The Vanishing Point (2 page)

“I don't know,” he replied.

Claire pulled out a faded blue spiral-bound notebook and carefully turned back the cover. The paper was dry and crinkly, apparently with age. The ink was faded but still legible, the handwriting familiar. It was either Jonathan Vail's careless script, which Claire knew well, or a skillful forgery. The immensity of the discovery began to overwhelm her, and she closed her eyes. In her world this was comparable to finding a previously unknown Emily Dickinson poem or a sonnet by Shakespeare.

“Incredible, isn't it?” Tim asked.

“Yes.”

She read the first entry, which was dated June 29, 1966. “Pale blue ribbon cloud sky. A hawk flew over the rim dangling a snake from its talons. A rare day when you get to see a
snake
and a
hawk.
” It was Jonathan's handwriting. Jonathan's elliptical style.

Claire turned the pages carefully until she came to the last entry. Here the handwriting was larger, bolder, and even more careless than it had been at the beginning. The last entry was dated July 12, 1966, two days before Jennie Dell reported Jonathan missing. “Canyon slipping and sliding like the walls of La
Sagrada
Família. Thunder growls in the distance like an angry bear or a drum roll. I hate the fucking war.”

For an instant the sounds, the smells, the excitement of being young in 1966 came back to Claire. It was a time of living dangerously, and Jonathan Vail could take her back there if anyone could. She was eager to read the rest of the journal, but there was much to be done first.

“Have you ever been to La Sagrada Família?” she asked Tim.

“Never. Where is it?”

“It's an unfinished church in Barcelona designed by the architect Antoni Gaudí. The walls give the effect of sliding off the frame.” Claire thought she knew as much about Jonathan as anyone, but she had never heard of him visiting Spain.

“I thought he was referring to the rain and rock slides in the canyon.”

As Claire recalled, it hadn't started raining hard until July 13, a detail that was certain to be checked later when the manuscript was examined by scholars. She would have to make one very careful copy, placing each page of the notebook on the Xerox machine's glass, and then recopy the copy so it could be read by the family and members of the department.

“Were you alone when you found this?” she asked Tim.

“Yes.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Not yet.”

“Was there anything else in the cave?” she asked. Footprints, tools, bones, murder weapons? she thought.

“Just a duffel bag.”

“Did you look inside?”

“There were clothes on top, but I didn't go through it. I didn't want to disturb anything. The bag was heavy and I was carrying too much gear to bring it out.”

“There are people who will say you should have left the briefcase there, too.”

In its own way it was an archaeological find, although not ancient enough to be governed by the Antiquities Act. The thinking now was that archaeological finds should be left undisturbed.

“I know,” Tim sighed, “but I couldn't. Someone who didn't value the journal might have found it. Suppose there was another slide? It might have gotten lost forever.”

“Jonathan's disappearance is a cold case, but it's an unsolved case. The federal government could consider the journal evidence and moving it tampering with evidence. You would only have had to leave it alone long enough to get to the ranger station.”

“I didn't want to report it to the ranger station. They fucked it up the first time, didn't they?”

Claire
felt the heat rising as his face flushed. It was beginning to seem fitting to her that Tim had found the journal; he had the same pale eyes and passionate intensity that his hero was known for.

“Who knows? We weren't there. We don't know the obstacles the rangers were facing.”

“I'd hate to see them pawing all over the journal.”

“I'm sure they can work with a copy. I do need to notify the rangers in Grand Gulch that you found the journal. They'll want to get in touch with you.”

Tim wrote his address down on a slip of paper and handed it to Claire. “Before you call them, put the original in a very safe place.”

“Of course. I'll also need to notify the family.”

“Them?
What did they ever do for Jonathan when he was alive?”

Jonathan's troubled relationship with authority was well documented in
A Blue-Eyed Boy.
He was drafted at age twenty-three, a few years from the outer limit of eligibility, by a hard-nosed draft board. It was widely believed that he could have avoided the draft by going to work for the family business, which manufactured felt that the army used, but Jonathan either refused to work for his family or the family refused to hire him. Claire had heard both theories.

“Legally the journal belongs to the heirs, who presumably are the parents. They have been very generous with the library. I have to ask their permission before we can do anything/'

“Then what?”

“Hopefully, they'll allow us to keep the journal at the center and make it available to scholars, as they have the other papers.”

“The journal is a major find. It should be published and read by everyone,” Tim said.

He'd had five hours to think about this while driving down from Utah. Claire had had only a few minutes, and she hadn't even considered publication yet. “Well, of course, publication would be an option if the family is willing. UNM Press would be the logical choice.”

“Not them!” Tim cried. “The journal should reach a wider audience.”

“I don't know, Tim. It's been more than thirty years since Jonathan Vail disappeared. The journal is news here, but not everywhere.”

Tim tugged at his bandanna. “It would be fair if my name appeared on the book, since I was the one who found the manuscript.”

They were both in a publish-or-perish profession. If Tim intended to be an academic, having his name on such a prestigious publication when he was so young would jump-start his career. It would also be a coup for Claire, who was considered a member of the faculty and, as such, was required to publish. “It is a possibility, but it's premature to be talking about publication. As I said, there are other things that need to be taken care of first.” Claire stood up. “Thank you so much for bringing this to me, Tim. It will
be
wonderful for the center.”

“This is where it belongs,” Tim said. “Will you call me when the copies are ready? I want to read all of it.”

“Of course.”

After Tim left, she slid the notebook back into the briefcase and balanced the package in her white-gloved hands, reveling in the center's good fortune. Claire had been a librarian for twenty-five years and had never held a document she valued so much. She wanted to read it, authenticate it, solve the mystery of Jonathan Vail's disappearance. But first she had to copy the journal and report the discovery to Harrison Hough, the director of the center.

She took the journal to the Xerox machine, placed each page carefully on the glass, and made a copy. Then she copied the copy. There was a lot of white space in the notebook. Only sixty pages had writing on them, and some had precious little. The handwriting appeared to be Vail's, but occasionally the script turned larger and sloppier, as it did on the final page. When the journal was published—and Claire was sure it would be—it would make a very slim book. The size wouldn't matter to Vail scholars. To them the journal would be an electrical charge from a phantom limb, Jonathan Vail's message from another era.

Once the copies were made, Claire wanted to return to her office, lock the door, close the blinds, turn off the phone, shut down the computer and read, but she picked up the copies, the notebook, and the briefcase and carried them down the hall to the director's office. She was still wearing the white gloves, an obvious indication that she was holding an important document, even to an administrator as obtuse as Harrison Hough, who, at the moment, was talking to a colleague. Claire stood outside the doorway and waited until they finished their conversation. Harrison had the only office at the center with exterior windows. They were high up, near the ceiling, and while the sky could be seen through them, students walking by could not. When it turned dark, Claire had the impression a black cat rubbed its back against the glass. As soon as the colleague, Ralph Monroe, said good-bye to the director and headed for the door, Harrison glanced at his watch.

“That looks important,” Ralph said, indicating the briefcase.

“It is,” Claire replied.

She entered the office, closed the door behind her, and walked across the room, feeling as if she was about to hand Harrison a birthday cake made out of dust and paper and hide. He was given to subtle displays. His eyes widened slightly and he dropped the paper clip he'd been fiddling with, making Claire wish all over again that his predecessor was sitting in the director's chair.

“What's that?” he asked.

“I believe it's Jonathan Vail's missing journal.”

“No!”

“Yes. A graduate student just brought it to me. He said he found it in a cave near Slickrock Canyon.”

“Which graduate student?”

“Tim Sansevera.”

“Never heard of him.” Harrison's long, pale hands reached across his desk. “Let me see. I have some familiarity with Vail's handwriting.”

“You should wear white gloves to look at the original, Harrison.”

“I don't have a pair.”

“Then let me show it to you. In addition to being one of
the
literary finds of this half of the century, the journal could be evidence in a criminal investigation.”

Claire stood beside Harrison's desk and opened the notebook to the first page.

“What an incredible coup,” Harrison said. “We'll be the envy of every center in the Southwest.” He read the first entry. “The paper and ink appear old enough, and the writing could be Vail's. What do you think?” he asked, acknowledging rather tardily, Claire thought, that she was an expert.

She turned to the last page. “I think it's his, but the writing changes now and then. We will have to have it authenticated.”

“The press will want to publish it, if it is Vail's.”

“We'll need the family's permission.”

“They've been generous and cooperative so far. Otto doesn't speak since he had his stroke. I know Ada well. She's a member of Friends of the Library. I'll talk to her. We should keep this discovery quiet until I do.”

“We need to contact the rangers at Grand Gulch. Jonathan's disappearance is not an active investigation, but it's a case that was never solved.”

“Would you take care of that?”

“All right.”

“What do you think of this Tim…?”

“Sansevera.”

“Can we trust him? Could this be a theft or a hoax?”

“I've given Tim the Vail papers several times. He's doing his dissertation on Jonathan. I don't know him well, but I doubt he's a thief. What motive could he have for a hoax?”

Harrison's impatient shrug implied that that was all too obvious. “Career advancement,” he said.

Claire hated to part with the original and the dusty briefcase, but Harrison insisted on locking them up in his office. She left one copy with him, took the others back to her office, and did what she had
been
wanting to do ever since Tim Sansevera showed up—hole up and read the journal. It resembled eating at a five-star restaurant for the first time or seeing a movie of a book she loved. Reality would have a hard time living up to anticipation.

Claire's inclination was to read for style first, then for content. The handwriting seemed to be Jonathan's under normal conditions, and occasionally Jonathan's under duress. It was his elliptical style with flashes of dazzling description. But there were fewer of these passages than she would have expected and more than she cared to know about the beans and rice he had eaten for dinner. Sometimes the writing seemed rushed, sometimes it seemed pedestrian, sometimes it seemed self-indulgent—but Jonathan had often seemed self-indulgent to Claire. There was nothing about Jennie Dell or about Jonathan's plans, although he did explain what he was doing in Slickrock Canyon. “Hiding out in the canyonlands. Trying to get my head together. Hoping they'll never find me.”

“Who?” Claire wondered before moving on to the next entry.

“Haunted by what happened to Lou.” Much as she knew about Jonathan, Claire did not know who Lou was.

There were numerous references to the fucking war, the bitch, and the fucking old lady. Claire feared that this was Jonathan's mother, Ada Vail, who was known to be imperious. Insulting her could make publication difficult. Claire wondered which would come first with Ada—the need to preserve her son's legend or the need to preserve her reputation. Publication didn't appear to have been on Jonathan's mind when he wrote the journal, but the pressure to publish now would be intense. Publication might do his legend a disservice, but even if it wasn't published, the journal was likely to be read and reread. Much would be seen in it that might not have been intended.

Claire felt that the first reading could be the purest reading. She tried to make her mind a blank slate before approaching the notebook. Once it had been read by others, her own reading might be influenced by their interpretations. When she finished, she put down the Xeroxed copy of the journal and considered what she had learned. There was little to advance Jonathan's reputation as a writer or a person, but much to harm it; possible clues to the riddle of his disappearance, but no solution; many questions, no answers. Jonathan's life and disappearance remained a puzzle.

Claire looked up the number for the Grand Gulch Ranger Station, called and asked to speak to Curt Devereux, the ranger who had investigated Jonathan's disappearance in 1966. She didn't expect Devereux to be at Grand Gulch after all this time, but his was the only name she had. When a woman answered the phone, Claire introduced herself and asked for Curt.