At 11:46, a brilliant flash ignited the midnight shroud,
and a window-rattling explosion woke the sleeping town
of Baxter with a jolt.
Rhonda and Jed Wilson sat straight up in bed.
"What in the world was that?" Rhonda threw the covers off and
rushed to the window.
"It came from the direction of the lake," said Jed, sitting on the
side of the bed, already pulling on his jeans. "I'll find out what it
was. You stay here."
He ran down the porch steps and out to his red pickup,
hopped in and backed down the long driveway. He sped off toward
Heron Lake, leaving tire marks on the street in front of his house.
Within minutes he was driving along the eastern stretch of
town only a stone's throw from the water's edge. He slowed when
he saw people standing on the side of the road.
"Did you hear the explosion?" he asked.
"Yeah, look," said a teenager, pointing in the distance. "Must've
happened on the lake."
Jed got out of his truck. Through a break in the trees, he spotted
a number of fires burning on top of the water, none near the
shoreline. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the location of the blazes.
"Sir, are you all right? Sir?"
He got back in his truck and pushed the accelerator to the floor.
At CR 157 he made a sharp right turn, his truck moving in a cloud
of dust as he barreled down the gravel road that led to Mike
McConnell's pier. He tasted smoke before he saw a conglomeration
of vehicles and flashing lights.
When he spotted Mike's truck, Jed slammed on his brakes and
jumped out, leaving the door to his pickup wide open.
"Let me through," he said, bulldozing through a wall of bodies.
"I need to get through, let me through"
He felt someone grab his arm. "Jed, wait!"
He broke free and fought his way until he was at the end of the
pier looking toward the spot where Mike always anchored the
houseboat. The explosion had spewed burning debris in all directions,
giving the eerie illusion that Heron Lake was on fire. The
largest fire appeared to have engulfed the entire hull.
Jed felt as if he were inside the head of someone else, watching
the monstrous inferno, like some dragon from the deep, devour the McConnells'
houseboat.
All he could do was stand there with friends, neighbors, and
firefighters as the lake opened its mouth and swallowed everything
that remained, pulling it down to the depths of an unholy grave.
Though the harvest moon shone bold and bright, midnight on
Heron Lake never seemed darker.
As lights from emergency vehicles flashed all around him, John
Washburn went through the motions of filling out preliminary paperwork.
As Norris County fire marshal, John had been exposed to many
tragedies, but he couldn't remember a single time of standing there
with all the water he could ever need, unable to do anything.
The moon shone like a searchlight on the water, and smoke
hovered like the sinister fog of a horror movie. It seemed to him
that even nature was determined to point out his failure.
"How could this happen?" mumbled a recognizable voice
near with barely enough energy to be audible.
John sighed. He didn't look up. "Don't know yet, Jed. There
wasn't anyone else around. Nobody saw anything. We figure they
were asleep inside the cabin when the thing blew. Let's hope they
never knew what hit them."
"This isn't real," said Jed. "I was with Mike at O'Brian's just
hours ago. We had a few beers and some laughs, unwinding like
we always do. I can't believe." His voice broke.
John forced himself to look up. "I'm sorry, Jed. There wasn't
anything we could do."
"Twenty years, John. We put in twenty"
"At the highway department. I know."
"Mike always said we've gone a few miles together."
John sighed. He pulled the paperwork from his clioard and
put it over the visor. "Listen, I'm finished here. Let me take you
home. We can come back for your truck tomorrow."
Jed looked at the ground, his thumbs hung on his jeans pockets,
his feet rocking from heel to toe. "That's okay, you go on."
John reached out the window and gripped Jed's arm. He looked
him straight in the eye. "Give it time, man. Trust me, you'll get
through this."
John Washburn looked in the rearview mirror as he pulled
away. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Jed Wilson
without Mike McConnell.
The breakfast rush at Monty's Diner was noticeably subdued, especially
for a Saturday morning. Folks who didn't frequent the place
wandered in to see what everyone else knew about the McConnell
explosion. The Baxter Daily News arrived a little late, but after that,
the conversation all but died. All eyes were on the headline story.
Explosion Rattles Baxter
Local Family Perishes in Fiery Inferno
Residents of Baxter were awakened at 11:46 on Friday night
when an explosion on near Heron Lake blasted the sleepy
silence with a powerful jolt. Michael S. McConnell (46), his
wife Rose (45), and their three children-their daughter
Erin (14) and twin boys Todd and Timothy (6)-are presumed
to have perished in their flaming houseboat.
Authorities believe the family's home was engulfed as a
result of an explosion of undetermined origin. Officials in
the sheriff's department and fire department have already
formed a team of investigators to determine the cause of the
explosion.
Heron Lake looked like a war zone when authorities and
some Baxter residents arrived at the McConnell family's pier,
less than a quarter mile northeast of town on CR 157. The
houseboat had been anchored about one hundred yards
from that pier, and flaming debris was scattered in a fifty-yard
radius of the explosion. As far as could be determined,
that was all that was left of the houseboat. Friends and
neighbors watched in horror as the burning hull sank to the
bottom of Heron Lake.
Divers will be working to recover everything they can
find and to recover the bodies, but fire officials have cautioned
that the intensity of the fire may make that effort
extremely difficult or impossible. It is uncertain just how
much was reduced to ashes. In addition, heavy rains are
expected to drench Norris County over the weekend, making
the search effort even more difficult.
Fire Marshal John Washburn said: "I have never felt this
helpless in all my years of service. We weren't sure what
blew, and the time we realized where the fire was, we
had no time to get a rescue team out on the water. It's
ironic-all that water and we couldn't use a drop of it to
save this family. It's going to take some time to get over this
one."
Norris County Sheriff, Hal Barker, a long-time Baxter
resident, said: "Every effort will be made to find out how
this happened. Just give us a little breathing room to do our
job. We've never had any real trouble on the lake before, and as far as I can tell, there's no reason to expect that this
was anything other than an accident."
Another Baxter resident who stood helplessly as this
tragedy unfolded was Mayor Charlie Kir. His comment to
this reporter was: "We need to pull together as a community
and comfort one another as we seek to find answers."
Mayor Kir asked that local residents cooperate with investigators
avoiding the area so that county officials needing
to bring in equipment will have unobstructed access.
The investigation will be handled as a county matter
since the explosion occurred outside the Baxter city limits, but the game warden and local police will be assisting the
sheriff's department.
Though authorities could not say how long the investigation
would take, the preliminary report could be filed as
early as Tuesday.
Customers at Monty's Diner remained unusually subdued
throughout the day. There were more questions than answers, certainly
not the usual opinionated fare served up daily at this landmark
gathering place on the town square. Hearts were heavy as
friends and neighbors sought to make sense of this terrible
tragedy.
Ellen Jones didn't like her job today. She sighed as she folded her
personal hot-off-the-press copy of the Baxter Daily News. This
much-better-than-average newspaper was a legacy passed down
from the town's founder, Reginald T. Baxter, and had helped to foster
the hometown spirit for a hundred years. For the last six of
those years, she had been the editor and special feature writer, and
her paper had met the challenges of reporting unpopular or upsetting
news head-on. However, today's local headlines were the most
tragic in her memory, and in such a close-knit community, no one
was unaffected.
Ellen's phone rang. It was only 6:45 A.M., and she already
guessed who it was.
"Good morning," she said.
"It's your husband, Guy Langford Jones. Remember me? Did
you run away from home? Your side of the bed hasn't been slept
in."
Ellen chuckled. "You don't have all the facts, counselor. I stayed
here all night with the staff to get the McConnell story on the front
page."
"Actually, I just read it. Good job."
"Good and bad, I guess. Good reporting. Bad news."
"Honey, you did what you had to do. Why do you sound
disappointed?"
"Because this story really hurts, and reporting the straight scoop
on tragedy is so . cold. It needs to be softened with a human interest
slant."
"Well, that's where you shine, Ellen. You'll work out something.
You always do. But it's not going to happen today, so . how about
coming home? It's Saturday. I'm lonesome."
"Poor ba. Was it too hard to pour the cereal and milk
yourself? Or weren't you strong enough to push the `on' button on
the coffeemaker?" She giggled, glad for a temporary break in the
gloom.
"None of the above, thank you very much. I'm quite the little
homemaker when I need to be. Right now I'm looking at your
empty chair on the other side of the kitchen table and happen to
miss my wife. Now, having studied law, I know that's not a
crime."
"No, the crime is my having gotten so bogged down over here
that I've abandoned you on your favorite day off. Let me clear my
desk and get out of here. I need twenty minutes."
"Ah, just enough time for me to brew a fresh pot of coffee and
bake these cinnamon rolls," he said. "Tell me again how the oven
works."
"Guy, don't touch anything. You'll burn the house down! Wait
for me."
"Better hurry then I'm putting an apron on."
"An apron? You can't be serious." She laughed. "All right, all
right, I'm hurrying."
Ellen was still smiling when she hung up the phone. The two of
them knew when to rescue one another from obsessing over troublesome
cases-hers in the newspaper, his in the courtroom.
Ellen quickly answered two e-mails and straightened the stacks
on her desk. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, then leaned back in
her chair and stretched. She looked up at the oil painting of
Reginald T. Baxter, which had been passed down from editor to
editor for more years than she had been alive. His eyes seemed to
look into her heart as if he shared her shock over the McConnell
tragedy.
Jed Wilson hadn't slept all night. He was holed up in the den,
slouched in his easy chair. Rhonda picked up the morning paper
and three more empty beer cans. It was only noon, but she had
already counted eleven.
"Jed, you should try to get some rest."
"I don't want to rest."
"Well, at least let me fix you something to eat."
"I don't want to eat. Just leave me alone."
"I feel completely useless," she said.
"Duh. I wonder why."
"At least I care about how you feel." She positioned herself
directly in front of Jed, trying to get him to look at her.
"You don't have a clue how I feel," he said.
"Maybe not, but I care."
"Yeah, well, I didn't ask you to care. What I asked you to do is
leave me alone."
He got up from the chair. Rhonda went ahead of him and stood
in the doorway.
"This isn't a good time for you to be yourself," she said.
"I might as well get used to it."
"Jed, you don't have to go through this alone."
"That's right. I've got four six-packs to keep me company."
She glared at him. "This isn't the way to handle it!"
"Good grief, woman, will you back off?"
He pushed past her and staggered out to the kitchen.
"Jed, don't shut me out. You can't handle this yourself-not
this pain."
He turned around, his eyes unfocused and bloodshot. "Ever
think maybe you're the pain?"
"I'm trying to help you. This is all so weird. There's no one to
comfort, no one to make a casserole for, no place to send
condolences-"
"So give it a rest!" He popped the top off another can of beer.
"You're not needed."
Her green eyes brimmed with silent suffering.
"Don't start with the pitiful looks. And stop pushing. Just stay
out of my way." Jed walked past her and stumbled toward the den.
Sheriff Hal Barker had been on the phone most of the day. Before
he had one minute of quiet, the phone rang again.
"This is Hal."
"It's John Washburn. You sound hassled."
"Just tired. How's your part of the investigation going, John?"
"It's tedious, but the divers are pulling up all kinds of debris
that should help us figure out what happened. How about you?"
"There's no indication of foul play," Hal said. "Just speculation
that Mike's drinking may have been a factor. My deputies should
wrap things up Tuesday or Wednesday, especially with the
police helping out."
"It'll probably take my team longer than that. Depends on what
we fish out of the lake."
"What's morale like?"
"Everyone's bummed-it's a little close to home. But we're
professionals. We'll get the job done."
"Okay, John, keep me updated."
"Yeah, I will. Get some rest."
Hal hung up and glanced over the top of his half glasses to a
recent picture of his kids. He couldn't imagine losing Matt and
Wendy, especially not in such a horrific tragedy.
His phone rang for the umpteenth time.
"This is Hal Barker," he said in a monotone.
"Hi, it's me. Do you realize what time it is?"
"Judging from the rumbling in my stomach, I'd say it's half past
dinnertime," said Hal, suddenly realizing he was famished.
"I know what kind of a day you've had if you forgot to eat,"
Nancy Barker said. "We're having beef stew and cornbread. Dinner
will keep until you're ready. Want me to feed the kids now so you
and I can eat together later?"
Hal looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes until seven.
"No, I want to spend some time with Wendy and Matt before
they go to bed. I'll be home in ten minutes."
"How are you doing?" she asked.
"I can't stop thinking about the McConnells, especially the
kids.
I keep seeing their faces."
"I know. We're all taking it hard. Wendy and Matt have been
talking about it off and on all day. I suppose that's what everyone in
town has been doing. Did you find out when the service is being
held?"
"Two o'clock Thursday afternoon at Saint Anthony's. They want
to wait until my investigation has been completed."
"By they, do you mean the relatives?"
"Actually, no relatives are coming. As far as anyone can tell,
there are only two-Rose McConnell's sister in California, who just
had surgery and will be in rehab for weeks, and Mike's father in
Atlanta, who lives in a nursing home and can't travel."
"How sad," said Nancy. "Can you imagine losing your whole
family and not being able to go to the funeral?"
"Well, everyone in town will probably show up. I have no idea
where Father Donaghan plans to put all the people."
"Hal, come home. You sound tired. There's nothing more you
can do tonight," she said gently.
"Okay, honey, pour the iced tea. I'll be home in a few
minutes."
Sheriff Barker hung up the phone and fumbled with the piles of
papers on his desk. When he was sure his emotions were safely
locked up, he turned out the lights and headed home.
By late Tuesday afternoon the sheriff's deputies had interviewed
scores of friends and neighbors, had checked out every aspect of
the McConnells' lifestyle and routine, and had found no suspicious
materials among the recovered debris. Now satisfied that there was
no reason to suspect foul play, the sheriff's department was wrapping
up its part of the investigation. Hal was just about to fill out
his final report when the phone rang.
"Hal Barker."
"It's John Washburn. I need to come over there and show you
something. It won't take long, but you need to see this."
"Sure, come on over."
(Continues.)
