Firewatch Ch 7

Barney, Oregon is cold and wet. The forested mountains are dark and foreboding rather than beautiful. The landscape seems severe. Tires whisper over damp black pavement, but the rain that falls is hardly more than a mist. The air has a smoky taste, a consequence of recent wildfires in the north. White houses with peeling paint and black shingles in need of replacement seem to stare down from the hillsides surrounding the town itself. Blocky brick buildings line the central streets with glass storefronts that probably have some charm at Christmas. It’s all seen better days, but what strikes Flores the most is how little traffic there is.

“I thought PNW was where we all wanted to be,” she muses.

Wilde is behind the wheel; Flores wishes that she would drive a little faster.

“I think the wildfires take away a lot of the appeal,” Wilde replies.

“It’s wet now.”

“It wasn’t last year.”

“All the trees are still here.”

Wilde snorts. “You sound like you want to get out of DC.”

“Not urgently. I just won’t be there forever.”

“It is a little sedate here, isn’t it?”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

They pull up in front of Barney’s police station, a building that Flores guesses to be about 2000 square feet total. If there’s a municipal budget, this is not where it’s going. It’s dark inside.

“Anything from the Sheriff’s Department?” Flores asks.

Wilde shakes her head and puts the car in park, gazing at the pitiful building. Then she takes out her phone and dials 911. She puts it on speaker and waits. Two rings, then a click. “911. Do you know the address of your emergency?”

“Uh, yes, this is Special Agent Alice Wilde with the FBI. I’m at… 1212 Carter Street. I need a cop, but there’s no one at the police station.”

“Carter Street in Barney?”

“That’s right. Where’s your dispatch located?”

“Henderson, ma’am. What’s the nature of the emergency?”

“I just need to speak to local law enforcement. A girl is missing.”

“One moment.” There’s a faint rattle of plastic; a binder is being consulted. “OK, I’m going to send you to the Malheur County Sheriff’s Department.”

“They aren’t returning my—” Wilde stops; the call is already being transferred. She ends it and puts the phone in her pocket.

“What is that look?” Flores asks.

“What do you think?”

“It’s nothing sinister, Wilde. It’s social collapse. Teachers having to fundraise for school supplies, a CPS office with one worker in it. Things get worse, but life goes on.” She waves a hand. “It’s all around us, all the time. Local LE goes dark, the county covers. It’s harder on the county, harder on the town. But life goes on. People used to be able to go to a DMV and get something done. Now we just assume we’ll be there for a few hours. This is just one more piece of that.”

“The PD’s website is down. I can’t even get a name and address.”

“It’s too late to go knock on the door at City Hall. No one’ll be there at this hour. First thing in the morning, though. Someone sent you that tip.” Flores gazes at the police department. “You really think something happened to them?”

“You don’t?”