by Amy Waeschle
“Whose idea was it to go to the dock?”
“I don’t really know,” he said. “But probably Cody.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s pretty much always in charge,” Franklin answered, his voice hardening.
“What did you guys do at the dock?”
“Hung out, you know, talked. William played some tunes . . . ”
“Were you drinking?”
“Me?”
“The group. Were you guys still partying?”
“Uh,” Franklin muttered. “Uh,” he said again. She pictured his mouth opening and closing silently, like a fish.
“I’m not the police, Franklin. You can tell me. This might be really helpful.”
“Someone had a bottle of whiskey, it might have been Izzy, I don’t know. Cody . . . had weed.”
Cassidy suppressed a groan. Even though pot was legal in Oregon and Washington, it was against policy to smoke it at field camp—though no professor in their right mind enforced this. If they did, half of the students would be sent home. “Did Izzy smoke some?”
“I think so.”
Cassidy was getting annoyed. “C’mon, Franklin. You guys were all together. Did she or didn’t she smoke Cody’s pot?”
“I don’t know,” Franklin replied, sounding flustered. “Yeah, we were all on the dock, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what Izzy was doing.”
Cassidy drove past a second set of ski lifts, the central one extending up and over a hog’s back summit. “Then what were you paying attention to?” she asked, tightening her grip on the wheel.
Franklin didn’t answer for a moment. “I can promise you that it’s not related to anything going on with Izzy.”
Cassidy scowled, even though Franklin was now almost a hundred miles away. “Humor me,” she said.
Franklin seemed to be thinking, because the connection hummed with his silence for what felt like a long time. “Alice,” he said finally.
“Oh,” Cassidy replied, her frustration deflating like a punctured tire. She remembered seeing Franklin and Alice swing dancing at the resort and the ease with which they moved. Had that been going on all along? Or had their relationship bloomed that night? Cassidy cringed at the idea of prying into Alice and Franklin’s private lives. “Okay. So, when did you guys return to camp?” she asked.
“I don’t know, really. Alice and Izzy were cold, so Alice and I left first. Cody and the other two were behind us.”
“Alice says maybe one or one-thirty.”
“That’s probably about right,” he said. “Where does Alice think Izzy’s gone? I don’t really know her, Dr. Kincaid. Alice does, though.”
“Just think back to that night, Franklin. I know your focus was . . . elsewhere, but, can you think of anything else, about Izzy or what was going on that might be important?” Cassidy cleared the final ski area and felt a strange form of relief wash over her. “Did she say anything? Do anything?”
“Cody picked her up and was going to throw her in the lake,” Franklin said. “It happened a little after we got there. But he didn’t.”
“Did Izzy seem upset?”
“No, she was just Izzy.”
“What do you mean?”
Franklin sighed and Cassidy could sense his fatigue. “There’s two people in the world, Dr. Kincaid: takers, and givers. Izzy is a taker. She takes what she wants and doesn’t mind stomping on whoever’s in her path to get it.”
“That could also be seen as assertive,” Cassidy replied, feeling like her feathers had been ruffled the wrong way. Being with Pete, who oozed kindness and generosity, had made her see how closed off and selfish she could be. Yet those qualities had served her well in her work and studies—in order to apply for grants and lead teams of researchers, you had to be a firm, confident leader. Nobody gave money to the nicest geologist, they gave it to the one that got shit done.
Franklin gave a huff. “I suppose.”
“So, you and Alice walked back to camp,” she said. “Then what?” she asked.
“Uh,” Franklin stammered. “What do you mean?”
“I just need to know what happened next. Did you return to camp and go to bed? Or did you stay up talking? Go for a moonlit hike?” Cassidy felt exasperated, having to explain.
“We . . . went to bed,” Franklin said.
“Everyone, right?”
“Well, Alice and I . . . did. Cody and Izzy and William were behind us a ways. I’m sure they got back, but I don’t really know when.”
Cassidy frowned. Zippers and the shifting nylon that accompanied settling into a tent were not silent. “You didn’t hear them?”
“Can’t say I did, no,” Franklin replied, his voice sounding odd.
Cassidy wondered if she was missing something. “Okay, so it’s possible that Izzy and the two others stayed out even later somewhere.”
“I suppose it’s possible, yes,” Franklin replied.
After descending Snoqualmie pass, Cassidy left I-90 for Highway 97, and the drive slowly opened up to broad, barren hills and dry washes, the landscape dominated by prickly-looking scrub. Her route from Seattle to Wallowa Lake weeks ago had taken her on a different though parallel route, so this was new. Through the summer haze she could see the shape of Mt. Adams to the west, rising above the Cascade foothills, and the pyramidal peak of Mt. Hood to the south. From the GPS map display on her phone, she saw that Highway 97 continued through Biggs Junction and on to Bend, Oregon. Cassidy had skied there alone, at Mt. Bachelor, for the first time after Pete’s passing.
She remembered a moment from that day when she stood at the top of a run and felt him—actually felt him pass by her. She had closed her eyes and saw the cloud of snow he created as he carved his first turns down the slope, his hoot of joy echoing inside her mind. A searing pain, like her flesh was being torn away from her body, had made her feel vulnerable and broken all over again.
Inside Jay’s office the following week, she had spent most of their session trying not to talk about it, but finally, it came out. And then, she couldn’t stop crying.
Skiing is supposed to be fun, but not if you’re crying, she thought. Now that she was back in Seattle, she could ski with old U.W. Ski Club friends, and of course Mark and his friends would include her. Mark was planning a backcountry trip to the Selkirk Mountains in B.C. for New Year’s Eve and said he’d save her a spot, though the idea of spending a week deep in the wilderness with them filled her with apprehension. She imagined the glory of climbing and descending fresh tracks all day with a guide to show them the best runs, but it felt like a betrayal to go without Pete. What if she spent the whole trip crying? She would have no escape.
Cassidy descended out of the broad, dry hills towards the Columbia River. A bridge delivered her across the broad reservoir to Biggs Junction and the cluster of faded buildings. The name fit, as two routes intersected here: Oregon’s I-84, which connected Portland to Salt Lake City, hugging the south shore of the Columbia, and Highway 97, which began at the Canadian border and hugged the east side of the Cascades all the way to Mt. Shasta.
As she pulled her Subaru into the Chevron, passing an old motel, a Kwik Mart, and a diner-style restaurant, she wondered about the significance of Biggs Junction. What had Izzy wanted to do here? The clock on her dash told her that almost twenty-four hours had passed since Izzy had stepped out of the van, leaving her backpack and everyone behind.
As Cassidy parked her car in front of the mini mart, she experienced a sinking feeling that Izzy was already long gone.
Eight
Inside the mini mart, a vent blasted frigid, air-conditioned air into her hot face. Shuffling her feet nervously, she queued up behind a bearded man in dingy jeans and suspenders and another man in shorts, a tank top, and Birkenstocks. By the time Cassidy stepped forward and introduced herself to the plump young woman behind the counter, she had Izzy’s picture, courtesy of Alice, pulled up on her phone.
“Have you seen t
his girl?” Cassidy asked, flashing her screen.
“Are you a cop?” the woman asked, her lips tightening. Her name tag said Jayla.
“No, I’m a professor. At the University of Washington.” Cassidy had worn her U.W. Geology Department t-shirt, thinking that it might add credibility, but Jayla didn’t seem to notice.
Her deep brown eyes flicked over the picture again. She shook her head, her round face blank.
Cassidy felt the presence of someone behind her, and turned to see a young woman in aviator sunglasses holding a bag of chips and some kind of bottled coffee drink. Her posture and blank look made it clear that she did not appreciate the wait.
“You could ask José,” Jayla said, nodding at a kid stocking the cooler in the back of the store.
Cassidy felt like she should press Jayla, ask her to take another look, but stepped aside and the woman behind her moved forward in a cloud of spicy perfume, tossing her blonde hair as she set her items on the counter.
The kid in the faded red polo and baggy black jeans finished emptying a box of energy drinks just as Cassidy arrived.
“Sorry,” he said, moving the empty box out of her way.
Cassidy stood her ground. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
José’s deep brown eyes turned curious. He straightened, one hand holding the edge of the box. “Yes?” he asked in a soft, Hispanic accent.
“Yesterday, a friend of mine went missing near here,” Cassidy said. “She used that cash machine.” Cassidy nodded at the machine in the opposite corner. “It was a little after noon. Were you here then?”
The boy nodded slowly.
Cassidy flashed the picture of Izzy. The boy put the empty box down and took the phone from her, studying the screen carefully.
He shook his head. “I didn’t see her.” He passed the phone back. “I’m sorry.”
Cassidy checked her disappointment. She tucked her phone back into her pocket. “What do people do in Biggs Junction?” she asked.
José looked surprised. “There is nothing.”
“Do you live here?” she asked.
“No. In Wasco.”
Cassidy tried to picture a map of the area, but Wasco did not register.
She had a sudden idea. “Do you drive to work?”
José shook his head. “There is a bus.”
The idea grew in her mind, and she felt herself getting excited. “Are there other buses that come through?”
“Yes,” José said.
“What time do the buses stop here?”
“They only gas up. Nobody gets on.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said, her mind interpreting this on the fly—Biggs isn’t a stop on the bus route. “But what time?”
José squinted. “Afternoon sometime. I don’t know exactly.”
“When does your bus come?”
“In the morning, at five-thirty and at night, eight o’clock.”
“Your shift is that long?” Cassidy asked even though it was off-topic.
“No,” José replied simply.
Cassidy took this in.
The boy looked behind him, his face turning anxious.
“Thanks for your time,” Cassidy said, realizing that she had learned all she could.
He nodded, then scooped up the empty box and disappeared down a shaded hallway.
Cassidy returned to the now-empty checkout counter where Jayla was texting with both thumbs.
“Thanks,” Cassidy called as she passed through the doorway.
Jayla did not reply.
Outside, the superheated air blasted Cassidy’s lungs. A gust carrying road grit and dust swirled around her shins as she stepped to her car. She walked to the corner and a view of the highway. She stood for a while, staring at the brown, desolate hills. Cars and trucks of all types and sizes crossed over the indigo Columbia on the metal-frame bridge, then continued on their way, turning east or west, or heading for the highway leading south; a few entered the gas station.
Izzy couldn’t have wanted to stick around in Biggs Junction. Like the kid said, there was nothing here, except for travelers passing through. Had Izzy asked for a ride from someone? Cassidy felt her skin prickle. If Izzy had hitchhiked, she could be in someone’s basement by now. She thought of Dominique Gilardi.
Cassidy pushed the thought away. Izzy may be adventurous, but she wasn’t stupid.
After opening her phone, Cassidy launched her map program but had to clear the list of missed calls and voicemails first. At it least there were only four this time. Maybe they were final moving on.
Once her map opened, she scanned routes leading in and out of Biggs. The only destinations worth jumping ship for were Portland—about 100 miles to the west, or Salt Lake City, a nine-hour drive to the east. But if Izzy had wanted to go to Portland, why didn’t she just wait for the field camp van to pass through there? Knowing Izzy, if Portland had been her goal, she could have made up some excuse to get Martin to stop there, and then slipped away somehow.
Salt Lake City felt like a longshot—the likelihood of catching a ride for such a distance seemed slim. And what would Izzy want there? She studied the map again. Yakima, a small desert farming town where temperatures reached the low hundreds in July, wasn’t much of a destination, either. Izzy could have used it as a jumping of point for, say, Seattle, but again, why not do so from Portland? Izzy could have caught a flight from there or taken the train or a bus easily.
So that left Bend, Oregon, to the south. Cassidy turned this over in her mind. A popular adventure-seeker destination, Bend was located at yet another crossroads—Eugene a few hours to the west, and Mt. Shasta and central California to the south.
Cassidy played devil’s advocate, trying to come up with a reason why Bend didn’t fit. But the more she examined each of the routes and what they offered, the more her gut locked onto Bend as the place Izzy would go.
But what did Bend offer Izzy? Cassidy pictured its black cindery volcanoes rising above the desert pine forests and the town’s outdoorsy vibe. Bend was also home to a surprisingly high number of microbreweries; offered a bus tour called “The Ale Trail” for tourists. Though as a geology major, Izzy surely enjoyed the outdoors, there had to be more to Bend than just an itch to climb a cinder cone or drown her worries in Pale Ale.
Or maybe Izzy’s reasons were much simpler, or less focused. Someone offered her a joyride along one of the West’s most scenic byways, and she accepted. Or maybe her sights were set farther, such as Sacramento? Cassidy checked the map—Sacramento was over 500 miles away.
Cassidy crossed her arms, a gust teasing a tendril of hair from her braid so it tickled her cheek. Where else could she ask about Izzy? She spotted a restaurant across the street, plus a Subway sandwich shop next to the gas station behind her. Would Izzy have gone to one of them for a meal? As if in response, her stomach rumbled. Cassidy crossed the hot pavement to her car for her wallet and pivoted towards the restaurant.
Over an hour later, Cassidy returned to her Subaru. The thirty-something clerk at the Subway barely spoke enough English to answer Cassidy’s questions, and when she had tried using her combat Spanish, it only further confused their conversation. The stainless-steel tubs of meat and condiments looked so wilted and unappealing that Cassidy knew there was no way Izzy would have stuck around, anyways. There was a BBQ food truck down the highway about a half-mile, but Cassidy didn’t think Izzy would bother.
At Linda’s, the diner, the gray-haired manager and one waitress both shook their heads when Cassidy flashed them Izzy’s picture. She chose a window seat and ordered a burger, then ate while keeping her eyes on the highway and the two gas stations—the Shell where the field camp van had stopped, and the Pilot across the street. A constant stream of travelers passed through: people in cars—families, singles, couples, semi-trucks, delivery vans, moving vans, motorcycles.
The Pilot seemed to have more semi-trucks than cars. Cassidy watched them gas up or pull over to park in the expansive gravel l
ot, their exhaust hissing like a weary beast preparing for sleep, or to roll over the scales. Would Izzy have begged a ride from one of the drivers? Mid-chew, Cassidy paused, her mind whirring. Of course. Blonde and leggy Izzy would probably be able to hitch a ride from some lonely trucker. In a rush, she paid her bill and hurried across the street, squinting against the blowing dust and heat. At the outermost pump stood a white semi-truck with blue lettering. Cassidy stepped into the shade of the pump’s awning and followed the trailer to the cab. But it was empty.
“Can I help you?” a clipped voice sounded from around the front of the truck.
Cassidy whirled around to see a dark-skinned man of medium build wearing a turquoise turban. He held a tall bottle of water and a plastic-wrapped sandwich.
“Yes,” Cassidy replied. “I’m looking for a friend who went missing here yesterday.”
The gas station attendant passed by Cassidy, nearly bumping her off-balance, and handed the driver a receipt. He climbed into his cab and set his water bottle in a cupholder attached to the dashboard then stepped back down, his steady gaze returning to Cassidy. “I am sorry to hear this,” he said, his sharp Indian accent so proper that Cassidy instantly corrected her slouch.
“She is a student of mine,” Cassidy continued. “She may have hitchhiked from here.” Cassidy slid her phone from her back pocket and opened the picture of Izzy, then flashed it at the man.
But the driver didn’t even look at it. “I never pick up unauthorized passengers,” he said, his nose flaring, as if he’d smelled something bad.
“Right,” Cassidy said, realizing it was too much to hope for. “Is that a policy?” she asked. “I mean, do all truck drivers avoid picking up hitchhikers?”
“I cannot comment on the policies of other companies,” the man said, who carefully unwrapped the sandwich.
“What if someone is in trouble?” Cassidy asked.
The driver tucked the gas receipt into a small rectangular ledger he’d picked up from inside the cab. “I have waited with stranded motorists for help, yes, but I never take on a passenger.”
