FireWatch: A Jack Widow Thriller

by Scott Blade

  She made the call and waited and got an office line with an operator.

  “The United States Forest Service?” the voice said. It was a woman’s. Pleasant, and no-nonsense sounding.

  “This is Special Agent Joanna Watermoth with the FBI out here in Seattle.”

  “Yes? How can I help you?”

  “I need to inquire about one of your employees. It’s urgent.”

  “Oh dear. I hope everything is okay?”

  “I’m sure it is. But I need to know, what is her job title? And where she might be located?”

  “I’ll do my best,” the operator said. “The office administrator from her specific branch will know better than I.”

  “Can you look her up and find out what branch?”

  “Sure thing. What is her name?”

  “Molly DeGorne.”

  The operator took a moment. And Watermoth heard typing on keys and clicking on the return button, and then several clicks of a mouse. She waited, patiently.

  The operator came back on and said, “Hold, please. And I’ll transfer you.”

  Without a chance to respond, Watermoth was on hold, and being transferred. Several minutes later she got a voice.

  “Mr. Tate’s office.”

  “Tate?” she asked.”

  “Johnathan Tate of Forest and Parks?”

  Then Watermoth took the time to explain everything all over again. Who she was, where she was calling from, and who she was looking for.

  “No problem. Let me patch you through to Mr. Tate.”

  Another instance of not being able to protest a transfer. Then a male voice came on the line.

  “Tate. Who is speaking?”

  “Joanna Watermoth of the FBI.”

  “Good morning, Agent Watermoth. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for an employee. I need to know what is her job title and where I can find her?”

  “Name?”

  “Molly DeGorne.”

  “Molly? Is something wrong with her?”

  “Do you know her?”

  Tate said, “I’ve met her once. I speak to all of my fire watch at some point.”

  “Fire watch?”

  “That’s her job title. She’s good. She’s been with us for five years. I think.”

  “Is she at work this season?”

  “She is. I think.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  Tate said, “She’s in California. North part. Working in Gray Wolf Mountain Park.”

  Watermoth said, “Thank you, Mr. Tate. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Wait, Ms. Watermoth.”

  “Yes?”

  “The park is hundreds of miles big. Don’t you want to know which tower she’s in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on. I’ll look it up,” Tate said. And he was gone for a moment. She heard the same rattle of fingers to keys and mouse clicks.

  Tate came back on. He said, “She’s in Tower Two Twenty-Two. Do you need me to send you a map? It’ll list all of the towers and their call numbers.”

  “Yes. That’ll be great,” she said. She gave him her email address. And told him to send it there.

  Then Watermoth asked him, “She got a phone out there?”

  “No. There’s a phone in the next tower over. Do you need me to call for her?”

  “No. Please don’t. We don’t want anyone to know that we’re coming. Can you give me the number for the nearest ranger? We may need his help.”

  “The only ranger who worked anywhere close to her has quit. I’m afraid.”

  Watermoth said nothing.

  “I can scramble another one to meet you out there, but it’ll take several hours to get there. A lot of my guys are embedded south because of the fire.”

  “Right, the wildfire. How is that fight going?”

  “Bad. I’m afraid.”

  Watermoth said, “Send someone to meet us. We’ll be there soon as we can.”

  “I can reach you at your Seattle office number?”

  She gave him her cell number and he wrote it down.

  “Thanks, Mr. Tate.”

  Watermoth clicked off the phone and waited for his email.

  If DeGorne was working out there as a fire lookout, then she wasn’t going anywhere. That’s if she showed up at all.

  While waiting for the email, Watermoth balled up her suit coat and placed in on the desk. She laid her head down and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 35

  BY NOON, Sheriff Portman was nearly dead. And by thirty minutes after noon, he was dead. He had withstood hours of torture and waterboarding. The leader was about to quit, about to give up on him. Until, the sheriff told him about the phone call.

  The leader walked up, out of the basement and stood outside on the front lawn. He looked up and down the street. There were children riding bikes. He heard water sprinklers going off, spraying hedges, spraying flowerbeds at the neighbor’s house. He heard dogs barking, and cars driving slow. And he heard the ambient chatter of every suburban neighborhood anywhere in America.

  He took out his smartphone, saw that he had a missed call from Ryman.

  He redialed Ryman’s number.

  “Yeah?” Ryman answered the phone.

  “I got something,” the leader said. “Portman is talking.”

  The leader told Ryman about the reckless plan that Portman had slapped together to help DeGorne. He told him about the life debt he felt that he owed her dead father. He told him about the phone call he was expecting from DeGorne. He even told Ryman about her maiden name.

  “That’s good that you got Portman to spill the beans. But I got something better.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Forget about the phone call. I know where she is.”

  The leader asked, “Where?”

  “The FBI has found her. She’s working as a fire lookout. In Northern California.”

  “She’s a firefighter?”

  “Not a firefighter. She’s a fire lookout,” Ryman said. He was driving, following Watermoth and Collins in his Tahoe. He stayed close behind them.

  Ryman explained to the leader what a fire lookout was.

  The leader asked, “Where are you?”

  “I’m in traffic. We’re headed to the airport now.”

  “Airport?”

  “The FBI has a helicopter. We have to fly to where she is.”

  “Where is she?”

  Ryman relayed to him the fire tower designated number that he had spied from a fax that Watermoth had received back at her office.

  “Good work. I guess keeping you on the payroll has proven to be useful after all.”

  Ryman had no chance to respond, because the leader had hung up the phone. He looked at his watch. Calculated the time in his head. They would be better off attacking at night, but the FBI was already headed to pick up DeGorne.

  But by the time they got a helicopter and made it was six hundred miles south, it would be close enough to nighttime. So, he went back inside the empty house and told his guys to gear up. They were headed to the nearest airport, which was in SEATAC. That’s where they had flown to themselves, after picking up the sheriff.

  The leader already had his own helicopter. It was parked at SEATAC Airport.

  He told one of his pilots the coordinates that they were headed to. And then he remembered Portman.

  The leader walked through the kitchen and down to the basement, where Sheriff Portman was handcuffed to a pipe. He was shirtless and still wet from either the waterboarding or sweat or both.

  He said nothing.

  The leader took out his Glock and suppressor and attached it. He pointed the gun at Portman, who looked up and stayed quiet.

  The leader shot him in the head.

  CHAPTER 36

  WIDOW AND DEGORNE spent the next morning having coffee, having breakfast, and going over her tower’s checklist. They showered together and decided to go hiking to the south, where DeGorne showed Widow
different caverns that Native Americans used as way stations seven hundred years ago.

  DeGorne told him that a couple of neighboring tribes would meet there for treaty negotiations and neighborly celebrations. He wasn’t sure if the story was true or completely made up by someone who passed it down to someone and so on until she heard about it. But there were signs of ancient peoples using the caverns. There were ancient rock carvings and cave drawings that seemed to back up her story.

  By the end of the day, Widow and DeGorne were on a wide trail headed farther from her tower.

  DeGorne’s mood had changed to a more serious one as the day went on.

  Widow noticed that she kept looking at her watch, and he asked her about it.

  She said, “I told you. I have to make an important phone call.”

  He did not press her about it anymore.

  They walked uphill and then down, crossed over a gulch and found a shallow river. They hiked another two miles, following close to it. Then Widow saw a fire tower in an open field. There were phone lines that he had seen earlier, but these crossed through trees and ended up on a telephone pole, and then wired right up to the fire tower.

  “This is it,” she said.

  DeGorne sprinted up ahead and climbed the stairs to the tower.

  The fire lookout who worked in this tower came walking out with a towel in her hands like she had been caught doing the dishes.

  She came out and greeted DeGorne, Widow saw them hug. He walked up the stairs.

  “Hello,” she put her hand out to greet him.

  “Jack Widow.”

  “Christine Forman,” she said. He took her hand and shook it.

  Forman was an older woman, in her sixties, at least, but she was healthy and fit. She wore khaki pants and a green sweater, with a thin scarf around her neck. She had a straw hat on her head. She wasn’t washing dishes. Widow could see she was painting the scenario to the north.

  There was an easel, a half-painted canvas, a coffee mug stuffed with paintbrushes, and a mixing palette of various colors. The rag she held was dirty from wet paint.

  “You’re a painter?” Widow asked.

  “Yes. I am. Are you an artist, Mr. Widow?”

  “Me? No. I probably couldn’t even follow color by number.”

  She laughed, and said, “So, you’re the replacement for Danvers?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not replacing anybody. Just a stand-in. For now.”

  DeGorne looked at her watch again, and asked, “Can I use the phone?”

  “Sure, dear. You know where it is. Jack and I will stay out here and talk.”

  DeGorne went inside.

  She closed the door behind her, and went over to Forman’s desk. She sat down and pulled up close, like she did when she drove. She picked up the phone, which was an old, white landline thing. It wasn’t a rotary phone, but from the same era.

  She dialed Portman’s number from memory.

  She waited for the dial tone to ring. It did.

  She stared out the window to the southwest at the fire.

  The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

  No answer.

  She hung it up and waited. Then she tried calling again.

  No answer.

  She felt her knees buckling and her stomach twisting.

  Portman. Where are you? Where are you?

  She set the phone back down on the receiver and waited another five minutes. Then she picked it up and called again. This time she let it go to voicemail.

  DeGorne said, “Portman? Where the hell are you? It’s been three days. Today is when you are supposed to answer me? I’m getting nervous here.”

  She paused a beat and listened to the silence. Then she said, “Call me back at this number. Tell the woman who answers that you want to speak to me. Tell her it’s an emergency. And then wait for me to call you back!”

  She hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands.

  CHAPTER 37

  AT FIRE WATCH TOWER Two Twenty-Two, Widow and DeGorne sat out on the deck, quiet, finishing off two more MREs. Chicken and rice this time.

  Widow said, “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re quiet.”

  She said nothing.

  “You’ve been quiet ever since we left Forman’s. Did you get bad news?”

  “No.”

  “Who did you call?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He finished off his chicken and rice and set them aside. Left the plastic fork and plastic knife in the bag.

  He stood up and went over to her. He walked behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He rubbed them.

  “You can tell me anything, Molly.”

  “I…I can’t.”

  She stared off over the horizon. Maybe at the fire. Maybe at the coming darkness. Or maybe just into space. None of these options would’ve surprised Widow. She was acting like she had just gotten bad news and didn’t want to tell him.

  He said, “Is it your husband?”

  She craned her head and stared up at him.

  “What?”

  “Your husband? Is it about him? Did he tell you something bad?”

  She looked into him, anger in her eyes. He could see it. He had overstepped his bounds, maybe.

  She jumped up, and said, “Why did you bring him up?”

  Widow shrugged and said, “I just thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  “You haven’t said much about him. I thought that’s who you were calling.”

  She turned away, placed her hands on the railing, and looked down, over the side. For a brief moment, Widow thought she might jump. He had seen it before. But it would be stupid. A two-story fall probably wouldn’t kill her. She’d break her legs or ankles or feet, but she’d live through it.

  It wasn’t a smart way to go. Then again, most people who committed suicide didn’t use their brains to begin with or they wouldn’t do it.

  He said, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your business.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “We slept together,” he said, and instantly regretted it.

  Great, Widow! he thought.

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like I was throwing it in your face. I just meant that I deserve that you talk to me. I just want you to talk to me, is all.”

  She turned back to the horizon.

  “I think you should go.”

  “Molly?”

  “Just go. Leave me alone tonight. Okay?”

  Widow shrugged. He sat back down on the lawn chair and put his socks and shoes on. Then he stood up and asked, “Can I use your toilet first?”

  She waved him off. Didn’t answer. She didn’t care. But he wanted to ask it anyway.

  He picked up his pack, readjusted the ice axe, and made sure it was closed. He walked down the stairs and didn’t look up at her. He stepped to the outhouse, left his pack outside, up against the wall.

  He didn’t really need to use the toilet. He wanted to splash water on his face. He stood over the sink and twisted the knob, got a handful of cold water, and splashed it on his face. Then he ran his cold, wet fingers through his hair, slicking it back.

  He dried his hands with a towel and looked in the mirror. He saw the duffle bag, jammed between the sink and the wall.

  He figured she’d left it here because it was too heavy to drag up the stairs. Or it contained her personal items that she needed when she used the sink. Only her shower was around the other side. So why not leave the bag in there?

  Curiosity got the best of him, or it was old habit, or his defenses. Whatever the reason, he opened the duffle. He stepped back, jaw dropped.

  Inside the bag, he saw money. Lots of it. It was taped together and stacked into bricks of equal denominations. There were fifties and hundreds and nothing else.

  He dug his hands into it, checked the middle, and checked the botto
m of the bag. It was all money. Not money piled on top of something else. It was all money.

  He zipped up the bag and lifted it and hauled it out of the outhouse.

  DeGorne was standing there, on the trail. She stared at him like she knew he would come out with it.

  He said, “Molly, what is this?”

  Then he noticed that she wasn’t empty-handed. Down by her side, in her right hand was the Weihrauch Revolver.

  CHAPTER 38

  “PUT IT DOWN!” DeGorne said. She raised the revolver and pointed it at Widow.

  He set the bag down.

  “Molly. What is this?”

  “You won’t believe me,” she said.

  “Try me?”

  “No! You won’t believe me!”

  “Molly, tell me!”

  “I want you to go!” she screamed. “Just leave!”

  Widow stayed where he was.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know.”

  DeGorne stayed put. The revolver shook in her hand.

  Widow stepped closer. He reached out and showed her the palm of his hand.

  “Give me the gun, Molly.”

  “No!”

  He stopped.

  She said, “I want you to go!”

  “Let’s take a breath. Okay?”

  She stayed quiet.

  “That’s a lot of money. Why do you have it out here?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Okay, but why in cash? Why is it in a bag? Way out here?”

  She stared at him. Tears rolled down her check. She lowered the revolver, took her finger out of the trigger housing.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t move.

  She said, “It’s a long story.”

  “You can tell me. Whatever it is, I can help you.”

  She thought about it for a long, long second. Then she said, “I want to trust you.”

  “Trust me, Molly. I’m not going to let you down.”

  She was quiet. And then she said, “I want to be alone. Just go back to your tower. I want to be alone tonight. I’ll radio you later.”

  Widow wasn’t sure what to do. He stayed there, staring at her.

  “It’s okay. I’ll radio you later. I’m not going anywhere. We’re miles and miles from anywhere. I’m staying here. I’ll radio you later. I promise. Just let me be tonight.”