Table of contents Introduction | Cast of characters   Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby   Chapter One ne of the fantasies that I indulged myself in was that I was in control. For years, I had told myself that I could manage anything, that all difficult events were merely tests to be conquered. It may have been my upbringing in a home that saw no major crises or conflicts, or the years at universities where professors in their insulated classrooms taught that there are rational solutions to all problems.       Looking back at it, I should have recognized that the series of events was placed there as a test for me to overcome before I could move to some higher plane of understanding. At the time, they seemed to start as mere nuisances, buzzing like mosquitoes at the edge of a relatively uncomplicated life. Whether I passed the test I will probably never know. But this I can say for certain: when I next find myself struggling against such a harsh current, I will be much more willing to let go of the tiller and let events steer themselves. •      •      •       It started, I suppose, on a gray day around the spring equinox, which in Oregon means three more months of rain. I was feeling pleased with myself, having emptied my in-box and cleared most of the files off my desk. The city was running smoothly: there were no staffing emergencies, no city council elections to worry about, no serious police cases in the works. Whether they were satisfied or merely apathetic, the citizens had pretty much left me alone. Until, that is, Scarlet showed up.       The commotion in the reception area broke into my consciousness. One of the voices belonged to Terri Knox, my secretary, and the other was louder and shriller. I was thinking about getting up to check it out when a woman burst through the door carrying a white bucket. She marched up and dumped the contents on my desk — dirty diapers and bitter smelling water. I managed, barely, to jump back in time to avoid the splash of baby urine and bleach.       The woman stood defiantly, gripping the empty pail. “Now you can deal with this, since I can’t,” she shrieked.       Water ran off the edge of the desk and began to form a pool on the carpet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Terri at the doorway, looking dumbstruck. Then she disappeared. I gently pried the mostly empty bucket from the woman’s hands and gingerly started picking up the soggy diapers and dumping them in it. I didn’t say anything — partly because I was at a loss for words, and partly because I was picturing her driving down to city hall, anticipating the reaction she would get from her dramatic gesture. I didn’t want to give her the pleasure.       Terri reappeared with an armful of paper towels. “Do you want me to call the janitors?” she asked.       “No, I’ll handle it,” I said. Terri shrugged and dropped a wad of the paper towels on the floor to soak up the vile soup on the carpet, and handed me some to use on the desk. A memo I had been reading had plastered itself to the glass. I picked it up by a corner and dropped it into the trash can.       We got the mess cleaned up, and Terri left, glancing at the woman on her way out. I leaned against a credenza and looked at her. Even though it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees outside, she wore a stained tank top that wasn’t quite long enough to cover a roll of fat that bulged over the sides of her jeans. Her toenails were painted orange — not a good match with the pink rubber sandals, I thought. Half her dirty blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and the rest floated around her face. Her mouth was clamped in a thin line, and an ember of hate was still smoldering in her eyes. I waited.       “I got two full buckets and no clean ones,” she said. “You shut the water off without telling me. What did you think I was supposed to do?”       I tried to keep my voice down. “It must have been an emergency water line repair. The crew usually knocks on people’s doors if they know they’re going to have to shut the water off. Where do you live?”       “Why do you want to know?”       “So I can find out what’s going on with your water service.”       “Twelve forty five Jorgensen Street. But that’s not going to do me much good now, is it? I want to know before they do stupid things like that, not after. I don’t care about no flimsy excuses. I have three kids and two of them are in diapers. And I’m a single mom.”       I’m not surprised, I started to say, and caught myself. I guessed a question about artificial insemination wouldn’t be appropriate either. My wallet was in my suit coat pocket, hanging behind the door. I pulled a five-dollar bill out and handed it to her.       “What’s this?” she asked.       “Pick up some disposable diapers on your way home. I’ll bet your water is back on anyway, but at least you’ll have a backup. What’s your name?”       I saw her hesitate and I added, “So we can call you if the outage is going to last longer.”       “Scarlet. And I don’t have a phone.” She stared at me for a moment, then wheeled around to leave. Halfway out the door she remembered her diaper pail, and stomped back in to grab it. She avoided my eyes and bent her shoulders as if she needed to plow her way out of the office.       I watched from my window until she reached her car in the parking lot below and then, without touching anything, made my way to the restroom in the hall. I stood, testing the water with a finger until it was nearly scalding, and plunged my hands in. •      •      •       Trillium was a city of 42,500 people. It was far enough from Portland to have its own identity and business base, but close enough to reap the rewards of Portland’s bustling economy. The trillium was, of course, the official city flower, but the plant didn’t seem to grow naturally anywhere except in a few secluded parks. There had been a legend — unconfirmed — that the name came from an Indian phrase — Chee ’Ellum — meaning “tall trees.”       In any case, the Indians were long gone, and so were most of the Douglas fir, cedar, and hemlock that once blanketed the rolling hills of the town. Old records showed a dozen active saw mills in the city around the turn of the century. Modern developers, when digging the foundations for their houses, were often surprised by the remains of mill ponds and buried heaps of sawdust.       Over the decades, the residents of Trillium had toiled to recapture the splendor of the old forest by planting a mixture of oaks, fruit trees, and the native soft woods. From a rooftop view, the town was covered by a green canopy, punctuated by the towering spires of the firs and cedars. Instead of wood chips, the city now produced computer chips, and the industry’s executives were drawn by the natural beauty of the area.       Some felt it was too much of a good thing. The city — which forty years ago had numbered only 4,500 — faced issues of traffic congestion and school crowding. And the city government itself had passed the peak of the natural economy of scale, and was facing big-city problems ranging from gang wannabes to centralized purchasing.       I had been city manager of Trillium for ten years — twice the national average for city manager tenure. It was long enough to feel comfortable with the quirks of the community and its leaders, but not long enough to take job security for granted. All it took was three votes in any city council meeting and I was out on the street. The council was mostly supportive, though, and one of the council members I could always count on was Seth Rosenberg.       He had called me to say he had something he wanted to talk about, but didn’t have much time. He had to catch a commuter flight to Seattle to meet with some lumber brokers, he said, and was running behind. I offered to drive him to the airport and he quickly agreed.       Seth didn’t waste much time on small talk. He was the manager of the last remaining lumber mill in the area, specializing in the export of dowels, broom handles, and banister spindles. His full black beard and the wrinkles around his eyes reminded me of Abraham Lincoln and made him look older than his thirty-eight years. He was wearing a conservative gray suit and maroon striped tie.       “So what did you want to talk about,” I asked as we threaded through the mid-morning traffic on I-5.       “Just some rumblings I’ve been hearing from some of my colleagues in the so-called business community. Do you know a guy named Todd Pritchard?”       “Nope. The name’s familiar, I think, but I don’t know him. Why?”       “He runs a construction company. Fairly small, I think — just a couple of Cats and backhoes. He’s upset at the city for some reason or another. Something about his fire sprinkler system going off in his equipment shed, and I guess he thinks it’s the city’s fault because the pressure is too high.”       “But they set those things for — ”       “I know, I know, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, he’s mad at the city and I hear he’s been going around trying to stir some of the other businesses up.”       “Did he talk to you?”       Seth glanced at me, amused. “No, that wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t even know about it, except one of our suppliers got an earful, and shared it with me. I don’t really care — my job on the council doesn’t make me the defender of the city’s reputation.”       “That’s my job.”       He laughed. “Well, you might want to check it out.”       “Sure.” •      •      •       My office still had a slight bitter odor, even though it had been a few days since Scarlet’s appearance. I had told Terri that we should start burning incense; maybe she took me seriously because I noticed she seemed to be putting on the perfume a little thicker than usual.       I looked up the number for Todd Pritchard’s business and called his office. After the inevitable “Can I tell him who’s calling?” I was told that he was on a job site. I left a message, feeling pessimistic about the chance of the call being returned.       The feeling was justified. Over the next few days, I tried calling a half-dozen times and always got an evasive story: “He’s in a meeting,” or “He’s with a customer.” It was like chasing a shadow. Ironically, other business owners told me that Pritchard was claiming that he had tried to contact me, but that I wouldn’t return his calls. After a while I gave up, and let it go.       Two weeks later The Oregonian carried a story about a new political action committee that had formed in anticipation of the May special election. Citing the unresponsiveness of city hall and “a lack of fiscal stewardship,” the committee was pushing a ballot measure that would cause an immediate rollback in the City of Trillium’s property taxes. The committee’s chairman was Todd Pritchard. Next chapter: no easy choices Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon