When the door opened and she faced Jennie Dell, the woman who was nearly as legendary as Jonathan Vail, Claire had the sensation that the front door was the cover of a pop-up book and that Jennie was popping out of the pages. She had put on about twenty pounds but was still an attractive woman, an earth mother now instead of a sprite. Her abundant blond hair rippled down her back, but silver framed her face. She wore an ankle-length denim dress with a scoop neck that showed ample cleavage. The dress had long sleeves that were narrow at the shoulder but full at the wrist. When Jennie raised her arms Claire could see that the sleeves had a yellow lining. Jennie reminded her of Stevie Nicks in her latest, full-figured incarnation.
“I’m Jennie,” she said in her husky voice.
“Claire Reynier.”
“You found the house all right?”
“The turquoise trim helped.”
Jennie laughed. “Come on in.” She picked up a butterscotch-colored cat with white paws that had leapt onto the doorstep the minute Claire struck the chime. “This is Butterscotch. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
“No. I have one myself.”
“You look like a cat person.”
Jennie put the cat down on the wood floor, and Claire followed her into the house, which had a fragrant, smoky smell as if someone had walked through it waving a smudge stick. Burning sage was a ritual practiced in New Mexico to cleanse a house of bad thoughts or to conceal offensive odors.
“My son says that if there is reincarnation he wants to come back as a single woman’s cat. No other being in the universe gets as much attention,” Claire said.
“Smart man,” Jennie replied.
Claire realized she didn’t know whether Jennie was single or not. “Are you single?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Jennie. “And you?”
“Recently divorced.”
“Ah,” said Jennie. “Can I get you something? An herb tea?”
“That would be fine,” Claire said.
Jennie went into the kitchen, and Claire sat down in the living room, which relied heavily on Guatemalan fabric for decoration. Or was that overdecoration? Huipils were thumbtacked to the walls. The cushions on the sofa and chairs were a red-striped fabric. There were numerous embroidered pillows, and a wicker basket full of cloth dolls in native dress. The room was small and busy. The dominant color was red. It was a contrast to Claire’s spare, subdued house, but once she got used to it, she rather liked it. Long enough for a visit, anyway.
Jennie came back with a tray holding an earthenware teapot and two cups. She put the tray down on the wicker basket she used as a coffee table and sat down on the red sofa, arranging her dress so that the skirt spread across the cushions. It occurred to Claire that she had dressed to complement the room. Denim blue was about the only color one could get away with in here.
“Do you work for Maya Jones?” she asked. It was a store in Madrid that sold Guatemalan imports.
Jennie leaned back against the cushions. “No, but I buy a lot of stuff there. I’m a writer.”
“What do you write?”
“Mini books. Those little books you see beside the checkout counter in the bookstores? I do different subjects. Dogs, astrology, food. It’s a living.” She laughed. “I guess. I published a novel once, but it didn’t do well.”
It was an entrée to a subject Claire wanted to discuss. “I’ve been talking to UNM Press about publishing Jonathan’s journal. Avery Dunstan, the editor I work with there, heard from Jonathan’s editor in New York that the royalties for A Blue-Eyed Boy go to you.”
“They do,” Jennie said. “After he received his draft notice, Jonathan made a written request so that if anything happened to him, I would get the royalties. His parents didn’t object, and the publisher honored the request. Jonathan never had a formal will. All he had to leave were his royalties and his truck. The royalties supported me for a while, but eventually sales fell off. I couldn’t afford to live in Santa Fe anymore, so I moved out here.”
“But you and Jonathan never married?”
“Never,” Jennie said, pouring the tea. “Why do you ask?”
“The rumor persists that he left an heir.”
“A lot of rumors persist about Jonathan. I wish that one were true—or at least that he’d left an heir by me, but he didn’t. And if he’d had a child by someone else I believe I would have known.”
“Another persistent rumor is that he didn’t die in the canyonlands. That somewhere in the world Jonathan Vail is alive and well.”
Jennie handed Claire her cup of tea. “Ada would have found him if that were true. She paid her private investigator, Nick Lorenz, a fortune, and he made finding Jonathan his life’s work.”
Claire took a sip of her tea, which had the dark, spicy flavor of Emperor’s Choice. “Jonathan’s parents have the rights to the journal unless there’s a document or a child out there to prove otherwise.”
“As far as I know, there isn’t. What has Ada decided to do with it?”
“She is leaving the original at the center for the time being, accessible only to staff and law enforcement.”
“She’s not going to like being called the fucking old lady,” Jennie said with a laugh.
The only experience Claire had had with law enforcement had to do with library thefts, but it seemed to her that Curt had gone beyond the scope of his investigation by giving Jennie a copy of the journal, particularly since he knew Ada Vail had restricted access. “Why did Curt give you a copy of the journal?” she asked.
“He wanted me to take some time to study it and see if I found anything that could help the investigation. He always believed that what I heard and saw in Slickrock Canyon was the truth. Unlike some people, he didn’t doubt me.”
Jennie raised an arm to brush her hair out of her face, and her sleeve fell open, revealing the yellow lining of her dress. She looked like a sorceress, and Claire was reminded of the fascination some women in the sixties had with the occult. She could understand how the vivid Jennie could cast a spell over the plain Curt. She lived in Technicolor. He lived in khaki.
“Have you and Curt kept in touch?” she asked.
“We did at first, but it has been years since I saw him. He was curious about some things in the journal. He had never heard of Lou and wondered who he was.”
“I wondered that myself.”
“His full name is Lou Bastiann. He was a fan of Jonathan’s. You’ve read A Blue-Eyed Boy, haven’t you?” Her hair fell across her face as she bent to pour another cup of tea.
“Many times,” Claire said.
“That book had a powerful effect on people, and one of them was Lou. He read it when it first came out, tracked Jonathan down, and they became friends. More than friends. There’s a special relationship between an author and a fan. The fan has found someone to give voice to his thoughts, the author has found a kindred spirit. That was Lou and Jonathan. Lou had no family, and he considered Jonathan his honorary brother. He was in Vietnam in 1966, which is why Jonathan said he was worried about him. We keep in touch. He comes back here from time to time for the Veterans Day ceremony at the Vietnam Memorial in Angel Fire. I’ll be interested to hear what he thinks of the journal.”
“Ada would prefer that no one else saw it.”
“Ada Vail has no power over me,” Jennie said.
The cat came into the room, jumped onto the sofa, and curled up in her lap. Its color was a perfect complement to Jennie’s dress and to the sofa, giving Claire the sensation that Butterscotch was also a part of her costume.
Jennie stroked the cat and said, “Tell me, what did you think of the writing in the journal?”
“I didn’t think it was as polished or elegant as A Blue-Eyed Boy, but, then, it wasn’t written for publication. Who knows what Jonathan would have done with it if…”
“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
CLAIRE 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 th
em 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.”
The Vanishing Point Page 5