Except that Raymond Trublood was dead and Travis Birdsong was in prison, which meant that either they were not involved in the theft of the earlier petroglyph or they were not the only ones involved. Other locals could have been in on it, and the dealer had called upon them again.
Father John flicked the pencil across the table and got to his feet. He turned off the light on his way out and retraced his route across the grounds. The man on the phone—he could still hear the impatience leaking through the raspy voice—probably had people lined up waiting to buy. At the first hint that anything was wrong—that Gianelli was involved—the man and the Indian and everybody else who knew about the Drowning Man would sink out of sight, like a rock sinking beneath the surface of a lake. They would take the petroglyph with them.
He had to be careful.
15
BUD LADD, DIRECTOR of the BLM in Lander, peered at the papers on his desk through thick glasses that rode partway down his nose. He was a big man with clublike arms that lay on top of the papers. Behind the desk, a window framed the narrow view of a red-tinged butte, and a length of sunshine fell like a column on the vinyl floor. Vicky was about to rap on the door frame when the man glanced up over the rim of his glasses. He had small eyes, like dull pebbles, embedded in his fleshy face. The lenses of his glasses magnified the pockmarks along the rim of his cheeks.
“Come in. Sit down,” he said, waving her toward a blue plastic chair and lifting his bulky frame a few inches over the desk before dropping back into his own chair. She could see the pink scalp through the man’s light-colored, thinning hair. “Tribal councilmen insisted I talk to their lawyers. Sorry you had to take time out for this. Where’s your partner?”
Vicky settled herself on the hard plastic. She had the sense that the man was sorry he had to take time out to see her. “Out of town,” she said.
Ladd shrugged. “I notified the Joint Council of the situation,” he said, shuffling some papers into a stack, which he then set crossways on an existing stack. A cleared space appeared in front of him, and he laid his hands in the space and laced his fingers together.
“What exactly is the situation?” Vicky said.
“We’ve already surveyed Red Cliff Canyon…”
“We?”
“We’ve been working with the three major logging companies that have permits to take timber from Shoshone Forest. That’s our charge, protect the public lands. We’d be negligent if we didn’t work with the parties involved.”
“What about the tribes?”
“This isn’t reservation land, as you well know. Red Cliff Canyon is BLM land. Construction is slated to get under way in two weeks.”
“You’re telling me it’s a done deal. You and the logging companies have already made the decision.” Vicky let her black bag fall at her feet. It made a soft thud on the vinyl floor.
“Based on our environmental study. I assure you that we do not make such decisions lightly. We looked at four or five other routes into the logging area, including the route you proposed. They all have problems. Grades too steep, curves too sharp. The tribes’re gonna have to trust our judgment on this. We’re trying to work out the best solution for all the users.”
Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. “Red Cliff Canyon is a sacred area,” she said.
“And one of the other routes we looked at crosses a wetlands. The bird lovers would be out in force. Another route cuts off a corner of a ranch, so we’d have to go to court to condemn the section we’d need for the road.” The man pulled his hands apart. He drilled an elbow into a stack of papers and began combing his fingers through wisps of blond hair. “Believe me, headaches like that I don’t need. We have the fewest problems with Red Cliff Canyon. There’s been a road there for a hundred years, Vicky. We’re not constructing in virgin territory.”
“There’s not a lot of traffic there now, and most of it is seasonal—tourists going to the dude ranch. You know that every time a road into the wilderness is improved, it brings more traffic. There’ll be a demand for campgrounds and hiking trails.” And that was all right with the BLM director. Vicky could see the truth of it in the man’s expression, the way he began nudging his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. “There’ll be a steady flow of traffic through the canyon five months of the year,” she heard herself saying, as if her own voice were disembodied, a tape player running on regardless of whether anyone was listening. She had to fight back the wave of revulsion at the images flashing in her head—streams of trucks and equipment and campers and SUVs all flowing through the canyon.
“We have to accommodate multiuse, Vicky. Let me remind you, we’re talking about public lands.”
“What about the public comments?”
“What?”
“Public hearings, discussions about widening a road through a sacred area.”
“Comment period is over. You know how public meetings go. Only people that turn out have their own ax to grind. Tribal officials showed up at the meeting we scheduled, said they didn’t want the new road constructed. So what else is new? Nobody else bothered to make a comment.”
“Maybe people didn’t know about the meetings, Bud. Maybe they didn’t realize what was riding on the decision. Some of the petroglyphs in the canyon are several hundred years old. Others are a thousand years old. A few date back two thousand years. That’s how long the spirits have dwelled there, two thousand years. Two sacred petroglyphs have already been stolen. I don’t think people around here want the others exposed to theft.”
“Nothing we can do about that.”
“You said it was your job to protect public lands.”
“For Chrissake, Vicky. We’ve got one man in the field. He can’t be everywhere, watching everything.”
“You and the logging companies had already made the decision before the public comment period. Isn’t that true?”
“I’m sorry you don’t approve.” Bud Ladd gripped the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “Wouldn’t matter which route we decided on, there’d be some lawyer like you sitting in my office complaining. There’s no pleasing everybody; that’s a fact. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to go back to the Arapahos and Shoshones and explain that we’re doing the best job we can in the best interest of the most people.”
Vicky stood up and faced the man across the desk. “We’d like you to extend the public comment period,” she said. It was the last weapon in her arsenal. Leave the public out of it, Norman had said. Adam had agreed.
She pushed on: “The Gazette is already following the story about the latest petroglyph theft. I think the reporter will be interested in follow-up stories about the sacredness of the canyon. Once the public realizes what’s at stake, I imagine you’ll have quite a crowd at the public hearings.”
The man let out a loud guffaw, as if she’d landed a punch in his solar plexus. “Don’t make me laugh. You want a crowd at the hearings? You want newspaper reporters writing about the glyphs in the canyon? You’d have so many people flocking up there to see what all the fuss is about, it’d look like a stampede. People that never heard of rock carvings, stomping around the mountainside, climbing over the rocks. Taking potshots at the carvings with their BB guns. You’d have nothing but destruction. That what you want in your sacred place? I don’t think so.”
“I don’t want your trucks and all your construction equipment. I don’t want the noise and pollution, and I don’t want campers and SUVs traveling the canyon summer after summer. Is any place sacred in your multiuse agenda? Any place that can be protected?”
The man looked like a boulder embedded in place behind the desk. “Matter’s settled,” he said.
“Not yet, it isn’t.” Vicky started for the door, then remembered her bag. She could feel the pebbly eyes crawling over her as she scooped the bag from the floor. Her hands were shaking. She kneaded them into the bag’s soft leather and walked out of the office.
ANNIE WAS SEATED at her desk, gazing up with the attention of a t
eenager at Roger Hurst, perched on the corner. The new associate jumped to his feet as Vicky shut the door. A faint redness rose like a rash on the man’s bony neck and into his cheeks. He emitted a little cough. “Just got back from tribal court,” he said. “Judge gave Debbie a warning. Next time she’s arrested on a disturbance charge, she’s gonna see some jail time.”
It took Vicky a couple of beats to catch up, and she gave the associate a nod meant to be encouraging and congratulatory. Debbie Loneman had been arrested a few days ago for taking a baseball bat to her ex-boyfriend’s truck. Annie had routed the call from Debbie’s father to Roger. The new associate would handle the routine cases, Vicky and Adam had instructed. Reserve the important matters for us! They would prevent the construction of a new road through Red Cliff Canyon…
God, the meeting with Ladd had gone badly. She felt weak with futility, flailing about, swimming against the current, unable to get control of the important matters, unable to convince the BLM director of the importance of saving a sacred place, reduced to threatening…what? Publicity?
Blustering was all it was, and who was she kidding? Bud Ladd? She had to stifle a laugh. The man had given the green light to the logging companies. The construction equipment was probably already on the way into the area.
Annie was on her feet. She nearly collided with Roger heading toward the door to his office. There was a mutual exchange of pardon-mes and sorrys, amid a flurry of gestures, and in the way that Roger’s hand brushed the secretary’s shoulder, Vicky caught an image of the rest of it: They were personally involved. Well, that was just great. Another personal relationship to complicate matters in the office.
“Get me the reporter at the Gazette who’s covering the petroglyph story,” she told the secretary. Then she took the pad of telephone messages that Annie thrust toward her and walked into her own office. She flipped through the pages. Adam had called—once, twice, three times. Eager to talk to you. Wants to talk to you. Call him.
And on the last sheet, another name: Ollie Goodman. Below the artist’s name was the telephone number.
The phone rang. She reached across the desk for the receiver. “Aileen Harrison’s on the line,” Annie said. There was a click, then a woman’s voice: “How can I help you?”
Vicky dropped onto her chair and told the reporter about the BLM’s intention to construct a major road through a sacred canyon. She could hear the excitement in the questions the reporter shot down the line: “When do they intend to start construction?” “What will happen to the petroglyphs?” “Why would they do that?”
Vicky gave the reporter Bud Ladd’s name and number and suggested she contact him. She ended the call and stared at the phone a moment, wondering how she would explain the publicity to Norman Yellow Hawk and the rest of the Joint Council. To Adam.
She rifled through the messages again, then pressed the numbers for Ollie Goodman. The rhythmic buzzing noise was interrupted by a man’s voice: “This is Ollie.”
For a moment, she thought she’d reached an answering machine, and she was waiting for the rest of the message when the voice said: “Who’s this?”
“Vicky Holden. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Goodman.”
“So I heard. You want to come up to the studio, we can talk.” Then he gave her the directions: Ten miles up Red Cliff Canyon. Follow the dirt road past the dude ranch. Log cabin by the lake. You can’t miss it.
Vicky said that she was on the way and replaced the receiver. She checked her bag, making sure she had a notepad with blank pages. Then she retraced her route through the outer office, telling Annie as she went that she’d be back later.
Annie’s voice trailed after her: “Where shall I tell Adam you’ve gone, if he calls?” Vicky let herself through the door and slammed it shut without answering.
SILENCE PERVADED THE canyon, the silence of outer space, Vicky thought. Nothing but the narrow dirt road climbing away from the highway and the Taylor Ranch below and winding out of sight ahead. Outside her window, the mountain sloped downward into the silvery ribbon of the creek. The glass-clear blue sky pressed down upon the rocky, tree-studded mountains ahead and the slope rising on the right. Hidden among the rock outcroppings, Vicky knew, sheltering in the shadow of the wild brush and the limber pines, were the sacred petroglyphs. Everything about the canyon was sacred. She’d sensed the sacredness the minute she’d started up the road. It was like entering a great cathedral.
She was accustomed to seeing the Drowning Man as she came out of the first curve, and she found herself subconsciously looking for it, as if it might materialize out of the rocks or the sky. A small image, she reminded herself, not more than two by three feet, yet it had seemed to fill up the entire slope. She leaned over the steering wheel and glanced upward through the windshield, hoping to catch sight of one of the other petroglyphs. They remained hidden in the dense expanse of brush and rocks, as if they knew what was to come and refused to allow their images to be seen. They knew. The words drummed in her mind in rhythm with the thrum of the tires.
Vicky took another curve, then another, the road still winding upward, and the creek narrowing below, water glistening in the willows along the banks. The sky seemed to drop around her, and the canyon began to widen. There were a few horses grazing on the green-gray grass in the valley that opened ahead. She could see the buildings of the dude ranch—small cabins scattered about, a barn and empty corral, a large, peak-roofed cabin. It looked like a lake shimmering nearby, but as she got closer, the mirage dissolved into the air.
She drove past the turnoff to the dude ranch, the road flattening into not much more than a two-track across the valley. On the far side was the cabin, like a meteor that had fallen from the sky, and beyond the cabin, a turquoise lake that reflected crescents of white and pink light on the surface. Vicky turned left and bumped across a bridge with parallel planks laid lengthwise over the logs. She could see a stream trickling beneath the logs. The metal gate on the other side hung open against a barbed wire fence that zigzagged through the brush. She had to gear down to negotiate the two-track trail that snaked over the scraggly brush and rocks to the log cabin perched on a little hill jutting out of the valley.
She parked next to the cabin and made her way up the sawed-log steps to a porch that ran along one side of the cabin and wrapped around the corner. Little pieces of gray chinking lay on the plank floor. She followed the porch around to the door that faced the lake, even more beautiful from there, concentric rings of light dissolving and reforming, the colors deepening into magenta and bronze against the turquoise surface. She could see the images of pines along the shore, even the image of the cabin, reflected in the water.
She was about to knock at the door when a man’s voice said, “Come in.” It was the voice on the phone, muffled by the logs and cracked strips of concrete.
She should have mentioned to Annie where she was going, Vicky thought, but it was a fleeting thought, like the glimpse of something from the corner of her eye. The doorknob turned in her hand, and she stepped inside.
16
VICKY STARED AT the man hunched toward an easel in front of a window that overlooked the lake and the valley crawling into the sky. The picture he was painting looked like a half-formed image of the view. He dabbed his brush at the canvas, and the edge of the lake pushed forward. He had on a white shirt that stretched across thick shoulders, dotted by little circles of gray perspiration. His hair was the color of straw that dipped down his neck into the collar of his shirt. She could see the red tips of his ears poking through strands of hair.
“I’m Vicky Holden,” she said, taking in the small room: wood-framed sofa with faded plaid cushions pushed against the log wall next to the door, Navajo blanket draped over the top, matching chair, and rectangular table, its surface hidden under the slopes of magazines. Perpendicular to the easel was what looked like a bookcase, but instead of books, small cans of paint and an assortment of boxes that probably contained brushes and other supplies sa
t askew on the shelves. A metal crutch lay on the floor along the bookcase.
“Figured it was you that drove up.” He studied the tray that contained various cans of colored paints at the base of the easel before dabbing the brush into one and making another slice of turquoise on the canvas. Then—slow motion, like a dream—he worked the brush into a tan cloth for a moment before setting it next to other brushes in the tray. Beneath the thin cliff of light-colored hair was a high forehead, a prominent nose and chin. He had the profile of the Marlboro Man. She could picture him sitting on a fence, looking out over a pasture, face and hands weathered by the sun and wind.
At the periphery of her vision, Vicky saw a slight, dark-haired man in blue jeans and a black tee shirt rise out of the wing-backed chair facing toward the fireplace. “Guess I’ll be taking off, Ollie,” he said. His hair was black and smoothed back above his ears, shiny looking. He cleared his throat and came around the chair, trailing one hand along the top of the back. A large diamond sparkled on his pinky.
“Looks like you have other business.” The man stared at Vicky. There were mica glints in his gray eyes, and she had the acute sense of being appraised, of some value being determined.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Vicky looked back at the artist. She hadn’t seen any vehicles, but the two-track ran around the cabin. Other vehicles were probably parked in back.
“You were expected.” Ollie Goodman swung around on his stool, and that was when she saw the wrinkled scar of burned skin stretched across the other side of his face. It had the deep red color of a dying ember. His eye was stretched into a tiny slit.
“Does it bother you?”
“I’m sorry,” Vicky said. She must have flinched. She realized that she’d stepped backward.
“Don’t let him put you off,” the other man said. “He likes the reaction.”
“Thank you for that bit of analysis.” Goodman gave a slight nod in the other man’s direction. “Justin Barone, one of my associates,” he said, keeping his one good eye on Vicky. “You met Diana, I believe, at the gallery. They handle the business end of things. I prefer to spend my days in the quiet and solitude of the canyon. With the other spirits of what used to be.”
The Drowning Man Page 14