The Vanishing Point (12 page)

On her way home, she stopped at Page One, Too, the bookstore where John worked. She found him with his feet up on his desk, his computer turned off, surrounded by price guides and books. John hated the computer and he kept a messy office. His shirt was wrinkled and his hair needed cutting, but she found his rumpled appearance comforting. He dropped his feet to the floor and stood up when he saw her. John was six feet tall, but lean as a greyhound. In fact, when Claire hugged him she felt his bones.

“I hear you just made the find of the century,” he said. “The journal of Jonathan Vail, intact after all this time!”

It had been over a week. Claire should have known that everybody in the business would know about the journal by now. Did John know about Tim's death, too? She wondered. If so, he gave no sign.

“I didn't make the find. A graduate student did.”

“Yeah, but he brought it to you, right? You're the archivist. Hell, you're the one who's going to get the credit. Have you had the manuscript authenticated yet?”

“Harrison
called August Stevenson.”

“He's the best,” John said. “This is going to give your career a major boost, so why the long face?”

Tim's death was one piece of news that hadn't made its way to John's office yet. “That's awful,” he said when Claire told him. “Let's go out to dinner. It'll take your mind off it for a little while.”

She agreed, and they drove down the street in their separate vehicles to Emilio's, where John ordered a huge bowl of spaghetti and Claire got a salad. It was all she could stomach at the moment. John ate his spaghetti by wrapping it in his fork and twirling it on his spoon, splattering sauce all over the tablecloth. When he was finished, he put down the fork and the spoon and asked, “It's the twilight zone, isn't it? The grad student dying in the same place his hero died.”

“I don't know that Jonathan died there, do you?”

“It's what I've always suspected. He's a legend. If he were alive, he'd let the world know about it.”

“I suppose,” Claire said. “I stopped to talk to Sam Ogelthorpe, and he raised the possibility that Jonathan might have died somewhere else. Mexico, for example.”

“I envy you, going all these places, meeting all these mythical characters. How about Jennie Dell? Have you met her yet?”

“Yes.”

“If Jonathan died in Slickrock Canyon, you've gotta believe she played a role. Does she live up to her reputation?”

Claire had a pretty good idea of what he was talking about, but she asked anyway. “And what reputation is that?”

“That she's a woman who might be worth dyin' for.”

“Not in my opinion,” Claire said. “Maybe she's gotten tamer as she's gotten older. She calls herself a house cat now.”

“Happens to the best of us.” John sighed.

“Did you know that she published a novel?”

“No. When?”

“She didn't say.”

“I'd like to read it.”

“I'm sure you would,” Claire replied. The check arrived and she reached for it, but John grabbed it first.

“It's on me,” he said.

He walked her to her car and gave her a hug before they parted. He'd been sympathetic. He'd
helped
put recent events in perspective. She just wished they hadn't ended up talking about Jennie Dell.

Chapter
Eight

O
RDINARILY IT TOOK WEEKS TO GET
A
UGUST
S
TEVENSON
to authenticate a document, but for Jonathan Vail's notebook he drove down to the center immediately. Claire always enjoyed seeing August, who seemed very comfortable in his seventy-five-year-old skin. Ten years earlier he'd moved to Santa Fe from New York City after a distinguished career in document verification. He had accomplished everything an expert could accomplish in his field. He established that a series of letters from Marilyn Monroe to John Kennedy was a fake, proved that there were far more copies of the Texas State Constitution in circulation than there were in existence, and perfected a method of pollen dating for documents. Previously pollen had been used only to date archaeological finds, but August proved that it could be used to date manuscripts as well. He claimed to be retired, but that only meant that documents found their way to him in Santa Fe rather than in New York. Claire considered the center fortunate to have him living only sixty miles away.

She'd gone for a cup of coffee and was returning to her office when she saw August making his way down the hall. He had a broad back and a lumbering walk that made her think of a turtle. August didn't carry his home on his back, he carried the weight of his knowledge, but that was all he needed to operate anywhere in the world. He wore dark lenses over his regular glasses to shield his eyes from the New Mexico sun. When he came inside, he flipped the dark lenses up so they stuck straight out, framing and emphasizing his eyes like an actress's theatrical eyelashes or a turtle's hooded lids.

“Hello, August,” Claire called to him. She knew he admired her work, and he always treated her with the utmost respect, yet his ponderous way of moving made her feel like a schoolgirl, like she might start skipping down the hallway if she didn't contain herself. Although August was preeminent in his field, his only degree was a B.A. in English Literature from Columbia, so he didn't have the self-important manner of some of the scholars Claire worked with.

“Good afternoon, Claire,” he said in a gravelly voice. He had given up smoking when he retired and developed a hoarseness in his throat that had never gone away. Claire stepped aside and let him negotiate his way into her office and lower himself into a chair. He carried a leather briefcase with brass fittings, and he placed it on the floor next to the chair. The thickness of the lenses in his clear glasses made his eyes appear enormous, oversized eyes framed by oversized lashes with an expression that could be read from the very back row.

“What a remarkable find!” he began. “If the journal is Jonathan Vail's. I can't think of a
document
that has been more sought after in the Southwest in my lifetime.”

“A graduate student named Tim Sansevera found it and brought it to me.”

“Ah, yes, and now he is dead, Harrison told me, and in the very same place where Vail disappeared. Not a good omen for the document or the messenger, would you say?”

Claire chose her words carefully. She imagined that someone who assigned so much weight to the way words looked would also be acutely aware of their meaning. “Tim's death could be accidental. The rangers are investigating.”

“Rangers may see death often, but murder rarely. They should call in the FBI.”

“They intend to, if they find anything suspicious.”

“And if I find something suspicious? A man who dies after delivering a forged document is more likely to be the victim of foul play than a man who dies after delivering an authentic document, wouldn't you say?”

Claire felt he was testing her. He had made the equivalent of a chess move that, if she was careless, would call out her ego or her queen. “Not necessarily. In this case, an authentic document could reveal what actually happened to Jonathan Vail, but a forgery would have to be considered fiction.”

“If the manuscript turns out to be authentic, I will leave the contents to you to make sense of. Let's take a look at it.”

“I'll bring it to you in the Anderson Reading Room.”

August maneuvered his bulk to the edge of the chair. Claire watched while he gathered the strength to push himself up, wondering if she should offer to help. He rocked back, forward, then back again, gaining momentum. He pushed hard and was on his feet, leading with the dark lenses and toting his briefcase in his hand.

Claire led him to the Anderson Reading Room, where Gail Benton sat at the reference desk, dressed in another forgettable little dress. Gail's wardrobe ranged from shades of pale gray to shades of deep brown, the colors of an inconspicuous little bird, although she had the personality of a blue jay. She took her Ph.D. seriously, but her job at the moment was to check ID's before granting access to valuable papers. She did it with a deliberateness that demonstrated she considered the work beneath her. Claire thought Gail might forgo the formality once August Stevenson was introduced, but the introduction only made her actions more annoyingly deliberate. She certainly should know who August was, but she didn't let on, treating him like an overaged grad student and demanding that he surrender his ID, which she intended to hold as long as he was in the Anderson Reading Room. August grudgingly complied.

“You must also leave your briefcase at the desk,” Gail said.

“I have been hired to authenticate a document,” August replied in his raspy voice, which he dropped a couple of decibels so Gail had to lean closer to hear. “My briefcase contains the tools of my
trade.
Without it, I am rendered ineffective and unable to work.”

Gail looked to Claire for confirmation. “Harrison has given him permission to examine the Jonathan Vail notebook,” Claire said.

Gail hesitated, willing enough to challenge Claire's authority but not so willing to take on Harrison. “What are your tools?” she asked August.

“A camera, calipers, rulers, a pollen-collecting kit.”

“You may take them inside,” Gail said. “But the briefcase remains here, and you must wear our white gloves.”

August glared at Gail from beneath the dark, protruding lenses. “I brought my own gloves. Perfectly white and never washed in detergent.”

August took his tools from his briefcase, while Claire went to get the notebook. When she returned, he was sitting at a table wearing his white gloves. She brought the notebook to him inside the thick gray briefcase, which lost a little more dust in transition. She also brought the manuscript of
A Blue-Eyed Boy,
which was typed but had Jonathan's hand written notes in the margin, as well as the handwritten manuscript of the earlier journal, so August could compare Jonathan's writing at various stages of his life.

“Interesting hide,” he said, fingering the side of the briefcase with his white-gloved fingers.

“Buffalo?” Claire asked.

“I don't think so. Buffalo is more supple.”

“It may have been in a cave for many years and stiffened.”

“Taking that into account, I still don't believe it's buffalo. I'll take some measurements and photographs. The zipper and the style of the briefcase may give me some indication of where it came from. I'll try to capture some pollen and do some comparisons when I get home.” With his white-gloved fingers, he slid the notebook out of the briefcase. “This type of spiral-bound notebook was used by college students in the sixties,” he said. “The color of the paper, the dryness, the brittle quality indicate age and a dry climate, but paper can be artificially aged. Was the cave where this was found sealed? A sealed cave would help to preserve the paper.”

“There were indications that a rock slide closed the cave and that another slide opened it again.”

“The ink is all from a ballpoint pen, possibly a Bic. They were in use in the sixties. If the handwriting appears to be Vail's, we'll discuss the possibility of dating the paper and the ink. Exactly when this was written could be important to both the center and the investigation.”

Very important, Claire thought, but she doubted Harrison or Ada Vail would allow the notebook to leave the library. “Something I found puzzling is that there are places where the handwriting gets larger and sloppier,” she told August.

“I'll
look into it. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to spend some time with Madam Librarian”—he peered through his thick lenses at Gail—“and Mr. Vail.”

“Take all the time you want. I'll be waiting in my office,” Claire said.

She left August hovering over the manuscript like a jeweler inspecting a precious gem and returned to her desk. She tried to work, but found it difficult to concentrate. In her mind her reputation was on the line, since she had stated she believed the journal to be authentic. Tim's posthumous reputation was also on the line. If the manuscript was a forgery, it was highly unlikely that he came across it by accident in a cave. Harrison was always noncommittal enough to protect his own reputation. If the journal were proven to be a forgery, the center would have a document that was valuable only as a curiosity, Tim's death would be even more suspicious, and the dark hole surrounding the disappearance of Jonathan Vail would grow deeper. If the journal were proven to be a forgery, it would also become a work of fiction; any clues it contained would have to be considered worthless, even if the forger turned out to be someone familiar with Vail.

Claire spent most of the afternoon doodling on a notepad. She was prepared to stay until the Anderson Reading Room closed, but August surprised her by showing up at five, lowering himself into her chair, and placing his briefcase on the floor beside him. Had it been anyone else, Claire might have suspected him of smuggling the journal out in his briefcase in spite of the vigilance of Gail, the library's guard dog. A thief might even have considered circumnavigating her a challenge. So might August, but Claire knew he wouldn't act on it. Reputation was everything in his field.

He seemed tired to Claire as he sank into the chair, but his eyes shimmered with intelligence behind the thick lenses. “At last I was able to wrest my briefcase and ID from the grip of Madam Librarian,” he said. “I can once again prove that I am August Stevenson.”

“I didn't doubt it for minute,” Claire responded. “What did you find?”

August seemed to withdraw into his shell, turning as cautious as a lawyer. “I'd like to test the ink and the paper, if you can persuade Harrison to let me take the journal from the library.”