“Yes.”
“Come inside,” the maid replied. “She is expecting you.”
Claire followed the maid into the living room, which had hardwood floors stained so dark they appeared burnt. It was a large room running the depth of the house, from the windows that faced the street to glass doors that opened onto the rear patio. The windows had pale blue velvet drapes that puddled where they landed on the floor. The room was large enough to have several groupings of furniture, each including a white sofa, a pair of matching armchairs, and a polished coffee table. The fireplace had ceramic logs and a glass door. While the maid went to get Ada Vail, Claire examined the painting centered over the fireplace, a moody brown landscape by Russell Chatham, a Montana artist she admired. The beauty of the painting and the money it took to buy it prompted the thought that an artist—like an archivist—has to please a few people who have a lot of money, and a writer has to please a lot of people who have a little money. Her job was to please Ada Vail so that the center could keep the journal in its collection and UNM Press could publish it. Although she admired the painting, Claire thought the rest of the room had the effect of new money trying to look like old money. There was too much crystal dangling from the chandelier, too much pale blue carpet with the matching drapes, too many ceramic figurines. It was the House That Felt Had Built.
Claire couldn’t decide which cluster of furniture to sit on, so she walked to the rear of the room and stared out the window at the sprinklers watering the smooth-as-carpet lawn. The cushions had been removed from the wrought-iron patio furniture, making it look skeletal and forbidding.
She heard the sound of a wheelchair in the hallway and turned around to see a nurse in a uniform that stretched tight across her hips wheeling an elderly gentleman, presumably Otto Vail, into the room. “Mrs. Vail will be here shortly,” the nurse said.
She wheeled Otto to the one group of furniture that lacked an armchair and left him there to complete the arrangement. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked as she exited the room, leaving Claire in silence with Otto. Except for blue veins tunneling across the back of his hand, the stroke seemed to have drained the color from him. His thin hair was silvery, his skin the pallid white of flesh that has been wrapped in a Band-Aid or submerged underwater. He had a long, thin face, and his cavernous cheeks made Claire wonder if the nurse had neglected to insert his dentures. He brought silence into the room with him, yet his eyes blazed with an angry blue light. To get closer to his level, Claire sat down on the sofa.
She knew she was talking to fill the void and that even if Otto could hear, he couldn’t respond, but the silence was so uncomfortable that she spoke anyway, trying to keep her voice to its normal cadence and pitch. “Hello, Mr. Vail,” she said. “My name is Claire Reynier. I work at the Center for Southwest Research at UNM, and I’m the archivist for your son’s collection. A grad student named Tim Sansevera brought me the journal that has been missing all these years. He found it in Sin Nombre Canyon a few days ago. It’s a remarkable find.”
Otto Vail looked exactly the same when she finished this introduction as he had when she started. Not a muscle had moved. His eyes continued to blaze. Claire understood there was no way of knowing what a stroke victim heard, yet she felt that Otto had listened to her. Was that her own ego talking or had he made some sign too subtle to be registered consciously? “The center is very happy to have Jonathan’s papers. We deeply appreciate the family’s generosity.”
She heard the staccato beat of high heels in the hallway and stood up, mindful of her role as a representative of the center and the importance of pleasing Ada Vail. The object was to show intelligence and respect, but, she hoped, not to grovel. Ada Vail entered the room. Even in stiletto heels, she was a tiny woman, so tiny that she made Claire feel large and awkward. There were many ways for a woman to age, and Claire knew that longevity didn’t necessarily reward kindness and gentility. Often the women who remained fierce did best. Claire put Ada Vail in that category. Her hair was dyed black, parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun. It was an unforgiving style that accented her sharp brown eyes and prominent nose, and a high-maintenance color that would require frequent visits to the hairdresser. Ada wore bright-red lipstick and a red dress. The vivid colors and dyed hair made a statement. Not that she was young, but that she was vital.
“I am Ada Vail.” She extended a bony hand that sparkled with diamonds.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Claire said.
“Please, be seated. You have met Otto?”
“Yes.”
She sat in the armchair facing her husband. “He doesn’t hear a thing, but I try to include him.” She turned toward her husband, raised her voice, and began to speak slowly and distinctly, as if she were talking to an infant—everything Claire had tried not to do. “Ms. Reynier came here to talk to us about Jonathan’s journal. It has been found after all this time. Extraordinary, isn’t it?” She turned back to Claire and resumed speaking in her normal voice. “Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?”
“No, thank you,” Claire said. “I’ve been admiring the painting.” As her eyes turned toward the fireplace, she had the distinct impression that Otto’s eyes followed hers. “I’m fond of Russell Chatham.”
“He’s a favorite of Otto’s and mine.” Ada turned toward her husband. “Isn’t that right, Otto?” Otto gave no response. Now it appeared to Claire that his eyes were focused on the fireplace, burning as if they reflected a fire there. Ada turned back to Claire. “It was so kind of Harrison to bring me Jonathan’s journal last night. We have been dealing with the center for close to thirty years. Many people have come and gone in that time. I knew your predecessor, Irina, and I am very glad to finally meet you.”
Was that an emphasis on the “finally”? Claire wondered. She had been wanting to meet Ada Vail since she took the job, but interacting with benefactors was an area that Harrison appropriated for himself.
“Personally I always found Harrison’s predecessor … What was his name? Brett?”
“Burke. Burke Lovell.”
“A brilliant man, I’m sure, but rather restless and unpredictable. Harrison strikes me as a courteous and steady person.”
Harrison was steady as a stone, but courtesy was a side of him Claire had yet to see. Someone at the center had to coax generosity from the rich and the powerful. If Harrison was good at it, more power to him. Still, he had sent her on this mission.
“Harrison tells me that UNM is interested in publication, and that, as the archivist, you would be the liaison with them.”
“I would love to see the journal published,” Claire admitted.
“You must know a great deal about Jonathan by now.”
“Only what has been written by him and about him. I certainly don’t know him as you do.” It was as close as Claire could bring herself to flattering Ada Vail.
“He was our son.” Ada glanced at Otto. “But Jonathan had some strange companions after he got involved in the antiwar movement.” Her eyes took on an intensity that equaled her husband’s. Claire had an image of them in a dark room, two pairs of eyes glaring, like those of predatory animals. “The drugs, the hippie friends. There were sides to Jonathan that I never understood. I come from a military family. We sold our products to the government, and we always supported the war effort. In my family the men went to war. They didn’t dodge the draft.”
Claire had nothing to say. She thought the unjustness of the Vietnam War was an issue that had been settled long ago. It hadn’t occurred to her that for some people it never would be settled.
“You are quite sure this journal was written by my son and is not a forgery?” Ada asked.
“If it’s a forgery, it’s a very skillful one.”
“I’m not convinced that all the ideas expressed are my son’s.”
“We’ll have it authenticated by an expert,” Claire reassured her.
“Make that your first step, then we will decide what
to do about publication. If this is Jonathan’s work, there are passages I intend to excise before it can be published.”
That was what Claire had feared she would say. It would take a very understanding mother to allow publication of a book that referred to her as a fucking old lady. Claire didn’t see a lot of understanding in Ada’s straight back and severe expression. She attempted to keep her voice sympathetic without being craven. “I understand how you feel, but scholars will view this as a historical document and will want it published exactly as it is.”
Ada looked Claire right in the eye and said, “I won’t allow that.”
Claire moved on to the next sensitive issue. “We would like to keep the original at the center, if that suits you. We can preserve it there under optimum conditions.”
“That would be acceptable,” Ada said.
“How do you feel about access?” When Ada and Otto had donated Jonathan’s other papers to the center, they limited access to scholars, which was a donor’s right.
“At the moment I’d like to limit access to the handwriting expert and to people who actually work at the center. No students. No press.”
“Would you have any objection to my showing a copy to the grad student who found the journal? He was very careful not to damage the original by reading it. He is doing his dissertation on Jonathan. It would be one way of thanking him for bringing the journal to us.”
Ada twisted a diamond ring on her finger, deliberated for a minute, then said, “That would be all right.”
“There is also the issue of the government investigation,” Claire said.
“What investigation? They did precious little, if you ask me,” replied Ada, looking out the window at a gardener as he snipped off a couple of wandering pyracantha branches. “I had to hire my own private investigator, Nick Lorenz.”
“Even so, the case was never solved, and the center was legally obligated to report the find to the ranger station in Grand Gulch as evidence.”
“Did you see anything in that journal that would explain the disappearance of my son?”
“No. Did you?”
“No. After years of having Nick track down leads that went nowhere, I finally concluded that my son was murdered. In my mind, the prime suspect has always been Jennie Dell. The federal government bungled the investigation the first time. Why give them the chance to do it again?”
“If we refuse to show it to them, they could get a subpoena. It’s possible they’ll see some clue in the journal that you and I missed. The reference to Lou, for example. Do you know who that is?”
“No. Show it to them if you must, but no one else, certainly not the press.”
“All right,” Claire agreed.
“Is there anything else? Otto appears to be getting tired.”
Otto looked exactly the same to Claire as he had when he entered the room. “Would you like to come to the center to see the original document?” she asked.
“Let me think about it.” Ada stood up and extended her hand. “Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you,” Claire replied.
Chapter Three
CLAIRE STOPPED AT DURAN’S PHARMACY ON CENTRAL FOR LUNCH. She sat at the counter and ate tamales, enjoying their texture and heat. When she got back to the center she noticed a man standing beside the reception desk. He didn’t have a hat, but she had the fleeting impression that he held one in front of him. It seemed like the kind of gesture this man would make. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, a bolo tie, and khaki pants that were belted above his stomach. He was at least six feet tall and over two hundred pounds, but his posture was deferential. He gave the impression he was waiting for someone, and Claire suspected she was the someone. She had heard a lot about the kind of person Curt Devereux was, but little about his appearance. Yet her instinct had told her this was what he would look like.
Claire walked up to him, introduced herself, and asked if he was Curt Devereux.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“I made an educated guess,” Claire replied. “I’ve read a lot about you,” Even after she introduced herself, Curt continued to give the impression he was waiting for something. Retirement? Claire wondered. Waiting for retirement went with the territory when a person worked for the federal government. It could be dangerous, Claire thought, to wait until middle age to start living your life. She had recently been through the death of a parent, the death of a mentor, and a divorce. She had come out of that turbulent period with the conviction that life had to be lived every moment, as it happened. She looked into Curt Devereux’s unblinking eyes and placid face. If he felt anger or regret about his career or about anything else, he concealed it well.
“Let’s go to my office,” Claire said.
“This is a wonderful building,” Curt told her. “It’s everything a library should be.”
Claire agreed with him. Zimmerman Library had been designed by the architect John Gaw Meem and was beautifully proportioned, with high ceilings supported by rows of vigas and corbels. “Have you been here before?” she asked as she opened the wrought-iron door that led to the center’s offices.
“I worked in the Park Service office in Albuquerque in the seventies. I used to come in and study the Vail papers to see if I could find any clues to Jonathan’s disappearance in his writing. I know the journal and A Blue-Eyed Boy are available in print, but those versions had been edited and they weren’t in Vail’s handwriting. I thought I might find something in the originals. Maybe I just liked coming here. I always felt I’d like to get a Ph.D.”
“In what?”
“History.”
They had reached Claire’s office. “You have time,” she said as she opened the door, but she knew well enough that some men retired and died before they ever had a chance to fulfill their dreams.
“As I told you, I have less than a year left with the federal government,” Curt replied. “Lately I’ve been pushing papers around and serving out my term, but I pulled some strings and managed to get myself reassigned to the Vail case. It will be getting attention again now that the journal has been found. The federal government doesn’t like to concede that a person can vanish without a trace on public lands. They’d still like to know what happened to Jonathan Vail, and nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to end my career by finding out. May I?” He gestured toward the visitor’s chair in front of Claire’s desk.
“Please.”
As he bent forward to ease himself into the chair, Claire noticed that the hair on top of his head was thin and his scalp was freckled and pink. She sat down herself.
“I assume you’ve read the journal?” Curt asked.
“I have,” Claire replied.
“Will I find anything there that will solve the mystery?” He smiled.
“I’d rather you read it before we talk about it. I think it’s best to read it with as blank a slate as possible.”
“All right,” Curt agreed. “Well, let’s get on with it. Is the document in the Anderson Reading Room?”
“I’ll bring it to you there.”
******
Claire went down the hall to Harrison’s office. His interest in the journal had already turned proprietary. Suspicion came easily to him. “Who wants to see it?” he demanded.
“Curt Devereux, the ranger who conducted the initial investigation. He’s been put back on the case.”
Harrison reluctantly handed over the briefcase, and Claire took it to the reading room. Curt knew the drill and had already surrendered his ID to Gail Benton, the librarian who manned the reference desk. He had put on his white gloves and was sitting, rather demurely, Claire thought, at a table.
“Ah,” he said when she handed it to him, “canyon dust.”
“Ada Vail wants to restrict access to law enforcement and staff. She feels that the notebook should not leave the center.”
“I don’t have any problem with that. I would like a copy to take with me, however.”
�
�I’ll make one for you,” Claire said.
Curt fingered the thick hide. “What kind of leather is this? Do you know?”
“No,” Claire replied.
She made another Xerox copy for Devereux, then went back to her office to wait for his reaction. By now she had read the journal several times, but her first impression hadn’t changed. Ruth O’Connor, a coworker who had noticed Curt in her office, stopped by to ask who he was. Claire had kept her word to Harrison not to talk about the journal, but his resolve appeared to have lasted about five minutes. It was the day after the discovery, and word was all over the center. Anyone seen visiting Claire now was presumed to be connected to the journal.
Ruth reminded Claire of an alert little bird. She was the oldest member of the department, but retirement was not in her vocabulary. She enjoyed what she was doing far too much. Her eyes were sharp behind her trifocal lenses. She had a way of tipping her head when she talked, as if she were trying to find the right viewpoint in the glasses. “Who was that guy?” she asked Claire, poking her head through the door.
“What guy?” Claire responded, even though she knew full well who Ruth was talking about.
“The big one—Smokey the Bear.”
“Curt Devereux, the ranger who investigated the disappearance of Jonathan Vail way back when. He’s still with the Park Service and is reopening the case. He’s in the Anderson Reading Room examining the notebook.”
“Isn’t that just like the federal government?” asked Ruth. “A man messes up an investigation once, and thirty years later they give him the opportunity to mess it up all over again.”
“How do you know that Curt messed up the first time?”
“He didn’t find Jonathan Vail, did he?”
“No.” Claire resisted the assumption, common around universities, that academics were smarter than everyone else. But Ruth believed she’d proven her point and went back to her office.
******
Curt Devereux returned sooner than Claire expected, sat down, and made himself comfortable.
“What do you think?” she asked him.
The Vanishing Point Page 3
