“NCAVC?”
“The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It’s part of the federal Critical Incident Response Group. Part of their job is behavioral analysis in mass, serial, or spree killings.”
“You think this is a serial killer?”
“We don’t. Not now, at least. Unlike Wisechild and Williams, we think Darcy McFarland was killed on site. We think she knew her attacker; that he—or much less likely she—was someone Ms. McFarland trusted. We found some small flecks of sandstone consistent with that surrounding the potash site embedded in the skin on the back of her head, and one very small piece in the bone fragments there. It’s possible this happened elsewhere. Navajo sandstone isn’t exactly hard to come by around here. But there were trace amounts of crystallized salt on the stone, and we believe that means it came from the potash site.
“The blow didn’t kill her, just stunned her, may have blinded her, as there was some damage to the optic nerve. There was also bruising around the hyoid bone, which indicates a violent struggle. We believe she was lured or possibly driven to the site, strangled violently, knocked unconscious, and then submerged in the water.”
“The killer in all likelihood would have gotten some of the slurry on him.”
“That’s right. The body was ten feet from the shore of the lagoon, and in almost eight feet of water. The killer—or maybe killers—would have had to be very strong to heave the body into the slurry.”
“What about tracks? If the killer drove Darcy to the site, then there would be tire tracks.”
“There were eight different sets of tracks on the road leading to Island in the Sky. We took imprints, and will be running them through our database. It might not help us find the killer, but it might help convict.”
“You’re going to want to look at my car, aren’t you?”
“Silas, Taylor still considers you a person of interest, but I don’t.”
“He’s in charge.”
“True, but this is what I need from you: motive. We’re not getting anywhere and we can’t determine what motive ties these three individuals together.”
“What if they’re not tied together?”
“That’s always a possibility. But we need to eliminate the possibility of a link between them all first.”
“Katie,” said Silas, “I’m frankly stumped as to how these three people are connected, except by the frustrating fact that I found them all.”
Just then the doorbell chimed. Silas looked up. Josh Charleston—Hayduke—was at the door. Katie turned to look at him. “You have a customer!” she said, grinning at Hayduke.
“Yeah—”
“I should let you attend to him. Rent to pay.” She stood and offered her hand. He took it. “We’ll be in touch.” She turned and walked to the door.
Hayduke picked up a book by Charles Bowden and ignored her. “Nice piece on the fed,” he said after she left.
Silas sat down. “What did she want?” asked Hayduke.
“To talk with me about my propensity for finding dead people.”
“I can see why she would be interested. Fuck, nice-looking piece of—”
“Enough.” Silas was weary of the Hayduke act.
Hayduke grinned. “So you found another corpse. I go away for one fucking day and look what kind of trouble you end up in!”
Silas signed heavily and brought Hayduke up to speed.
“I didn’t know her,” said Hayduke. “I mean, Pen talked about Darcy, but we never met. I’ve only been to Flag once, and that was years and years ago.”
“Did you know her work?”
“Not really.”
“What does a water rights activist do?”
“Fucked if I know,” exclaimed Hayduke, looking around the store.
Silas drew a deep breath. “I guess I’ll have to find out. Can you tell me if you’ve learned much about political contributions?”
“It’s a fucking shit-show of corruption. I can tell you this, both Jacob Isaiah and this countryman of yours, Mr. Timothy T. Martin are up Senator Smith’s ass so far they can’t see daylight. Both of them are huge contributors. Isaiah has been handing him bags of green since the senator was governor in the 1980s. Your friend Isaiah ran this whole district for Smith when he was first elected to the Senate twelve years ago. He’s backed off since, but still gives a fucking load of cash to him every year. We’re talking about the federal limit for both individual and corporate contributions. Not to mention soft money. That fucker funds every industry group he can find that supports what Senator C. Thorn Smith backs in Congress.”
“What about Martin?”
“He’s newer to the giving game. Started four years ago.”
“Well, he told me that his financial stake in this area started less than eighteen months ago.”
“Fuck, man, he might have only bought the leases then, but his contributions to Smith started four years ago. He gave the limit, and then some!”
“Soft money?”
“No, but some of his senior VPs also made personal contributions.”
“Don’t you have to be American to donate?”
“Easy to get around if you own an American-based business, which Canusa qualifies as, given that it has offices in Houston, Salt Lake, and here. Don’t forget, in America corporations are people too.”
“Yeah, in Canada too. Do you have a list of who inside Canusa made donations?”
“No, but I can run that fucker down.”
“Do, please.” Silas’s cell rang and he held up a finger and answered. It was Robbie. “It’s my son.”
“I can go—”
“No, it’s related. Hold on. What have you got, Rob?”
“Well,” said Robbie. “You told me to follow the money.”
“Funny, I’m just talking with someone here about campaign contributions.”
“Well, it’s likely to get funnier.”
“Do tell.”
“I looked at the money trail and it’s just what you’d expect: lots of cash moving around between Canada and the United States on this project. Canusa is 51 per cent American, so they can skirt all sorts of domestic ownership laws in the US. There’s been about twenty-five million pumped into the Canyon Rims project so far.”
“Twenty-five!”
“Yeah, mostly for geotechnical work and consulting fees.”
“These guys are way further along than they are letting on. Let me guess, most of that going to Dead Horse?”
“Yup, about half of it to them. The rest was divided up among half a dozen firms that do seismic testing, that sort of thing. Also, Dad, there’s been at least a million spent on lobbying.”
“That’s a lot of money. Certainly worth killing over.”
“Maybe,” said Robbie. “I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. But here’s something else I found. There’s a revolving door between Canusa Petroleum Resources and the federal governments on both sides of the Medicine Line. We’re talking about staff from Canusa working for the Department of Natural Resources in Canada and Alberta’s Energy Minister, and in the US staff moving between management at the company and senior levels of the EPA and the energy department. It’s not just within the bureaucracy. One of Canusa’s senior managers has been doing a stint with one of your prime suspects, Dad. A guy named Charles Nephi.”
“Say that again?”
“Charles Nephi has been with Canusa on and off for almost a decade. It looks like he’s from Utah, worked in Texas for Canusa, went to the EPA, next to Canada as a junior VP with the company for two years, and then four years ago, right around the time that Canusa started putting money in the hands of your senator? It looks as if they gave him Nephi, because he showed up back in the senator’s office. I guess his official title is District Assistant, but according to some bloggers with the Natural Resource Defense Council, the guy is like Smith’s bag man for the energy industry in Utah. He’s basically running the trapline, bringing more energy business to th
e senator’s home state. The biggest investor in both the petroleum business and in Smith’s coffers is Canusa. Nephi is also an officer of the corporation you asked me to look into. It’s a Utah company, and all I could get were the officers, which are your man Martin, this Nephi fellow, and Peter Anton.”
They finished the call and Silas looked at Hayduke. He filled him in on the developments.
“I think we had better go and have a talk with Mr. Nephi,” said Hayduke.
“And Peter Anton,” added Silas.
THEY AGREED TO SPLIT UP. Silas had argued that Hayduke might actually prove beneficial in a confrontation with Charles Nephi. Hayduke believed otherwise, arguing that bums like him usually got thrown out of a senator’s office. Instead, Hayduke would try and learn as much as he could about Darcy McFarland’s work and if there was a connection with either Kelly Williams or Kayah Wisechild. He would make the seven-hour drive to Flagstaff, camp up in the Coconino National Forest, and in the morning see what he could learn. Silas warned him to exercise some sensitivity, given that it was only yesterday that she had been discovered dead. At that, Hayduke smiled and explained that he was a “fucking paragon of restraint and sensitivity.”
Hayduke departed for Flagstaff, leaving Silas to determine the best way to get both Charles Nephi and Peter Anton to come clean about their relationship with Canusa Petroleum Resources and the Canyon Rims project. Failing to think of anything better, he decided that the direct approach would be best. He would start with Nephi.
The senator’s southeastern Utah offices were in what was once Blanding’s post office and library. A small reception area led to offices of various government departments built into the open space that had once housed the library. An armed security guard sat behind the reception desk. He looked up as Silas entered.
“I’d like to speak with Charles Nephi, please.” The guard picked up his phone and spoke a few words. Silas signed in, producing his water-stained, sand-encrusted driver’s license as ID.
“How can I help you?” Silas turned and saw Charles Nephi standing at the door to the senator’s office.
“I’m Silas Pearson.” Silas clipped on a visitor pass.
“I have about ten minutes before my next meeting.” Nephi looked at his watch.
“Should we talk in your office?” asked Silas.
They walked through a large open room with a desk for volunteers or a receptionist, and three offices running along the eastern wall, each with a glass window looking into the common space. Each room had a window facing west onto an alley behind the government building. In one Silas could see a conference table and six chairs. The room was occupied by half a dozen people stuffing envelopes with what looked like campaign propaganda. The middle office appeared to be the senator’s; it housed a desk, a flag, a nearly empty bookshelf, and a picture of the Republican Speaker of the House. Nephi stopped outside the third office. Through a large window Silas could see it was a cramped affair. A stack of papers occupied the visitor’s chair and a small tower of bankers boxes sat behind his desk.
Instead of inviting him in, Nephi stood at the closed door and crossed his arms. “What can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”
“It’s Dr. Pearson. I used to teach.” Silas stood so he had a clear view into the office.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Silas Pearson.”
“And you own a bookstore?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re the one looking for his wife.”
“Yes, so?”
“You found the bodies, that young Hopi girl and the other one. I saw you out on the reservation a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, that’s right. What of it?”
“Mr. Pearson—”
“Dr. Pearson.”
Nephi ignored him. “I don’t mind talking with people about the work our senator is doing, Mr. Pearson, but I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“It’s true that I’m looking for my wife. She’s been missing for three and a half years. That’s not what I want to talk with you about. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Utah Land Stewardship Fund.”
“What’s your line of business?”
“I own a bookstore.”
“Dr. Pearson, I think we’re wasting our time here.”
“Tell me about the projects. I heard the senator talk about Canyon Rims.”
Nephi shifted his body to block the window into his office. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
“When did you quit working for Canusa Petroleum and come to work for the senator?”
“That’s not anybody’s business but my own.”
“About four years ago, right? About the same time that Canusa started making significant contributions to the senator’s PAC.”
Nephi studied him. “You’re with those environmental bloggers, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never written a blog in my life,” admitted Silas, “but I do recognize pork-barrel politics when I see them.”
“I think this conversation is over, Mr. Pearson.”
“You’re still on the payroll, aren’t you?” asked Silas. “You never left. The penny drops. I bet if I did the math I’d see that the campaign contributions Canusa is making to the senator’s office are a pretty close match to your highly inflated salary as a constituency assistant. They’re paying you to be the inside man and open doors for them. Canyon Rims is the first project, isn’t it?”
Nephi went into his office and picked up the phone. “Would you please escort Mr. Pearson out of the building?” Silas’s eye roamed from Nephi to the stack of bankers boxes. Nephi hung up and came back out.
“Did Wisechild and Williams learn about your project? Did Darcy McFarland? Did my wife?”
Nephi crossed his arms and shook his head. “I heard you’d gone a little nuts. Paranoid delusions are what you are experiencing, Pearson. Look it up in a book.”
The security guard appeared. “Come with me, sir.”
Silas looked at the security guard and back at Nephi. He left the building without a fuss.
SILAS SAT FOR an hour in his car, alternately turning it on to run the air conditioning and turning it off to save gas. It seemed likely that Charles Nephi was still being paid, albeit indirectly, by Canusa Petroleum. His job: clear away obstacles to development of oil and gas across the Canyonlands. If that was the case, how might he be tied to the deaths of Wisechild, Williams, and McFarland? How might each of their deaths be tied to the disappearance of Penelope? And what was in his office that he was hiding?
When he reached Moab, he decided to stop at the offices of Dead Horse Consulting. The receptionist told him that Jared Strom would not see him. Silas decided that he would go for broke and simply walked past her. She was right on his heels when he arrived at Strom’s door. The man was on the phone and looked up when he saw Silas at his door, the receptionist behind him.
Strom hung up and opened the door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Strom, he walked right by me. Do you want me to call the police?”
“I’ll do it, Darlene. It’s okay.” He turned to Silas. “You’re making quite a fuss, aren’t you?”
“People are dead, and I think you know why.”
“You’re here to accuse me of murder?”
“I’m here to tell you that if you know who is responsible, this is a perfect opportunity to come clean. You might escape accessory charges.”
“Really, Pearson, please, educate me.”
“I think one of your clients has taken his greed too far. I think that it all started as a simple plan to develop a place that nobody thought was worth protecting, and has resulted in the murder of two and maybe as many as four people.”
“Canyon Rims. Hatch Wash, is that what this is about? There’s nothing there worth protecting. I know myself. I reviewed the survey. I’ve been to the site. There’s nothing there to find.”
“What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything
, Pearson. It’s what you’ve done that I’d be worried about.”
HE DIALED RAIN’S number as he was making his way into town. When she answered he said, “You fed types still up for a field trip?”
THE CLOSEST HELICOPTER landing pad was at Moab Regional Hospital, so that’s there they converged. Eugene Nielsen, Dwight Taylor, Katie Rain, the two evidence recovery experts, and Silas were crammed in the back of a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. They flew low over Moab and out across the Spanish Valley to where it broadened and opened into the Canyon Rims area.
Silas sat with his eyes turned to the landscape beyond. He’d never seen the canyon country from the air and the unfolding view of the cracked and fractured landscape fascinated him. At Bridger Jack Mesa the helicopter veered west and started following the defile of Kane Creek, flying five hundred feet above the canyon rim.
Over his headset he heard Taylor speaking. “Dr. Pearson, tell me again exactly what Jared Strom said.” Silas told him. “Did he say if he or anybody else had been into this canyon in the last few days or even weeks?”
“No, but he didn’t have to.” Silas’s eyes caught Rain’s and she smiled at him. He nodded and looked back out the window. The helicopter banked up and over Kane Creek lookout and the point of land that separated it from Hatch Wash. They flew south and east again, just along the elevation of Flat Iron Mesa.
The helicopter pilot’s voice came over his headset. “We’re going to fly over your coordinates, Dr. Pearson, and see if we can’t find a place to touch down.”
They flew up Hatch Wash and at the box canyon banked east and flew over the tiny entrance of the canyon. From above Silas couldn’t see anything that would indicate there were ruins there, the overhanging cliff protecting the site not only from rain but from aerial observation. He pressed his face against the window to try and spot the opening in the kiva but could see nothing.
“We’re going to circle and do a soft-touch landing back in the main wash,” said the pilot. A moment later the Black Hawk was descending perpendicular to the canyon walls, dropping straight down into a wide point in Hatch. Silas looked away from the canyon walls just a few hundred feet on either side of the helicopter and noticed Taylor watching him with practiced nonchalance. Silas forced himself to look back at the vertical landscape outside.
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