Rock Bottom (Em Hansen Mysteries)

by Sarah Andrews

  “I don’t see Brendan!” Nancy shouted. “He didn’t get out!”

  “He won’t have the strength to push his way out from underneath the boat!” roared Mungo, as he ran toward his raft.

  Fritz was already halfway down the slope, leaping from rock to rock with his long legs. He had the line to Mungo’s raft in his hands now, untying it. Mungo shoved the raft from the bow, backing it into the current. The two men sprang into the craft, Fritz taking the oars as Mungo braced himself in the bow, ready to grab the boy if he came up. Fritz pulled hard, straining out into the current as fast as he could get the heavily laden raft to go.

  A panicked thought shot through my head: Please, God, don’t let me lose both Fritz and Brendan!

  Nancy was beside me now, shouting to the rest of us to slow down to make sure that nobody was left behind. Quickly and efficiently, she pointed each of the displaced passengers into positions on the remaining two rafts. Molly and I loaded up with Don and Jerry Rasmussen, while Julianne climbed in with Dell, Nancy, and Danielle. “We’re more heavily loaded, but it will have to work,” she said. We untied the lines, pushed off, and entered the current.

  Molly climbed up onto the load behind Don and grabbed hold of a pair of the wide blue cam straps that held down elements of the load. I sat in the bow with Jerry, who reached over and patted my arm. “Just hang on tight to the safety straps,” she said. “People have swum this rapid on purpose, so Brendan will be fine.”

  As I scanned the waters for any sign of him, my mind held only one single dark thought: Please, don’t let him die like my brother.

  Don ferried our raft out into the current, spun its nose into the V, and kept it aimed.

  The water began to roll like a row of ocean swells. A great boil of opaque brown liquid spread out before me, larger than the raft. The nose dipped and rose with the mounting swell, dipped and rose, and now we entered that hole. The water heaved straight up, jumped, arched, and landed hard on us, blinding me, ripping my sunglasses from my face and twisting their retaining strap tight around my neck. As that wave drained away, the next hit us, and the next.

  “Sorry!” Don shouted from the oars. “Sorry!”

  “To heck with the waves, keep an eye out for Brendan!” Jerry called.

  The raft rocked and pitched, bouncing over the water like a toy. My hands went cold with the effort of holding the straps. The water sucked us to the left now toward a huge flat slab of rock, then mercifully let us go right before we hit. I strained to search for Brendan, but the water ran sunscreen into my eyes, blinding me. The rapid pitched on and on, the waves slowly diminishing in size, and now, a quarter mile downriver, Don pulled hard to the left, straining to steer the craft into the eddy where the runaway raft now floated, the underside of its broad rubber floorboards still turned heavenward. I grabbed a handful of water from the hold and doused my eyes, still straining in my search for Brendan. Where was he?

  Mungo’s raft and two of the three kayaks had pulled alongside the overturned raft. Gary and Olaf grabbed its sides, using it to steady themselves as they rolled head down into the water to look for the boy. Fritz snatched at the raft, shouting his son’s name.

  Suddenly Brendan burst up out of the water gasping, dazed, his hair flattened wet against his forehead. Fritz was in the water beside him now, grabbing his life vest by the shoulder, towing him toward Gary’s kayak, which he gripped with his other hand. Gary flipped upright and paddled them toward Mungo’s raft. Using the huge strength of a man shot full of terror, Fritz grabbed the float tube by one arm and heaved himself aboard, dragging his son with his other hand. The boy scrambled to follow, still sputtering and coughing.

  At last the two were inside the safety of Mungo’s raft.

  “Shit!” said Gary. “I was sitting there in that eddy having myself a nice beer when I saw that raft coming down the river with its butt in the air! What came over you, boy?”

  Brendan began to shake.

  “I need a sleeping bag,” said Fritz. Mungo dug one out of his load and Fritz wrapped it around his son and held him clutched to his chest.

  It was a mess getting Fritz’s raft right side up. There was no nice comfortable beach to stand on at the foot of Sockdolager, the sky was gray, and the wind had grown cold and now blew upriver, straight into our faces.

  “Where’s Wink?” asked Julianne. “He’s so good at turning rafts back up.”

  “Not here,” said Nancy. “He didn’t stop at the foot of the rapid. He rowed off down the gorge by himself.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” said Fritz. “We’ve still got eight miles to row today, and the wind is getting stronger.”

  *

  It was a long, hard row down through three more sizable rapids, miscellaneous riffles, and too many miles of flat water in a mounting wind and threatening rain. Fritz put Brendan beside him on the raft so they both could row, the better to fight against the wind, warm the boy, and help him work off his terror of floating down that rapid trapped underneath the boat. We dragged into Cremation Campground at 6:00 P.M. tired, cold, and cavernously hungry. Wink was nowhere in sight, but his dory was tied up on the opposite bank of the river.

  “What was it like under there?” I heard Mungo ask, as the two hefted their dry bags up the steep slope from the bank where we had—extra carefully—lashed the rafts and kayaks.

  Brendan was very quiet for a while, then said, “It was dark under there, and all the loose ends of the cam straps were dangling in the water, and—” There he ran out of words.

  I suppose Mungo didn’t need to hear more. The man gave the boy a swat on the shoulder and said simply, “You’re a blooded warrior now, lad.”

  Fritz said nothing. He was staring across the river at Wink’s dory with a glare so intense I thought it might bring the water around it to a boil.

  Interview of Cleome James, Dispatcher, by Chief Ranger Gerald Weber

  April 19, 10:05 A.M.

  Weber: Cleome, just so you know, this is a voice recorder. I am recording our conversation.

  James: Oh.

  Weber: Now Cleome, are you aware that George Oberley is dead?

  James: Well, yes. You kind of told me that, right?

  Weber: I suppose I did. Or I didn’t deny it. Well now, I’ve spoken with his wife, to advise the next of kin and all. I asked her to come out here to identify the body but she’s suggested that someone else do that for her. In fact, she suggested that you do it.

  James: She … did?

  Weber: Yes, she did. Now, this is a bit personal, perhaps, but she asserted that you would be aware of certain identifying marks on his body. So can you tell me what she meant by that?

  James: Oh … gee …

  Weber: Could you be a bit more specific?

  James: I suppose she was referring to a tattoo.

  Weber: Could you describe it, please?

  James: It’s on his bottom. We … Well, as you know sometimes when you’re on the river, well … People have to bathe, you know. Yeah, and well, so I, uh … saw his tattoo, was all.

  Weber: And can you describe this tattoo?

  James: Yeah … it’s the name of his dory: Wave Slut. In fancy script lettering. With a rose. He said he got drunk in Vegas one night and when he woke up the next day it was there. That’s what he said.

  Weber: I see. On which buttock?

  James: On the left side.

  Weber: Well now, I’ve called the coroner, and that tallies with what he’s observed on the body that was found at Whitmore Wash. So now, do you have anything to add to this statement?

  James: Maybe you could get ahold of that woman who overheard the man threatening Wink. Have you done that? She’s probably off the river now, so you could call her.

  Weber: Yes, I’ve tried, but her number isn’t listed, and though I’ve left a message with the man who booked the trip, he hasn’t returned my call, so I need you to think, Cleome. Is there anything you need to add?

  James: They were that church group
. The one where the televangelist died right in front of his whole TV audience, coast to coast. It was a heart attack or something, remember? And she was his wife, and they had her crying on camera week after week saying how everyone should keep on making their donations because their ministry was gonna carry on. Then the brother, the dead televangelist’s brother, he started coming on the air with her and oh, man he was oily! What was his name? Terry Carl, that was it, and—

  Weber: You’re getting off the subject here, Cleome.

  James: But is that who booked the trip? This Terry Carl guy? I mean, maybe you could call him and ask if he heard that man make the threat, and then—

  Weber: That’s enough! [pause] I’m fishing here, Cleome. Help me. I know you’ve been right up here on the rim the whole while, so you’re not a suspect in this case, but the deceased’s wife suggests that you were familiar with him, so …

  James: I think I shouldn’t say anything more, sir.

  Weber: Cleome?

  James: He … I’d prefer to leave it at that, sir.

  Weber: I’m not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to find out—

  James: He just had a very bad reputation. You can ask anyone. Ask any of the river guides, or ask Maryann, or anyone! There were a whole lot of people who were mad at him, and I’m not going to say another word unless I’ve got a lawyer, because he was a real jerk and he had a way of starting trouble and sucking everyone else down with him, and I’m damned if I’m going to fall for it twice!

  Weber: [pause] Okay, I’ll have to respect that. For now. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me, right? And get that lawyer, because there is due process to be looked after, and while I might sympathize that there are troublemakers in this world, there’s also a thing called obstruction of justice, and no matter how many people disliked this man and aren’t sorry to see him gone, I’ve got to find who killed him and bring that person to justice.

  James: [undecipherable]

  Weber: Take a deep breath and try again, Cleome.

  James: It’s just so embarrassing.

  Weber: What is embarrassing?

  James: I’m not sorry he’s dead but if somebody killed him then they had their reasons, and that’s all I’m going to say.

  End of interview.

  APRIL 9: CREMATION

  When we reached Cremation Camp it was spitting rain and almost dusk. It was a tight, steep, and rocky place clinging to one side of the inner Vishnu Schist gizzard of the Grand Canyon. We had to crowd our tents together, tying their guy lines to the stunted trees that grew among the rocks, a compaction made even tighter by the division of the campground into accommodations for two parties.

  “Why is the camp called Cremation?” Brendan asked, as he limped up the slope carrying his sleeping gear up from our raft.

  I said, “It’s named after Cremation Fault, a big crack in the earth that crosses the river here.”

  “Why’s the crack named that, then?”

  “The fault was named for Cremation Creek, which carved its little side canyon by following weaknesses made in the rocks when the fault moved. And before you ask the next question, the creek was named after what some former Native American residents of the area did with their dead.” I turned to Fritz as we arrived at the tent. “Why are there two groups crammed in here?” I asked.

  It’s the midcanyon switch-out place,” said Fritz. “Phantom Ranch is just across the river and around that bend, so these spaces are reserved for one-night use by people who need access to the trails that come down here from the rims. Danielle and Julianne will hike out tomorrow morning, and we’ll have two replacements come in—Glenda Fittle and Hakatai Mattes. Hakatai will be joining us this evening, and I understand that Glenda is staying at one of the cottages across the river and will join us in the morning. As regards the other group that is staying on the other side of this crag, I have no idea what their plans are.”

  Jerry Rasmussen called to us from her tent, where she and Don were tapping stakes into the ground with my borrowed mineral hammer to tighten their rain fly. “Do you want to visit Phantom Ranch?” she asked. “It’s really sweet. There are old cabins you can rent there that were built in the 1920s, and a campground for hikers. If you need any supplies like sunscreen, they’ll probably have it, though nothing’s cheap there. Everything comes in by mule train down the South Kaibab Trail from the South Rim.”

  Don Rasmussen asked, “How is it that you know Glenda Fittle?”

  Fritz said, “I don’t. She’s a friend of Wink’s. Tiny said that Wink found out we were one person light for the lower half and sweet-talked him into inviting Glenda. Hakatai Mattes I’ve met; he’s a friend of Tiny’s from his biker life. There he is now!” He pointed across the river at a big man—all shoulders and girth, a cross between a linebacker and a couch cushion—who was just then hefting his dry bag into the cockpit of Wink Oberley’s dory.

  I had not seen Wink since he pulled out from the top of Sockdolager Rapid. Julianne anxiously awaited him our side of the river, at the landing where our rafts were tied up. She clutched her hands to her chest in the cold, then raised one to wave at him, shyly at first, and then really starting to move her arm in a big arc, racking her frame with the effort. “Oo-hoo! Wi-ink!” she called across the waters. “Oo-hoo, Winky-poo!”

  I was embarrassed for her. She would on the morrow be hiking up the trail toward the rest of her life, where, hopefully, she would find a bedmate of firmer moral stature. She was a foolish woman, but even fools deserved not to be used.

  As Wink and our new crewmate pulled up on the campground side of the river, Julianne hurried to catch the bow of the dory and waded into the cold water. “Give me a kiss,” she tittered. “I have to walk out tomorrow morning,” she said. “My last night in camp, huh?” She leaned close to him and said in a stage whisper, “I pitched my tent right up there by that tree; see it?”

  Wink said, “Now, remember what I said. Discretion, right?”

  I heard Nancy banging a metal spoon on a pot lid to call us to dinner then, mercifully distracting me from this scene. I wanted to know how Wink Oberley got away with what he was doing. I wanted him to stop. I wanted most of all for him to take his vulgar, bullying, confounding act most anywhere else.

  I headed up to Jerry and Don’s tent and asked, “Do they have a real live telephone at Phantom Ranch?” I hoped that Faye had discovered something so damning that we could kick Wink off our trip before he managed to kill somebody.

  Jerry said, “Sure. We’ll stop there in the morning.”

  “Good.”

  I pulled on a waterproof parka and headed toward the kitchen area. Danielle and Olaf had polenta pie ready, a thick stew of polenta with fried hamburger, black beans, stewed tomatoes, black olives, salsa, and a whole lot of cheese. I heaped my plate and stood up to eat, cramming in the calories in an effort to warm up. It was beginning to spit rain. I hurried through my meal so that I could climb into our tent and avoid hypothermia. I preferred to live.

  Julianne slunk up to the kitchen table. She grabbed a plate but appeared to have trouble deciding what to do next. Following her gaze, I noted that Wink was rowing back across the river.

  Danielle said, “Fill your plate and chow it down, Julianne; you’ll need the carbs to make it up that trail tomorrow.”

  “Huh,” said Julianne. “Yeah, nine miles, right? Huh. Nine miles, is it?” She burst into tears.

  Danielle heaped polenta onto Julianne’s plate and dragged her away toward her tent, saying, “Nine miles is nothing!”

  “I don’t want to be that far away from him!” bawled Julianne.

  “Nice stove,” said Nancy, changing the subject.

  Hakatai had brought a replacement for the stove that broke the night up in Marble Canyon when the wind blew so hard, fetching down the Bright Angel Trail strapped to his back. “It was nothing,” he said. “A camp stove doesn’t weigh that much, and my dry bag was strapped to one of the mules. I thought abou
t loading my backpack with rocks just to add weight.” He laughed. “And I’d forgotten to give the stove to the man at the mule barn at the South Rim.”

  After helping with the dishwashing after dinner I poured a cup of cocoa for Brendan. I then made one for Fritz but couldn’t find him. As I scanned the hillside for him, I spied Wink, moving upriver.

  “Looks like he’s heading for his nightly prayer meeting,” said Molly.

  “Needs to get some more of that old-time religion,” Nancy agreed.

  “Got his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ plaid shirt on,” said Jerry.

  “You’d think he could have bought one that fit him,” Nancy said. “Or give it a bath now that he’s spilled polenta on it.”

  “Oh, he didn’t buy that shirt,” said Jerry. “He pinched it off that guy who drove his dory down to Lees Ferry.”

  “How d’you know that?” asked Molly.

  “I asked him,” Jerry replied. “He was quite proud of himself. Imagine.”

  I wondered if Wink was headed out for another chat with that pretty young thing who played her guitar for the church group, and wondered, too, what the nature of their acquaintance was. He had seemed a different person when I came across the two of them the evening before, when we were all camped at Nevills. Why couldn’t Wink have shown Brendan the same care he had shown the girl?

  I spotted Fritz then, tracking Wink around through the trees. “What’s he up to?” I asked Brendan.

  Brendan’s face was full of storms. “I told him not to say anything,” he muttered. “I can handle this myself.”