Firewatch Ch 18

Any forest at night is spooky. Alice Wilde has no extrasensory perception. She’s just a woman in a windbreaker holding a flashlight, alone on a path with entirely too many twisted tree roots that want to trip her. She points the light ahead, then looks back. There’s mist in the woods at the lower spots, and some nocturnal animal causes the occasional rustle, each of which prompts a tiny hit of adrenaline in the heavy quiet.

Police Chief Ava Johnson. Wilde rubs her chin for a moment, then moves on.

The tower has only a single light at the bottom, and the light behind the windows up top is dim. It’s not very late yet; Wilde was surprised to see Aria Durano, Ro Nielsen, and Hailee Siegel getting in on so early. Looking back, Wilde expects that it was a mistake to leave them, but she can’t be everywhere at once.

She emerges from the trees, but doesn’t reach the door before a figure appears on the platform above.

“Hello,” the dark shape calls down.

Wilde smiles and waves. “Hi, there.”

“You need something?”

“Yeah, I need to talk to you. I’m with the FBI.” Wilde holds up her badge.

A pause. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Do I need my lawyer?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, OK. But if this is a Fred Hampton thing, I have pepper spray.”

Alice raises her hands. “It’s not. I promise.”

The figure withdraws from the railing. Doors open and close, and then Wilde hears footsteps on metal. The woman comes down and opens the gate that bars the staircase at the bottom. She wears jeans and a waffle Henley. Her figure is sturdy, her hair is dark, and her flat nose and round face make her look profoundly cheerful. There’s a mirthful light in her eyes even when her mouth shows wariness.

“How’d you know I was here?” Wilde asks as the woman squints at the ID, then graciously allows her inside.

“We have game cameras that go off if anyone approaches. People worry about crackheads and stuff.” She motions for Wilde to follow and starts up the stairs.

“I guess that’s fair. I’m Special Agent Alice Wilde.” Wilde is no hero; she admires the excellent fit of this woman’s jeans on the way up.

“Cheryl Willard.”

“Fred Hampton, huh? I guess we know which side your bread is buttered on.”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t know. I get all that from my sister. She’s, uh, not the most patriotic person.”

“Should I put her on a watch list?”

Cheryl laughs as they reach the top. “I would be shocked if she is not already on one. But I don’t know. Most people do that stuff on the internet, but not her. She just says this batshit stuff in real life.”

“The Fred Hampton thing is actually true.”

“Are you allowed to admit to that?”

“It would be pretty messed up if I didn’t.”

“Huh. Usually people get real weird and defensive. I guess we’re the weird ones for bringing it up. Blame my sister. I’m normal. Coffee?”

“At this hour?”

“There’s low pressure coming at about one this morning. I need to be alert when it does.”