Trial by Fire

Chapter 6

After Dahlia saw the sign for the animal rescue shelter, she followed a rutted dirt road a little distance, and saw a large army surplus tent that had been set up like a field hospital. There were cars parked helter-skelter in a field next to it, so she left her car there and headed toward the tent on foot. As soon as she walked in through the entrance, she saw organized chaos all around her. There was a big man with tousled red hair and a full red beard in a lab coat giving orders. There were exam tables set up, crates and cages for the animals they lined up along one side of the tent. There were men and women of all ages and teenagers in T-shirts and jeans carrying animals with their paws and faces bandaged, and various injuries. Everyone was busy, and for a minute it looked like they all had some kind of animal in their hands. She wasn’t sure where to go, and she saw a woman with a clipboard making lists near the entrance. She walked up to her, and the woman smiled.

“Vet? Vet tech? Volunteer?” she asked before Dahlia could ask a question.

“Volunteer.”

“Great. Welcome. Thank you. Over there.” She pointed to a man with another clipboard. He was writing down names and phone numbers so they could call on them again. Dahlia reported to him. Both his arms were covered with tattoos and his head was shaved. He was someone she would never have met otherwise, but he had a kind face and smiled at her.

“Name? Phone number?” he asked her.

“Dahlia de Beaumont. I don’t live here. I’m traveling. But I’m staying at The Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco if you need me while I’m here.”

“Thanks for coming. Where are you from?” he asked.

“Paris. France.”

“Wow.” He pointed to the big burly redheaded man. “Doc Allen can use your help, holding the animals while he bandages them and assesses them. After that, you put them in a cage or a crate over there.” He pointed to the wall of cages. There were a lot of empty ones. “Make sure they have kibble and water, and then you can go back to Doc Allen for the next one.” There were a dozen people on line, with a technician next to the vet. The people on line were each holding an animal of some kind, mostly dogs. There was a separate line for cats, with another vet and tech. “They’ll hand you the animals when you stand in line. We need bandages if you know anyone who wants to donate some.” They were standing on dirt, and Dahlia realized they had set up the tent in a field. It was all very rudimentary and rustic, but the tent was full of people wanting to help. “And I’m Hank. Come and find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” she said, impressed by what they were doing, and by how many of them there were. She could guess that there were fifty or sixty volunteers doing various jobs. There was an area for the most seriously injured animals, with a tech tending them.

She got on line with the other volunteers. Some were rough and tough-looking, some were old ladies, there were men and women, all focused on what they could do to help the animals. And then she noticed another group of random people, checking out the animals in the cages, looking for their lost pets. She saw several tearful reunions while she waited her turn on line. There was a kind-looking African American woman with her hair in rows of beautiful brightly colored beads handing out the animals one by one from cages all around her. They were all small dogs. There was a different area for big dogs. Another vet was treating them, and they only wanted experienced people handling them. A vet tech was swabbing down the table with disinfectant after each animal, and there was a shopping cart full of bandages and ointments next to the redheaded vet. Almost all the animals were being treated for burns. There was barking, whining, and yelps of animals in pain throughout the tent.

When Dahlia was next in line, the woman with the beaded hair handed her a small fluff ball with black curly hair and a white patch on his chest. He had floppy ears, and big black eyes with a sad expression. Dahlia could see that all four of his white paws were burned. He was wearing a collar with a tag with a phone number on it, but no owner’s name, and no name of the dog. He was shaking in terror as she held him, and he clung to her.

The redheaded vet with the full beard smiled at Dahlia when it was her turn. He told her immediately not to set the dog down on the table, his paws were too badly burned. He cleaned them as gently as he could while she held the dog. He whimpered and buried his head in her chest, as though he didn’t want to see the vet. The vet tech standing next to him used a reader, looking for a chip.

“No chip,” he said to the vet.

“This is a lesson to everyone to get chips for their dogs, so we can find their owners,” the vet said. “All of these dogs belonged to someone,” he said to Dahlia. “Almost none of them have chips or licenses, or ID tags so we can locate their owners.”

“He’s got a tag on his collar with a phone number but no name,” she told the vet, as she held the little black dog. He looked like a cross between a poodle and something less fancy. He had a long fluffy tail, and ears like a cocker spaniel. He was a mix and very cute, and small enough to hold.

“He’s about two years old, male, I’d say eight pounds. He must have run out of a house in flames the way his feet are burned, and his coat is singed.” The vet cleaned the dog’s paws gently, put ointment on them, wrapped them in sterile bandages, and told Dahlia she could put him back in a crate, and Mahala would tell her where to put it. The woman with the beaded hair told her to put him in the long row of cages along one side of the tent. A volunteer had put clean pads at the bottom of each crate and cage, and there were two bowls in each for food and water. Dahlia put the little black dog in a crate and taped the paper the tech had written with the vet’s assessment to the top of it. She added in red marker to the sheet, “No ID, phone number on collar.” Others were making calls to the owners whenever possible.

“Do you have a phone with you?” Mahala asked her, and Dahlia said she did. “Call the number on his collar. Tell them we have their dog. If you get an answer. A lot of the dogs’ owners have probably lost their homes and are dealing with bigger problems than their lost pets. Half of these dogs, or more, will never see their owners again,” she said seriously. “It happens with every disaster, like floods. The owners are too traumatized themselves to come and claim the animals, and they just let them go.” It made Dahlia sad to think of it. The poor little dog she’d been holding was terrified and looked so sad. He hadn’t even cried when the vet treated his burned paws.

She put kibble from a huge bag and water from a jug in the bowls in the crate, as the tattooed man named Hank had told her to do. Then she took her cellphone out of her pocket and called the number on the tag. A recording said that the number was no longer in service, so they had no information on the little curly-haired black dog at all. She reached in and petted him, and he whimpered and looked pathetically at her. “I’m sorry, little guy, I’ve got to go.” She walked away and glanced back at him, and he looked tragic sitting in the crate. She wondered what would happen to him, and if his owner would ever show up. What Mahala had told her about most of them getting abandoned made it all seem even worse. They would go to animal shelters to be adopted if no one claimed them. The little curly-haired black dog with the white patch and paws had a long road ahead of him. She tried not to think about it as she walked away, afraid to look back at him again and see his sad face.

She stood on line holding dogs to be treated by the vet for the rest of the day. Others were calling the owners of dogs who had licenses, ID tags, or chips. There were a dozen volunteers working their own phones, and they managed to connect with a number of the owners, who promised to come as soon as they could. But most of the dogs had no ID tags at all, and no chips. There was no way to identify them unless their owners heard about the temporary shelter and showed up. After that they’d have to comb the ASPCA shelters to see if they could find them. Most of the dogs had burns on their paws and on their faces. One had a broken leg. Dahlia noticed that there were a lot of Chihuahuas, but most of the dogs were mutts. There was another long line for cats. Some of them fought like wildcats not to be treated, but the dogs were surprisingly meek, even the big ones.

She stayed until six o’clock and never stopped for lunch. She and Mahala had an interesting conversation. Mahala was a student from Zimbabwe, studying to be a vet at UC Davis, and had come down to help when she saw the notice on TV, and another notice posted on their bulletin board at school. She said other students at Davis had come too. It was one of the best vet schools in the country. She was specializing in large animals but was happy to help with the animals here.

The vet with the bushy red beard asked Dahlia her name halfway through the day. He could tell that she had no experience, but she had a good heart, which was true of most of the volunteers. A black long-haired Chihuahua tried to bite her, and she didn’t seem to mind. He had tiny teeth and weighed about three pounds. He had burns all over his body and a gash on his ear, and Dr. Allen managed to calm him down. And there were so many animals with no identifying tags who would never see their homes and their owners again. The death toll among human victims of the fire had risen shockingly that afternoon.

Some of the big dogs were harder to deal with, and there were several pit bulls that only the real vet techs were allowed to handle. They didn’t want well-meaning inexperienced volunteers getting hurt.

A dozen veterinary students had come from the veterinary school in Davis, as Mahala had said. They had brought sleeping bags and camping equipment and were going to spend the night, ministering to the sickest ones who needed medication, and some who were on IV’s. They had a hundred and fourteen cats and dogs in Dr. Allen’s army tent, all crated, medicated, treated, fed, and watered by the end of the day.

“Thank you for your help,” Doc Allen said to Dahlia as she got ready to leave. “Are you from around here?”

“No, I’m traveling. I saw the story of the rescue tent on TV.”

“A lot of people did. Where are you traveling from?”

“France. Paris. I’m just here for a few days.”

“It’s nice of you to come and volunteer. I have a pet hospital in the city, and a vineyard up here. I figured they needed the help. I did the same thing last time in the fires. I’ve been to Bordeaux,” he said. “You have some amazing vineyards in France.” He gazed at her admiringly. He couldn’t help but notice how attractive she was. “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“I’m going to L.A. If the airport opens, I have to leave. If it doesn’t, I’ll come back,” she promised. It had been a heartwarming, rewarding day, and heartbreaking too, seeing how sweet most of the dogs were. They’d been through a terrible trauma, and most of them were facing an unhappy fate. Pets were still being brought in at an alarming rate, some in terrible condition. And some that couldn’t be saved. Only the vets and students from Davis took care of them.

“We can use the help. Thanks again.” She went to see the little black curly-haired dog again before she left. He wagged his tail frantically when he saw her, and she reached in and petted him, and put some more food in his bowl.

“I’m sorry I have to go,” she said to him. “Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow, but you’re going to be okay. Your owner will probably be back, or someone else is going to love you.” He cocked his head and his ears flopped and he whined as she stood up and walked away, and she felt like a monster leaving him.

She drove back to the city and stopped at a pharmacy near the hotel. She bought a shopping cart full of bandages to donate in case she went back the next day. The smoke seemed even thicker that night than it had in the morning. The wind was blowing it all into the city, and when she turned on the news, she saw that the fires still weren’t contained. The damage extended over thousands of acres. Firemen were pouring in from other states to volunteer, but so far nothing had stopped the destruction.

She thought of the little black dog with the curly hair and the fluffy tail, and so many others she had handled that day. She was still awake, thinking about them, when Philippe called her at midnight. It was morning for him.

“What did you do in the smoke all day?” he asked her.

“I volunteered at a pet rescue shelter, in an army tent in Napa,” she said simply.

“Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re volunteering. I can’t even imagine it. Why don’t you just go to L.A.?”

“It’s too long a drive. I’m waiting for the airport to open. And I was happy to help. The poor little dogs were so sad, and so many of them were badly burned. They say that most of them will never see their owners again.”

“My darling Dahlia, don’t you dare come home with a plane full of stray dogs. The image doesn’t suit you at all.” He had a very snobbish side to him, and he preferred to think of her as the elegant owner of one of the finest perfume brands in the world.

“I’d bring most of them home with me if I could,” she said, thinking of her little curly black friend.

“Thank God you can’t. I’m sure they won’t let you bring them into France. I think you should go to L.A.—you could be stuck in San Francisco for weeks. Or just come home. You can go to L.A. another time.”

“I’ll give it a few days and figure it out then,” she said, and he laughed at her.

“I wish I’d seen you nursing stray dogs at the shelter. That is not the glamorous woman I know.”

“It’s just another side of me,” she said quietly, annoyed by how unfeeling he was about the injured animals.

“One I don’t want to know. I love the woman I do know. Caviar and champagne and the most spectacular house on the rue de Grenelle. I don’t think going to America is good for you. You forget who you are.” Or maybe I remember who I am, she thought to herself and didn’t say to him. He wouldn’t have understood.

She liked being many things, not just the glamorous head of an important perfume company. She didn’t want to be that all the time. She had liked doing something different that day, helping at the shelter, with people from all walks of life, not just the members of an elite club that excluded everyone else. And she had liked talking to Mahala from Zimbabwe. It added something to one’s life to meet different people and she had enjoyed feeling useful in a very simple, basic way. There was no way that Philippe would ever understand. He didn’t want to. This snobbish side bothered her at times. His vision of the world was too limited. It always had to be the best and the most important, the richest and the fanciest, a world made up of only people of power.

She had liked meeting the vet who grew grapes too, who owned a vineyard and had been to Bordeaux. The snobbish, pompous side of Philippe made her glad that she wasn’t married to him. It was part of why he had never divorced Jacqueline, aside from what it would have cost him. He would have had to admit that he’d made a mistake, that breeding and bloodlines weren’t enough, and that he had been married to a woman he didn’t love for thirty-five years and had deprived himself of being married to someone real, instead of living as a fraud for more than half his life. It was pathetic. Dahlia would rather admit her mistakes, be open to life, and be real. He loved that about her, but not to be married to. He would rather be with her in secret. It seemed cowardly to her. She had never thought of it that way before, and his terror of loving was part of that lie too. Dahlia was his guilty secret. He thought it was sexy, but it seemed stupid to her, and false. He was wasting the opportunity he had to have something better, and stayed married to Jacqueline because the only thing he respected about her was the fancy family she came from. Dahlia came from a distinguished family too on both sides, but she also worked and was engaged in business, which made her slightly less elite than his aristocratic wife, and Dahlia knew it.

She thought about it when they got off the phone. His loving her to the extent he did, in secret, seemed pathetic to her suddenly. He was too afraid to take a risk. He was more interested in his social standing and bank account than he was in leading an honest life, and preferred to love Dahlia in hiding.

—

The smoke that hung over San Francisco like a curse was even thicker the next morning. The airport stayed closed, so Dahlia left the hotel at eight a.m. and was back at the rescue shelter by nine-thirty. The same faces were there, and even more volunteers had shown up, and many vets from UC Davis. She gave the bandages she was donating to one of the vet techs, and he thanked her profusely. Dr. Allen thanked her himself when he next saw her. He could tell easily from the way she spoke, her good manners, her obvious education, that she was more than a kind person, she was someone important. He didn’t know who or what she was, but he could tell that she was someone special.

Mark Hamilton, the head of the ASPCA Board, showed up to acknowledge what Dr. Jeff Allen was doing. And he brought him a big donation check from the ASPCA. They knew each other well from boards they had served on for many years, and Dr. Allen was grateful for the help to fund what he was doing. He would be able to buy all the supplies he needed, and he introduced Mark Hamilton to Dahlia, as she walked by carrying another Chihuahua with burned paws and a gash on her nose. Mark was a tall, distinguished-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties with dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a kind expression, and he and Dr. Jeff Allen were good friends.

“Jeff says you’re passing through from Paris,” Mark Hamilton said politely, intrigued by her. The vet had hinted to Mark that he suspected she was someone important or well known, but she gave no confirmation of it when he talked to her. Jeff found her unusually discreet, and willing to work hard, and she was equally kind and gracious to everyone. “What brings you to San Francisco?” Mark asked her, after she put the Chihuahua back in a crate. She was one of the rare dogs they’d seen with a chip and proper dog tags, and they had a good shot at finding her owner. She looked like a well-cared-for dog who had somehow gotten lost during the fires. Mahala had already called her owner and left a message on voicemail.

“I came to do some business. I was supposed to be in L.A. by now, but they closed the airport. And I’d rather be useful here than sitting around my hotel, watching the news, glued to the TV.”

“I was supposed to be in court today, but the judge canceled our appearance. He’s staying home in the smoke. We should all be doing that,” Mark said sensibly. She had taken her mask off to talk to him, and he had his in his hand. And Jeff Allen had been wearing his around his neck for two days. They were hard to breathe with. “Jeff says you live in France. How does that feel as an American?” he asked, and she smiled.

“I’m only half American. My father was American, and I grew up in New York, with summers in France, until I graduated from college. My parents moved to France when I graduated from high school. My mother was French. I’ve been living in France for thirty-two years, and I’m more French than American by now.” Her relationship with Philippe Vernier was ample proof of it, but she couldn’t say that to anyone, and certainly not a stranger. It was an arrangement that most American women wouldn’t have put up with, and it wasn’t ideal for her either. “I went to college in the States, and graduate school. After that, I moved to France.”

“Your English is flawless,” he complimented her.

“Thanks to my father. I’m really kind of a hybrid. I’m both. French and American. Although I kind of forget the American half until I come to the States, and then it rings old familiar bells and reminds me of my father. But California is a whole different world.”

“I grew up in the East too, New York. But I went to law school here, passed the bar here, and stayed. It has its good sides, and some crazy ones. I work in New York too, so maybe that keeps me sane.” He smiled at her. She was very beautiful, and he hadn’t expected to meet anyone like her in Jeff Allen’s pet rescue tent. He had come to deliver the ASPCA check to Jeff himself and see how he was doing. He was very impressed by the efficiency of the operation, which didn’t surprise him, knowing Jeff Allen.

The minute Mark spoke to Dahlia, he could see what Jeff meant about her. She was different, and special, and very smart. She had a lovely, gentle, direct way about her. He felt awkward and a little in awe of her just talking to her. She had work to do then and went back to helping with the dogs. He saw her again a little while later, holding a curly-haired little black mutt that had its paws around her neck and was clinging to her.

“See what I mean,” Jeff whispered to Mark when he took a break. “I don’t know who she is, but I have a feeling she’s famous or something, and traveling incognito.” Mark laughed at the suggestion. They were like two schoolboys, whispering about the new girl in the class.

“I don’t think she’s famous,” Mark answered him. “I think she’s just smart, and from a distinguished background. There’s something very aristocratic about her, even in jeans and a T-shirt.” He had observed and admired Dahlia’s natural elegance. There were no airs about her.

“We should look her up on Google,” Jeff said, and Mark laughed again.

“The poor woman just came to help you with your animals, and you want to have her checked out by the FBI. She lives in France, she’s on her way to L.A. You’re not liable to see her again when she leaves here, so just be glad she showed up and leave it at that.”

“I could look her up the next time I go to France,” Jeff said hopefully, and Mark rolled his eyes.

“Either you’re a hopeless romantic or you’re crazy. Besides, for all you know, she’s married.”

“She’s not wearing a wedding band.” Jeff had looked.

“A lot of women don’t these days. You’ve been working too hard. You’re losing your mind. What happened to that woman you were dating six months ago? The sexy redhead? She was nice.”

“She dumped me. She’s allergic to dogs, and I have four, two of them long-haired,” and Mark knew that one of them was a St. Bernard. He laughed at Jeff again, went to sign some papers for the donation he’d brought him, and then helped out with the dogs himself for a few hours. And at four o’clock that afternoon, the sheriff and fire wardens showed up. The smoke had reached toxic levels, and they told Jeff that he had to close up shop. The air was too unhealthy for the volunteers to be working, and the fires were approaching due to a wind shift. Jeff had been afraid of that, and had already made arrangements to divide up the animals they had between four local pet hospitals, until the toxic air levels came down and it was safer. He warned all the volunteers, and they loaded the animal crates into vans and cars, and an old school bus someone had lent them. It took an hour to clear the tent of all the animals they had. They had a record for each of them taped to each of their crates, in case their owners came looking for them, and when the air improved, Jeff would bring them back to the tent to keep track of them himself. The smoke was so thick by then that you could hardly see through it, and even with their masks on, the volunteers, techs, and vets were all coughing by the time they left. Dahlia was about to get in her car when Mark walked toward her. She realized then how tall he was. He looked very athletic in an old Stanford T-shirt, and he was handsome, even with the cumbersome mask. He felt silly doing it, but he handed her a card with a sheepish grin after he took off his mask for a minute.

“If you ever need a lawyer in San Francisco, give me a call.” It was the worst line he could think of and he felt like an idiot saying it, but maybe she’d come back to the city one day and look him up. Or she’d think he was a complete fool, after he said it, and she’d throw the card away. He felt like a schoolboy with her. But so what? Women like her didn’t show up in an army surplus tent every day and cross his path. He got the same feeling Jeff did from her. She was special.

“Thank you,” she said politely, and shoved his card in the pocket of her jeans. “I work at Louis Lambert Perfumes in Paris,” she volunteered, and felt silly doing it too. But there was something about him she liked even if she had hardly spoken to him. There was some kind of strange chemistry between them she couldn’t put her finger on. And she thought he was smart too. She liked Jeff Allen as well, although he seemed to be a bit of a bumbler except with the animals. She thought he was great with them, an excellent vet, and had done a fabulous job with the shelter. She had loved working with him for two days. But there was something different about Mark. He was bigger and smoother and deeper all at once. He was the kind of person you’d notice in a crowd, although he was quiet and discreet.

“You’d better put your mask back on before you get sick from the smoke,” he told her. She did and got in her car, and he ran to his. He couldn’t even see her once he got to his car, and it was only twenty feet away. They all turned their car lights on when they left the field. Driving in the heavy smoke was dangerous and she wondered how long it would take her to get back to the city. Probably a long time.

Dahlia drove out before Mark did, while Jeff stayed until the last animal was in a vehicle. Mark wondered if he’d ever see Dahlia again. It didn’t seem likely, but now that he knew where she worked, he was going to do what he had told Jeff not to. He was going to look her up on Google. He was curious about her. There was something unusual and mysterious about her. Jeff had been right about that too. After that, he concentrated on getting on the road without hitting another car. The fire wardens were right to send them home. At five in the afternoon it was like driving in the middle of the night, in the thickest smoke he’d ever seen.

—

Dahlia crawled along the freeway in her car, unable to see beyond the hood of the car. She drove as slowly as she could, in the right lane, with her high beams on, but they did no good in the thick smoke. She could see headlights in her rearview mirror, but she couldn’t tell how close they were. She had her seatbelt on, and was wondering if she should just pull off the road and wait it out, but it was liable to get worse as the fires approached. It was too dangerous to stay in the area. She touched the accelerator just enough to move forward a little faster, and as she did, she was hit from behind with such violent impact that it crushed the whole back end of her car and threw her against the steering wheel. As it did, the force of whatever had hit her catapulted her car into the vehicle in front of her, which she couldn’t see, and the front end of her small SUV was crushed too. She was squeezed between the front and back end, in a tiny space, and the air bags didn’t deploy. She had gotten a blow on the head, and her chest felt like it was on fire from the blow of the steering wheel. She could smell gas as she passed out, sandwiched between the massive vehicle behind her and the one in front of her. And after she did, her car caught fire from the sparks of the truck that hit her from behind. She was unconscious by then. Her car was burning at both ends, as the men on a fire truck that pulled off the road spotted the blaze starting, and they rushed off the truck to see who was inside and if they were still alive. The remaining space for the passenger was reduced to almost nothing.

Three of the firefighters ran to the eighteen-wheeler tractor-trailer truck behind Dahlia’s crushed flaming car. It had flipped on its side after hitting her. The driver was dead, with a broken neck. Two more firefighters ran to Dahlia’s SUV, released her seatbelt and pulled her out, noting that the airbags hadn’t deployed. One of the firefighters carried her far enough from the burning car in case it exploded and laid her on the ground, while two other men put out the blaze, and two more men from the fire truck ran to the car in front of Dahlia’s car and found a woman and a young teenager in the front seats, without seatbelts. They were conscious but injured, with blood on their faces, and paramedics from the fire truck ran to help them. Dahlia was still lying unconscious on the ground, and hadn’t regained consciousness even with two paramedics working to revive her. They put her on a stretcher and into an ambulance. The paramedics who tended to her assumed a head injury, and probably much more extensive damage, judging by the condition of the car. The first ambulance sped away with Dahlia, while the second one took the woman from the first car and her thirteen-year-old daughter to the hospital. They were badly banged up, but didn’t seem critical, unlike the woman pulled from the burning car. The rescuers feared the worst for her, but she was still alive as the paramedics drove to the hospital as fast as they dared, to try to save her life.

—

Mark heard the sirens far ahead as he inched his way through the smoke, and he saw the tangled mass of the overturned tractor-trailer and the two cars as he drove by, one of them badly mangled and burned. You couldn’t even see what kind of vehicles they were in the opaque smoky darkness. The truck was lying on its side. It was an eighteen-wheeler, and Mark could guess that it was a nasty accident. He wondered if the drivers and passengers had survived, and he continued on his way back to the city, grateful that he got there in one piece and hadn’t had an accident, three hours later.

Dahlia was at Marin General by then and was airlifted by helicopter to Zuckerberg SF General Hospital in the city. The crew flew as low as they dared to stay below the worst of the smoke, and all they knew when they got her to the hospital in the city was that she was alive. Barely. They suspected internal damage as well as broken bones and the head injury. Her life was hanging by a thread, and it seemed like a miracle that they got her to SF General alive.