Black Sun Descending

by Stephen Legault

  Silas waited to listen to the third message. He pressed a palm against his forehead and let the feeling of loneliness pass. Then he punched in the third message. It was from just that morning.

  “Silas, its Trish Hollyoak. I have some very bad news. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”

  SILAS STOOD WITH A SMALL circle of friends in the backyard of Trish and Ken Hollyoak’s Moab home. The red stone of the Moab Rim rose above them, and above that the fierce sun of early May beat down on the dozen people standing around an urn and a picture of the jovial man. Silas’s face was stained with tears. He drew a deep breath and let it out between pursed lips.

  “Trish asked me to say a few words,” he began. “I haven’t spoken in front of anybody in more than four years. If I lapse into a lecture on comparative literature, please forgive me.” A few of those gathered laughed. Silas smiled. “Kenneth James Hollyoak was larger than life. He was generous to a fault, a fierce advocate, a passionate friend, and a true and dedicated husband. He was born poor and died rich, not just in material wealth, which he seemed to enjoy but which did not define him, but in friends and family and in experience.

  “He has always been here for me. As some of you know, when Penelope went missing, Ken and Trish took me in. Penny loved the guest room here, and when I first came to Moab to look for her, I bunked here more than once. I’ve never stopped coming back. Ken believed in me. He believed in all of us but in me enough to encourage and support me when everybody else thought I was crazy. Maybe I am, but to Ken that didn’t matter.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I miss him already—his laugh, his sense of humor, but most of all I miss knowing that somewhere, no matter how crazy things seem to get, somewhere there is someone who believes in me more than I believe in myself.

  “Anyway, I don’t want this to become about me. This is about Ken. Goodbye, old friend. I’ll see you down the river.”

  “SILAS?”

  Trish was behind him. Silas sat in a wooden chair under the perfumed pergola, the sun glowing its final moments on the Moab Rim above. He twisted in the chair and tried to smile but his face felt frozen. “Hi Trish,” he said, pushing himself to standing. “Do you need anything?”

  “No, sit.” She came up beside him. She held a manila envelope in her hand. She looked around and pulled over a second chair. Silas made an awkward gesture to help. “What you said today, it was really nice.”

  “I miss him already, Trish.”

  “I do too.”

  They sat in the fading light, both with tears on their faces.

  “This is for you.” She handed him the file.

  “This isn’t … ?”

  “It’s not a will. I don’t know what it is, Silas. It was on his desk. It’s got your name on it.”

  Silas looked at it for a full minute before he tore open the envelope. A half-inch sheaf of paper fell out into his hand. There was a handwritten note on top on Hollyoak’s legal letterhead. They were rough notes.

  For Silas.

  Just got this from a privacy lawyer I work with in DC. Mostly redacted. Lots of intercepted email from Penny, all on the Colorado River and Glen Canyon. Surveillance started a few months before she went missing. Nothing found afterward. Note: see letter for C. Thorn Smith.

  Silas’s heart was beating so hard that he thought Trish would hear it. He fumbled with the papers, his hands shaking. He found the letter from C. Thorn Smith printed on the letterhead of the senator’s office. It was dated less than a year before Penelope disappeared.

  Dear Director—

  I am writing to bring to your attention an issue of national security. It has come to my attention, as a result of meetings with members of my constituency, that certain members of the Utah and Arizona environmental movement mean to use violent force against US Department of Reclamation property, namely the Glen Canyon Dam. While the dam has long been a target of rhetoric among the zealots in this state and elsewhere, I have received firsthand accounts of how at least three members of the environmental movement are considering terrorism in their effort to destroy the dam. I urge you to immediately and without prejudice open an investigation into Penelope de Silva, Darcy McFarland, Jane Vaughn, and Kiel Pearce to ascertain the degree to which they pose a threat to the safety and security of American citizens and the assets of this nation.

  Sincerely,

  C. Thorn Smith

  Senator

  Silas closed his eyes.

  “What is it, Silas?”

  “It’s a letter. From a senator, impugning Penelope as a terrorist.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The woman wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Silas nodded, eyes still pressed shut. “Of course not. I didn’t know my wife very well, Trish, but I knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t an eco-terrorist.”

  “What’s this all about, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT to do this? I did punch you in the face.”

  “Sure, Dallas, I want to do this. It’s important.”

  “Have you made any progress finding your wife?” asked Vaughn.

  Silas said, “No. Those two, Love and Hinkley, they claim to know nothing about Kiel or Penelope or Darcy, who I found last summer.”

  “Well, the cops got that Terry Aldershot bitch to roll over on Jim Zahn. Doesn’t matter much now, given that he’s likely dead, rotting somewhere in the Grand Canyon. Nothing can be proved.”

  “They’ve got her on accessory after the fact, isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what they call it. They figure it went down just like you said. Jane caught on to their little scene to fuck Uncle Sam out of a couple of million bucks, and they killed her to keep her from talking about it. They figured if they dumped the body up your way, in Moab, then even if she was found, nobody would be looking to finger them for it, way down on the Arizona Strip.”

  “Smokescreen.”

  “Exactly. It doesn’t help you much, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. If there is a connection between Hinkley and Love and Penelope, or the Aldershots, Zahn, and Penny, I can’t find it. The only things that seem to add up are that Penny is missing and Darcy and this Kiel Pearce guy knew each other, and those two have been murdered. The FBI still has them open and unsolved.”

  “They working on them?”

  “Yes, they say they are. I have a … friend … inside the G and she keeps me informed. I just talked with her yesterday, and she says they have a file open on this, but I don’t know what that means.”

  “Didn’t you say that the feds had a file on both of our wives?”

  “Yeah, terrorism files.” Silas didn’t tell Vaughn what he had learned about the source of the investigation. He simply couldn’t burden the man with that.

  “Jane was a tough one to deal with, and she was pretty committed to things like the Colorado and tearing down that dam, but she wasn’t a terrorist.”

  “Neither was Penny, but try telling that to a government more interested in accusing its own citizens of crimes they haven’t committed than addressing the problems that brought those citizens to their attention in the first place.”

  “When do you want to meet?”

  “Day after tomorrow?”

  “That sounds fine. See you there.”

  IN THE MIDDLE of the afternoon, the heat from the day sitting thick on the red earth all around, Silas Pearson, Dallas Vaughn, and his two children walked down to the banks of the Colorado River at Lee’s Ferry. The boy and girl held hands with Vaughn. Silas carried a small bag, his hat pulled down low to shield his eyes from the sun. There was a group of people preparing several rafts for launch the following morning. Silas wondered if any of them knew Kiel or Penelope. He might ask them if he had time.

  The four stepped to the edge of the river, its red back swollen with late spring meltwater from high in the mountains of Colorado and Wyoming.

  Dallas Vaughn
said, “Jane, darling, I don’t really know what to say.” He gripped his kids’ hands. “I’m not much of one for words, you know? I know you think I didn’t give a damn about what you did and what you cared about. That’s not true. I cared about you, and if this was important to you, then it’s important to me. I won’t be able to carry on what you did, but I won’t ever forget it. When our children are a little older, I’m going to take them down this river and let them know that this is what you loved about the world. No matter what we do to it, it still goes on and on.”

  Silas handed Vaughn the urn. He fumbled with it, hands shaking. Silas put a hand on Vaughn’s arm and he handed the urn back. Silas carefully opened it and gave it back. Vaughn walked down to the water’s edge and waded in. Silas figured that the pull of the current was likely stronger than Vaughn had estimated because he seemed a little unsteady. He turned back to the shore and reached out a hand to his kids who both went to the water’s edge. Together they tipped the urn upside down and slowly let the ashes of mother and wife drop into the water. Silas watched the ashes swirl into an eddy, sink, and then drift farther downriver. He imagined he could see them drift out of sight around the bend toward the first great rapids of the cauldron of the Grand Canyon, but he knew he was just imagining things.

  When they were all back on the shore, Silas removed a paperback from his pocket. It was Edward Abbey’s One Life at a Time, Please. He thumbed the book open to the chapter called “Forty Years as a Canyoneer” and in a quiet voice read, “The great Canyon endures. The canyon ensures the trifling business of humans as it does the industry of ants the trickle-down erosion of storm and ice, the transient insult of the upstream dams. Those things shall pass, the Canyon will outlive them all.

  “The grandeur of the Canyon confers dignity on every form of life that touches it. It is an honor to be a visitor at the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, as it is an honor and a privilege to be alive, however briefly, on this rare, sweet, delicate one and only planet we call Earth.”

  Vaughn brushed a few tears from the corner of his bloodshot eyes, took his children by the hand, and walked back up toward the parking lot. Silas handed him the book as he passed. Vaughn opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and looked away, toward the setting sun.

  “It’s alright,” Silas said.

  “Is it?”

  “It will be. In time.”

  Vaughn only nodded. He extended his hand and Silas shook it. Silas hugged the girl and then the boy, who were both crying, and watched them walk up to the parking lot, get in their truck, and drive away.

  HE CAMPED THAT night as close to the river as he could. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and he sat in his camp chair next to the shore, a can of beer resting close at hand, the novel Black Sun open before him, his feet propped on a red stone cleaved by ice and gravity from the cliffs above. He reread the book cover to cover.

  “He was alone in one of the loneliest places on earth,” he recited aloud. “Above him rose tier after tier of cliffs … In all the region was nothing human that he could see, no sign of man or of man’s work. No sign, no trace, no path, no clue …”

  He looked around himself. He was alone. No sign, no trace, no path, no clue.

  She was not there.

  As the sun touched the western edge of the canyon walls Silas Pearson stared into it and waited for the moment when it would appear to turn black.

  EPILOGUE

  THAT NIGHT HE DREAMT.

  GRATITUDE

  Once again I’d like to thank Dr. Erik Christensen, the Assistant Medical Examiner for the State of Utah, for answering my questions about forensic matters. Supervisory Special Agent Joseph Lewis and Supervisory Special Agent Jonathan Zeitlin, Office of Public Affairs, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Lieutenant Tim Cornelius of the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department Criminal Investigation Division, and Walt Miller, Deputy Chief of the Flagstaff Police Department, all provided me with invaluable direction into the complex multi-jurisdictional investigative techniques described in this book. I remain in the debt of many members of the law enforcement community in Grand County, including Darrel Mecham, Chief Deputy of the Grand County Sheriff’s Office in Utah, for earlier assistance. Stephanie Holmhofer, a professional osteoarchaeologist who works with human remains in a non-forensic setting, was invaluable to my research.

  My sincere thanks go to the small but dedicated team at TouchWood Editions for their patience and vision. Ruth Linka was a tremendous support to me during her time at TouchWood, and I am grateful to her for her friendship and guidance. Taryn Boyd has picked up where Ruth left off, and I am pleased to be working with another fine publisher. Frances Thorsen is as knowledgeable an editor as any writer of crime could hope to have, and I am thankful for her efforts. Cailey Cavallin has been doing yeoman’s work trying to make sense of my sometimes befuddled storylines and generally keeping me from sounding too foolish; it’s a thankless job and so I’m thanking her here. Pete Kohut, who designs all of TouchWood’s editions, makes it possible to judge a book by its cover. Thanks also to Will Johnson, who made some important contributions.

  I am particularly thankful to the people who first introduced me to the Grand Canyon. In the winter of 1993/94 I was privileged to serve as a volunteer there through the Student Conservation Association. During that time Greer Chesher showed me around, fed me, and taught me about the Grand Canyon and about writing, and remains my friend to this day. Two rangers—Kathy Daskall and Lon Aires—stand out from my time there for their kindness and inspiration. Alan Hadden worked for the Glen Canyon Environmental Studies team and was my guide during a week-long journey down the Colorado. Kim Crumbo, now at the Grand Canyon Wildlands Council, has provided me with insight into the Wilderness designation process at Grand Canyon. To all those who have served the canyon, in the Park Service and through dedicated advocacy to keep the place wild, grand, and free, I am in your debt.

  As always, I give thanks to my wife, Jenn, whom I love wider and deeper than any canyon could ever be.

  STEPHEN LEGAULT is an author, consultant, conservationist, and photographer who lives in Canmore, Alberta. He is the author of nine other books, including the first four installments in the Cole Blackwater mystery series, The Glacier Gallows, The Vanishing Track, The Cardinal Divide, and The Darkening Archipelago, as well as The Slickrock Paradox, the first book in the Red Rock Canyon mystery series, and The End of the Line and The Third Riel Conspiracy, the first two books in the Durrant Wallace mystery series. Please visit Stephen online at stephenlegault.com, or follow him on Twitter at @stephenlegault.

  Other books by Stephen Legault

  Carry Tiger to Mountain: The Tao of Activism and Leadership (2006)

  Running Toward Stillness (2013)

  THE DURRANT WALLACE SERIES

  The End of the Line (2011)

  The Third Riel Conspiracy (2013)

  THE RED ROCK CANYON SERIES

  The Slickrock Paradox (2012)

  Black Sun Descending (2014)

  THE COLE BLACKWATER SERIES

  The Cardinal Divide (2008)

  The Darkening Archipelago (2010)

  The Vanishing Track (2012)

  The Glacier Gallows (2014)

  Copyright © 2014 Stephen Legault

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (ACCESS Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit accesscopyright.ca.

  TouchWood Editions

  touchwoodeditions.com

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Legault, Stephen, 1971–, author

  Black sun descending / Stephen Legault.

  (A Red Rock Canyon mystery)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77151-100-1 (html).—ISBN 978-1-7715
1-101-8 (pdf)

  I. Title. II. Series: . Legault, Stephen, 1971– Red Rock Canyon mysteries

  PS8623.E46633B53 2014 C813’.6 C2014-902770-2

  Editor: Frances Thorsen

  Copy Editor: Cat London, Catherine London Editorial Services

  Proofreader: Sarah Weber, Lightning Editorial

  Cover image: Stephen Legault

  Author photo: Dan Anthon

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support for our publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.