Slickrock Paradox (34 page)

He put the bag in the car and walked back into the house. As he was walking through the living room, his phone rang. He grabbed it on the fourth ring. It was Katie Rain.

“Having regrets about talking with me last night?” he asked.

She laughed. “No, not yet, at least. I wanted to give you an update. I spent my morning working with some of my advanced equipment I had shipped down from Salt Lake. Moab Regional is starting to look like my office. We haven't sent the Williams remains up to the Medical Examiner yet, so I spent my morning examining the wound on the back of his head. He was bludgeoned with the butt of a pistol. I'm about 90 per cent certain of that. I can tell by the shape of the wound. I'm running a test with sodium rhodizonate to see if there is any trace of gunshot residue on the skull.”

“It could still be there after two years?”

“We have some pretty sophisticated tools for measuring this sort of thing. There's a new test that we can run with gas chromatography and a nitrogen phosphorus detector to separate and identify components. If there was any gunpowder on the grip of the pistol used to attack Mr. Williams, it could have left a trace on the skull. All we need is a single particle using this new test.”

“Can you tell what sort of pistol?”

“Not with any certainty. Certainly nothing dainty. Likely a large-caliber weapon such as a .44 or .45. If we recover a pistol during our search today, we may be able to match them up.”

“How is it going?”

“I haven't heard anything yet. You're not just sitting around the house waiting, are you?”

“Oh, you know, I'm trying to catch up on my housework. Place needs a vacuum in case I have guests again.”

“We bring our own, you know?”

“Funny. Not that kind of vacuum. Anyway, no, I'm not just sitting around. I am waiting for the arrival of the info on Darcy McFarland. My friend is supposed to bring it up today. I was thinking about maybe going for a little drive. Do some thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You don't know the half of it
, he thought to himself.

HE CALLED HAYDUKE
a couple of times but got no answer, so around 2:00
PM
he left the Castle Valley and drove south to Blanding. The afternoon heat piled cumulus clouds on top of each other along the rounded backs of the Abajo Mountains. He parked half a block up the street from the small government building and rolled down the window. From time to time he raised his field glasses and studied the structure, but he was aware of how conspicuous this looked, so he kept his surveillance to a minimum. After an hour most of the building's employees had left, and at five-thirty the security guard exited too, locking the door behind him. No other night watchman appeared.

He went for a walk and found himself at the Edge of the Cedars State Park. The museum was open and weary, heat-stroked tourists wandered throughout the grounds. He walked past the tour buses and fifteen minutes later found himself on the edge of the park, past the Pueblo ruins and the gift shop, looking over the broken landscape toward the Abajos. He slipped off his pack and ate a meal of beef jerky, trail mix, and water, and waited for dark. He mulled over the great mass of convoluted information that was jostling around in his head.

It seemed to him as if
everybody
was somehow involved in the death of these three people, but that was too spectacular to be possible. Silas hoped that the risk he was about to take would be worth it. If he got caught, he could go to jail.

He was startled when his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the call display. He snapped it open. “Where the hell are you?” he asked.

“Got delayed. Sorry. Fuck, man, I hate Flagstaff.”

“What happened? No, wait, I don't want to know. Are you on your way to Moab?”

“Yeah, I'm on my way. Where are you?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“I got those papers. I went through them again today. You know, your compatriot Martin is in really fucking thick with the senator's office. McFarland got some emails through Access to Information that basically show complicity between the two offices. Old C. Thorn's name isn't on them, just his lackey Nephi, talking like they are old friends. Why the fuck do people still carry on that way knowing that somebody, sometime, is going to get their hands on this stuff?”

“Greed makes people stupid.”

“You want me to drop these off? I could meet you at your shop.”

“How 'bout I meet you there when I'm done.”

“You're not going to tell me what the fuck you're up to?”

“Best that I don't.”

“You're doing the thing with the senator's office, aren't you?”

“Listen, Josh—”

“Hayduke, man—”

“Listen, Hayduke, I've got to go. Why don't we just meet in the morning? I'll buy you breakfast and we can compare notes.”

“Alright, fine. Fuck, I'm going to go sleep up in the La Sals. I'll see you at, say, 9:00
AM
at the Moab Diner?”

“Sure. See you then.” He hung up.

No sooner had he hung up than the phone trilled again. He figured it was Hayduke calling back. “No, you can't help—”

He heard Katie Rain laugh. “Well, I
wasn't
really offering, but seeing how you asked so nicely.”

“I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“I just wanted to let you know that Taylor has pulled up stakes here in Moab. The bunch of us are on our way down to the thriving metropolis of Monticello.”

It was Silas's turn to laugh. “I simply don't know what to say.”

“Tell a girl where she can get a decent cup of coffee in the morning.”

“No can do. I'll buy you a drink on my way back tonight if you want. All the 3.2 per cent beer you can drink before your bladder explodes.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm . . . I'm out for a walk near Blanding.”

“You're not going to find any more bodies tonight, are you? I could really use some time to get caught up. I've got half a dozen bone bags waiting for me back in Salt Lake too.”

“As long as I don't fall asleep out here, I'm sure you'll be fine.”

“You're just going for a walk?”

“That's right.”

“Okay, well, call when you're coming through. It's been twenty-four hours since I got a lecture from Agent Taylor, so—”

“He busting your—I mean, giving you a hard time?”

“Fraternizing with the enemy, you know.”

“Didn't think you cared. Thought I was just a source of information.”

“Keep dreaming. Literally.”

“I've got your cell on speed dial, now.”

“Be careful, Silas.”

He looked around to see if she might be watching him. He was alone, sitting on the edge of the desert, the sun nearly down behind the Abajos. “I will.” He broke the connection.

HE WAITED ANOTHER HOUR AND
then stood stiffly, his ankle sore, and walked the first few steps back toward the center of town. It had been completely dark for the better part of an hour. He made his way along tree-lined streets and past San Juan County Hospital until he reached South 100 Street.

Looking around to see if he was being observed, he slipped into the alley behind the government building. There were no lights on, but to be sure he paused and watched for a moment, his heart beating in his chest, his hands sweaty. He dropped the pack and reached into the top pocket, pulling out his leather gloves and headlamp. He slipped the light on over his forehead and then re-shouldered the bag. Pulling on the gloves, he waited and watched again: nothing.

Silas made his way to the window of Nephi's office and stood beside it, scanning the alleyway and the cluster of other buildings around him. The quiet little town felt nearly deserted at 10:00
PM
. He slipped the dusty bag off and pulled out a small crowbar. Slipping the tool into the crack at the bottom of the window, he leaned his weight on it. The old window moaned and creaked, then popped open, a piece of wood splintering off from the base of the jam. He heard something hit the floor in the office. He scanned again, then hoisted himself up and into the room, head first.

He landed on a stack of papers, which cascaded to the floor. He listened a moment. Hearing nothing, he turned and tried to shut the window behind him. It wouldn't budge. In wrenching it open, he had jammed the wooden runner too tightly to close easily. He bent down and restacked the newspapers. He drew the curtains that covered the now open window, switched his headlamp on, and went immediately to the boxes stacked behind Nephi's desk. He opened the first box. It contained dozens of fat file folders, all stuffed with project reports, assessments, records, and other papers on oil and gas projects around the Southwest. He closed that box and looked in the second one. Again, files on oil and gas projects, but this time their location was in Canada: Alberta, northern British Columbia, Saskatchewan.

He opened the third box, his headlamp playing around the room as he paused, listening for signs of trouble. More folders were crammed in the box, but this time each bore a person's name. He scanned through them, and felt his heart race as he saw three familiar names: Timothy T. Martin, C. Thorn Smith, and Peter Anton. He pulled those files out and sat down on the floor to read.

He started with Anton's file. It contained a long record of correspondence, mostly printed emails, all pertaining to the exploration of Hatch Wash. Most of the correspondence was unidirectional: Nephi probing Anton as to the state of the archaeological assessment of the wash, eagerly inquiring as to what had been found, if anything. Silas scanned through the documents, noting the dates as they advanced from a period starting four years ago up to the present. There was no mention of his wife's name in any of the correspondence, but about two years back, Silas's eye caught the word “Wisechild.” He read more carefully:

“
This business between you and the Wisechild girl is compromising your ability to operate objectively
,” said Nephi in an email to Anton. “
Her unwillingness to undertake the planned activities is going to be a problem unless you sever the relationship and ensure she is excluded from the operations
.”

Silas read on down the page for Anton's reply: “
Mind your own damned business. Kayah will not be a problem
” was all he had to say. Obviously she was. The video footage she shot from the cliff above the ruins in Hatch attested to that.

He flipped through more pages containing detailed descriptions of the contents of the ruins. Anton had reduced the wealth of artifacts into statistical lines of text: “
24 pots, intact with various designs; 22 pots, with some structural decay; 6 woven baskets, intact; 4 woven baskets, with some structural decay; 3 pairs of sandals; 67 arrowheads; 4 bows with decorative arrows; 2 ceremonial mounds
 . . .” It went on, reading more like a stock-room inventory than the contents of an undisturbed archaeological find.

Silas kept scanning through the pages. He was sweating in the darkness. His eye caught the words “numbered company”: “
We're setting up a subsidiary that will manage drilling contracts in the Canyon Rims project. Mr. Martin has agreed to give you a 10 per cent stake in return for your services
.” The email was sent from a Gmail account to Anton. No wonder Anton was so eager to clear the ruins. With them out of the way, he had removed a major obstacle to the development of the Hatch Wash project. He now stood to profit not only from the sale of the artifacts, but also from the drilling contracts.

Why, if he stood to lose so much by their discovery, would Anton send Silas there in the first place? Why lead him to the place they had worked so hard to keep secret? Did he believe that the ruins, cleared of their artifacts, would no longer pose a threat to a dam on Hatch Wash? Or was there something more sinister at work? Did Anton send Silas into that canyon only to follow and leave him for dead in the ceremonial kiva? If murder was Anton's intent, why not just club him on the back of the head like Kelly Williams?

Only briefly did Silas consider that maybe Anton had gotten cold feet himself.

He returned to his review of the files. The correspondence with Anton returned to its businesslike tone. If Nephi had been employed as a project engineer for Canusa Petroleum Resources, it could have all been very routine, but of course, two years ago he had already been long installed in Senator Thorn Smith's office.

Next Silas turned his attention to Smith himself. His file was thicker, and Silas patiently read, starting five years back. Nephi and the senator discussed his employment, his absences working on again and off again with Canusa, and the handling of the Utah Land Stewardship Fund development.

By the end of the file Silas's eyes were bleary from reading in the poor light, and he felt he was no closer to a link between Nephi, his wife, and the three bodies he had found. His stomach felt queasy from the depth of the collusion between the senator's office and the petroleum business, but nowhere in any of it had he found the hoped for smoking gun that tied any of this to Penelope. Yes, there was circumstantial evidence tying Anton and Nephi to Wisechild, and by tenuous extension, Williams, but nothing explicit.