by Gwen Moffat
Dolly said: ‘Do you know more than you’re letting on? Did the police tell you who they suspect, if it’s not Sam?’
‘Just Alex.’ She had told them that already but it had been received without surprise or consternation, except by Plummer, who was astonished. In the past twenty-four hours the story of the old accusation against Alex Duval had permeated the community, but evidently it had not reached Plummer until now. Dolly had explained it to him as if he were an adolescent.
‘They’ll never break Alex’s alibi,’ she was saying now. ‘Three men and young Mike. Alex couldn’t have had anything to do with what happened to Shawn. Going after him is a blind. Who do they really suspect? Who do you think did it?’ (This to Miss Pink.) ‘Obviously it’s not one of us; we were all here Wednesday afternoon, since before lunch, in fact – except Glen, and he doesn’t ride, and doesn’t have access to a horse if he did. No way to get up Rustler except on a horse.’
‘Or on foot,’ Sarah said, and everyone refrained from looking at Plummer with his large, soft body. It was doubtful if he could walk a mile, let alone do the twenty-mile round trip to Rustler Park.
Frankie said: ‘It’s comforting to know that there are at least six people who couldn’t possibly have been in Rustler on Wednesday. So who do you think is guilty, Melinda?’
She responded with another question: ‘How quickly could one get to Rustler and back?’
Sarah said: ‘I’ve never tried to do it fast. On the slickrock you have to be as slow and careful coming down as going up, and the trail in the canyon proper is terribly exposed above that drop. If you did it in less than four hours you’d be living dangerously.’
‘Someone is doing just that. Could it be done in, say, three hours?’
‘Never. And on the afternoon of that day? You’d kill your horse going uphill. Three and a half hours at the outside.’
‘So,’ Dolly said, ‘who was alone for three and a half hours that afternoon, and can ride well and has access to a horse?’
‘That day,’ Miss Pink corrected. ‘He could have gone up there in the morning, waited for Shawn, and come down at any time. It’s a matter of at least three and a half hours.’
They were silent, all withdrawn except Miss Pink (who had already considered this problem) and Plummer who seemed unable to make the relevant calculations. He might have the facts but he looked bewildered. She watched them and waited. It was over a minute before anyone spoke, then Dolly said, in a high voice: ‘There’s no one it could have been. They all have alibis.’
‘You went down to Paula in the afternoon,’ Frankie told Sarah, as if checking a gap.
‘And she was there.’ Sarah closed it.
‘The Olsons were irrigating,’ Jerome said. ‘We could see them from here.’
‘Not from here,’ Frankie put in. ‘You’ve got to stand up and walk round the pool and peer through the pinyons to see their alfalfa. And people don’t irrigate all day; they go and come.’
‘Three and a half hours,’ Dolly said meaningly. ‘He’d have been missed.’
‘By his family,’ Frankie said, catching her drift. ‘Eleven of those, and mostly children. The littluns can’t be trusted not to blurt out the truth some time if he was absent all that afternoon.’
‘Too many alibis,’ murmured Miss Pink. ‘And why should Erik Olson’s be any more watertight than Alex Duval’s?’
‘Because,’ Jerome said, ‘the word of adults is more reliable.’
‘Is it? It’s more likely to be believed, but that’s not the same thing.’
‘What you’re suggesting is that because everyone had an alibi and yet it has to be one of them, then one alibi is false, but we don’t know which one?’
‘Either that or we’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘The wrong tree?’ Sarah looked bemused.
‘Yes. We should concentrate on Birdie.’
‘You already brought Birdie into it,’ Dolly pointed out. ‘You’d never have dreamed that Paula Estwick needed an alibi for Shawn’s death without you’d heard the results of the autopsy on Birdie. Personally, I think her death was an accident.’
She had all their attention: calculating or astonished or shocked. She went on defiantly: ‘An exasperating child finally drives you round the bend and you lash out – maybe not for the first time: a slap, a cuff, but this time you happen to have something heavy in your hands: a hammer, a log, anything. And the child has a thin skull. Afterwards you panic. The child is dead; it can’t be hurt any more, it’s just a body. So – the other wounds, the ones that were done after death – they’re inflicted as a cover, put the blame on some wandering bum. It could be a case of [[illegible]]slaughter.’
They absorbed this in silence, then Miss Pink said: ‘And Shawn? What happened there?’
‘The pony threw him, he was concussed and crawled or fell into a crevice, got more injuries as he fell in, and died there.’
Miss Pink looked at them all. She knew by the way they avoided each other’s eyes, by their silence, that although they would like to believe in this theory, they had doubts. It was too good to be true.
‘In any case,’ Plummer said suddenly, ‘Paula was in Nebo the afternoon that Birdie was killed.’
‘She was on her way back with Lois,’ Sarah reminded him.
‘If Lois is to be believed,’ Dolly said. ‘And why not? Lois and Paula aren’t bosom pals. Art Stenbock is the one with the opportunity to kill Birdie – but then he was working cattle when Shawn— ’ She clapped her hand over her mouth.
‘But you said Shawn’s death was an accident.’ Plummer succeeded in calling attention to her indiscretion.
‘We need some kind of common denominator,’ Miss Pink said firmly. ‘One hypothesis is that Shawn has been killed because he saw Birdie’s killer. So, disregarding all the so-called alibis, who could have got to Birdie on Saturday afternoon and to Shawn four days later?’
‘If Shawn was murdered,’ Dolly persisted.
‘Would you come up to the Twist with me tomorrow? We’ll take flashlights.’
‘You think he’s in the Twist after all?’ Sarah asked.
Jerome said: ‘Don’t go alone.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Sarah said. Seeing Frankie was about to protest, she added: ‘I’ll take Dad’s pistol. No one’s going to attack three of us – are they?’
‘No,’ Miss Pink said. ‘We’ll be perfectly safe.’ Sarah regarded her curiously.
Plummer said: ‘What happened to the chopper? We haven’t heard it for a while.’
‘Probably searching the far bank of the river,’ Sarah told him drily, ‘thinking Alex swam his horse across the Colorado. Wouldn’t put it past the police to think it’s possible, particularly if they know the cattle rustlers used to do it.’
Later they learned that the helicopter had been called away. A fire was raging in the La Sal forests and all available aircraft were needed to spray trees and transport the fire fighters. It was Myrtle who gave them the news, and more. Myrtle had been in dire need of someone to talk to. Frightened at the amount of sleeping pills she had given Maxine, she stopped, and Maxine had left her bed and learned of Shawn’s disappearance. The press had been there at the time but, suffering from the after-effects of the drugs, not to speak of alcohol, Maxine had no energy for raving after she had taken the first shock. She was sullen and vicious with the reporters and after a while she went back to her room, taking a bottle of vodka.
Myrtle said that the police had visited her twice that day, each time their sole concern being to discover if Shawn had told his mother or grandmother the name of Birdie’s killer. Myrtle knew nothing and the first time Maxine had been abusive. When the police returned, Maxine was out of bed and they had warned her that if she knew the name of the murderer, if Shawn had told her, she was in danger if she kept it to herself. Myrtle had thought her daughter frightened enough to tell if she did know, but she maintained that she did not, and Sprague and Pugh evidently believed her because t
hey went away.
‘I feel sorry for Myrtle,’ Frankie said, returning to her guests after this telephone conversation. ‘You can’t help but admire the old lady, with an alcoholic slut for a daughter, a delinquent grandson, and now carrying all this on her shoulders.’
‘I’m sorry for the Estwicks,’ Dolly said. ‘And that nice guy, Alex.’
‘There are nine – ten households in this canyon,’ Jerome mused, ‘counting the visitors. Two are bereaved, one houses a murderer, and the police are determined to hang a capital charge on Alex. Over one third of the inhabitants are primarily affected. Statistically that has to be a record.’
‘Statistics are a load of bull,’ Sarah said. Amazed at Jerome’s thinking, they were bewildered by her reaction; normally she had a steady rapport with her father and her contradicting him was out of character. As if aware of this she elaborated. ‘Everyone’s affected, Dad,’ she said gently, and looked past him, over the tops of the pinyons towards Rustler Park. Miss Pink looked too, idly at first and then her gaze sharpened, although no one would have noticed, her eyes hidden behind the thick spectacles. She glanced at the others. Sarah had turned to Dolly and was saying: ‘In a small community everyone must be affected in some way … ’
Miss Pink looked across the valley again but it was not until she reached home late that afternoon and got out her binoculars that she was sure.
There were vultures above the Maze.
Chapter 14
Beneath the guise of gallantry John Forset was adamant; there was no way he would allow three ladies to go to Rustler Park without an escort. Miss Pink, aware that she could hardly borrow the horse without agreeing to take the owner along, but not averse to adding a fourth member to the party, acquiesced gracefully.
They left not long after sunrise next morning, at a time that ensured a cool climb to the Twist and early enough to forestall the police and the press, who, unable to obtain accommodation in Salvation Canyon, were forced to return to Nebo for the night. Sarah had brought her father’s Colt which looked most incongruous on her hip. At the entrance to the Twist she stopped and turned to Miss Pink. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘We’re going to the Maze.’
‘But I thought— ’ Dolly began, and stopped because the others were silent. After a moment Forset said: ‘Yes, it’s possible. Perhaps that’s the answer … If his pony broke loose while Shawn was still fit – or threw him and he didn’t get hurt – the boy would have a ten-mile walk home.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘And there’s that old tale about a way down to the valley through the Maze: only a mile. It would be very tempting.’
Dolly polished her saddle horn. Sarah said slowly: ‘He’d know the story. You get the Stone Hawk in line with the Blanket Man … ’
‘Everyone knows that bit,’ Forset said.
‘Even I,’ Miss Pink put in. ‘So it’s the Maze?’
There was no dissent. She had not expected any. They moved on, the horses picking their way carefully in the bottom of the great rift until they came out into the sunshine of the park. The reef rose ahead of them like a sea stack above swells of grass that dipped and lifted with a soft breeze.
‘Nice day,’ Forset said, sniffing with appreciation, adding wryly, ‘but it won’t be in the Maze.’
Miss Pink reflected that most of the joints would be in shadow but all she said was: ‘You know the Maze?’
‘All in good time,’ he told her heavily. ‘All in good time.’
Dolly glanced at her. Sarah regarded her horse’s ears. The ambiguous answer hung on the air yet the lack of comment was unremarkable. There was a feeling of resignation; this was no ordinary day and if the other world could be termed conventional – police, press, helicopters – convention had been left behind in Salvation Canyon.
They rode round the end of the reef and turned northwards to where the Pale Hunter stood at the break in the Barrier. When they reached the pinyons they dismounted and put the horses in the shade. Miss Pink started to untie her lariat.
‘Why are you doing that?’ Forset asked.
‘We should take all of them.’
Sarah said: ‘We don’t need ropes.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
Sarah gave her a wan smile. ‘For where you want to go we don’t need ropes.’
They turned their backs on the park and looked over the white caps of towers like lumpy cobblestones to the Stone Hawk, its shoulders hunched, the head inclined, watching the canyon. Beyond it could be glimpsed the outer edge of the Blanket Man.
‘Well?’ Sarah addressed Forset. She sounded defeated.
He nodded and sighed. ‘Lead on.’
They descended the earthy gully to the first cairn and turned left. Their deliberate progress assumed the air of an expedition with a definite end in view; this was not a search.
Miss Pink, more perceptive than she had been the first time in this place, and watching the shadows (not the sun because for much of the time she could not see it from the bottom of the joints) realised that only a short distance from the start they had turned north-east. They still followed joints that ran south-east, but these passages were shorter and fewer than those running at right angles.
They moved fast, Forset having to work hard to keep up with Sarah. Dolly, agile and anxious not to be left behind, was on his heels. Miss Pink brought up the rear, but she, too, was having difficulty and dreading that she might sprain an ankle. For one moment she was alone as Dolly whisked round a corner, and in that moment she felt the terror of a lonely death and knew a fleeting nightmare: that she would turn the corner and no one would be ahead, nor ever had been.
She came to the corner, saw a joint with sunshine high on its wall and Dolly about ten yards away. Beyond her Forset was looking back, saying something, and Sarah was beyond him, in the open well where the little ash tree spread its diadem of spring foliage against pink rock.
Sarah had waited for them, which was sensible because, as Miss Pink recalled, the cairns ended at the corner where she had lost sight of Dolly. There were no cairns in the well although four ways led from here, and despite the fact that cairns could have been built: there were stones lying around. She glanced along the joint that she had taken when she climbed to the top of the tower, but the party was moving away at right angles, along a passage that Dolly had taken when they were here before, but she had gone only as far as the first corner, refusing to lose sight of the well. Today they went past that corner and turned left.
Ahead of them the big red wall rose for over a hundred feet above the level of the towers, brilliantly lit in the morning sun. They turned left again, then right. The fissure they were in bent in a dog-leg and suddenly they were in the open and the ground dropped away to the tops of trees. A few more yards and they stopped on the lip of sloping slabs.
The slickrock descended for about eighty feet to the bed of the great cove. On the right the slabs were simple and easy; on the left the view was blocked by a massive buttress.
Dolly said: ‘We’re not going down there!’
‘I’ll go first,’ Sarah said.
They moved in single file down a kind of sloping staircase in the slickrock and as they approached the floor of the cove and the buttress on the left ended, shadows passed across the rock. Forset stopped and looked up and Dolly followed suit. ‘Vultures!’ she gasped, and turned to Miss Pink. ‘How did you guess?’
‘I saw them last night.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ Forset asked.
‘It could be a deer, or a bighorn.’
Dolly swallowed and turned back to the descent. They reached the floor of the cove and followed a path that could have been a game trail except that the cove was too small to hold game. They picked up dead branches and moved slowly through the flecked sunlight under the pines and cottonwoods, banging the tree trunks, peering at the shadows, watching for the gleam of coils, listening for the rattle.
‘Don’t you long for a pair of thick rubber thigh boots?’ Dolly asked w
istfully.
‘Like a fly fisherman,’ Forset said.
‘A Highland stream seems a world away,’ Miss Pink volunteered loudly. They were talking for the sake of the snakes, pleading with them to get out of the way. Only Sarah was silent.
Miss Pink trod on Dolly’s heels. The others had stopped. The cove had its own small bay scooped out of the shadowed side between Maze and wall. The last rank of towers formed a wall themselves where they were fused together. The bay was roughly the shape of a half moon. On the right, inside the horn and protected by that gently curving bulge she had seen a week ago, was the scoop that reflected light from sunlit stone. On the wall of the scoop under the gentle bulge were the imprints of innumerable hands.
It was still and very quiet until a canyon wren sang a few notes to end on a dying fall, and then it was quieter still.
‘Oh,’ Dolly breathed, ‘look!’
Miss Pink looked left from the Cave of Hands to see on the wall a huge red form with hunched shoulders and folded wings, watching them with large circular eyes.
‘It’s the Stone Hawk,’ Dolly said.
‘She has no feet,’ Miss Pink said, and stopped, not because she had attributed sex to the Stone Hawk but because at her feet, or where the feet should have been, was all that the vultures had left of Shawn Brenner.
They were drained of emotion. As they moved forward – all except Dolly, who held back – Miss Pink said, as if remarking on a new flower: ‘Here is a skull.’
‘There was nowhere to bury it,’ Sarah said listlessly.
‘No, I suppose not. There’s only a skin of sand.’
Miss Pink stood a few yards from the body and the others flanked her like guardians. The sand was scuffled and marked by the vultures. The ragged clothing was pierced by shattered bones. Not much flesh was left.
‘There’s no doubt?’ Miss Pink asked generally.
‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘Those are a child’s sneakers. Besides, no one else is missing. Of that size.’
