“This is where it belongs,” Tim said. “Will you call me when the copies are ready? I want to read all of it.”
“Of course.”
After Tim left, she slid the notebook back into the briefcase and balanced the package in her white-gloved hands, reveling in the center’s good fortune. Claire had been a librarian for twenty-five years and had never held a document she valued so much. She wanted to read it, authenticate it, solve the mystery of Jonathan Vail’s disappearance. But first she had to copy the journal and report the discovery to Harrison Hough, the director of the center.
She took the journal to the Xerox machine, placed each page carefully on the glass, and made a copy. Then she copied the copy. There was a lot of white space in the notebook. Only sixty pages had writing on them, and some had precious little. The handwriting appeared to be Vail’s, but occasionally the script turned larger and sloppier, as it did on the final page. When the journal was published—and Claire was sure it would be—it would make a very slim book. The size wouldn’t matter to Vail scholars. To them the journal would be an electrical charge from a phantom limb, Jonathan Vail’s message from another era.
Once the copies were made, Claire wanted to return to her office, lock the door, close the blinds, turn off the phone, shut down the computer and read, but she picked up the copies, the notebook, and the briefcase and carried them down the hall to the director’s office. She was still wearing the white gloves, an obvious indication that she was holding an important document, even to an administrator as obtuse as Harrison Hough, who, at the moment, was talking to a colleague. Claire stood outside the doorway and waited until they finished their conversation. Harrison had the only office at the center with exterior windows. They were high up, near the ceiling, and while the sky could be seen through them, students walking by could not. When it turned dark, Claire had the impression a black cat rubbed its back against the glass. As soon as the colleague, Ralph Monroe, said good-bye to the director and headed for the door, Harrison glanced at his watch.
“That looks important,” Ralph said, indicating the briefcase.
“It is,” Claire replied.
She entered the office, closed the door behind her, and walked across the room, feeling as if she was about to hand Harrison a birthday cake made out of dust and paper and hide. He was given to subtle displays. His eyes widened slightly and he dropped the paper clip he’d been fiddling with, making Claire wish all over again that his predecessor was sitting in the director’s chair.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I believe it’s Jonathan Vail’s missing journal.”
“No!”
“Yes. A graduate student just brought it to me. He said he found it in a cave near Slickrock Canyon.”
“Which graduate student?”
“Tim Sansevera.”
“Never heard of him.” Harrison’s long, pale hands reached across his desk. “Let me see. I have some familiarity with Vail’s handwriting.”
“You should wear white gloves to look at the original, Harrison.”
“I don’t have a pair.”
“Then let me show it to you. In addition to being one of the literary finds of this half of the century, the journal could be evidence in a criminal investigation.”
Claire stood beside Harrison’s desk and opened the notebook to the first page.
“What an incredible coup,” Harrison said. “We’ll be the envy of every center in the Southwest.” He read the first entry. “The paper and ink appear old enough, and the writing could be Vail’s. What do you think?” he asked, acknowledging rather tardily, Claire thought, that she was an expert.
She turned to the last page. “I think it’s his, but the writing changes now and then. We will have to have it authenticated.”
“The press will want to publish it, if it is Vail’s.”
“We’ll need the family’s permission.”
“They’ve been generous and cooperative so far. Otto doesn’t speak since he had his stroke. I know Ada well. She’s a member of Friends of the Library. I’ll talk to her. We should keep this discovery quiet until I do.”
“We need to contact the rangers at Grand Gulch. Jonathan’s disappearance is not an active investigation, but it’s a case that was never solved.”
“Would you take care of that?”
“All right.”
“What do you think of this Tim…?”
“Sansevera.”
“Can we trust him? Could this be a theft or a hoax?”
“I’ve given Tim the Vail papers several times. He’s doing his dissertation on Jonathan. I don’t know him well, but I doubt he’s a thief. What motive could he have for a hoax?”
Harrison’s impatient shrug implied that that was all too obvious. “Career advancement,” he said.
Claire hated to part with the original and the dusty briefcase, but Harrison insisted on locking them up in his office. She left one copy with him, took the others back to her office, and did what she had been wanting to do ever since Tim Sansevera showed up—hole up and read the journal. It resembled eating at a five-star restaurant for the first time or seeing a movie of a book she loved. Reality would have a hard time living up to anticipation.
Claire’s inclination was to read for style first, then for content. The handwriting seemed to be Jonathan’s under normal conditions, and occasionally Jonathan’s under duress. It was his elliptical style with flashes of dazzling description. But there were fewer of these passages than she would have expected and more than she cared to know about the beans and rice he had eaten for dinner. Sometimes the writing seemed rushed, sometimes it seemed pedestrian, sometimes it seemed self-indulgent—but Jonathan had often seemed self-indulgent to Claire. There was nothing about Jennie Dell or about Jonathan’s plans, although he did explain what he was doing in Slickrock Canyon. “Hiding out in the canyonlands. Trying to get my head together. Hoping they’ll never find me.”
“Who?” Claire wondered before moving on to the next entry.
“Haunted by what happened to Lou.” Much as she knew about Jonathan, Claire did not know who Lou was.
There were numerous references to the fucking war, the bitch, and the fucking old lady. Claire feared that this was Jonathan’s mother, Ada Vail, who was known to be imperious. Insulting her could make publication difficult. Claire wondered which would come first with Ada—the need to preserve her son’s legend or the need to preserve her reputation. Publication didn’t appear to have been on Jonathan’s mind when he wrote the journal, but the pressure to publish now would be intense. Publication might do his legend a disservice, but even if it wasn’t published, the journal was likely to be read and reread. Much would be seen in it that might not have been intended.
Claire felt that the first reading could be the purest reading. She tried to make her mind a blank slate before approaching the notebook. Once it had been read by others, her own reading might be influenced by their interpretations. When she finished, she put down the Xeroxed copy of the journal and considered what she had learned. There was little to advance Jonathan’s reputation as a writer or a person, but much to harm it; possible clues to the riddle of his disappearance, but no solution; many questions, no answers. Jonathan’s life and disappearance remained a puzzle.
Claire looked up the number for the Grand Gulch Ranger Station, called and asked to speak to Curt Devereux, the ranger who had investigated Jonathan’s disappearance in 1966. She didn’t expect Devereux to be at Grand Gulch after all this time, but his was the only name she had. When a woman answered the phone, Claire introduced herself and asked for Curt.
“I’m Ellen Frank,” the woman said. “Curt is in the Gallup office now. I can give you his number there if you like.”
“Please,” said Claire.
Claire wrote the number down, then said, “I’m an archivist at the Center for Southwest Research at the University of New Mexico. Are you familiar with the legend of Jonathan Vail?”
&nbs
p; “Somewhat,” Ellen answered. “We sell his novel and his journal at the ranger station. They’re popular with backpackers. Not as popular as Abbey, but people still like to read them.”
“A student just brought me a notebook he found in Sin Nombre Canyon that appears to be Vail’s missing journal.”
“You’re kidding. After all this time? Is it in good shape?”
“Excellent.”
“The student should have brought it to us. It’s not an active investigation, but Vail’s disappearance is a case that has never been solved.”
“I told the student that. He also found a duffel bag, which he left in the cave. I’m sure it will be of interest to whoever is conducting the investigation. Do you know who that would be?”
“I’m not sure, actually. That case has been inactive for so long. I know whoever it is will want to see the notebook. Can I get back to you?”
“Of course.”
Claire hung up, then dialed the number she had been given for Curt Devereux. She had never met him but was curious about the man who’d been in the eye of the storm that swirled around Jonathan’s disappearance. Claire explained who she was and why she was calling. There was a pause. Curt cleared his throat and said, “My God. After all this time. Do you believe the journal is authentic?”
“It appears to be, but we intend to have it authenticated by the family and a handwriting expert.”
“I always wondered if Vail might have ended up in one of the side canyons. I’ve been all over Sin Nombre, but never found a trace.”
“The student who brought it to me said he thought the cave had been covered by a rock slide and uncovered by another slide.”
“That’s possible. What’s the student’s name?”
“Tim Sansevera. He’s a Ph.D. candidate writing his dissertation on Jonathan Vail.”
“It used to be that students visited me, but I haven’t spoken to one in years. Sansevera shouldn’t have taken the journal out of the cave. It’s not old enough to fall under the Antiquities Act, but it is evidence in an investigation that has never been closed.”
“That’s what Ellen Frank said. She told me she didn’t know who would be in charge of the investigation at this point.”
“I’ve got less than a year left here. I’ve been thinking about Jonathan Vail since the sixties. I sure would love to close my career out by finding out what happened to him. Thanks for calling. Someone from here will be in touch.”
Chapter Two
CLAIRE LIVED IN THE FOOTHILLS in an area of high desert vegetation—cholla and prickly pear blending into piñon and juniper as the elevation increased. The only deciduous trees in her neighborhood had been planted by developers and residents. Her rear windows gave her a close-up of the Sandia mountains, which sparkled like an effervescent wine in the sunset’s afterglow and turned cold and surreal beneath the light of the moon. The view from the front of her house, across the city and into the dusty vastness of the West Mesa, was almost too large to appreciate, although the sunsets were spectacular. There were times when Claire preferred the walls, the vegetation, and the seclusion of her courtyard to either view.
When she got home that night, she put her copy of Jonathan’s journal on the bench by her front door, picked up her cat, Nemesis, and walked through the house. The cat was gray, the carpeting was gray, the walls were off-white with a minimum of artwork and decoration. Her house was subtle and subdued, and Claire liked it that way.
It was late October, and there was enough of a chill in the air to contemplate lighting the first fire of the season. Claire had two choices—the wood fireplace in her living room and the gas stove in her bedroom. She decided on the gas; it was easier and cleaner. She went into the bedroom, clicked the remote, and watched the gas flames lick the ceramic logs. Then she went to the kitchen, where she cooked herself some frozen pasta for dinner, her favorite meal since her divorce. One advantage to being single was that she didn’t have to make her husband a salad every single night. By the time she had finished eating, the stove had warmed her bedroom and the cat had warmed her bed.
She took the copy of the journal to bed, thinking she would read it one more time, but it lay on the bedside table while she stared at the fire and thought about Jonathan Vail. She had seen him only once, at an antiwar demonstration she attended while visiting a friend at UNM. It was in the early summer of 1966, right after her freshman year at U of A. Jonathan had finally graduated from UNM by then and had already published two books. The Journal of Jonathan Vail, a record of time he’d spent wandering in the canyonlands, was published in 1965. It had some beautiful nature writing and was far more polished than the recent discovery, but he’d had a chance to work on that book with an editor. A Blue-Eyed Boy was published in the winter of 1966. It didn’t find its audience until after Jonathan disappeared that summer, but Claire read it when it came out. Even then, before she knew she would be an archivist, she read everything she could get her hands on about the Southwest.
A local band called Las Margaritas had played at the demonstration. They had a few years of notoriety and popularity in the Southwest before breaking up. Claire remembered Jonathan and Jennie Dell sitting on the stage. Jennie got up and danced with the band, swinging her long blond hair and tapping a tambourine. Jonathan remained seated, looking withdrawn and sullen. When he finally spoke, he mumbled. Claire wasn’t sure if the slurred speech was an affectation or if he was under the influence of drugs or alcohol. He had been known to show up at book signings inebriated. It was a time when being incoherent was considered appealing, and there was something rebellious and attractive about the slightly built, blue-eyed boy with the thick brown hair falling across his forehead. His manner was intense. He swayed as he gripped the mike. Claire wasn’t sitting close enough to see the blue eyes Jonathan was famous for, but she saw the reaction of other women in the audience, the adulation that male writers can provoke in women.
Jonathan was twenty-three then, and in a few more years he would have become ineligible for the draft. Speaking out in public risked attracting the attention of the draft board, but that was how Jonathan Vail had lived, taking every risk, accepting every challenge. There were times when Claire envied his recklessness and his courage.
******
She kept her word to Harrison and didn’t mention the journal to anyone when she got to work in the morning. The only way she could do that was to hide in her office and avoid her coworkers. Whenever Harrison entered her office, Claire felt a shadow glide across her desk, an amorphous kind of eastern shadow, not the sharp one cast by the New Mexico sun. She could always feel his presence, but sometimes she hesitated before acknowledging it. He cleared his throat, which was the signal it was past time for her to look away from her computer screen.
“Harrison,” she said. “Hello.”
He liked to give the impression that he was too busy for pleasantries, getting right to the point. “I dropped a copy of the notebook by Ada Vail’s house on my way home last night. She was, as you can well imagine, overwhelmed by the discovery.”
“Of course.” Harrison usually maintained that he was too busy to sit down, so Claire had stopped offering him a chair. She could have stood up herself and been on his level, but she didn’t do it. Respect was granted or denied by subtle gestures in academia.
Harrison picked up a paperweight from Claire’s desk and cradled it in his long white fingers. He had the fingers of a pianist, but Claire, who had been a musician herself, was convinced he had never played. Harrison didn’t have a musical soul.
“Ada is an elderly woman,” he said. “Still very active, but in her eighties. I feared the shock might be too much for her. After all, this was a message from the grave, from a son who has been gone and presumed dead for more than thirty years. She recovered well, however, thanked me profusely and said she would read the journal overnight.” Harrison put the paperweight down two inches from where he had picked it up. “She called me this morning. There were things she f
ound disturbing in the journal. She wants to talk to you. I made an appointment for you to meet at her house at eleven-thirty.”
Claire glanced at the time on her computer screen. “That’s an hour from now, Harrison.”
He placed his fingertips together, forming a tent, and pointed the tip of it at Claire. “Ada has been most generous to the center.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“We need the notebook to complete the Vail collection. I’m counting on you to keep Ada Vail happy.”
“I’ll do my best,” Claire said, but she felt she would have been able to do a better job if she’d had time to prepare herself. Harrison had barely given her time to comb her hair before driving across town to the Vails’. Claire hated to be late, so she tended to arrive early. If it was her first visit, she might be as much as half an hour early, which often left her with time to kill driving around unfamiliar neighborhoods.
Today, she ended up ringing Ada Vail’s doorbell at eleven-twenty. The Vails lived in a large house near the country club. The lawn, an intense, clipped green, was surrounded by pyracantha that had been trimmed to form a hedge. At this time of year, it was embellished with orange berries. Claire thought pyracantha was a nasty plant, full of thorns, but planting one beneath the window did keep intruders away. The Vails’ street was lined with cottonwood trees that cast deep pools of shadow. It was quiet and verdant, a long way from the dust of Sin Nombre Canyon.
The doorbell was answered by a Mexican maid with features that Claire identified as Mayan.
“Hola,” she said.
“Buenas dias,” the maid replied.
“Is Mrs. Vail home?”
“You are Señora Reynier?”
The Vanishing Point Page 2
