He hadn't offered to give us the tour but there was enough to impress in the great room. It showed off the bones of the place. The triangular sections were framed in dark wood and the interiors were painted a muted cream. Some triangles were windows, letting in blue sky. Lights hung on long cables from the arc of the ceiling. The floor was planked pine, with jute area rugs. A bookcase spanned one flat section of wall. An open metal stairway led up to a loft with a sleeping area beneath two windows that formed a diamond, allowing Reid to sleep, presumably, under the stars.
There was no art on the walls. The walls were the art.
Furniture was sparse. There were a couple of glass occasional tables and cane chairs but the focus of the room was a set of big rust-red leather chairs facing the fireplace.
Actually, the fireplace was the focus of the room. It was a metal stove set in front of a wall section, and that wall section was layered in rock. Actually, it was a damned good replica of the geologic fireplace in the lobby of the Bright Angel Lodge—a more impressive replica than the stone tower in the Superintendent's conference room.
Reid asked us to take seats in the leather chairs. I sank into mine, which would have held a friend as well. I braced myself on the polished oak arms.
Reid took the third chair, in front of the fireplace.
Walter cleared his throat. “Agent Quillen filled us in, about your meeting this morning. He said you haven't recovered memory of the rafting incident.”
Reid gave a nod. Suddenly weary.
“Nothing at all? No islands of memory?”
Reid said, after a long moment, “Feelings.”
Walter sat forward.
“Yes, panicked feelings. Like I want to escape. Was it a snake? Maybe. I don't know. These feelings...could be they're connected to that trip through the river.”
“Perhaps you'll still recall.”
“Yeah.” Reid's face tightened. “Hearing about Sam has been another kick in the gut.”
Walter said, neutrally, “Let's hold out hope for Megan Schrader.”
“I'm trying.”
“We still hope to find the site of the incident, on the chance she took off hiking, or made it to shore downriver. To that end...” Walter opened the cargo pocket of his jacket and took out three specimen dishes. He set them on the table. “Maybe these will jog your memory.”
Reid looked.
Walter said, as he opened each dish, “Firstly, the outlier, the Mancos Shale found in a baggie in Frank Hembry's pocket, a gift as Agent Quillen learned from you this morning. Secondly, the Tapeats Sandstone, found in a baggie on the raft under the bow line—which you might have collected at the anchorage, as I recall. Which, so far, has not led us to the site. Thirdly, Muav Limestone, found in Sam Pendleton's pocket earlier today. Which is of current interest.”
Reid looked. Said nothing.
I said, “You didn't mention the Mancos, or the Muav, when we talked in the hospital three days ago.”
Reid gave a rueful smile. “I'm afraid I wasn't thinking straight.”
“You seem to be thinking straight now.”
“I got off sedation this morning.”
“So what do you remember? Now?”
Reid suddenly stood. “My manners. I haven't offered you anything to drink. What will you have?”
Slick dodge, I thought. I said, “Water would be good, thanks.”
Walter rose. “We'll come back to this.” He indicated the geology. “You've got a broken hand, Reid. Let me help you get those drinks.”
I watched the two men head through an arched hallway which led, I presumed, to the kitchen.
We would definitely come back to the geology.
Meanwhile, I got up to snoop. The only place to do so was the bookcase. One shelf held a few well-used geology field tools—a Brunton compass, a splitting hammer, and a cold chisel. The other shelves held books: geology texts, biographies of scientists and polar explorers and impressionist painters, fix-it books, Grand Canyon histories and guidebooks, and a thin selection of literary novels. Thomas Pynchon, no less. And then I spied a bright orange spine and took a closer look and was surprised—and then not surprised—to read the title and author. The Monkey Wrench Gang, Edward Abbey.
In the hospital, Reid had presented himself as a protector of Grand Canyon National Park. How about a fighter against dams? Like his niece Becca Warren? Like her boyfriend Wes Hawthorne?
Or, Reid was simply an Edward Abbey fan. Like Special Agent Quillen. Like me, with Abbey's Desert Solitaire in my bookcase at home.
For the record, I took out my phone and photographed the bookcase contents.
And then I returned to the fireplace to warm my hands and admire Reid's painstaking work. Only a geologist would put in the effort to build this replica. I was studying Reid's handiwork, thinking there was something slightly off in the rock layers—if his intention was to faithfully reproduce the fireplace in the Bright Angel Lodge—when I heard footsteps. I still had my phone in hand so I took some photos, and then returned to my leather chair.
The men reappeared. Walter, with two good hands, carried the tray. He set it beside the dish of olives. There were pitchers of water and iced tea, and three glasses. Walter poured. Nobody had the iced tea. I wished for coffee.
We sipped our water.
I said, “Nice job on the fireplace rocks. It must have taken you some time.”
“Thank you. It did.”
Walter indicated the rocks in the specimen dishes. “Coming back to this, what can you tell us now?”
“Nothing that will help find the anchorage.”
“I agree the Mancos won't help. The Muav, though, might. Sam Pendleton was found at river mile one-twelve. Upriver from there, where might those rock chips have been collected?”
“I just don't recall.”
“The problem is, above mile one-twelve, for a long stretch, there's no Tapeats at or near the river. Might you have hiked up some canyon to collect? For your Grand Canyon show and tell.”
“Walter, I don't know.”
“Then how about the Bright Angel Shale?”
Reid's eyes widened.
“No, rafter Schrader hasn't been found. But when she is—alive we hope—can I expect a baggie of Bright Angel Shale in her pocket?”
Reid pressed his forehead. “I'm not entirely myself. I'm not ready to speak about Megan. I have no memory of gathering these samples.” He regarded Walter for a long moment. “But yes, it would make sense.”
I shot Walter a smile. Good hunch, partner.
“It was the Muav Limestone,” Walter said, “that got me thinking about marine transgression. Your field of study.”
Reid just stared. And then he smiled. “We've talked about that often enough.”
“We have.”
Reid nodded. “I follow your thinking. The Grand Canyon Tonto Group is the classic example.”
Walter said, “As I've learned.”
Reid glanced at me.
“No need to explain,” I said. “Walter talked my ear off about it on the drive here.”
I'd learned marine transgression back in grad school—a rise in sea level, transgressing onto the land. Walter set the scene for me in the Grand Canyon. Back in the Paleozoic, the ancestral Pacific Ocean lapped eastward into this area. The Tapeats Sandstone came from the initial shoreline, beaches and sandbars. Then the sea rose further and deposited muds that became the Bright Angel Shale. And then, as the water got deeper, carbonates were deposited, which became Muav Limestone. Known collectively as the Tonto Group.
Walter said, “The thing is, Reid, marine transgression can be studied throughout the world. In Australia, for instance, where you settled for awhile. And now you turn up here, having survived a rafting accident in the Canyon, with Tonto Group samples.”
“I've been here since I returned from Bolivia.”
“I see,” Walter said, voice tightening. “That's around the time you reconnected with your family. Reclaimed the Lassen name.
”
“Not for a year or two. I wasn't ready.”
I did the math. “So around that time, you found the shark tooth, and posted on a fossil forum.”
Reid cocked his head.
“I have a friend on the forum. He identified the Mancos shark tooth—carried by rafter Hembry—which you claimed on the forum. We traced it to Paradox Valley.”
Reid said, without missing a beat, “I hunt fossils. You remember that about me, Walter?”
Walter said, tersely, “I remember.”
I resumed, “Interesting place to find a fossil, Reid. In a cave above that brine-extraction facility. The one your sister is agitating to get shut down.”
“This is sounding like an interrogation, Cassie.”
It is. But I said, “Just trying to dot the 'i', in regard to the provenance of the Mancos.”
“Then let me dot it. The Mancos is fossil-rich, but Paradox Valley is Mancos-poor. Erosion. I hunted fossils haphazardly as a kid. This time around, I'm a grown-up geologist. I knew the few places to hunt. And yes, when I found the shark tooth, I claimed it on the forum. Pure ego. Subsequently, I gifted it to my friend Frank for his birthday, which happened to coincide with our fishing trip. We'd won the lottery—that's how you get permission to raft through the Canyon. So, a double celebration.” Reid shrugged. “End of story.”
“Cross a 't' for me,” I said. “How'd you meet your fishing buddies?”
He grew a half-smile. “You're relentless.”
I waited.
“Frank and Megan, at my sister's fishing lodge. Sam's a friend of Megan's.”
“We visited your sister's lodge day before yesterday. She claimed not to know them.”
“Ah, you met the family.”
Met. That was putting it mildly. I gripped my water glass. Reid surely had noticed the bandage on my hand—and my hacked-up hairdo.
He'd noticed. He said, “I apologize on their behalf. Jeff can get prickly. My sister is an angry woman.”
Walter blurted, “She was damned angry that you let her think you'd died.”
Reid looked steadily at Walter. “I can understand that.”
“Help me understand.”
“You asking what happened?”
“I'm asking.”
Reid stood and went over to the bookcase. He returned with the chisel in his good hand. He sat. Held up the chisel. “This is my reminder.”
A prop, I thought.
“To begin, I'll assume you know what the news reported. A brief recap here. Harvey and I were on a field trip in Bolivia. Cassie, Harvey Phipps was my PhD advisor. We collaborated off and on, after grad school. We were in a small plane. It crashed. Someone saw the plane go down and it took searchers two days to reach the site. The pilot was found dead.” Reid stopped, sliding his fingers up and down the handle of the chisel. Shaping his story.
“And you and Harvey were reported missing,” Walter said. “Later, presumed dead.”
“I wanted to stay with the plane—that's what you're supposed to do. But Harvey insisted on hiking out. He had a head injury, wasn't thinking straight. I couldn't let him go alone. So I gathered supplies from the plane and we set off. It was rugged. Harvey grew worse. The light started to fail. The trail was steep, bordering a cliff. Harvey tripped and... It was an abyss, Walter. He was gone.”
Walter went pale.
I said, “Then what happened?”
“Then I grieved.” Reid held my look. “And then I hiked out. It took days. Nothing much to say about that, other than it was hot and buggy and scary and damned rough.”
“How does the chisel come into it?” I asked, because Walter had apparently gone mute.
“It belonged to Harvey. We'd come across some tubers and I dug them up—they're edible. I used his chisel.” Reid fingered the blade end. “I've kept it ever since.
Walter found his voice. “Why didn't you tell people you'd survived?”
“Guilt. I'd insisted on visiting the site. The pilot said flying conditions were iffy. Harvey didn't want to go. I got my way.”
I'd bet that was the story of his life, getting his way.
“Did you at least tell Harvey's son how it happened?” Walter asked. “Gary could have had closure.”
“Gary doesn't do closure.”
Walter's eyebrows lifted. “You're in touch with him?”
“More like he got in touch with me. He got my email from Harvey's computer. I explained what happened, but he blamed me for his father's death. He sent nasty emails and then, one time, he showed up here and left a nasty note. Letting me know he knew where I live. Nothing else happened, but...it was unsettling. I don't know if you knew, Walter, that Harvey considered Gary a failure. Maybe Gary was hoping to prove himself one day, and then Harvey dies...” Reid shook his head. “It's tough.”
“Here's what's tough,” Walter said, with some heat. “Thinking you'd died.”
“I'm truly regretful, Walter.”
“I could have helped you. Share the burden. We shared a lot, once.”
“That's exactly why I didn't contact anyone—especially you. I didn't want the burden shared. Didn't want to put away the guilt.”
Bullshit, I thought. I thought Reid Lassen would put aside guilt as easily as putting aside an old friend.
“So I went back to my birth name, Lassen. I'd changed my name to Darnay when I left home. The unhappy-childhood story. Boo-hoo me.” He shrugged. “But I decided to make a stab at re-establishing family.”
“One more thing,” Walter said. “Was that Bolivia trip with Harvey in pursuit of the usual?”
Reid hesitated, then nodded.
Walter said, to me, “Harvey guided Reid into marine transgression, into his dissertation subject.”
So I'd understood.
“Harvey was a real prodigy—tenure in his mid-twenties. Reid was a prodigy—started grad school at eighteen. I always thought that's why Harvey took such a shine to Reid. The two whiz kids.”
Reid laughed. “He wasn't a lot older than you, Walter. Anyway, he liked to party with us. Movie night, trivia night, poker night.”
“I won a few poker hands,” Walter said. “After I figured out your tell. That one-shoulder shrug.”
“Did I do that? Well, the reason I beat you so often was your tell. When you bluffed, you reached for an olive.”
“Did I? That explains my poor record.”
Reid indicated the dish on the table. “You haven't touched them.”
Walter took an olive. Chewed. Spat the pit in his hand. Deposited the pit in the holder attached to the dish. Swallowed the olive. “Manzanilla.”
“Good memory,” Reid said.
“I recall the ritual.”
“Good memory?”
Walter was silent.
Reid turned me. “Cassie? Olive?”
“No thanks.” The olives looked tempting, all shiny green. Almost as cheery as Reid's lime-green socks. Same color as the Dachshund barrette in Becca's hair in the photo at the Devil's Nose Lodge. I said, “Reid, you mentioned your sister and nephew. But not your niece. Agent Quillen did tell you she's missing?”
“Yes, but I'm not convinced. Becca's a free spirit.”
“Evidently she thought you'd be kayaking with her, at your family river.”
“Did she? Miscommunication. I'll make it up to her, soon as I can.” He lifted his broken hand. “She's the Lassen who made me feel like family. Hell, I got home from the hospital and put on my favorite kick-back clothes—and the socks she gave me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“STEP AWAY FROM THE edge,” Ranger Pete Molina said.
I looked down—at my boots in the foreground, and beyond that, at the sheer drop into the depths.
Yeah, I remembered, there's a lot of ways to come to grief in the Grand Canyon. Even when you're nowhere near a river raft. But the rock ledge upon which I stood was a balcony, flat and solid and thick, jutting out with confidence. And the view below and beyond was jaw-dropping.
Still, I took a step back.
So did the others.
The view was only slightly less jaw-dropping.
Neely tapped Edgar's shoulder, and he continued to film. Justin gave a wolf whistle, in admiration.
Walter linked his arm in mine, anchoring us both.
I was glad to be out in the field again. We'd spent the past two days in the lab, doing deep analysis of our rock samples, piecing together the various clues that pointed to a place on the geologic map, that led us to this plateau hanging off the Grand Canyon's North Rim.
“Got a poem, for the view?” I asked my poetry-loving partner.
“The view is the poem.”
True, that. Powell Plateau gave a panorama of the depths and buttes and towers and razorback ridges, all glazed in reds and oranges by the morning sun. A few wind-blown clouds sent shadows moving across the rock, momentarily darkening colors to gray and purple, and the rock seemed to ripple as the colors changed. My eyes darted, trying to find an anchor point down there. I thought of the plateau's namesake, John Wesley Powell, who had visited here while exploring the great unknown. I pictured the one-armed geologist standing here, taking in the lay of the land.
I took in the lay of the land, to the east, down below Powell's plateau. That's where we were headed, down to the large swathe of land called the Shinumo Amphitheater.
I tried to picture Reid Lassen standing here, taking in the lay of the land. Had he? And what had he planned to do with it?
A gust of wind rattled me and I shivered. Up here at the North Rim the temp was in the mid-fifties, unlike the mid-sixties at the South Rim, one thousand feet lower, and notably unlike the temperature five thousand feet below us at the Colorado River where it was in the high seventies, flirting with the eighties.
“Shall we?” Walter said. There was an edge to his voice, an urgency to get on with it. He was a man on a mission, fueled by the vision of a dish of olives in Reid Lassen's geodesic dome. Those olives, to Walter, symbolized his college days with Reid, and now had morphed to symbolize his growing fear that something was very wrong with the story of Reid Lassen. Those olives left a bad taste in Walter's mouth.
Edgar said, “Look! A bighorn!”
River Run Page 13