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.
