by Scott Blade
He turned to the station on the top level. The windows were all boarded up, which was probably a precaution they did every year when they closed up shop. The deck wrapped around the entire station. The boards creaked under his weight like they had gotten stiff from being unused for the last six months.
Widow tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Now what?
They had forgotten to give him a key. Maybe the guy who had the heart attack, who usually resided there, had it still in his possession, expecting to return here for the summer.
Widow thought, Where would an older wilderness type hide a spare key?
There was a welcome mat. He tried underneath it. No luck.
The door had a glass window on it. He guessed he could break it if he had to.
He reached up and felt the top frame of the door. Nothing there. He tried to picture all the places that people generally left spare keys. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the usual guy at all. He wouldn’t be able to guess where he would’ve hidden a spare key.
Widow walked around the deck, checking underneath the railing. There was an off chance that maybe he duct taped a spare to the bottom of the railing. That’s what he would’ve done.
He studied the stationhouse for nooks and crannies that might be good places to hide a key. He saw nothing. Then he walked back down the stairs, looking under the previous stairs for a hidden, duct-taped key.
Nothing.
He stopped at the bottom step and surveyed the perimeter. He saw a cluster of head-sized rocks. He could easily use one to break the window. He wanted to avoid doing that because he already knew that the nights out here could get chilly. And an open window was bound to put him at risk of a cold. Last thing he needed was to get sick way out here in the middle of God’s country.
But he also wasn’t seeing much choice. He figured that if he really wanted to, he could find his way to DeGorne’s lookout. There was probably a trail, probably signs that pointed the way. How far was that? Ten miles? More? He wasn’t about to walk that far just for a key.
Instead, he walked over to the cluster of rocks, stood over them for a long minute, like he was picking out his weapon just before an arena-style gladiator match. He bent down and scooped up one of the rocks. It was smooth and cold to the touch. He let it sit in his hand. It was heavy enough to break a man’s skull open like an eggshell. Certainly, it would do the job on the window.
Then he stopped for a moment and looked to his right. He saw the outhouse and again thought, Where would a wilderness type hide a spare key?
Widow dropped the rock and headed over to the outhouse. He tried the door, unlocked. Why wouldn’t it be?
Then he opened it.
It smelled clean, but musty and stale like it hadn’t been opened in six months, which it hadn’t.
The toilet was right there in the center. It wasn’t porcelain, but plastic. It was open and cleaned. It was embedded down into a wooden bench, which probably covered the tank beneath. He wondered if cleaning it was like cleaning a latrine? He didn’t see why it would be any more advanced.
There was a light switch on the wall, which surprised him. He flicked it. Of course, nothing happened because the generator was off.
Still, part of the ceiling was a thin, white plastic piece cut into the wood. It allowed light to come in. Widow took a quick look around and saw on the back of the door was a spare key, right there, duct-taped just like he’d thought.
A good hiding place. Obvious enough for someone to find, but still hidden in an unconventional place.
Widow took the key and shut the door. He walked back up the hill, back up the stairs, and to the stationhouse. He used the key and entered.
It was dark inside. He looked to the right and saw a thick green button on a metal electric box, near the door. A handwritten label on it read: Generator.
He pressed it and down below he heard the faint rattle and compression of the gas generator kick-starting to life. He leaned back out and watched it. The generator rumbled at first, and thin smoke puffed out and then it calmed into a steady hum.
He immediately saw the CB radio station, pressed up against the opposite corner, snug, facing northeast. It must’ve been switched off because it hadn’t crackled to life with the power generator.
He wanted to check it before he did anything else. He needed communication. He walked through the room, shaded in darkness because of the boarded-up windows. He stepped to the right to let the sunlight from the open door light up the knobs and switches on the radio.
He found the on/off switch and flipped it, turned the volume knob all the way up. No sound. He turned it all the way down. Nothing. He flipped channels. Nothing. He tapped the gauges, an instinct action not backed be any kind of mechanical experience. Nothing happened.
It seemed that the radio wasn’t working.
Great, he thought.
CHAPTER 23
WIDOW FROZE IN PLACE for a long moment, wondering what else he could do to get the radio to work. If the heart attack guy was competent, and Widow figured he must’ve been, then the radio would’ve been reported as broken or malfunctioning before he left last November.
After double-checking all the knobs and switches and the cords to the outlet and then the outlet itself, Widow did the one thing that he could think to do. He banged on the top of it. Not pounding his fist that would dent metal roofing, but a good solid wham!
Nothing happened.
He stepped back and shrugged. Maybe the fire lookout didn’t care about the CB and just used the walkie.
He turned and scanned the room in the daytime darkness. The lights in the station stayed off. Probably because he hadn’t flipped their switch on, but the power-on light on the charge station for the walkie lit up green. The charge station was back toward the door, on a wooden writing desk. He followed it and saw the light switch near the door. He flipped it and the lights kicked on. There was a single heavy overhead bulb that provided a wide cone of yellow light, splashed over the Osborne Firefinder table and a single desk lamp on a jointed metal arm. The two provided just enough light to find his way around.
He was surprised the walkie had some charge after so many months without power. He snatched it up quickly and inspected it.
It was a bit old. A bit nineties-looking. It was bulbous and round and a bright yellow. There was a thick antenna towering out of the top, next to a channel knob, and a volume dial that doubled as the on/off dial. He switched it on and turned it up all the way.
He left the channel on the one it was on when it was shut off. He figured that was probably the only channel that DeGorne and the heart attack guy ever used.
Widow clicked the call button and said, “DeGorne? Come in?”
He waited. No response.
She was probably still lugging that duffle bag up miles of wilderness. What the hell she needed it for he had no idea.
He left the walkie on a desk near the western window and looked around the stationhouse.
It was one large, octagonal room. A mini-fridge hummed but was empty, of course. There was box with canned food that still looked edible. There were two stacks of bottled waters still wrapped in the plastic case. He wondered if there was a well nearby.
There was another big box full of MREs, which he was very familiar with.
In the middle of the room was a square island made of wood and cabinets. On top, was a round table with a map in the center and anglers on two sides. It was a device that he had seen before.
It looked like an ancient sundial, only this one wasn’t meant to tell time. It was an Osborne Firefinder. He had seen it before, over a decade ago. He couldn’t remember how to use it. He’d have to ask DeGorne.
Widow stepped away, inspected the rest of the tower.
Along the wall with the mini-fridge was a low double shelf, with more jarred food products and more MREs and some canned soups. On the other side of the mini-fridge was a small oven with a two-burner stovetop. Guess he wasn’t going
to have problems eating ell way out here.
On the desk was a laptop, old in terms of computers, but new in that he hardly ever used a computer. He didn’t even remember ever owning one. At least, not one that the Navy hadn’t provided.
A thick jump drive stuck out of one of the USB ports. The laptop was plugged into a wall socket. The jump drive hummed to life when he powered on the generator.
Not sure what he would use the laptop for. Guess they might want him to log things, keep records, and what not. Which he was not going to do.
Behind him, there was a AM/FM radio with a single antenna already sticking up, extended all the way. He wondered if he could even get any stations out here. Maybe.
There was a cassette player also. And a stack of cassettes next to the radio.
He studied the tapes. They were music. They were books on tape. Mostly Agatha Christie and various classic mysteries.
Also, there was a stack of paperbacks strung across the window sill by the cot. They too, were mystery books. Some he’d heard of, and some he hadn’t. They were all basically airport reads.
Which reminded him. He took out his paperback book and tossed it on the desk. It might still come in handy.
Suddenly, the walkie crackled and he heard DeGorne’s voice.
“Widow?”
CHAPTER 24
“DEGORNE?” WIDOW ANSWERED.
“It’s me. Of course.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“I guess that you made it inside. I didn’t realize it until I got in mine that you didn’t have a key. Did you break the window?”
“No. I found the spare.”
“Oh good. I was worried.”
“I managed. And don’t ask me where he keeps it.”
DeGorne said nothing to that. Instead, she paused and then she came back on. “Okay. I won’t. Listen there’s a lot to go over. But I can’t sit here all day and train you. I’ve got my own stuff to do. So how much of it do you remember?”
Widow said, “It’s familiar, but a rundown wouldn’t hurt.”
“Just grab the checklist and go through it. That’s really the hardest part of the job, minus a fire. Of course.”
Widow smiled, even though she couldn’t see him.
“I see that the walkie works. What about the CB?”
“Nothing from it.”
“That’s not surprising. Danvers never liked to talk on it. He always used the walkie. I was the only person he ever talked to. I guess. I think it even broke years ago and he never replaced it.”
“Is that the guy’s name?”
“Yes. Danvers. Great old guy.”
Widow said nothing.
DeGorne said, “Most of this gig is gonna be inventory and observation. You should find a manual there somewhere. It’ll stick out. It’s thin, rung together in a binder.”
Widow looked around, saw the manual right there on the desk, underneath the laptop.
“I found it.”
“Good. You don’t need to memorize it or anything. It’s more of a reference book. In case you run into an issue, it can help you decipher what to do next.”
“I don’t need to read it?”
“I didn’t say that, if Tate asks. But no. There’s a chapter, the third one, I think, that talks about the Osborne Firefinder. You should look over that part.”
“I did recognize that.”
“Oh good. Then you know how to use it?”
“Not really.”
“It’s easy. Just look it up. It finds fires.”
“Yeah, I got that part.”
Widow paused a beat, decided to change gears, and asked, “What about a gun? I don’t see one.”
“That’s why I bring my own.”
“Right.”
“Don’t worry. If you need a gun, just call me. I’ll save you.”
Widow laughed.
“What do you think you’ll need one for anyway? I’m a tiny, little woman out here all alone. You’re a big guy. No reason for you to fear anyone.”
“What about bears? They’re not afraid of me.”
DeGorne laughed, but then she said, “We shouldn’t make jokes. Really. We do have black bears out here. And hikers and campers have been attacked before.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Every year. Several times.”
“Anyone killed?”
“All the time.”
“That makes me feel good.”
“Don’t worry. The chances of one of them climbing up the stairs of your tower are pretty small. Unless, you leave food out on the ground. Make sure to pick up after yourself.”
“What about when I’m hiking? What do I do if I encounter a bear? Am I supposed to play dead or something?”
DeGorne laughed. Widow was glad to hear it.
“Sure. Play dead. See what happens.”
“What will happen?”
“The bear will probably try to eat you. He’ll think you’re dead.”
Widow said, “I hope not.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry. You don’t look very appetizing.”
“I don’t?”
“No. The bear would have to be starving to death to wanna eat you.”
They both laughed.
DeGorne said, “Thanks, Widow.”
“For what?”
“Making me laugh. You have no idea how stressful my life has been lately.”
He didn’t say anything to that.
She said, “Seriously, there’s a can of bear mace in your pack.”
“My pack? I didn’t bring one.”
“There’s already one in there. Somewhere. All the lookouts have a pre-packed back up in the tower. Look for it. There are goodies in there you’ll need when you venture off. Including a map.”
“So do you need me to return yours to you?”
“Sure. No hurry.”
“I’ll search for the pack. Anything else I should know?”
“I wouldn’t worry about the bears. The wolves are more dangerous. The bears here avoid people like the plague. The wolves are different. They walk in packs and feel brave because of it. Most of the wolves stick to a part of the mountain, near Wolf Creek.”
“Wolf Creek? That’s aptly named.”
“Everything here is aptly named.”
“Why Lincoln Ridge?”
“You didn’t see it?”
“See what?” He asked.
“The ridge you’re on. When you get the chance, look at the ridge from the tower. To the south. It’s a peak and a cliff that looks like…well. You’ll see why it’s called Lincoln’s Ridge.”
“Okay. Anything else I need to know?”
“Not that I can think of. Call me if you need anything.”
I asked, “What about emergencies?”
“Same. Call me. Foreman has a phone in her station.”
“Foreman?”
“Our closest neighbor. She’s like the unofficial regional manager for all of us. To the east, you’ll find telephone poles with single wires on them. They hook up to her lookout. So, if you need anything, anything emergency related, then you call me, and I get her on my CB. You won’t be able to get her on your walkie. Too far.”
Widow paused a moment. Then he asked, “Ever run into people out here?”
“Oh sure. There are going to be teenagers who come out here hiking. They usually need our help because they don’t know what they’re doing. Sometimes, we’ll get hunters sneaking in even though it’s the off season. Same with fishermen.”
“What do I do to them?”
“You don’t do anything to them. Just ask them to leave. In particular, look out for fireworks and campfires.”
“People shoot fireworks out here?”
“Why do you think the teenagers come out here?”
“To get wasted?”
She said, “They do both.”
Widow was quiet.
The radio crackled again and DeGorne asked, “Anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Look over the checklist and the manual. I’ll call you later. And keep your walkie with you at all times.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Good to have you here, Widow. It makes me feel safer.”
She had said it like she really meant it, like a woman on the run.
Widow waited, listened to the static on the walkie. And realized she was gone.
CHAPTER 25
WIDOW KEPT THE WALKIE clipped to the back of his cargo pants waistband, like a gun holster.
The great outdoors took on a whole new meaning out here. It was quite something. And right off the bat, he felt the risk of fire. The sunlight had warmed the entire mountain within minutes. A thermometer was posted by the door so that it would be at eye level every time he walked out. He read the temperature to be pushing one hundred degrees already and the summer had just started.
The good news was that it didn’t feel that hot. There was enough wind at this altitude and proximity to the Pacific Ocean, that the heat was more than bearable. It was pleasant.
Turned out that Danvers was a methodical man; not only did he have the certified NPS checklist, but he also added in nearly twenty more things to check for newcomers.
Widow went through the checklist, plus Danvers’ added requirements. It all made sense. It was all a normal thing to him. He had come from sixteen years of military and police service. He had filled out many checklists and reports. He knew how to do such bureaucratic things.
He had completed the checklist by the time early afternoon was turning into late afternoon. Luckily, little of the checklist was something he would have to do every single day. Next, he took some time to read through the manual. Most of which he found to be like every other government document—tedious, wordy, and unnecessarily complicated. It was a committee document that started with maybe one person with any fire experience. Then it made its way to higher-ups, who sent it to the legal department. A team of overpaid government lawyers redlined it and regurgitated a needless document that protected the NPS from litigation and made it possible to blame the firewatches in case of fire.
Widow wasn’t sure if the others had read deep enough to see the fine print of that. Being a former NCIS agent, sent undercover with the Navy, he had double experience reading through documents and manuals. Which made the thought occur to him that he should’ve gone to law school, but he quickly shut that notion down. Law school and the profession of lawyering would’ve made him kill himself. He was sure of that.
