The Vanishing Point (7 page)

“If,” repeated Jennie, resting her hand on the cat's back. “And what does Ada think?”

“She was more concerned with content than style.”

“She'll want to take out the things she objects to. Money is a loaded gun. Rich people aim their weapon at you and make you dance.” Jennie leaned forward suddenly, and the startled cat tumbled out of her lap, hissing and extending its claws as it reached for the floor. “Don't let Ada Vail edit the journal. She'll cut the heart out of it.”

“If she holds the rights, we may not have any choice.”

“What does Otto think?”

“There's no way of knowing. He doesn't speak since he had the stroke.”

“But the eyes react, don't they?”

“You've seen him?”

“Yes, but I haven't been back for a few years. He never was as rigid as Ada. He might like having Jonathan's journal published as is, but I suppose there's no way for him to tell us that. Curt told me that Tim Sansevera found a duffel bag?” Her husky voice dropped to a whisper, as if she wanted Claire to lean forward to hear better.

Claire, suspecting she was being manipulated, leaned back. “Yes,” she said.

“I don't remember there being any duffel bag,” Jennie said. “Or a briefcase—Curt said the journal was found in a briefcase. I don't remember that either. We carried everything in backpacks. I could carry a full pack back then, but not anymore. Well, I hope your trip to Slickrock Canyon is productive. As for me, I'll be happy if I never see that place again.”

The meeting was over. Jennie stood up and walked Claire to the door.

******

Continuing north on Route 14, Claire listened to sixties music, thinking it might help her understand Jennie Dell better. She had two tapes that her brother had put together from records he'd found in thrift shops. One tape reflected his taste for the apocalyptic—The Doors, The Rolling Stones, the
Beatles'
White Album.
The other was the gentler music that Claire preferred—early Beatles, Cat Stevens, Van Morrison. She played the second tape, and when she heard Fleetwood Mac, she thought about the resemblance Jennie had to the mature Stevie Nicks: the husky voice, the thick blond hair, the skill at manipulating her dress—or was “costume” a better word? She suspected there had also been a resemblance to the young Stevie Nicks, who was known for her wildness and had once made the statement that fast cars, drugs, and money can ruin your life. She put millions of dollars of cocaine up her nose, but still had one of the best voices in rock. Whatever Jennie had done in the sixties, she seemed to have found a comfortable life now. Unlike Jonathan, Jennie had survived. When she reached I-25, Claire headed south, turning northwest on Route 44. By the time she got to the red rocks south of Cuba, the tape had played out, and Claire didn't restart it. The beauty here demanded her full attention. It was too overpowering to think or listen to music, so she continued driving in silence. Clouds were gathering when she reached Bloomfield and fires from the oil refineries blazed and flickered like pilot lights against the darkening sky. In Farmington she checked in at a motel. Ten o'clock the next morning was the time Curt had arranged to meet at Slickrock. It allowed him to spend the night at home in Gallup, but it meant Claire had to spend the night on the road.

Chapter
Five

C
LAIRE WOKE UP EARLY
, had coffee and a doughnut at the motel, and drove the rest of the way to Slickrock Canyon, stopping at the ranger station to get a day permit. As she crossed Cedar Mesa, she was intrigued by the way the trees rippled and blew in the wind like an ocean of green, hiding the mesa's secrets, giving no indication that it was crisscrossed by canyons. Curt had warned her that the turnoff to Slickrock was difficult to find and told her to watch for Mile Marker 23. She kept track of the miles and pulled over when she reached 23. There was no sign for the canyon, but she saw a gate in the barbed-wire fence. She opened the gate, drove through, then got out and closed it behind her. This was Bureau of Land Management land, and much of it had been leased for grazing. To leave the gate open was an invitation for cattle to wander onto the highway. The primitive road leading from the gate to the canyon was a bonerattling combination of ruts, rocks, and sand. Only the dedicated would consider following it very far. Claire didn't see any cattle, but she did see their droppings in the road. She had been down some of the primitive canyon roads in the early morning when marks left in the night were clearly visible in the sand. She'd seen tracks with the chevron pattern of rattlesnake skin and the curving tail prints and tiny footprints of lizards. Dawn was the best time to go into the canyons, and she was annoyed that Curt had arranged the meeting for ten o'clock. Not only had she been forced to spend the night on the road, but starting at ten o'clock gave them fewer daylight hours in the canyon. At least in late October midday wouldn't be unspeakably hot and afternoon thundershowers would be unlikely.

Claire came to a point where the primitive road forked. She didn't know which way to go until she saw that the left fork ended in a grove of cedar trees with shaggy, red bark. There was only one parking spot here, and it had been taken by a white Dodge van with the new-model New Mexico license plate celebrating the balloon festival. Claire liked the colors on this plate, and every time she saw one she was tempted to trade in her old orange-and-yellow Zia sign plate.

She took the right fork, driving until she found a parking space large enough for several cars. Two were already parked here. The red Nissan with the UNM parking sticker had to be Tim's. The government sedan would belong to Curt Devereux. Neither driver was in sight. Was she late? She immediately had the sinking feeling in her stomach that she always got when she was late. She checked her watch and found that, true to form, she was twenty minutes early. She parked her car, picked up her day pack full of trail mix and water, and walked to the edge of the mesa, where she saw the silhouette of a
cedar
that had been charred by lightning and a pile of stones that had once been an Anasazi lookout tower or storage cist.

The walls of the canyon were the color of sand and burnt sienna, streaked gray in places where minerals had seeped through. Claire could see several hundred feet down into the canyon. Ahead, she could see for miles across the mesa. At a point a mile or so into the canyon, Claire saw two freestanding rocks, several stories high, that had been shaped into sentinels by the elements. In places like this it was easy to understand why people found their destiny in Utah. The hands of the gods appeared everywhere. She knew that petroglyphs were likely to be found near prominent rock formations. The sentinel rocks looked extremely inaccessible to Claire, but the Anasazi favored inaccessible places, where they were protected from intruders.

Slickrock Canyon was a side canyon that led into Grand Gulch, the main canyon, but it had side canyons all its own. Sin Nombre was one, but there were others. Cedar Mesa was a labyrinth of canyons that from the air would resemble a series of question marks. Standing at the edge of Slickrock, Claire found that it became easier to believe that Jonathan Vail could have disappeared without a trace. Looking across the canyon was forbidding, looking down induced vertigo. The ledges were dotted with green brush, but the floor had turned the gold of cottonwoods in October. Claire knew that in the spring wild roses bloomed here. Enough water flowed through the canyons to support life. One could spend a long time on the floor of the canyon, but the Indians had lived in the high caves, and that was where Jonathan's effects had been found. When Claire looked across the canyon she saw markings on the wall—the mineral streaks that resembled rock art and numerous dark spots that could be shadows or caves. How had Tim ever found the right one? Where were Tim and Curt Devereux? What would she do if they didn't show up?

In some of the main canyons the trails were carefully marked by stone cairns, but this wasn't one of them. Slickrock was a primitive canyon, and hikers proceeded at their own peril. The fact that the entrance was unmarked meant that only the most determined would find it. Claire walked along the rim looking for a way in. There were no footprints on the rock to guide her or to indicate where Tim and Curt had gone. They might have entered the canyon, they might be along the rim where there was enough piñon, juniper, and cedar to hide them from view. Pieces of the rim had broken off with geometrical precision and fallen into the canyon. A massive rock lying beneath her had straight edges and a corner that was nearly square, but its surface was softened by the subtle mauve, green, and rust shades of lichen. There was a brushy area between the rock and the canyon wall that was wide enough for a person to squeeze through. It wasn't a path, but it was a way in, possibly the best way. It was not a route that Claire was eager to follow, though—you couldn't see where your feet were going in the weeds, and there were plenty of places for snakes to hide beneath the boulder. She wondered whether rattlesnakes were out at
this
time of year. She was considering yelling for Tim and Curt when she saw the top of Curt's sunburned head coining around the edge of the squared-off boulder below her.

“Curt,” she called.

He looked up and wiped his face with a bandanna. “Excuse me, I was just…” His face turned red. “Relieving myself. No place to do that on the slickrock.”

He climbed up to the rim, maneuvering between the rock and the wall. He used a walking staff, but otherwise showed no concern for snakes. When he reached Claire, he stopped to catch his breath.

“Have you seen Tim?” she asked.

“No. I woke up at four this morning and couldn't go back to sleep, so I drove on up, stopping at the Navajo Cafe in Bluff for breakfast. I was here by nine. Tim's car was parked, but I haven't seen him. There's an overnight permit from the ranger station on his dashboard, so I'm assuming he camped in the canyon. It's possible he didn't feel like hiking back up again,” He glanced at his watch. “I think we ought to go looking for him. I searched the rim and he's not here. There's only one way out of the canyon, so we're sure to pass him if he comes looking for us. We don't have that many hours of daylight. Tim drew me a map giving me a pretty good idea of where he'll be.”

“Will we see snakes at this time of year?”

“It's unlikely, but I'll go first. This is actually the worst spot for rattlers. When we get farther down, we'll be walking on slickrock. It's good that you wore hiking boots. They'll help protect you from snakes, and they'll grip well on the rock, too. Did you bring plenty of water?”

“Yes.”

“Ready?” Curt asked.

“Ready,” said Claire.

He began hiking through the brush, squeezing between the rock and the hard place. Claire followed, trying to keep up a conversation to let any snakes know they were coming, but Curt's back was stiff and his answers were monosyllabic. After a while she gave up. They walked through the brush for fifteen minutes, then came around the side of the boulder and were on the slickrock, which presented another challenge—keeping her balance. There was nothing to hold on to, and Claire had to grip tight with the soles of her feet. It was difficult now, but if it got wet, it would be treacherous. As they got deeper into the canyon, the boulders along the canyon walls took on intriguing shapes. Claire saw an owl looking over its shoulder and a falcon at rest. The sky narrowed. At the floor, only a ribbon of sky would be visible. A storm could blow up without warning, but it was unlikely to rain at this time of year, and the sky Claire could see remained a deep blue. She found this kind of hiking satisfying. Progress was easy to measure, and she didn't have any trouble keeping up with Curt. Tai chi didn't develop climbing muscles, but it did develop attentiveness, which Claire found useful. Soon they came to a place with a pour-off that
obviously
became a waterfall when it rained. Curt climbed down first and extended his hand to Claire.

In about an hour they were at the floor of the canyon. Curt stopped to drink from his water bottle, and Claire joined him. She could hear water trickling inside a cave, indicating that it had rained at some point, and there was an occasional pool in the stream channel that marked the canyon floor. The cottonwoods were smaller here than they were in the Rio Grande Bosque, but they were still magnificent. The leaves danced in the wind, and those that had fallen to the ground rustled underfoot. Claire loved the textured bark of the cottonwoods and the way the branches curved and wandered like a country road.

“Have you seen any sign of Tim?” she asked Curt. There was a natural path beside the stream, but it was too hard to hold a footprint.

“Not here, but the brush up above looked bent, as if someone had been through it recently.”

“Could there have been some confusion about where or when we were to meet him?”

“It's possible,” Curt replied. Claire couldn't tell if his bland expression came naturally or was practiced from years of working for the federal government. “Tim gave me good directions, but he struck me as an impulsive person.”

“Are we near the cave?”

“A couple of miles,” Curt said. “It's an easy walk until we get to Sin Nombre. Then we'll have some climbing to do.”

“I'd like to try calling him.”

“Sure, why not?” Curt shrugged and took another drink from his water bottle.

“Tim,” Claire yelled as loud as she could. “Tim!” The sound echoed around the canyon and came back “Tim, Tim, Tim, Tim” in ever-descending notes. Eventually the echo died out with no response, leaving Claire feeling foolish.

“Ready?” Curt asked, putting his water bottle back in his day pack.

“Ready,” she replied.

He continued walking beside the stream channel and Claire followed. She had thought the time spent hiking might loosen him up, but he looked as stiff now as he had when they started out. It was nearly noon, and the sun was shining into the canyon, casting shadows beneath their feet. Claire could easily keep up with Curt's steady, deliberate pace. The air was cool, clear, and energizing. The more she walked, the stronger she felt.