The Vanishing Point (23 page)

“I wouldn't attach much significance to that.
Amazon.com
lists twelve hundred books with ‘blue'
in
the title.”

“Twelve hundred?”

“Twelve hundred.” Claire checked her watch. “The chicken should be done.” They got up, and she put another log on the fire to keep it going until dinner was over.

One thing Claire had always been able to count on in life was her clay pot. She thought the chicken came out well—tender, subtly spiced, delicious—but John appeared more interested in talking about Jonathan Vail than he was in eating.

“Did you learn anything new in Utah?” he asked, spearing a slice of yam and balancing it on the end of his fork.

“Sam Ogelthorpe told me the man he saw on his ranch in 1966 wore dog tags and an army fatigue jacket. He said if the man wasn't Jonathan, he believed he was a deserter.”

“I'd never heard that one before.”

“Neither had I, but Sam claims he told Curt Devereux. Ada Vail wouldn't allow me to show you the journal, but I think it would be all right to tell you that it mentions a fan named Lou Bastiann. I met him, and he claims he was in Vietnam in 1966. The journal never says that Lou was in Slickrock Canyon and Jennie denies it, yet Tim Sansevera claimed he saw a duffel bag in the cave when he found the journal. When Curt and I went back to the cave, the duffel bag was missing, and it still hasn't been found. There's always the possibility that the duffel bag was Lou's, and that he went back to claim it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“It explains what happened to Jonathan?”

“Does he look enough like Jonathan that Sam could have confused them?”

“He doesn't now; he's got gray hair and he's heavier than Jonathan was. He might have looked very much like him in 1966, though. He has brown eyes, but Sam was too far away to see the color.”

“There must be a way you could find out if a person was in Vietnam and when.” John still hadn't put the yam in his mouth and it quivered on the end of his fork. “Have you searched the internet?”

“No,” Claire said, and she didn't intend to. She believed the information she wanted could be found at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Angel Fire. She'd made up her mind to go there for the ceremonies on Tuesday and confront whatever she found then.

John put the yam down and put a piece of chicken in his mouth. While he chewed, he pushed the rest of his meal around his plate, separating the raisins, almonds, and yams from the chicken and onions. A picky eater, Claire thought, a meat-and-onions man. The chicken and onions would be gone when the meal was over, but the yams, raisins, and almonds would still be on his plate. She hadn't given him the datura test, but he was failing the dinner test miserably and the confidence test as well. This was her opportunity to tell him the rest of the story—the visit to Otto, the van in Jennie's garage—but she didn't
do
it. There were many ways a man and a woman could be compatible and incompatible. It was possible to enjoy talking to someone and not enjoy having sex with him. She'd never actually had the experience, but she was sure the reverse was true. Eating dinner with a man ought to be a prelude. If he didn't like your cooking at its best, how would he feel about your less-than-perfect body?

She hadn't lit the candles, and the overhead light was harsh, laying shadows beneath their plates and turning John's uneaten yams a garish orange. The wine was wearing off, and Claire felt the ragged edge of sleeplessness. It was either have another glass of wine to revive herself or show John the door when dinner was over.

Claire cleaned her plate. John finished the chicken and the onions, and put down his knife and fork. He peered down the hallway toward the living room, anticipating, perhaps, the sofa, the fire, a renewal of the previous conversation or the beginning of a different dialogue.

“I appreciate all the help you've given me, John,” Claire said. “But I didn't get any sleep last night and I'm very tired. I need to go to bed.”

“Can I help you clean up?”

“There's nothing to it. All I have to do is put the uneaten food in the refrigerator and the dishes in the dishwasher.”

“Thanks for the dinner. I enjoyed it very much.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” John said. “Let's do it again.”

Claire walked him to the door. On her way back through the living room she shut the glass door to the fireplace and closed the vents, depriving the fire of oxygen and letting it go out.

Chapter
Seventeen

V
ETERANS
D
AY WAS CELEBRATED IN THE ELEVENTH MONTH
on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day. Claire had 165 miles to drive to get to the memorial at Angel Fire. She needed to leave by seven to be sure she'd make it by eleven. She explained her absence from the library by implying she'd be looking at a rare book collection in Taos, 35 miles from Angel Fire. Before she went to bed Monday night, she looked out her window at the sky. The nights in New Mexico were usually so clear that she could follow the moon in all its phases, but tonight clouds sat on top of the Sandias. The forecast predicted blustery winds and a temperature that would dip into the low twenties.

When Claire woke in the morning the clouds had lifted, turning into gray wings hovering over the peaks like sinuous falcons. The mountains had received a dusting of snow, and the wind had blown the remaining leaves off the trees. The winter she had been anticipating had arrived. The normally muted desert colors of blue and brown had been replaced by Arctic white and brooding gray. If there was snow on the Sandias, there was likely to be more snow farther north. Driving in snow made Claire uneasy, but she was determined to get to Angel Fire.

The interstate was clear to Sante Fe, and there was little traffic this early in the day. The Sangre de Cristos wore a white blanket, but the city hadn't gotten any snow, making Claire optimistic that she wouldn't see any more until she approached the higher elevations near Taos. North of Santa Fe she saw three gray falcon clouds hanging together in the east She lost sight of them when she dipped down near the river north of Espanola on Route 68, which snaked along the Rio Grande through a deep and rocky ravine. The road was dry here, and the ribbon of sky that Claire could see was robin's egg blue. She looked at her clock and saw that she was making good time. At this rate she would get to Angle Fire early, which would give her a chance to do some investigating before the ceremony began. The memorial was full of resource materials—books, computers, photographs, handwritten notes.

The highway passed through the villages of Velarde, Embudo and Pilar and then it began to climb, winding up out of the ravine onto a vast plateau that offered one of the most spectacular views in New Mexico. Claire always felt that she was coming from a dream state into full consciousness here, out of the underworld and into the light. Today the mesa was spread with a white cloth. The mountains were a slate-colored backdrop. The gray clouds that Claire had seen earlier had reappeared, but had shifted so they were stacked on top of each other like a flotilla of flying saucers. There had been snow on the road, but most of it had run off or melted.

Right
before Taos, Claire turned east on Route 64, which gained elevation as it passed through the ponderosa pines of Carson National Forest. The snow was deeper here, covering the ground and weighing down the pine branches. There were places where the trees shaded the road and the snow lingered in the shadows. Claire drove carefully, gripping the steering wheel, fearing that she would come around a curve, hit a snowy patch, and spin out.

It was a relief to leave the woods and enter the wide-open Moreno Valley, the largest valley Claire had seen anywhere. Here the sun had warmed the road and melted the snow. The valley was a field of white. Eagle Nest Lake danced in the wind. The runway of the Angel Fire airport pointed at the cloud formation Claire had been watching, which had realigned so it graduated in size from top to bottom, giving the effect of perspective. The air was so clean that Claire felt she could taste the freshness. It was a day that had wings, a good day and a good place to go looking for the truth.

The Vietnam Veterans Chapel sat on a hill looking across the Moreno Valley. Claire saw its sweeping lines as the prow of a ship or swept-back wings, although she knew that from the back side it could be seen as arms open in a welcoming gesture. The white stucco exterior had the rough texture of ruffled water. Dr. Victor Westphall, who had built the chapel as a memorial to his son David, believed the area was sacred ground, that a line of force emanating from Wheeler Peak, the highest point in New Mexico, passed right through the site of the memorial.

As Claire drove up the hill to the parking lot, she checked the clock on her dashboard again. It was ten-fifteen, and the lot was filling with vehicles. Many were junkers, older beat-up models of trucks or subcompacts. The sun broke through the clouds and shone on the lot, highlighting the shabbiness of the vehicles. Claire read the bumper stickers as she circled the lot: NEVER FORGET THE VIETNAM VET, UNIVERSITY OF SOUTH VIETNAM, SUPPORT YOUR POW/MIA'S. Although the majority of license plates were from New Mexico, many other states were represented. Claire didn't see any vehicles she recognized, and she wondered whether anyone would recognize her. Her truck was anonymous enough in some ways. It had no bumper stickers, distinguishing dents, or dings, but it did have a UNM parking sticker on the windshield. She hoped her presence would be unexpected, and no one would think to look for her truck or to check her windshield.

She parked at the far end of the lot, locked her cell phone and camera in the truck, and walked downhill to the memorial. In addition to the chapel, there was a visitors center with a library, an auditorium, and an exhibition area. A triad of flagpoles stood at attention in front of the visitors center. The flags of New Mexico, the United States, and POW/MIA snapped in the wind. The people who milled around in front of the building wore denim and fringe, looking like faded hippies and ragtag warriors.

Claire walked back up the path and entered the chapel, which was always left open so people could visit at any time of night or day. The contrast between the narrow, dank interior of the chapel and
the
vast, white Moreno Valley was striking. Inside was an altar with a slit for a window. Offerings were placed in front of a wreath full of miniature flags. Vietnam-era music played in a constantly revolving tape, and Jane Fonda was always out of favor. David Westphall had lost his life in an ambush during the Tet Offensive in 1968. The loss of the son became an obsession of the father. Sometimes Claire thought he should have accepted the loss and let go of it a long time ago, but she knew that his obsession had brought comfort to many. The chapel saddened her, and she didn't linger.

She went outside and walked back up the path, checking the parking lot again on her way to her truck. By now the lot was full. A white Dodge van with New Mexico balloon plates had taken a space at the end of the lot nearest the highway. Claire walked past the van, noted that it seemed unoccupied, and continued on to her pickup. She unlocked the door, took out her camera, inserted her telephoto lens, and looked through it, pretending to be photographing the view, but in reality checking to see if anyone was watching. She didn't see anyone she recognized or anyone who showed her undue attention, so she went back to the van. The rear window was covered with calico curtains and so was the one on the side, but the side curtains didn't quite meet. Claire walked to the front of the van, looked through the windshield, and made sure no one was inside. The front seats hid much of the interior, but through the space between the seats she could see the handlebars of a motorcycle, a motorcycle she was sure had Missouri plates. It was close to the eleventh hour, and the service was about to begin. Claire saw a couple of people heading away from her down the path, but no one else remained in the parking lot. She tried the handle of the side door and wasn't surprised to find it locked tight. She put her forehead against the glass and peered into the space between the curtains, grateful for the New Mexico sun that blasted through windshields, and x-rayed parked vehicles, turning them into ovens. The window let in just enough light so she could see the olive drab duffel bag that lay on the floor beside the motorcycle. A serial number and the name Louis Bastiann were written on the bag in large black letters. Claire had no doubt that this was the bag that had been in the cave in Sin Nombre Canyon and that, if she examined it, she would find a layer of Utah dust. Unless she broke a window, though, she could only guess what the bag contained. Breaking and entering went beyond the scope of the investigating Claire would allow herself. She walked behind the van and memorized the license plate number, then turned and went to the visitors center.

The service had begun. Claire looked through the door of the auditorium and saw that every seat was taken. People leaned against the walls with their backs to enlarged photographs of soldiers and Vietnamese children. The lectern was draped with an American flag. She had picked up a program in the foyer, and she used it to identify the people sitting on the dais: Dr. Westphall, who was in his eighties now; a woman poet; a male folksinger; an elder from the Taos Pueblo; a chaplain and an army colonel wearing a well-decorated uniform. The only faces Claire could see were those of the people who sat on the dais or leaned against the wall. Mostly she was looking at the backs of heads, which was enough to
tell
her that the audience was a New Mexican mix of Anglo, Indian, and Hispanic, about 60 percent male, largely middle-aged. She saw gray heads, blond heads, bald heads, heads of shiny black hair. The chaplain stood up and opened the service with a prayer.

Claire left the auditorium and went to the library, grateful for the chance to have it all to herself. She ignored the computerized educational display and looked at the bulletin board, which had a supply of blue Post-its for leaving messages. There were dozens of them stuck to the board, with the ends curling out. Vets sharing their struggles, their memories, their dreams, their poems. Vets looking for other vets. Children of vets searching for information about fathers who had died in combat. One young woman left a memorial for her grandfather, the drawing of a tombstone inscribed
RIP
, a poignant reminder to Claire that those who served were her age or older and could well have grandchildren by now. Veterans Day eventually became a ceremony for old men, men who had lost their fire, but she didn't see that happening yet. She read through the messages, wondering if there might be one that had meaning for her, half listening to the service in the auditorium. The chaplain finished his prayer, the poet read a poem about a heart full of fire, and Claire found a thought in a handwriting that she found familiar. “Sometimes life is a flowing river, sometimes it's a well run dry. A name or legend carved in stone lives forever.” The unsigned message wasn't carved in stone. It had been written with a ballpoint pen on a blue Post-it attached to the bulletin board by a sticky substance that enabled Claire to remove it and put it in her pocket.