Chapter 17 Jordan
SEVENTEEN
JORDAN
Joining the search for @Carasloveisgold. #HowHardCanItBe #InstagrammerInAHaystack #TrackingIsTheTits
—@MyNameIsBob_JAMES_Bob
Jordan kept his eyes on the ground as he worked his way through the trees.
His progress was slow, but from what he could see, Campbell was slowing down, too.
Her scramble up the hill had been wild, with her slips and trips clearly marked on the ground.
But she would have quickly grown winded—the climb left him breathing hard, too.
As the slope became more gentle, she left fewer obvious signs and her trail became more difficult to follow.
Most of his tracking experience had been earned on hunting trips with his dad as they followed the blood sign left by dying deer or elk.
But he had learned a lot from observing S&R trackers, too, for whom the smallest disturbances on the forest floor told a larger story.
The most important lesson? Tracking was never as fast as running. Patience was the key.
As he covered the mile or so since leaving the market, about thirty minutes of hiking, he’d been on the radio the whole time, directing the search operation.
His deputies had arrived to interview potential witnesses while the team back at the MCP pored over maps to triangulate all the routes Campbell might take based on Jordan’s updates.
He had ordered vehicles to patrol the surrounding roads and managed to finally call a helicopter off fire duty to search from above.
And the dogs were coming up behind. He could already hear them barking.
Fortunately, Marshal Wen wasn’t on Jordan’s radio frequency. He’d gotten two missed calls and several texts from an unknown number—SHERIFF CALL ME NOW THIS IS WEN—before his cell coverage evaporated again.
He was typically not afraid to ask for or accept help, even from outside agencies. But what could these Angelenos do for him in the trees? He was so agonizingly close. And with the story going national, spreading even faster than the wildfires, he desperately wanted the win.
Beto called him on the radio. “Sheriff? Wen wants me to put her through.”
“Tell her you can’t raise me,” he answered.
“Um . . . pretty sure she just heard that. She’s standing right here.”
Jordan swore, then thumbed the mic. “Put her on.”
“Were you trying to lose us?” demanded Wen.
“I’m trying to catch Campbell. I found a sign and followed it.”
“Leaving four reinforcements behind.”
“No offense, but you would have slowed me down. I’m on her trail and she’s unarmed. I don’t need backup.”
“You had her one-on-one last night, and we’re all still out here.”
Jordan dropped the transceiver and kneeled.
Had the slim green branch been recently broken?
It was hard to tell. But there—in the fine, dry dust, about the size of a playing card, was her tread pattern.
She had spotted an easier route and was taking it.
Jordan knew it would lead her into a gentle bowl between two ridges.
Broader than a ravine, not quite a canyon.
He also knew what she would find there.
“Did I, like, hurt your feelings, Sheriff?” Wen’s staticky voice sounded more amused than sarcastic.
“This time she won’t have a river to jump into.”
“Maybe she’ll jump off a cliff.”
“She’s headed toward Black Bear Road. That’s four-wheel drive only.
Assuming Beto is still listening in, he’ll direct you, as well as other members of our team.
The Sheriff’s Department of Madera County is happy to cooperate with the US Marshals Service.
Just don’t show up like a bunch of cowboys because I don’t want to scare her off. ”
“No offense, but you’re the cowboy,” said Wen. “We’re the city slickers, remember?”