Burn

Burn 1 Common sense told Andrew Kindler that a surprise visitor at the beach house didn't necessarily mean bad news. Instinct changed his mind long before the stranger with the sport coat on his arm got around to showing his badge. "Hello up there." Andrew hadn't realized he'd dozed off in the lounge chair until the voice startled him awake. He sat up and blinked against the sunlight, slowly regaining his sense of place. After all these weeks, he still sometimes woke up disoriented. He'd gotten to like the feeling. Most of the time. "Sorry. Over here." Andrew looked toward the owner of the voice, who stood near the top of the long run of stairs leading up to the deck. When the stranger saw that he'd gotten Andrew's attention, he raised a rolled newspaper in greeting. "Anybody home?" Andrew looked at his watch. Not quite nine o'clock. He reached to turn down the radio, suddenly wishing he had a dog. "Morning," he said. "Morning," said the stranger. "I rang the bell but nobody answered. Heard the radio, noticed the gate was open, thought I'd poke my head around. Mind if I come up?" A German Shepherd, Andrew thought. Maybe a Doberman. "Watch that top step," he said. "It's cracked through the middle." The guy acknowledged the tip with a short wave of the newspaper and a long stride over the offending tread. He strolled across the deck, scuffed cowboy boots sounding a hollow knock that echoed beneath the planks. Andrew watched from the lounge chair, evaluating possibilities. Besides the gulls, and the occasional gutsy pelican, he didn't get many callers here. His cousin Caroline dropped by every so often with one of her foil-wrapped care packages, usually something new she'd learned in her gourmet cooking class. Andrew had begun to grow optimistic that anybody else who had reason to look for him probably would have found him before now. The guy coming toward him wore rolled shirtsleeves and black denim slacks in spite of the heat wave in progress. He carried the sport coat over the crook of one elbow. Andrew saw big shoulders, weathered features, and a clean-shaved jaw. He guessed mid-forties, but the sunglasses made it hard to tell. "Your paper was in a bush around back," the guy said, holding out the morning Times. "I knew that kid's aim was improving. Thanks." On the radio, the morning jock had just launched the hour with the daily Hot Spot report. Andrew leaned over and turned the volume back up a notch. It had been almost two weeks since air and ground crews had reigned in an out-of-control brush fire that had blackened nearly 2,500 acres of state park land a few miles up the coast. According to the radio, smoldering pockets had flared up again during the night. Meanwhile, farther north, separate wildfires in Topanga and Calabasas had been devouring parched scrub since late yesterday afternoon. Hot, dry Santa Ana gusts threatened to drive one fire into the other, pushing both through the mountain passes toward Malibu. Andrew had taken to spending his mornings on the deck, watching the forest department planes pass overhead on tagteam runs. The stranger listened along for a moment, turning to gaze at the thick brown haze parked above Topanga Canyon to the north. "Lifestyles of the rich and famous," he mused. Andrew said, "Mm." "Early in the year for this stuff, though. Dry summer." "That's what they're saying." "Sorry again for the drop-in, Mr. Borland." The stranger grinned easily and extended a palm. "I came by to see you yesterday, but you weren't around." Mr. Borland. Andrew smiled and decided to let that one hang for now. He didn't explain to the stranger that he was not his jackass c