Slickrock Paradox (6 page)

SILAS WAS RELEASED FROM MOAB
Regional Hospital the following day at noon. The doctor told him that he was in remarkably good shape for a man who had gone through what he had. He stood up from the wheelchair at the door to the hospital, facing the glare of the midday sun with his eyes closed. The temperature hovered around 100 degrees. Using the cane he'd rented from the hospital dispensary, he took a few tentative steps on his sprained ankle, then set off toward 5th Street West.

He guessed the walk would take him twenty minutes, but with his ankle in a tensor bandage and his head still aching from his concussion, it took him nearly an hour to walk to Kane Creek Boulevard and the small two-cabin bed and breakfast that backed up against the sudden cliffs of the Moab Rim. It was where his wife often stayed on her many trips to Moab. He slipped through the gate of the residence and hobbled down the path that led to the rear of the main house.

The central adobe structure was two stories tall with thick roof beams supporting an elegant, traditional design. The exterior was painted a rosy pink, blending at sunrise and sunset with the hue of the salmon-colored cliffs. The neat, rectangular windows were framed with heavy wood, and baskets of flowers hung from the trusses that supported the veranda. The garden path was lined with Parry's agave, fragrant verbena and lush thickets of purple autumn sage. He felt his legs weakening as he made his way down the perfumed walkway.

Behind the main building were two small adobe replicas that served as the guest houses. He reached the door of the first one and bent to retrieve the key he knew was hidden under the stone next to the entrance. He unlocked the door.

It hadn't occurred to him that the room might be rented, and when he saw a suitcase on the bench at the foot of the four poster bed and several sundresses in the open closet, he hesitated. But the space soon compelled him inside, the memory of Penelope drawing him forward like a moth to the flame.

“Hello?” he called out.

There was no reply. The room was empty. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. It was like stepping into a dream.

“WHY DON'T YOU
come here more often?” Penelope asked. She was lying on the four-poster bed. The windows were open and a breeze blew through the room, ruffling the gauzy canopy so that it looked like undulating waves on the ocean.

He was lying next to her. He rolled over and put an arm behind his head. “I don't know. It's a long way?”

She laughed. She had the sort of laugh that song birds envied. “It's not that far. Seven hours. Six, the way you drive . . .” She rolled over and put her hand on his naked chest. Her fingers played with the patch of graying hair.

“The university, it's busy. There's this push on for publications . . .” She kissed his face and he stopped.

“I know how busy you are, Silas. I know. Your work is important.”

“It's really important that I focus on publishing now.”

“I know. All I'm saying is . . . I love it here. And I wish you could come here more often. That's all.”

“I'll try,” he said, smiling sadly.

HE PRESSED HIS
back against the door behind him. That had been more than a year before she vanished. It was the last time he'd been with her in Moab.

Silas went to the bed and sat down, his thoughts far beyond the violation he was committing. The room had been made up that morning and the elegant, patterned bedspread was pulled taught. He fell backwards onto the spread and closed his eyes. It was as if she had just been here. He reached up and pressed his knuckles into his eyes. They still burned from the scouring they had received two days ago in Sleepy Hollow. Dresses hung in the closet and there was lipstick on the counter by the sink; in the miasma of his daydream it felt as if Penelope would walk through the door any moment. The night before she left on that final hike, she had stayed in this very room—as she had so many nights while visiting Moab. And now, after so long, she had led him to her corpse. He felt tears again; the warmth of relief. He lay down on the bed and fell asleep.

He jolted upright at a knock on the door, his head feeling as if it had been struck. He tried to speak. “Who's in there?” barked a rough voice at the door.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the door flew open and a man with a pistol stood there, backlit by the searing afternoon sun.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man said, lowering the pistol. “What the fuck are you doing here, Silas?” It was Kenneth James Hollyoak, Silas's only true friend in Grand County.

THEY SAT UNDER
a pergola adorned with honeysuckle that scented the air. Silas rested his hand on his cane and with his other, reached for a glass of ice tea. The ice clinked as he raised the glass to his lips. He drank half of it. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at Ken sitting across from him. His friend was dressed in light cotton pants and a matching shirt that hung open, exposing his bulbous belly and the scar that traced the length of his sternum.

“Trish is in the house, fixing you something to eat,” said Ken. Silas silently reached for the glass again. Ken did the same. “We were heading to the hospital, but they said that you had been discharged. We were going to drive you home. What the hell are you doing walking a mile on that goddamned cane, and in this heat?”

“They found her, you know.”

“You don't know that, Silas. Jesus Christ. Listen, it's all over the news. I heard it on
KZMU
this morning. It's even in the Salt Lake papers but you don't know that it's Penny. It could be anybody—”

“It's her. I know it.”

“How do you know it?”

Silas regarded the man a moment. “Ken, you're going to think I'm—”

“You're what?” Ken interrupted. “What? Crazy? Jesus Christ, Silas, I
know
you're crazy. You gave up a tenured position at Northern Arizona University so you could open a bookstore four blocks off the beaten path in Moab. That's crazy. You've been walking around in the desert, staring into the sun, willing Penny to materialize from behind a juniper, for how long?”

“Three—”

“Three and a half years.” Ken scratched the scar on his chest. “I don't think you're crazy, Silas. I
know
you are.”

“I had a dream.”

“You and Martin Luther King, Silas.”

“No, I had a dream, Ken. She was in it.”

Trish emerged from the house. She was twenty years Ken's junior, in her early fifties and beautiful in an understated, eloquent way. She carried a plate of sandwiches and a jug of ice tea on a silver tray that she placed on the table between her husband and Silas. “Would you like anything else, Si?” she asked. Besides Penelope, she was the only person who ever called him that.

“No thanks, Trish, this is fine.”

“Sit down, darling,” said Ken. “Silas was just about to recite Martin Luther King.” She sat down and smiled at him.

“I had a dream,” Silas began, reaching for the jug to pour them all ice tea. As he began to speak, his hands started to shake and he stopped pouring. Looking down at the tea, he described the dream.

Trish reached out and put a hand on Silas's. She took the glass from him and put it on the table. “Sleepy Hollow . . . ?”

“Is in Arches. Courthouse Wash. That's why you went there,” said Ken.

“Yes. I'd been there twice before. You know my pattern. Every place gets two passes. It was one of the first places I looked.”

“Because of Abbey,” said Ken.

“Yes, because of Abbey. Every place he wrote about I go out and search. I have no idea what Penny was up to when she went for that hike, so searching Edward Abbey's haunts is the best I can do. She was obsessed with him. I went back to Sleepy Hollow. I thought she was telling me something. Leading me to her. It turns out she was right.”

“It was a goddamned dream, Silas. Unconscious mind intruding on the conscious world. Nothing more. Your wife was not trying to lead you to her body—”

“But I found her!” he said, pressing his fists into his legs.

“You found
something
, a body for sure. And nearly got your fool self killed in the process.”

“Ken,” said Trish, touching Silas's hand again.

“What did the sheriff say?” asked Ken.

“I haven't talked much to him. Taylor showed up from the
FBI
. They and the sheriff are sharing proprietary jurisdiction, but the feds are playing the state line card.”

“Have they told you anything?”

“No. They said that they would contact me when they have an
ID
on the . . . on the remains.”

“Could very well be a hiker gone missing. Could have been from fifty years ago by what the news says.”

“Could be. So why the dream?”

“Because you are crazy,” said Ken, laughing.

“Ken,” said Trish, scowling at him.

“He is!” said Ken, and Trish slapped him on the arm playfully.

“If she wasn't leading me to her own grave, then why lead me there? Why there, and the flood, and the body? It's too much to just be a coincidence.”

Trish picked up the tray of sandwiches and passed it to Silas, who took one and passed the tray to Ken. “So,” Silas said after a bite, “who's staying in the room?”

“Nobody you know,” said Ken, “and you are damned lucky the young lady wasn't in her birthday suit when you let yourself in. I'm going to have to find a better hiding place for that goddammed key, I guess,” he said. Crumbs fell onto his bare chest as he bit into his sandwich.

“She's a nice young woman from Boston,” said Trish. “You should stay for dinner. I think she'll be back.”

“Thanks, Trish, but I don't think so. Not
today
.” Silas took two more bites of his sandwich and made an appreciative sound. He asked, “Did Penny ever have a man here with her?”

“Jesus, Silas, not this again.”

“Did she?”

“No. For God's sake, no. Penny never had a man here.”

“It's just that, you know, people talk.”

“Who, Jacob Isaiah?”

“Him and others.”

“Jacob Isaiah is a snake. He's the king of snakes. I should take a goddamned shovel and cut off his fucking head,” said Ken.

“Ken, darling . . .”

“I know I know,” he said, tapping the scar on his chest. “But it just makes me so goddamned angry, people talking like that about Penny, and getting poor Silas here all worked up.”

“She loved you, Si,” Trish said. “She loved
you
. And she loved the canyons. And she's gone. You're going to have to let go.”

“Not yet,” said Silas.

Ken laughed and sat up in his chair, “You didn't think it would be as easy as that, did you darling?”

“What do you need, Si?” asked Trish.

“I need a ride. I need to get my car. I want to go home.”

“Let's go then.”

“YOU WANT ME
to come over and stay the night?” asked Ken as they passed the entrance to Arches. “We could have a bachelor party. I might even be convinced to drink one of those Canadian beers you keep in the fridge.”

“That's just what I need. Trish pissed at me because you break the rules and drink.”

“What she doesn't know . . .”

“Women
always
know,” said Silas. “The car's down there,” he added, pointing down the dusty road that led to the trailhead where he had left his Outback two days before. Ken steered his Lincoln Navigator down the dirt track. “Looks to be all in one piece,” said Silas.

“You call that all in one piece?” asked Ken. “That car looks like it's never seen the inside of a car wash. Why don't you let me buy you a new one?”

“So I could trash it too? Thanks, Ken. Keep your money. I don't need anything fancy.”

Ken stopped next to it and they both got out. Stepping from the air-conditioned, cooled-seat luxury of the Navigator to the glaring furnace of the mid-afternoon desert was jarring.

“Nobody should be out on a day like this.” Ken put a wide brimmed hat on his head. Silas looked at his Outback.

“Might be a little hot in there.”

“Witch's oven,” said Ken. “I'll follow you to the turnoff. Then you're on your own.”

“You don't need to do that, Ken,” said Silas.

“It's not an option,” said Ken.

IT WAS LATE
in the afternoon when Silas turned off the road and into his driveway. He had driven back from the trailhead with the air conditioner blowing full blast. He turned the car off and retrieved a shopping bag from the back of the car. The half a dozen cans of beer were hot to the touch.

He reached his front door and limped into the empty house. The light through the vaulted front windows in the living room lit up the kitchen. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder, and dropped his gear on the floor. He opened the fridge door to exchange the hot cans with a cold one. He popped the tab and drank the whole can, then reached into the fridge for another.

Can in hand, Silas confronted the maps lining his living room walls. As he stood in front of the map showing Arches National Park, he took a long pull of beer. He reached out and traced with a split fingertip the line of his march down Courthouse Wash. The canyon had been the subject of two previous searches. It was also a busy part of Arches National Park. That her body had gone unseen for more than three years was surprising.

Silas stepped back from the map. He drank the rest of his beer staring at the dizzying scale of his work over the last few years. On the small dining room table, the worn copy of
Desert Solitaire
lay open to the chapter called “Cowboys and Indians.” He sat down on one of the wooden chairs and held the book gently in his hands: “
There is water in Sleepy Hollow, a big pool under a seep in the canyon wall, fenced off from the cows. We paused for a few minutes to drink and refill canteens, then moved on. No time for a swim today
 . . .”