so it didn’t collapse. But the fire gutted the structure completely. And it took the state fire investigator a long time to collect the remains of the other Drisko.

Was it Donnie or Dave? Even at the end, no one could tell them apart.

I spent the afternoon at the scene of the fire, waiting and hoping that the cause of the blaze would be quickly ascertained. An investigator from the state fire marshal’s office had been summoned from Augusta, but determining the origin and cause of the fire would likely be laborious. Figuring out whether it was an accident or arson might take days. But I was hopeful for a quick answer.

Passing out drunk with a lighted cigarette seemed like something one of the Driskos might do. Father and son had both seemed destined for fiery ends. So I decided to stick around the smoldering trailer because I was curious. And I wanted to meet the mysterious Dane Guffey, who had materialized out of the past to haunt my recent conversations. I needed to ask him why he had resigned from the sheriff’s department. What had he been doing in the seven years since he’d arrested Erland Jefferts?