Firewatch Ch 11

Flores keeps going. “Nielsen isn’t on paper. I didn’t have time to do a dive on the socials, but I think I have it. Hailee Siegel and Ro Nielsen are not friends on socials, but they have one mutual, added recently for both: Aria Durano. And the cashier at the gas station said that Hailee was with two other girls. We have a clear shot of Hailee on an exterior camera, and Ro entered the store. There’s a third woman on the exterior, but we don’t get a good look at her. It’s probably Durano.”

“What do we have on her?”

“She has priors, but nothing major. Two trespassing offenses. One in New York, one in New Orleans.”

Trespassing where?”

“I didn’t look closely, but I think it’s abandoned buildings, not private residences.”

Wilde nods. “That all fits. Good work, by the way. All before breakfast.”

“If this girl’s under duress, time is a factor.”

“Did you bolo it?”

“I wanted to check with you first.”

“Let’s do it.”

Flores is already typing on her phone. “Where do you think they’re going next?”

“I’m not sure they’re going anywhere. I think they might still be here,” Wilde replies, looking out the window. “You’re traveling, you’re avoiding motels. They probably don’t have much money. A local told me,”

It’s slight, but one corner of Flores’s mouth turns up. She doesn’t laugh.

Wilde clears her throat and presses on. “A local told me that there are some campgrounds out there. I found publicly accessible campgrounds within 2 miles of every cattle mutilation site on our route.”

“That’s thin. There are a lot of campgrounds out there. And if you thought they were here, why not go looking last night?”

“Flores, I don’t know how safe it is to be out there at night,” Wilde says seriously.

“What are you afraid of, Wilde? Bigfoot?”

F-FILES

The road slopes upward, and Wilde takes the frequent corners cautiously.

The trees of the Oregon forest look thin, but that’s only because they’re so tall. Many of the trees are big enough that even Wilde’s unusually long arms couldn’t encircle them. The needles on the ground mask footfalls, and the smell of pine is so strong that Flores’s nose tingles even in the car.

“You notice anything unusual in town?” Flores asks as the trees go by.

“Like what? An oppressive atmosphere that you can’t put into words and certainly can’t try to explain to the FBI?”

“I can explain it easily. A small community with limited economic opportunity affected by climate change, the rising cost of living, and a broader malaise attributable to current events that aren’t popular with large groups of people.”

“You telling me that science has decisively unraveled the secret of bad vibes, Flores?”

“What bearing does this have on our case?”

“Our case involves probable occult activity.”

“That’s a psychologically driven activity, Wilde. I’m prepared to accept that it can intersect with another psychological phenomenon: perception, which is subjective and something we have to be careful about.”

“Well, I subjectively perceive that I have a good feeling about this lead,” Wilde says.

“The relevant question would be: is your feeling based on evidence, or hope?”

Wilde turns into a gravel parking lot with posts and ropes as borders. Only one vehicle is present: the same red Rav 4 that Flores saw in the surveillance footage. Wilde puts the car in park and looks over, expression mild. “You were saying?”