The Forensic Geology Box Set

by Toni Dwiggins

  “Means I saw Walter down below, when I was climbing up out of the canyon.” He shook so hard his shoes knocked. “Means he’s in a bad spot, down in the slot. Means you’re on watch. Don’t wait too long.”

  I thought, Walter can’t be down there. All the warmth went out of me. He can.

  Hap said, “T minus eighteen and some seconds.”

  I screamed run and the canyon walls bounced my scream back to me. There was no point screaming down here—I had to get up high enough to scream down the slot canyon for Walter to hear me. And the fastest way to get up high, with a view down the slot, was to climb the chockstone. I ran along the pool decking to the huge stone and started up. The angle was gentle but I nevertheless gave thanks for the rough graspable skin of the dolomite.

  It was not until I’d topped the chockstone and got a million-dollar view that I saw Walter down there, above the third dryfall. I gaped, stunned he’d made it that far, stunned that Hap had told the truth. Walter didn’t see me. He was looking straight ahead, no doubt hearing the hiss and wondering what lay around the next bend in the slot canyon. He looked like some old desert rat, wet hair striping his scalp, frail torso bared in the desert heat, pants ripped at the knees. He disappeared into the bend. I found my voice and screamed.

  He emerged with his head thrown back. Open mouthed.

  I screamed go back.

  He didn’t. It would take a moment, I knew, for the shock to sink in. You come around the bend and here’s this giant stone head blocking your way and you hear that hiss from the canyon above and you know what the chockstone is blocking, and then you see your partner on top of the stone like some drowned-rat ninja with a submachine gun across her back.

  He found his voice and bellowed up to me. “Get down off that thing.”

  Of all things, I waved. I was spinning the scenario—scramble off the chock and up to the sheep trail and across the ledge and down the face to join him and drag him out Lady Canyon before we run out of time. I checked my watch. T minus seventeen and some seconds. If one could believe Hap. I turned to look. Hap had not left. He was sitting now, arms laced around his knees. He sat sunning himself like a crocodile on a river bank. What’s he waiting for? Maybe he couldn’t put any weight on his wounded leg. Or maybe he’d lied—maybe we had more time. Or less. My heart gave a squeeze. What if there’s not enough time to run?

  Hap saw me looking and drew a finger across his throat.

  I went very cold. Find out for yourself.

  To blow the chockstone, he had to have set the explosive charges somewhere on the rock. The most accessible place was right here, on top. It didn’t take me long to find it, on the far side of the crown. In a crevice beneath a shelf of rock was a metal can and short antenna, its spring-coiled base attached to nothing. No longer remotely operable. He’d had to take the timer out of the can and wire it to the initiator. And he’d told me where he put the initiator: initiator’s in the box, box is down a hole. I found the hole—a fissure, really—in the network of cracks around the shelf. Box was down there, all right. Neon yellow, size of a DVD case. Like he’d said, jammed down deep where ain’t nobody gonna reach it.

  He’d wanted me to know it was a done deal, that I couldn’t stop it. And maybe he even wanted me, and Walter, to save ourselves. I felt no gratitude for that, none at all.

  The numerals on the box down the hole were bright enough to read from here. T minus sixteen, and thirty-five seconds.

  I dashed to tell Walter I feared there was no time to run.

  But he was already coming up.

  Ah Jesus. Chute’s like a slide. I held my breath. I held my tongue. Don’t distract him. One word and he falls.

  He didn’t fall. He reached the ledge and anchored there.

  I breathed. He’s going to make it. He’s already committed himself to coming up here, which means he could be of no help to either Oliver or Milt back at the mine, and Pria told him where I’d gone, which means he’s got nothing on his mind now but making this climb. He’s already made it up four dryfalls and all he has to do now is reach the scarp. I can meet him there and guide him to the wide spot on the sheep trail, where we’ll watch in safety and despair the culmination of Hap’s hard work.

  But he did not move.

  “Walter,” I called softly, and when he looked up I said gently, “there’s explosives up here. We’ve got sixteen minutes.”

  He stared up the face of the chock, shaking his head like he could not believe it. And then his face went taut. “How many?”

  “What?”

  He bellowed. “How many charges?”

  I shook my head, I didn’t know, how should I know, all I’d seen was the yellow box and I didn’t see any wires so I guessed the wires came out the bottom so I guessed the charges were underneath. And what difference did it make how many?

  He looked at the canyon wall, eyeing the scarp.

  I died, as he began the sidestep across the ledge, and it wasn’t until he reached the wall and began to navigate the pitiful path that I truly knew he was going to make it. He found the place I’d found, where the wall flared inward. He stopped there, turning to lean into the slant, pressing his backside against the wall. The toes of his boots met the edge of the scarp.

  We stared at each other across the canyon gap. I could read the relief on his face. I tried to smile. It’s a cakewalk from there, to where the scarp intersects the sheep trail.

  And then I wondered what Hap was doing. I turned to look. Hap was gone.

  I scanned the notch that cleaved up the wall beside the tall waterfall. Hap could be there, in the recessed folds. I guessed he could climb it. He hadn’t lost a great deal of blood, and he wasn’t in shock. While Walter took his tortuous time climbing the chock, Hap could have made it to the notch, even limping. I wondered how high he’d have to climb to see the chockstone blow, to let the water out, to watch his flood do its work.

  And in the time it took me to wonder, I understood Walter’s question: how many charges? It made all the difference in the world. That’s why Walter shook his head when he looked up the chock. It was dolomite, dense and massive, and Hap wasn’t going to blow it up. He’d have to pry it open. And he’d need a shitload of charges and a focal place to set them. That’s why the box was down in the fissure.

  He was going to pry open the chockstone at the fissure.

  I was a learner in explosives but I sure knew rock. A fissure is a weak point and a blast would direct its force along that plane of weakness, widening it. And the place Hap needed to pry open was down below, to let out the water. The only way that works is if the fissure runs at an angle, exposing itself down below in a surface crack.

  So he feeds the wired charges down the fissure from up here, then goes down below and grabs the charges and sticks them along the exposed crack. Then waits for the big storms to fill the pool. I recalled the smooth back head of the chockstone above the pool. That surface crack was underwater now.

  But still, someone could dive under and find those charges.

  Was that right? I hoped so. I was about to wager on being right.

  Walter found breath enough to bellow again. “Move.”

  I checked Hap’s watch. I had time to climb down the chock and up to the sheep trail. I had time to do more than that. Once I’d understood, I could not pretend I hadn’t. I called to Walter, “I’m coming.” I moved to the far side of the crown, descending enough to be out of Walter’s view. He’d assume I was getting down off this thing in the most efficient way possible. I was. I sat and took off my boots.

  The water looked deep down below but to be on the safe side I took Hap’s flashlight from my pocket and turned it on and tossed it in and watched the light dim as it sank. Okay. I scooted as far down the rock as I could, and then stood and sprang off.

  I’m falling, and then just before impact my vision jumps to the place where the chockstone intersects the pool decking. Hap’s there, propped against the rock. I’m thinking, startled, he hasn’t c
limbed out yet. And then I see why. He’s wrapping the parachute pants around his leg. He came down to the deck to get the pants. He needs more bandaging. And now, seeing me jump into the pool, he’s surprised into action. He lets go of his wounded leg and reaches for the deck.

  I hit the water and my legs buckled and my arms whipped up and as I arrowed down deep the gun sling slipped off like someone had snatched away my coat.

  Oh Jesus cold. I gasped, cramping in the cold. Fighting my cramped self to kick for the surface. I came up and spat ice water. Where was he? I flailed, fighting the current, rotating myself, and saw him surface deeper in the pool. He looked in shock too, hanging by his chin on the surface of the water.

  The current took us both toward the wall of the chockstone.

  He fanned his arms, backstroking, going with the flow, pale limbs trailing.

  He knows, I thought numbly, why I jumped in. He knows I figured out where the charges are.

  I could ride this unrelenting current all the way to the stone but he’d be there first, waiting for me. I jackknifed and dove. Kicking my way blindly through the silt, hoping to avoid him.

  I bumped against his leg.

  He grabbed for me but I kicked away.

  When I surfaced I had no more fight.

  The current finished it, plastering us both against the chockstone. We were a couple yards apart. He could have reached me with a lunge. He didn’t move. He laid his cheek against the rock, wheezing. I mirrored him. My second wind had died. I waited for a third.

  I needed to go back under. When I’d kicked free of him, my foot had grazed a crack in the chockstone.

  I thought I heard Walter call. I could see, beyond Hap, a portion of the canyon wall but the chockstone’s bulge blocked most of my view. I thought by now Walter must have reached the wide spot in the ledge and collapsed just where I’d collapsed, the place where your limbs go to butter and your mind goes to mush. But he’ll catch his third wind and keep coming. In the water sought his daughter, now he’s with his Clementine.

  “Buttercup.”

  I took in a sweet breath, filling my lungs. I fixed my attention on Hap’s blue-eyed gaze. The whites were reddened from too much sun. I was close enough to see that.

  He whispered, “You’re swimming in the SFP.”

  Oh no Hap, I’m not.

  I dove. It was a world of silt, sparkling in the sun rays. It was so cold my eyeballs ached. As I wall-crawled along I found the crack that my foot had grazed. My rock sense told me where it came from. This was the fissure I’d wagered upon. Before my air ran out I glimpsed a shadow in the crack and it put me in mind of snorkeling in Maui, glimpsing eel snout in a reef crevice. But this was not the ocean. And this was not the spent-fuel pool.

  Hap didn’t follow me down. He waited until I surfaced and gulped a lungful of air and then he lunged.

  He knew what I’d found.

  He wrapped himself around me, clinging like the limpets I’d seen clinging to the reef in Maui where the eel lived. My hands were free and I pounded his back but I could not get him off. He held onto me as if for life. Our legs entangled, trying to tread water. I used my hands to help keep us afloat. We spun lazily in the current, bumping gently against the chock. His head was pressed to mine. We were cheek to cheek, like lovers.

  I looked past his red hair frizzing in the heat, up to the sheep trail, watching for Walter.

  My thigh pressed against Hap’s and I felt the pinch of the knife in my pocket. If I could just get to it. And then dive to find the wire that was going to electrify that eel—only of course there’s a colony of eels all the way down that crack because it takes a shitload of charges to rip open this rock—and so if I can find one wire I can cut them all and do the job I’d jumped in here to do in the first place. But first I needed my knife.

  I arched, trying to throw us off balance.

  He snuggled in tighter. Shivering. I shivered, too. We shivered in sync. His shivers were blows, his knees knocking mine, his fists digging into the small of my back. His skull rattled mine—the two of us reduced to essence like the skull on the bighorn trail. He put his mouth to my ear. Lips of ice. “Want to live?” Breath so hot it warmed my ear. I nodded. Want to live. Want my knife. The skin of my thigh prickled, every nerve focusing on that pinch of knife in pocket, and then the prickling spread to include the feel of his thigh against mine. The bulk of his bandage. I saw no blood in the water and I guessed the cold had stopped the bleeding but he could surely feel pain. I pressed hard against him. He recoiled. A sliver of space between our legs now. I brought up my knee and jammed it into his bandaged thigh. He cried out and shrank away and I thought now I’m free and made to dive but he’d got me by the webbed belt that wove through my waistband. We were arms-length, now, attached at my belt. His face went livid. I hated him for showing pain, and for the way my knee had felt grinding his wound, and for goddamn choosing to shoot him in the first place—for my ownership of his pain. I fumbled at my belt, trying to unhook it. Cursing him. He opened his mouth to answer but no words came. He convulsed and emitted a gutful of yellow liquid and it lay intact like oil on water and then the current broke its surface tension and washed it away. I stared at the receding plume, understanding. It wasn’t me. It was the gents. He wasn’t faking it now. The gents got him. He turned them loose and they got him. He lifted his head and his face showed panic. Not my problem, not my doing, I wallowed in my innocence but he would not let me be. He was crying. I could not believe that Hap and I have the same feelings but we must because we’re both crying now. He put his face into the water, back humping up, and I felt his convulsions by the jerking of his hand in my belt. I went for my knife. He pulled himself close and wrapped around me and vomited hot stuff down my back.

  I yelped, like it could burn through my skin and lodge in my cells.

  “Let her go.” It echoed down from above.

  I looked up and saw Walter on the sheep trail.

  Hap clung now not like a lover but a baby, latched on for all it’s worth. He had the strength of desperation in that grip. He was hurt and sick but the water was his medium. I said into his hair “let us help.” He pulled his head back to look at me. Those radiant eyes shone between swollen red lids. I wrapped my arms around him, opening the blade of my knife behind his back. He felt it coming. He grabbed for the knife and I felt the buzz of steel on bone and then he screamed and I let go in horror. He curled away, cradling his hand. A rusty bloom colored the water. He spasmed and went under, taking my knife with him.

  Walter was crabbing down the talus slope, bellowing at me to get out.

  I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted. Hap had surfaced between me and the deck, treading water. His right hand cupped over the knife, which entered the meat of his palm and jutted out between the first two knuckles.

  All the pain of the day welled up, threatening to drag me under.

  Walter was on the deck. A broken record. Get out, get out, get out.

  I shook my head and pointed at the chock, trying to get a word in, calling out “extension fracture” and then “underwater” and then finally Walter shut up and looked where I pointed, and I gasped “wires.”

  And then he turned back to Hap and his gaze rested on the knife.

  Hap sank beneath the water.

  Walter jumped in, thrashing like a big wet dog.

  Hap surfaced beyond us both, swimming toward the shallow end. He was not the swimmer who had lapped the Inn pool time after time. He was fighting the current, and the depredations of the gents. I struck out after him but I was fighting my own depredations. Walter outpaced me and caught Hap around the waist. There was a boil of arms and legs and then Walter had him in a headlock. Walter reached for his arm, for the knife hand, but all he succeeded in doing was spinning them both. Hap went limp, head against Walter’s chest, arms outflung.

  Walter snapped, “I could use some help.”

  Leverage. Walter wants me to pull out the knife. I’ll never be ready for this but my
gaze catches on the watch on my wrist and I’m stunned to see that nine minutes have gone which means we’ve got seven left and I can’t decide if that’s a lot or not much at all. So I kick for all I’m worth over to Hap’s outflung arm, to the knife hand coloring the water. I don’t trust him, I won’t get too close. I reach across the water, my fingers brushing his like sweethearts, and when his hand curls away I lunge closer and slip my hand into his palm. He gasps. My fingers freeze on the hilt of the knife. Walter says dear and so I shut my eyes and yank. The knife rolls. Hap screams. But the screaming fades and the sound that fills my ears comes from inside my head, a remembered sound, that wet crush when you twist the knife to core the apple and you hit the pithy heart and stall there. You can’t push any farther or pull out the knife so you gently rock the blade until it frees itself.

  I opened my eyes.

  Hap lay still, anchored on Walter. Hap’s hands cradled over his belly, one hand balled up like a squeezed orange leaking red-orange pulp, a blood-orange hand. His reddened eyes assaulted me. I raised the knife—already washed clean—in a salute. To life.

  Walter eyed my knife-hand, my watch-hand. “How much time?”

  “Seven minutes. No, six.”

  “Chopper’s on the way. Be here any minute.”

  “With divers?”

  Walter shook his head. Not likely.

  “Then give me a minute.” I know just where the wired eels live. Behind Walter and Hap, to the right, where that chert interbedding dips about twenty degrees north on the chockstone’s back head. Right beneath it. Maybe three feet down. In the joint.

  I gripped the knife and dove.

  CHAPTER 49

  We lifted into the air, my stomach rising along with the chopper, my head spinning with the rotors.

  Below, the pool rippled with rotor-wash. Otherwise, we’d left no observable trace. Soliano’s divers were en route to dispose of the explosives. Good wilderness manners: leave only footprints, take only memories.

  And then, almost before we had cleared the ridges, we bellied down toward They-Don’t-Pay-Me-Enough Canyon. I pressed my face to the window and marveled at the scene. What a crowd. They seemed to have sprung up like desert blooms during my absence. Uniforms everywhere—sheriff tan and FBI black and ranger green and RERT silvery-white. They wore the canyon colors. They were clustered high on the hill above the hot zone. Up even higher, on the ridge above the mine, surveying the scene below, legs crossed in an Indian sit, was Pria. She wore a ranger-green jacket, big as a tent on her.