Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

“Happy Birthday, Jasi. Great way to be spending it, huh?” Natassia’s grinning mouth snapped firmly shut when Jasi whipped her head around.

“Okay, the chopper is ready,” Ben announced.

Covering their ears, they dashed across the tarmac. The four-blade rotor of an Ops helicopter sliced through the air, droning and choppy. The sound was deafening until the pilot handed each of them a headset.

A few minutes later, they were onboard and gliding across the treetops.

“We’ll do the scene first,” Jasi said, plugging her data-com into the outlet in front of her.

Natassia nodded. “Okay. After that, I’ll see if I can get a read off Washburn’s remains. Maybe I’ll get a hit. There’s a good chance Washburn knew the perp.”

“I’ll get the reports for both fires and make some calls to set up interviews,” Ben said, removing his gloves. “Then I’ll start my profile. So far, what do we have?”

“A sick bastard who likes to set fires,” Jasi murmured.

“Yeah, we have that. Hey, are you going to be okay in Kelowna? Do you need anything special?”

She handed him a short list. “Just this. I have everything else.”

Ben read the list quickly, then keyed in the request on his data-com.

A few minutes later, his unit beeped a response.

“Everything will be waiting for you, Jasi. Just see the Chief of Arson Investigation on-scene.”

She knew that her day would be long and grueling. She recalled the disaster that occurred years ago. A raging forest fire had swept over Okanagan Mountain, burning almost three hundred homes to the ground and destroying over twenty-five thousand hectares of natural forest.

As the private helicopter soared closer to the dreary crime scene, Jasi settled into the seat, pulled her long auburn hair up into a quick ponytail and closed her eyes. She would need to be alert and rested.

Agent Jasi McLellan could already taste the bitter smoke in the air.

And something more—death.

The helicopter deployed Jasi and her PSI team one mile from the fire. A fog of gray smoke greeted them. It hung in the air over the crime scene like a smothering electric blanket set on high . The scorching sun smiled down upon them, adding to the heat.

Fire trucks were parked on the side of a grassy field surrounded by thick trees and weedy underbrush. An oversized khaki-colored army tent had been pitched in the center of the field while an exhausted group of firefighters slept nearby in the shade. A variety of police vehicles slanted across the gravel road, blocking off public access.

A tired, sooty police officer strolled toward them. “Hey, Ben.”

Ben grinned and introduced the man. “This is Sgt. Eric Jefferson, Kelowna PD.”

“How’s it hangin’, Ben?” Jefferson asked, after introductions were complete. “Are you supervising this case?”

“Actually, I am,” Jasi said, only slightly offended.

Ben grimaced apologetically. “Eric and I trained at the VPA range together.”

The Vancouver Police Academy was highly regarded worldwide for its superior training of police officers. The academy owned acres of land outside the city limits. The rough terrain had been converted to a firearm training facility used by CFBI agents and police officers.

There was also a separate area for the bomb squad.

“A van’s coming to get you,” Jefferson said. “And someone’ll be here any minute with the supplies you requested.”

“Where’s the Chief of AI?” Jasi asked him.

“Over by the tents, I think.”

Jefferson glanced over his shoulder at an approaching truck. “Your supplies are here.”

A police officer in his mid-forties, dressed in a fresh uniform, jumped from the truck. When he spotted them standing by the edge of the road his eyes narrowed. A firefighter wearing fire gear, minus the hat and mask, climbed from the passenger side carrying a bright red equipment bag. He had a stocky build and blond hair that was cut in a surfer style, long on the sides.

The man reminded Jasi of an advertisement for steroids.

She caught his eye and he aimed a withering look in her direction. Uh oh, she thought. Steroid-man wasn’t happy to see them.

“Detective Randall,” Jefferson murmured, indicating the officer. “He’s the lead on the Victoria case.”

“He was the lead,” Jasi corrected him.

She watched while Randall and the stocky firefighter lumbered closer. When the two men reached her, she held out a hand.

“Agent McLellan, CFBI.”

The detective winced at her words. Then his hand crushed her fingers, challenging her to back down.

Jasi squeezed harder until Randall let go.

After introducing her team, she caught Randall fighting with Ben for alpha male status. Detective Randall lost. Tension sliced through the air, thick with male testosterone. She saw Ben wave Eric Jefferson aside.

Jasi stole a glance at the firefighter.

The man’s head was turned slightly away. On the shoulder of his jacket, a blue firefighter’s patch flapped loosely in the breeze. R. J. Scott, KFD , the patch read.

“Have you got the supplies?” she asked him, feeling a shudder of pain behind her eyes.

Scott dropped the red bag on the ground, crouched down and jerked the zipper open. “Right here.”

Her head began to pound. The smoke was invading her pores. She reached into her black backpack and extracted the can of OxyBlast . For half a minute, she sucked on the mouthpiece, inhaling pure oxygen and clearing her lungs.

“The oxy-mask is in the bag,” Scott muttered in a voice that was hoarse from breathing in too much smoke.

When he brushed the hair from his eyes, she sucked in a puff of air. The left side of the man’s face was scarred—a motley web of spidery burns.

“Hazard of the job,” he shrugged when he noticed her shocked expression.

Detective Randall joined them. “You done here, Scott?”

“Yeah,” the firefighter grunted.

Randall stared at Jasi and laughed rudely. “I don’t know why she needs the mask.”

Scott scowled at her. “Yeah, it’s as useless as tits on a bull—unless she’s gonna go into a live fire.”

The men grinned at each other, then caught her eye.

“Detective Randall,” she said coldly. “There are many things that are useless on a bull.”

She allowed her eyes to slowly drift down past Randall’s waist, locking in on his groin area. The man’s face grew pinched, and then he muttered something indistinctly.

She turned her back and reached into the bag, removing the familiar navy-blue mask. It had a built-in filtration system that eliminated air contamination, giving the wearer a clean source of oxygenated air. Small and lightweight, the oxy-mask fit securely over the nose and mouth.

She drew it snugly over her head and adjusted her ponytail. Fighting back a feeling of claustrophobia, she took a deep breath.

“I’m fine,” she assured Natassia who was watching her intently. “The residue is bad out here.”

The oxy-mask muffled her voice.

“It wasn’t that big a fire,” Scott huffed.

“Not this fire. The Kelowna fire.”

The firefighter eyed her suspiciously.

“What? That fire was years ago.” The scarred side of his face stretched tautly and barely moved when he spoke.

“Agent McLellan?” Ben called out, hurrying to her side with Sgt. Jefferson in tow. “Everything all right here?”

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him.

Her head swiveled and her eyes latched onto Detective Randall’s. “Right?”

The man flashed her a dangerous smile. “We don’t need your help. Victoria PD is more than capable of handling — ”