by Will Hobbs
The man pointed toward the tent on the end, directly across from his kitchen. “I got a first-aid kit in there—look for a white ammo can with a red cross on it.”
The tent turned out to be the man’s commissary. Its shelves were stocked with canned goods. There was even a refrigerator and a chest freezer, each hooked up to a propane bottle. Rick found the first-aid kit and started digging through it. He pulled out a bottle of peroxide, some antibiotic cream, a mirror, and a box of bandages.
Rick cleaned up his wound in the man’s open-air kitchen where he could make use of the big water jug. He smeared on some cream, then closed the cut tight with two butterfly bandages. It wasn’t as good as stitches—he’d still get a scar—but it was the best he could do.
The man came over to take a look. “Not bad,” he said. “You’ll live.”
Rick was relieved that the man was lightening up. Maybe this was a chance to try to be friendly. “So, what part of Arizona is this?”
“Arizona?” There was surprise and a bit of mockery in the man’s deep, reverberating baritone. “You’re in Utah, kid. Canyonlands National Park. You’re at the edge of the Maze and about ten miles west of where the Green River joins the Colorado. You probably saw the Colorado down at the end of your little ride.”
“Maze?” Rick asked. “Like ‘rats in a maze’?”
“That’s right,” the man said with a wry twist of humor creeping across his face, “and you’re the rat.”
Rick laughed. “So where’s this Maze you’re talking about? Can I see it from here?”
“We’re about a half mile away from where it starts. It’s a whole network of canyons sitting below this bench my camp is on. The Maze is a thirty-square-mile puzzle in sandstone. You’re at the end of the line, my dubious friend, about as remote as you can get in the lower forty-eight.”
“Did you say this is a national park? No way. I’ve been to Yosemite, in California. People were elbow to elbow.”
“This park’s different, one of a kind. And this is the most rugged district in it. Most of the visitors are north and east of here, across the rivers. This part’s really hard to get to.”
“Tell me about it.”
The man seemed about to laugh but stopped himself. It was a hopeful sign. Maybe this was going to turn out okay after all, Rick thought. It might even be a good thing—at least for the time being—that he’d ended up in such a desolate place. Whatever the calves in the coolers were all about, this guy didn’t feel dangerous. Eccentric and prickly, but not dangerous.
“So does this place get patrolled by a park ranger?”
“Not as much as it used to. The ranger station—back on the flats about halfway to Hanksville—burned to the ground last spring. There’s no ranger there right now.”
“How soon will you be driving out with your truck, like to go to town?”
“Thinking about leaving, are you? It’ll be two or three months before I’ll be driving out for anything. I’ve got no reason to go to town.”
“Two or three months?” Rick realized he sounded panicky. “Will that other guy come back soon? The guy I came in with?”
“That was Josh. He comes in every two weeks. Should be back the evening of October the fifteenth.”
“Doesn’t anybody else come in here?”
“Hikers, occasionally. You know, you could walk out to Hanksville if you really wanted to. It’s sixty some miles, but at least it’s October.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the heat’s finally let up. You wouldn’t die of heatstroke, like you would in the summer. Daytime temperatures are downright pleasant this time of year. It hasn’t been getting any warmer than the seventies. It’s high here, you know—this is over five thousand feet in elevation.”
Rick was trying to imagine walking sixty some miles over this kind of terrain. No doubt this man could. The face that showed above the graying beard had been burned to leather and hardened by the elements and was furrowed with canyons of its own.
“So, you want to tell me how you got that cut?” the man pressed.
“Yeah, I guess you’re wondering how all this happened, what I’m doing here and all. I guess I owe you an explanation—”
“On second thought”—the man with the scar interrupted—“save your energy. I’m sorry I asked.” His deep blue eyes had a weary, ancient quality Rick hadn’t noticed before. “You don’t have to make up a story for me. You weren’t going to tell me the truth anyway, were you? Let’s just start with some introductions. I’m Lon Peregrino. What’s your name?”
“Rick,” he said truthfully. “My name’s Rick Walker.”
7
“I’ve got work to do. You saw where the food is. Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
With that, the man with the scar went back to his routines as if Rick weren’t there. He set up a large tripod-mounted spotting scope near his kitchen, got a big pair of binoculars from his tent, sat down, and started watching something up on the cliffs high above.
Rick walked over toward the commissary tent, then stopped and squinted toward the rugged surfaces of the cliffs high above. What could the man be looking at? Rick saw pinnacles, spires, coves, boulders perched on slanting ledges, but he couldn’t tell what the man had his scope trained on. What did this guy do out here in the middle of nowhere? What were the dead calves all about?
Rick pulled a lawn chair aside, where he’d be out of the way, and ate a bowl of cereal, then a second and a third. He watched the bearded man disappear into his tent and return a minute later with a small black electronic instrument clipped to his belt—a two-way radio identical to the one in the truck. As he walked across the pavementlike stone surface in front of the tents, he jacked an attachment into the radio. Once its cross members were unfolded, it proved to be a small handheld antenna.
Lon Peregrino flicked the power on and aimed the antenna at the cliffs. He pointed it slowly back and forth, picking up a pattern of beeps. Just then Rick’s eye caught the movement of a very large dark bird flying across the rim. It landed on a pinnacle jutting out from the cliffs. An eagle?
Suddenly Lon packed up his radio and his scope, jumped in his truck, and drove out of camp without a word.
Strange guy, Rick thought, and moody as the wind.
A few minutes later Rick spotted the truck crawling up the switchbacks toward the top of the cliffs. He decided to have a look around camp while he was alone and had the chance.
Three trails led out of camp across patches of red dirt and wound their way among the scrubby trees and the boulders that had fallen from the cliffs. One trail led to a plastic shower bag suspended from a juniper limb. He felt the bag. The water was warm, almost hot.
The second trail led to a portable toilet behind a boulder as big as a small house.
The third led to a spring at the base of the rubble-strewn slope that flared from the towering cliffs. A metal pipe had been jammed between the rock layers where the seepage was strongest. A strong flow of water ran out of the pipe onto the ground and made a miniature oasis wherever it touched. The view from the spring opened onto endless stony distances and sky that was hard and turquoise blue, solid as a gemstone. It was eerie how empty it all was.
Walking back toward camp, Rick was following what looked like a game trail among the junipers and pinyon pines. It led toward a small clearing. He brushed a limb aside and pushed on through. No more than two arm’s lengths away and to the side, some large living thing suddenly hissed at him. He recoiled, instinctively shielding his face with his forearms.
It was an eagle, an immense white-headed, white-tailed bald eagle! He backed out the way he’d come, his heart thundering. Through the branches of a stubby tree he could see the huge bird, still in the same place, fidgeting along a smooth pole that had apparently been lashed between trees across a corner of the clearing. Why had it let him get so close? Why hadn’t it flown?
Creeping a little closer, he found the answer. Leather thong
s restrained the bird’s feet.
What was Lon Peregrino doing with a captive eagle?
A minute later Rick came across a yellow mountain bike behind the tents. It was a Diamondback, the same brand he’d admired in the ads in the bike magazines in Mr. B.’s library. There were also two long plastic tubes around twenty feet long, with screw-in lids. He wondered what was inside but didn’t attempt to open them.
On a bicycle, Rick thought, he could make it back to Hanksville easily. Lon hadn’t told him about the bike. Should he take it right now?
Maybe he should wait a few days until the search for him had died down. Then go.
Go where?
The coast of California. Fort Bragg.
And do what? Hide out in a sea cave? His grandmother was gone.
Dead ends every direction he turned.
He was still hungry. He went back to look for something more to eat, found a banana. He sat on a lawn chair in the sun. Time had slowed almost to a standstill.
If he was thinking about staying here any longer, he needed to know more about Lon Peregrino and what this encampment was all about. He found himself standing in front of Lon’s tent. The door flaps were untied. He took a step up onto the wood floor of the tent.
The first things he noticed were two helmets on the floor under the man’s cot, stowed neatly in front of a large duffel bag. Motorcycle helmets, apparently. He could picture the man with the scar as a Harley rider….
Across from the cot were a footlocker and a small dresser with a manual typewriter on top of it and the fold-up radio antenna. Next to the head of his cot was a crate for a nightstand. In addition to candles it had a half dozen fossil shells on it and a book called Walden.
Holding his breath, Rick opened the top drawer of Lon’s dresser. He was looking at Lon’s radio, the one he’d had clipped to his belt, a couple of baseball caps, a red bandanna, a couple pairs of sunglasses, a long bone-handled sheath knife, and a thin wallet.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, Rick opened the wallet. A hundred-dollar bill, a twenty, a few ones. No credit cards, no photos, no receipts, no odds and ends. Lon Peregrino’s driver’s license was from Arizona. His address was listed as Cliff Dweller’s Lodge, Vermilion Cliffs, Arizona.
Rick put the wallet back and reached for an item he’d overlooked—one of those open-up photo holders, the kind for displaying one large photo inside. Did the man have a family somewhere?
Inside was a yellowed clipping from a newspaper in McCall, Idaho. It was a photograph of a boy about Rick’s age with a bald eagle on his arm. The boy was Lon Peregrino, Rick realized. There was the scar, only darker, fresher. The eyes were the same, the mouth was the same. Rick sat down on the cot and began to read the caption under the photo. He’d gotten no further than “Kenny McDermott proudly displays eagle” when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
He’s lying about his name, Rick realized, as he hastily closed the folder and returned it as best he could to its former position. He’s using an alias. Why would he do that?
With a peek out the door, he dashed across the clearing, expecting to see Lon’s truck. To his surprise it wasn’t Lon. Rick panicked as he realized that he recognized this vehicle. It was the Humvee from the gas station in Hanksville, parking several hundred feet away where the spur into the camp left the road. Rick’s view was blocked by junipers and boulders, but he heard two doors slam, then that buzz saw voice he’d heard before. “Wind your window up. Leave it open enough so he’s got plenty of ventilation.”
The pit bull. Thank goodness they’re leaving it in the Humvee.
The men were walking right toward camp. Friends of Lon’s? Soundlessly, Rick backed out through the kitchen and took cover behind a cluster of boulders. He would have run farther, but there wasn’t enough cover. They were too close.
Now Rick could see them, two men in jeans, western shirts, and cowboy hats. The gray-haired older man under the brown felt Stetson, with chin sharp as a shovel, was the pit bull owner from the gas station in Hanksville. He was weathered and hard as an old fencepost, and he carried himself erect and alert like a soldier.
The second one, under a straw cowboy hat, was a bigger man and somewhat younger, maybe in his forties. A barrel of a man on thin legs, he wore cowboy boots and had a large silver buckle that was mostly obscured by his belly. There was attitude—possibly a sneer—on his fleshy face as he looked around the camp. He was wearing a pair of binoculars around his neck, and he was jiggling an empty five-gallon water jug with one finger. As they halted opposite the first tent, he set the jug down and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. For a long time he scanned the cliffs above. “Neither hide nor hair,” he finally reported.
“Good,” rasped the pit bull’s owner. “He’s still behind the blind watching his birds. He’d have to come practically to the edge of the cliff to see down here. If he does, he’ll be real obvious.”
The one with the binoculars trained on the cliffs said contemptuously, “Can you imagine getting paid to watch vultures?” His voice had none of the gravel or authority of the older man’s. It sounded peevish and small.
“Complete idiocy, but what can you expect from the government? Keep watching the rim, Gunderson. I’m gonna take a couple of minutes to look around before we go for water.”
“We don’t really need water, Nuke.”
“I know that,” came the testy reply. “But if we don’t at least look like we’re getting water, we don’t have any reason for being in his camp.”
Rick’s skin was crawling. These men were definitely not friends of Lon’s. What were they doing here?
“Okay, okay,” Gunderson said. “We’ll act like we’re here to get water. What I’d really like to do is blow this guy’s camp to kingdom come. What a pain. I still say we should just shoot those birds—or poison ’em. No way they’d put another batch in here once these were all killed. They’d pull the camp and do it somewhere else.”
“Real smart, Gunderson. That would be in every newspaper in the country. This is a big deal to the government, these endangered birds. This whole area would be swarming with law enforcement—mostly federal.”
“So we have to pull our stuff out of here?”
“You don’t seem to get the picture. This is a much bigger problem than we originally thought. We’ve never had this situation before—somebody right down here at the Maze, twenty-four hours a day, right in our old camp. I talked to this guy last week. He or somebody like him could be here for the next twenty years! This project just goes on and on. Typical government work.”
“Can’t we just wait, Nuke? Are you sure we have to pull all our stuff out? Can’t we just see how it goes with this guy?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to wait if we get caught—wait for your jail sentence to run out. Keep watching the rim with those field glasses. I’m going to have a look in those tents.”
“How come?”
“It’s called intelligence. Find out what he’s got and what he doesn’t got.”
“He doesn’t got a brain, that’s what I think. You’d have to be a total fool to baby-sit vultures…to live like this.”
Vultures? Rick wondered. Endangered vultures?
When Nuke returned from Lon’s tent, Gunderson asked, “What’s he got?”
“Secondhand junk. Books, clothes, another radio. No camera, unless he’s got one in the truck.”
“That’s good. At least he doesn’t have a camera. He got any weapons? Ammunition? Bet he don’t.”
“Sheath knife was all I could see. He could have a gun in his truck, but I doubt it. You know the type, probably hates guns. Let’s go over to the spring, just in case he’s watching, and then get out of here. We have some work to do.”
Rick kept hidden until the two men returned from the spring and cleared out. The Humvee drove down the road to the east, in the direction of the buttes. What was it they had to take out of here? What were they up to that could land them in prison?
8
The camp was in shadow and Lon still hadn’t returned. Rick couldn’t get the image of those two “visitors” out of his head. They reminded him of the guards back at Blue Canyon. He wished Lon would come back.
Who was this bird expert really? Rick wished he knew if the man could be trusted. Why had he changed his name? Had he committed a crime? Abandoned a family?
Rick realized he should be hiding some food, at least enough to keep him from starving if he had to run for it. He went into the commissary tent. A couple of cans of tuna, a couple of chunk chicken, and one of the small canned hams wouldn’t be missed. But where could he stash them? The Maze was supposed to be nearby. The Maze sounded like a perfect place to hide out if it came to that.
He threw his supplies in a sack and walked out onto the rolling sea of smooth white rock that undulated from the edge of the camp. Ten minutes later he found himself reeling back from the very edge of a stupendous drop into thin air.
Rick caught his breath and calmed his heart. This had to be the Maze. Cautiously he crept close to the edge of the cliff. He was looking down two or more hundred feet into a very narrow canyon banded spectacularly with horizontal layers of rock. The cliff walls looked like a cross section of a ten-layer cake. Underneath the thick white frosting at the top came alternating layers of pink, buff, and raspberry. The thick swath of red halfway down was the most eye-catching of all.
Rick could barely believe this place was real, even though he was staring right at it.
He looked to see if he could spot a route down into the canyon but couldn’t see one. Within a couple hundred yards the canyon deepened to four hundred feet or more. As it disappeared around the bend, the canyon was still so narrow that its depth exceeded its width.
Lifting his eyes to the rim, Rick saw the rims of more and more canyons beyond this one, all glowing with the flat golden light of evening. He was at the edge of a vast natural puzzle of intricate canyons cut deep in a petrified sea. The Maze.