“Now, get back to work,” he growled.
Tina all but dropped the tray on his desk, spun, and skittered from the room, forgetting to close the door in her haste.
Hayes was just drawing in his breath to order her to once again close the door, when he saw her draw up her shoulders coyly and tip her head to one side. What was she doing? No doubt kowtowing to someone who is approaching her desk from the hall.
She sniffled prettily and said, “Hello.”
Undoubtedly a man, Hayes surmised. Time for this one to be bred, if she can’t keep her mind on her work! She turned, following the visitor with her eyes. Hayes could see her lips move around her murmured words. He watched with hate-filled fascination as a shy, tremulous smile bloomed on her rosebud lips.
Tina tittered a bird song of embarrassment, curving her belly forward and her buttocks back provocatively as she leaned to press the intercom button for Hayes’s phone. “It’s Mr. Harkness, sir,” she said, managing to make the phrase come out slightly syrupy. “He wants to know if you got a minute.”
Got a minute? He was supposed to report to me yesterday! Where’s he been? “Send him in and close the door,” Hayes replied. And then go pack your things. No, first call the temp agency and get them to send over someone else!
The girl stepped aside and waved the visitor through, her hand moving through the air like a caress. She said, “Right this way, Enos,” an if the name filled her mouth with honey. The doorway was briefly filled with the square frame of a man in his mid-twenties, almost tall, almost handsome.
Hayes took the measure of his most junior structural engineer. He had on a badly fitted suit of dull brownish gray fabric, and he wore his hair cut unflatteringly short, Hayes noted with approval. Young and pliable; lots of mouths to feed.
Without hesitation, Enos Harkness moved toward one of the side chairs that faced Hayes’s desk, but he waited to be told to sit down.
“Close the door!” Hayes bellowed to Tina. The door clicked shut. He favored the waiting Harkness with a glance that trailed toward the chair to his right.
The young man missed the cue and remained standing. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hayes.”
The older man flicked a hand, dismissing the civilities. He continued to study the young engineer. He noted that he seemed unusually pale. Was he ill?
Enos cleared his throat. “Uh. Well, I wanted to report on the progress of the mall project, Mr. Hayes.”
“Towne Centre project. Get it right, Harkness. Make the right impression.” The fingertips of Hayes’s right hand tapped rapidly on the top of his desk, matching the rhythm he had so recently inflicted on his pen. He narrowed his eyes, peered at Enos Harkness, and decided that just maybe this one had potential, even though he required constant reminding and tutelage.
Enos seemed as emotionally absent as if he were waiting for a bus, except that he covertly rubbed his hands against his trousers, as if the palms were sweating. “Yes, Towne Centre. I-I think that problem you mentioned is resolved, sir.”
For the first time that day, Micah Hayes showed his teeth, creating a wide, tooth-brandishing display, enough to freeze anything but the uppermost animals in the food chain in their tracks. It was not a smile, but a exhibition of dominance.
Enos did not freeze, nor did he blink. He gazed vacantly out the window towards the temple. He said, “Sadly, the matter has been resolved by a death.”
It was time to look piously concerned. Hayes arranged his face for the task. “Death? Whose?”
“Sidney Smeeth, the state geologist, sir.”
Hayes’s lips twisted on the unaccustomed verge of a smile, which he moved to cover with a cough. “Broccoli,” he muttered, pointing at his lunch. “Gives me gas. Well, that’s terrible, of course. Whatever happened?”
The intercom on Hayes’s telephone buzzed again, and Tina’s querulous voice wafted out of it. “Your call, sir.”
Hayes bent toward the intercom as if it were a hated rodent he was about to inject with cyanide. When he spoke, he almost said, Tell him he’s too late. Instead, his voice hissing like a snake moving through dried weeds, he replied, “Tell him I’ve gone out.” He snapped his finger off the button and regarded Enos Harkness with an expression of feigned grief. “Sit down, Harkness,” he said. “Tell me all about that poor woman’s demise.”
10
I heard the windows in the Garder store creaking and twisting it seemed to me, and then looking up at The Tribune building I could see the top of it a kind of swaying, it looked as if the cement or plaster was breaking loose from the brick. There was dust coming out in clouds from the side of the building. Everybody on the sidewalks ran to the middle of the street. Many of those who were in the restaurants rushed into the street with the napkins still adorning them—the meal was forgotten, they were seeking a place of safety … .
—Roy Worthington, quoted in the [Salt Lake City] Daily Standard of May 23, 1910, describing his experience on Main Street during the Salt Lake City earthquake of that date, which was estimated at 5.5, felt intensity (Mercalli scale) VII. His observation of dust coming out of the walls of the building accurately describes the disintegration of mortar during moderate earthquake-generated shaking of a brick building in which no bricks are displaced. During each subsequent earthquake, however, such bricks are increasingly likely to move, being held by only fragmental mortar, compressive load, and force of habit.
The sand of preference used by masons is all of one size. In years past, masons used dune sand, because the winnowing action of the wind serves as a natural sorting mechanism. Unfortunately for the resulting masonry, dune sand is exceptionally well rounded. When the cement in such older buildings is shaken into dust and blown away from the sand, each brick becomes an individual projectile riding on a layer of miniature ball bearings, just waiting for the next earthquake to send it flying.
AS I LED AGENT JACK ACROSS THE PARKING LOT AND INTO the building from which the Utah Geological Survey operates, I noted that its flag was flying at half-mast. “In honor of the departed director?” I asked.
Agent Jack was still playing Bubba. “Huh?” he said, looking formidably dull.
The UGS is located on West North Temple, a few miles out from downtown Salt Lake City, past a thicket of burger stands, quick-lube shops, down-at-the-heels strip malls, the Utah State Fair Park, and the concrete-lined banks of the Jordan River.
That’s right, the Jordan River—not the one that flows through Israel, but its namesake, an urban park—type prettified drainage that you might miss if you weren’t looking for it. No aspiring saints baptizing up-and-coming prophets here.
Anyway, the UGS has a truly wonderful salesroom just to the left of the entrance, and it was jam-packed with books, maps, reports, CDs, and all the other goozily things a geologist just drools over. Better and better, the UGS had recently been directed by a man named Lee Allison, who understood not only the need to develop understanding of the geological hazards and resources of the state of Utah but also the parallel and inextricably intertwined need to provide the information in forms that its citizenry could access. Which meant that he got his geologists to produce more comprehensible materials, and that these materials were now attractively displayed in full-color covers just dripping with eye appeal and user-friendly lead-ins.
One of the goodies the UGS provides the public, at no cost, is a series of seismic-hazard maps covering all the counties through which the Wasatch fault runs. I had to wait in line to ask the store manager where to find one. He was busy helping half the rest of Salt Lake County’s jarred residents find that map and such popular tomes as The Homebuyer’s Guide to Earthquake Hazards in Utah, which has a nice photograph of a hundred-year-old cottage sheared off its foundation by a 1989 California quake on the cover. Finally, he turned his large chocolate brown eyes on me and gave me a bright, earnest display of his brilliantly white teeth. “You need some help finding something?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m a geologist, and I’m t
rying to get a better grasp on the seismic picture here in Salt Lake.”
The man led me around through the display stands, pointing out possibilities. “We’ve got the big-scale maps over here—just a few left—and you might also find something of interest in some of these.” He handed me a couple of technical papers. One was entitled Paleoseismic Investigation of the Salt Lake City Segment of the Wasatch Fault Zone at the South Fork Dry Creek and Dry Gulch Sites, Salt Lake County, Utah. He hurried onward. “Or if you want greater detail, here’s the USGS map.” He handed me a folded map in the kind of plain manila envelope preferred by the federal government, on which was emblazoned Surficial Geologic Map of the Salt Lake City Segment and Parts of Adjacent Segments of the Wasatch Fault Zone, Davis, Salt Lake, and Utah Counties, Utah.
Agent Jack peered over my shoulder again. “Wuzzat?” he inquired.
“A geologic map,” I said, passing it to him. “Geologists are not known for brevity where it comes to thinking up titles. See, here they’re telling you exactly what’s covered.”
He ran a thick finger along the face of the map folder. “Twenty-six words,” he said. “Any pictures?”
I wasn’t following him. Gullible cretin that I am, I said, “Well, it’s a map. I guess you could say it’s all one big picture.”
Jack’s face lighted up with a goofy grin. “Well then, where’s the other nine hundred seventy-four words?”
Definitely Jack was no idiot. Reminding myself to keep in mind that the slack-jawed bit was an act, I moved on.
I wound up selecting two reports, the USGS map, and the giveaway map published by the UGS: Selected Critical Facilities and Geologic Hazards, Salt Lake County, Utah. I bellied up to the counter to pay for them with my sad old credit card, but Jack slapped a twenty down on the stack and grabbed the receipt. On the way out to the car, I asked, “Does that mean I don’t get to keep them?”
Jack glanced skyward. “You duke that out with big Tom. C’mon. He’s waiting.”
“DOES FAYE KNOW you’re investigating the developer that built her house?” I asked my erstwhile mentor.
Tom shook his head. “Doesn’t bear on the case. Just a coincidence.”
“Sure.”
Tom shot me an angry look, then turned away. After a few moments, the bad temper seemed to drain from his face and he said, “Sorry, I’m … a bit off today. I’ll admit I am concerned about Faye’s house, but please keep in mind that I found out about the problem in the course of being concerned about all our good citizens’ homes.” He leaned back in his chair and seemed to collapse inward. I noticed how tired he looked, and how … unyouthful. Sensing my eyes on him, he added, “Good work on this file review. I … I’ll call you if I need anything else, okay?”
“I’m not done yet,” I said. “I’m going to work up an understanding of the local seismic picture for you, a sort of thumbnail sketch of what sort of due diligence should be observed before and during construction near the Wasatch fault.”
Tom still didn’t look at me, but his posture suggested that he was in pain.
Ideas flooded into my head as I spoke, and I felt an old enthusiasm rise, the cavalry scout’s call to action. “I picked up a map at the UGS and I’m going to mark those developments on it and so forth. My curiosity is up now, especially after this morning’s quake. I have only the vaguest understanding of what size earthquakes can occur around here and where and why and to what effect, and I’d like to know. And what exactly are the building regulations? I want to know if this developer has skipped any steps, or whether it’s considered completely kosher to build in a fault zone in this town.”
Tom nodded his head. “Okay. Fine. I’d be curious to know what you get.”
Our eyes met. He looked worried as hell, and I knew it had nothing to do with the job at hand. I thought of saying, It’s okay—she likes children. But I knew better than to get started. What did I know about the anxieties he must be feeling? I’d never had so much as a bad scare regarding accidental pregnancy, and I was involved up past my eye sockets with a man who practiced the most bombproof form of birth control known: abstinence. But needless to say, the whole topic had me thinking thoughts, and feeling feelings.
Tom cleared his throat, his face now devoid of emotion. In his schoolteacher voice, he said, “Procedure.”
I sat up straighter and did my best to respond to his request. He had been trying to teach me to think ahead, to have a plan. To understand that having a plan was the first defense against getting myself in a jam. Trouble is, I’m not a person who plans ahead. It seems to take the fizz out of the champagne of exploration. And it just doesn’t seem to apply in certain areas, such as knowing what questions to ask when going on a fishing expedition like this. Besides, preparation is tedious and boring. But I said, “Ah, I’m going to read these maps and reports, figure out what I know and don’t know about the Wasatch fault and public policies concerning building on or near it. Figure out who might know what I don’t know. Talk to those people. Revisit my understanding, repeat as necessary.”
He tapped the small stack of maps and papers I had purchased at the UGS. “What sources will you use other than these?”
“I’ll start with my undergraduate textbooks. Good summaries, but no doubt out-of-date. Move up to the university library. Maybe get into GEOREF.”
“Which is?”
“On-line search engine for geoscience publications.”
“How are you going to contact people?”
“I’ll try the government pages of the phone book first, see who the flak-catchers who answer the phones send me to.”
“What are you going to tell them about yourself? Remember, cover is one of your weak places.”
“I know. If I tell the truth, say that I’m just sniffing around, I stand out like a sore thumb. But if I tell a cover story, such as that I’m a grad student at the U, then I open myself to easy cross-check of my story.”
“And worse yet?”
“Worse yet, I am likely to forget my cover story, because I am at heart a lousy liar. Under pressure, I tend to remember only what makes sense, or is true, or, worse yet, I get confused about who I am. Being prone to identity crises being a problem of mine.”
Tom smiled kindly, amused at my self-evaluation. “Correct. Know thyself first; then get to know thine adversary. Otherwise, thine adversary will teach you about yourself the hard way. And what’s the best way to tell a lie if you have to?”
I recited, “To attach it to the truth. That way, if I’m caught lying, I can say that I was wrong on that part but see this other part is right as rain.”
“Yes. So tell me again: What is your cover story?”
I thought for a moment, then laughed. “I am a geologist. I guess I don’t have to tell them anything beyond that.”
Tom gave his desktop a swat of approval. “Very good. But what if they ask?”
My imagination soared. “Then I’m with EBH Consultants, a small firm out of Wyoming.”
“EBH?”
“Yeah, that’s my initials. Emily Bradstreet Hansen. At least half of all geological engineering firms are three-initial names, very forgettable. And I am out of Wyoming. And I don’t have to be making money to call myself a geologist, damn it!”
I HEADED TO my apartment, figuring I’d sit and read awhile, maybe slide a peanut butter sandwich between my teeth, but, to be honest, my real reason for going home rather than to the university library was not hunger, but the hope of a message from Ray. I knew he had to go on shift in the afternoon, which meant that he was due back in Salt Lake City anytime now, so I was thinking that he might just call me. Or should I say, I was hoping he’d call. A month or more ago, a phone call at such a juncture would have been a foregone event. But things had begun to change between us. To drift. To become … less predictable. And not in a good sense. Our “engaged to be engaged” status was beginning to feel more like simply “stuck.”
There was no call from Rayon my message machine.
/> Trying to tell myself that this didn’t mean anything significant, I kicked off my boots, flopped down on my bed with the maps, and tried to absorb some information from them. But I soon rolled onto my back and found myself staring at the ceiling, that tried-and-true, near-featureless expanse where certain kinds of answers can be found if you can just figure out what, in fact, the question is.
My gaze focused on a crack in the plaster.
A gap had always existed between Ray and me, at least on some levels, and it had begun to widen at Christmas. On the face of things, the rub was that he was Mormon and I wasn’t, but, in our case, this difference wasn’t just a matter of where we went on Sunday mornings. To a couple of overly serious types like Ray and me, this difference carved down through peculiarities of lifestyle, on through habits and rituals, and right down into personal philosophies and the question of whether or not we could indeed proceed as a couple. Ray was a big-time family man. His mother, Ava, was a widow who had not remarried. Being Mormon and the only male of Ava’s five children, the eldest, and therefore twice over patriarch in charge since his father’s death, Ray knew that his presence—and, in fact, his authority—was required at all family events. And if family were a class you took in college, I’d get an F.
My mind followed the crack in the ceiling north and east into Wyoming, up the Sweetgrass River, down the Platte past my grandmother Hansen’s place near Casper, and along the Front Range to Chugwater, to my parents’ ranch. We had been a family, hadn’t we? But a family that needed the wide expanses of the short-grass prairie to get along even as poorly as we did. My parents had gotten on best when Dad was way out in the farthest paddock, miles from the house, mending fence, and Mother was on the couch in one of her silk robes, sleeping off the excesses of another hair of the dog that had bitten her the night before. And where was I? Hiding in the barn, or out talking to the grasshoppers that dined on the forage we needed for the cattle. They never answered, just hopped away, green and yellow speedsters who didn’t need words.
Fault Line Page 7
