FireWatch

by Scott Blade

  After he read the manual, he reread the section about the Osborne Firefinder, just in case. He got the gist of it.

  Widow looked over it for a while. It seemed to be as DeGorne had said, simple enough. He picked up the manual again and thumbed to the diagrams and explanations of the Firefinder.

  At first glance, it was basically a map of the region under a glass top on a round table. Following the instructions in the manual, he found that the thing rotated and slid on a track, built underneath, and it tracked along all four points on a compass. There were two metal measuring tools that stood up vertical. One measured elevation. The other helped to pinpoint the distance of any fire that was spotted.

  Widow spent some time playing around with the Firefinder and discovered that the basic mechanism of it was the same as a rifle. You could look through the hairline crack of the distance ruler to spot the fire, right off. Then double over to the elevation finder, stare through a hairline crack in its center and use the distance finder to line up with the fire out the window.

  It was one of those old technologies that worked and was simple enough, not unlike the scope system of a rifle.

  If it ain’t broke, why fix it?

  CHAPTER 26

  TIRED OF BEING cooped up in the fire tower all morning, it was time for Widow to check out his designated watch area. The two twenty-one.

  Which made him ask what his exact area was. He was tempted to call DeGorne but he was a big boy. He could read maps. He’d figure it out.

  First, he grabbed the backpack near the door and zipped it open, took a gander inside.

  He found a neatly folded pullover hoodie, a folded map, a small square device that looked like a smartphone, only it was a little wider and all screen. He shook it. Nothing happened. He felt along the edge and found a single button. He pressed it and the screen lit up with a generic powering-on icon. And then a home screen came on with a map of the area. It was a GPS device with real-time positioning. That would be handy. Guess the map was backup. The battery on it was low. Deeper in the pack, he found the wall charger for it. He decided to plug it in and leave it behind. There were no lighter or matches, which he expected, but there was a pack of glow sticks. For cave exploration, he guessed.

  There was a survival knife. Standard. The blade was sharp enough to cut, but dull. It was worn and probably a decade old, or more. Widow unscrewed the cap and found nothing inside. He imagined that the original packaging came with a fire-starter or a knife sharping rock. Either way, now it came with nothing.

  There was an empty canteen and one last item—a set of keys, two on a ring.

  Widow already had the keys for the fire tower from the outhouse.

  He returned everything to the pack, minus the keys and the canteen. He ran water into the canteen from the sink, which worked fine, and cleaned it and filled it. He packed it into a side pouch on the backpack and left the fire tower. He used the keys from the outhouse to lock the door.

  He started to head down the stairs, but he remembered what DeGorne had said about Lincoln Ridge. He stopped and leaned over the rail, looked to the south. He saw nothing but majestic vistas and mountains and trees and fields. Then he saw the smoke in the distance. The California wildfire was still raging on.

  He took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air. He looked down at the ridge. And he saw exactly why it was called Lincoln Ridge.

  The ridge to the south, from a high view, looked just like Lincoln’s top hat. There it was: a long top, a round rim, and it was all dark in shadow of trees, like it was a black gentleman’s top hat.

  He chuckled to himself.

  Widow turned back and headed down the spiraling staircase, stopped at the bottom, and tried the keys on the padlock. There were only two on the ring and it turned out the second one he tried worked.

  Where did the extra key go? Maybe it was for a supply box somewhere? That would make sense.

  Widow rang the keys rings together, so that all three were on the same ring and slipped it into his pocket.

  He opened the shed door and walked inside. A light bulb dangled from a wire above and a short chain underneath. He pulled the chain and the light clicked on. It didn’t give much more light than was already beaming in from the sun through the open door behind him. At night, it was probably very handy.

  The shed had a single wall with tools hung up on nails and a stack of two-by-fours, probably extra wood for boarding up the windows. There was a workbench with another sink next to it and a cutting board on the table. Immediately, Widow figured that was for scaling and cleaning fish. Next to it was a fillet knife, sharper than the survival one, and a fishing pole leaning against the wall.

  There was a small tackle box on the ground.

  On a different wall, he saw something that was more interesting. The other wall was designated for storing climbing gear. There were two sets of bundled up rope, a hanging flashlight that clipped onto clothing, and an axe with its blade covered. He slipped off the cover to see the terrifying-looking blade. The axe was a combination of an axe and an ice pick. It was white and silver, with a black rubber grip around the base and handle.

  Widow recognized it, but couldn’t remember the exact name of it. He believed it was called an ice axe or a mountaineer axe.

  It was a violent-looking thing that was used for climbing ice or rocks. He’d bet it was more applicable for ice. It could be used to hack into the ice. The serrated edges of the blade would set into the ice, making it reliable for climbers to hack their way up the side of an ice wall.

  There were no ice walls in the park. Not this time of year. Maybe in the winters, the mountains could be high enough to have snow and ice.

  Widow didn’t intend to use the axe for climbing, but it would come in handy if he happened to run into a bear or a pack of gray wolves. So, he took it. He felt safer.

  He snugged the leather sheath back onto the axe and slipped it into the backpack. The handle stuck out a bit.

  Widow shut the shed door and locked it.

  CHAPTER 27

  WIDOW SPENT THE DAY hiking from west to north, to east, to south, in a clockwise direction, starting from the eight on the dial, and trekked around toward the six. He never made it to the six, to the south of Lincoln Ridge, or to the east, because the north was expansive enough, more than he had expected.

  He only cracked open the map once, at the beginning of his day. Widow had a pretty good memory. He committed the map to memory, or he liked to believe. But there were several times he almost stopped to consult it. Almost, cracked it open again.

  But something deep inside him forbid it, like men are built to not stop and ask directions. Once he had read a paper on that. A scientific thing, like something you’d find in college publications. He read it because it was convenient, back in some place, at some time in his life. Only, he couldn’t remember where, which made him suspect that his memory wasn’t as good as he thought. Or it was just a part of getting older.

  Widow found myself staring at the mountains, hiking through huge Redwood trees near the foot of Grey Wolf Mountain, learning the terrain, and enjoying every minute of it.

  The great outdoors was taking on a whole new meaning for him.

  Widow never considered himself an outdoorsy type of guy, not in a mountain man, survivalist kind of way. But he was no homebody either. He was a good outdoorsman. Good enough.

  He walked a manmade path, and followed it up a winding ridge, until he was on higher ground. The terrain ahead fell flat, scoping off to the north until the horizon was set as a backdrop to a valley of Redwood Trees. The trees went on as far as the eye could see.

  Even before he reached the mouth of the valley, he saw that the trees were huge, like dinosaurs from another era.

  Standing underneath them, he could no longer see the horizon. Not over them, that was for damn sure. And not between them.

  The Redwoods were so massive, it looked like someone could’ve built a thousand treehouses in them.

  T
here was plenty of room to traverse between them, but there always seemed to be a tree blocking the view of what was beyond. Navigating them was easy close up, and impossible for knowing the direction you were headed in.

  At the base of the path that led into the trees, there was another sign staked in the ground: Grey Tree Valley.

  Where did they come up with these boring names? He wondered.

  But he learned soon enough where. The clouds seemed bigger out there. A sky full of clouds merged together, and overcasted the sky, like soldiers committing a coup d’état on the sun.

  The trees turned grey. The path turned grey. The grass turned to shadow.

  Suddenly, the name made sense.

  Widow walked on for nearly half an hour into the Redwoods when he encountered grey phenomenon.

  Since, he could no longer see the sun in the sky; he couldn’t tell the time. He wondered what it was. He did not have a watch, and he had left the GPS behind to charge. So, he pulled out the walkie, which was when he realized that it was switched off.

  He wasn’t sure if that was an accident, or he had forgotten to turn it on. He switched it on, and checked a small digital screen, like a calculator’s. It told him the channel. The signal strength, and the time.

  It was a ten to five in the afternoon. Almost evening. Almost sundown.

  Abruptly, the walkie vibrated in his hand, and DeGorne’s voice came on over the single speaker.

  “Widow? Widow? Come in?”

  He clicked the button, and responded.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “Where are you?”

  Without hesitation, which translates in the Navy to without thinking, he said, “In Green Tree Valley.”

  Static, and silence, and then DeGorne said, “No you’re not. You’re in Grey Tree Valley.”

  “Right. Grey Tree Valley.”

  He felt dumb for the mistake, for misspeaking.

  “What the hell are you doing all the way up there?”

  “I was reconning.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Looking around. You know surveying. That’s our job, right?”

  “No. It’s observe and report. But hey while you’re there. You know you’re about a mile away from it.”

  “From what?”

  “The second-best view in the park.”

  “Second best?”

  “The first is from the summit of Gray Wolf.”

  “I see. So, where do I go for the second-best view?”

  “Head out of there, and go northwest.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “You’ll know when you get there.”

  “Okay.”

  DeGorne said, “Start heading that way.”

  “I will. Question. Which way is northwest?”

  “Oh my God,” she said, and chuckled again. “Are you lost?”

  “It’s just that it’s very hard to get your barring in here. The sky is greyed over. The trees are enormous. I don’t see the sun anywhere.”

  “What branch of the military did you say you were in again?”

  “Navy.”

  “Were you a submariner?”

  “Funny.”

  “Okay, let me ask you something.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you take the pack with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Inside did you find a survival knife?”

  “Yes,” he said. He knew exactly what she was driving at. The butt of the knife was a compass.

  He said, “I know. I know. I forgot.”

  “Okay. So, buzz me when you get there.”

  “Got it.”

  They both got off the walkie, and Widow used the compass on his survival knife to find northwest. He followed the direction, traversing through the Redwoods, avoiding a channel of muddy ditches that looked natural.

  After forty-five minutes, not his best time in hiking over a mile, he made his way out of the forest of trees. He walked through treeless foothills, until he heard rushing water. It grew louder and louder, until finally he reached where he was supposed to be. He found himself standing over a ravine. To his right, there was a crisp, magnificent waterfall. It was wide. The water was crystal clear. It rushed over the side of the ravine and flowed down into a stream below. He let his eyes follow the rushing stream.

  The ravine was so clear of trees and natural obstructions, that he could see on for miles. The stream rushed violently until it became a river, and then it poured into a huge lake.

  His walkie crackled.

  “Widow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You see it?”

  “I see it.”

  “That’s Nickle Lake.”

  “It’s really something.”

  “That it is.”

  “Can you see it from there?”

  “No. I’m too far. But I like that view at sunset.”

  “I see why,” Widow said. And he did see why. The sun started to go down, and the colors from the sunset filled the ravine. They reflected off the top of the lake.

  “That’s what I wanted you to see.”

  “Thanks for telling me about it.”

  “No problem.”

  They said nothing.

  “Hey, Widow.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Why don’t you give me a call later on.”

  “You got somewhere to be?”

  “I’m starving from humping up here. I’m going to cook an MRE.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later.”

  And he clicked off the walkie. Widow looked around, found a flat-topped boulder, and planted himself there. He enjoyed the sunset, which was one of the best he had ever seen. Not as good as one from an aircraft carrier out at sea, where the sun looks gigantic over the ocean, but pretty damn close.

  CHAPTER 28

  TWENTY MILES NORTH OF SEATTLE, Watermoth walked among the remains of burned house. Collins was nearby. They weren’t speaking. Collins looked at burned wood on the ground, and studied the crumbled roof. The truth was, he had no idea what he was looking for. He was studying Watermoth. Studying her process.

  Watermoth held her smartphone in her hand. She traversed over broken planks of wood, charred brick, and ash that she couldn’t distinguish as wood, paper, furniture, or plastic.

  She held the smartphone in case she needed to make video. So far, there was nothing to make video of.

  She stepped through the dirt and soot without worrying about her shoes, which were expensive. But that was part of the gig. Expensive dress shoes. Expensive suits. All a part of keeping up the FBI’s professional image. No choice in the matter.

  Watermoth found nothing interesting in the remains of Lee’s house.

  Ryman smoked a cigarette and stayed back with the Tahoe.

  Collins waited a beat. Then he walked out of the house’s remains. He circled the grass and stopped ten feet from the edge of the house. He waited for Watermoth.

  Eventually, she walked out of the house and joined him.

  “I don’t mean to bother you, Joanna, but what the hell are we looking for here?”

  Watermoth turned on her left heel, faced Collins.

  “We’re looking for clues. You know, Collins, police work.”

  “I mean, everything is burned to ash. What are we going to find here?”

  Watermoth pointed, her smartphone clung in her hand, and said, “What about that?”

  She pointed to the garage.

  She said, “Come on. Walk with me in the garage.”

  His guys had already searched the garage, the house, and the perimeter. They’d found nothing. But he didn’t question her.

  She looked in the garage, and he stood five feet behind her.

  “We’re positive that one of the vehicles is missing?”

  “I told you that already.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t m
ean it to sound that way. I just wonder what else are we going to find out here?”

  “What is the missing vehicle?”

  Collins paused, took out his phone, and scrolled through a couple of screens until he was at a digital copy of the police reports. He read through it and found the vehicle information.

  He said, “A blue, 1971 Ford Bronco.”

  “And the name on the registration?”

  “Michael D. Lee.”

  “Not her name?”

  “No.”

  “What about the insurance carriers?”

  Collins scrolled up, pinched his fingers, and zoomed into the document.

  “Same.”

  “What about the wife? She’s on it, right? It was her vehicle?”

  “Molly April Lee. She has full coverage.”

  “Molly April Lee.”

  “That’s her name.”

  Watermoth stepped around the empty parking spot. She looked up at the ceiling high above. The fire from the house had burned hot enough to send sparks flying up and away, far enough to hit the garage’s roof. There was fire damage done to the garage’s roof, but minimal.

  “And your guys questioned the neighbors?”

  “Naturally.”

  “No one said anything about her?”

  Collins shrugged, and said, “Just typical small town stuff.”

  “Like?”

  “Molly Lee was a beautiful woman. She was liked by the neighbors.”

  Watermoth looked back at him, and asked, “But?”

  “But, they say she was quiet. Kept to herself mostly.”

  “And she grew up here?”

  “Sure, but she moved away as soon as she turned eighteen.”

  “And?”

  “And then she met Mike Lee. They married. They returned here. Now he’s dead.”

  Watermoth nodded, and said, “Why did you mention she was beautiful?”

  “That’s what some of the neighbors pointed out. Like it was the first thing they noticed about her.”

  “It was the only thing they noticed about her?”

  “Like I said, she was quiet. Kept to herself.”