A shine of my flashlight into the cab proves he’s right. The only sign of Linnea is her travel mug in the console, the one she insists saves trees. The truck’s bed is also empty.
I pull out my phone and tap on the text icon, so it can pull up the map of Linn’s last known location. But even as I squint, I can’t see shit in this light. Where are my glasses?
As if reading my mind, CJ slips my phone into his hands. “We’ll screen shot it, so we can cross reference later if we end up outside cell range.”
I should be grateful for his quick thinking, but I can’t deny the edge of frustration in my tone when I reply, “Good idea.”
After blowing up the map, he snaps the screen shot, then before I can blink, he texts himself the image and hands my phone back.
“She could be hurt,” he says in a firm tone, his eyes tense.
“Let’s go.” I tuck my phone away and point my flashlight toward the creek rushing past its banks. It’s been raining for several hours, so I’m not surprised to find no trace of Linnea’s boot prints.
We heel-step down the soggy slope, the rushing water louder down here. Bruneau lopes next to me, tail wagging. The three of us cross the creek, the cold water swirling past my ankles. With this rain and the warmer temperatures, this creek will soon be a raging river. Could Linnea have fallen in? Maybe hit her head? The water’s not deep or swift enough yet to carry her away, so that’s not it. But she could have gotten hurt, then become hypothermic.
“We’ll grid search our way upstream,” I shout over the creek’s roar. Search and Rescue training is an integral part of becoming a conservation officer, but this is likely CJ’s first real search. “Let’s start with a call.”
CJ squints at me from under his ball cap. “Okay.”
I instruct Bruneau to heel, and he darts over to sit at my side while CJ turns his back to mine.
I remove my hat so I can hear better and count to three, then shout Linnea’s name in tandem with CJ, our voices dampened by the rain and the rushing creek. We stand frozen, listening. I close my eyes, tuning in with my other senses, waiting, waiting, but no reply comes.
If Linnie’s here, lying hurt, even if she can’t reply, maybe she’ll hear us. She’ll know we’re coming.
“I’ll take the north side.” I start moving again. “We’ll call every twenty feet or so.”
“Got it!” CJ pulls away, his flashlight beam sweeping over the wet cobbles.
Even though Linnea was working the upper section, she would have had to pass through this area on her way up and then back. I try not to get too fixed on the information about her last known location based on the phone data. What if the battery died? What if she dropped it by accident? The only thing I’m sure of is that she was upstream of us at around four o’clock, and she didn’t return to the truck.
We sweep with our flashlight beams while Bruneau zigzags between us, tail wagging like this is just another fun adventure. For an instant, I let it bring me back to happier times. Hikes with him and Linnea. Summer cookouts and trail rides. But emotions quickly overtake me, bottling up in my throat, and I have to fight to keep them there.
No. We’ll find her. Everything will be okay.
By the beam of my flashlight, I search for broken branches or overturned cobbles. Any sign of disturbance that could indicate someone passed through here recently. I’m also looking for anything Linnie could have dropped or left behind. Like her backpack or the section of PVC pipe used to measure stream depth and that doubles as a walking stick. But the creek bed has gone soggy and the branches droop from the rain, likely creating a very different landscape than the one Linnea worked in earlier.
“Let’s call again,” CJ shouts, trotting to meet me. We set up as before, back-to-back. I make sure Bruneau is settled before we call Linnea’s name into the storm. But there’s only the rush of water and the pounding rain.
Another flash of lightning. I scan the basin for anything that stands out, but darkness returns too quickly. Thunder rumbles, closer this time.
We continue searching, crossing the creek twice. Even though we’re upstream, the water is deeper, faster. The flood is already underway. If only the rain could have held off for one more day. This entire basin is going to be too dangerous for travel soon.
I have to find my daughter, and if she’s hurt, get her out of here.
We cross at a high bank, the water now a milky brown and so swift I have to concentrate on my footing. My feet are completely soaked, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
On the other side, we call again. I close my eyes, waiting, listening, but my heart is thumping hard and the creek is louder.
Where are you, Linnea?
After the long pause, CJ faces me, his lips tight. “We’re almost to the top of the field area.”
I slip out my phone. Sure enough, we’re out of cell range now. I point to my screen. “No service.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Same with mine.”
I open the screen shot, then glance up, shining my flashlight slowly. Map reading in the dark is darn near impossible, but I’ve been in this basin before, plus I’ve scanned the project overview several times.