Page 16 of High Frequency

When we reach the trailhead, there are no vehicles parked in the small lot, and Sloane pulls up level with me.

“Do you know the exact location where the hikers found the backpack? I’d like to start there.”

“Yep. That’s where we started our search for her.”

It doesn’t take long to get from the trailhead to where the backpack had been found. It’s not far off the hiking path on the other side of a large, fallen tree that looked to have been hit by lightning.

“Can you hold her?” Sloane asks, dismounting and handing over Pudding’s reins.

Then she slips the small backpack from her shoulders and digs out a digital camera.

“What direction is the ledge you found her on?”

I point northeast, past the exposed clump of roots to where the first of the orange marks we left is visible. When tracking in these mountains, we always carry a can or two of spray paint to mark our way. It has a dual purpose, it eliminates the risk of going around in circles, and it makes retracing our steps a piece of cake.

“What made you head in that direction?” she wants to know.

“See the snapped branch on that young pine? JD found a few strands of hair snagged on it.”

She slowly walks toward the tree I indicate, scanning the ground around her. She’s clearly looking for something. When she gets to the broken branch, she starts snapping pictures. Then she swings around.

“I have to look up to see the hair and I’m five seven. Chelsea is only five foot one. Also, her hair is medium blond, this is dark brown.”

Taken aback, I loop Pudding’s lead around my saddle horn and dismount Will.

“Stay,” I tell him as I walk over to Sloane.

I glance at the lock of hair, which is at about eye level for me. She’s right, even if the color wasn’t off, there’s no way the little girl I plucked off that ledge could’ve gotten her hair tangled on a branch that would’ve been about a foot over her head.

When we look for clues when we’re tracking, we look for anything that stands out. The hair on that branch pointed us in a certain direction. I realize it carries a different value for Sloane. To her, it’s evidence.

“Could you take a few pictures of me collecting this?” she asks, handing me the camera. “Just point and click.”

I start taking pictures as she unzips her backpack and removes a black plastic bin. When she opens the lid, it looks like an evidence collection kit. She pulls on a pair of blue gloves and grabs a small brown evidence envelope as well as a pair of disposable tweezers.

I keep snapping until she’s collected the hair from the branch, and signed and dated the small, brown envelope.

“You’re thinking someone was after her?”

Sloane nods as she tucks the envelope away and snaps off the gloves.

“Yes. The girl’s been talking in her sleep and it seems she may be starting to remember things.”

She slips the backpack over her shoulders. When she holds out her hand, I return the camera, which she loops around her neck.

“How far are we from the location?”

“Knowing where we’re going, I’d say twenty minutes, half an hour.”

“Okay, don’t go too fast, I want to keep an eye out for possible evidence.”

I nod and walk back to where Will is still waiting patiently, Pudding by his side. I hold on to Sloane’s mount as she grabs on to the horn, puts her left foot in the stirrup, and swings up in the saddle. Then I mount up as well, and lead us through the trees.

For a while there’s only the sounds of the woods and, normally, I would enjoy the quiet ride, but knowing Sloane is behind me, the silence has my thoughts spinning.

Then suddenly I find myself asking, “What happened in Billings?”

The pause drags on so long, I resist turning around.

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