The Vanishing Point

by Judith Van GIeson

  “Good of you to join us,” Harrison said.

  Ada remained seated, but extended her hand. Claire took it, said hello, and sat down at the table.

  “Do you plan to get something to eat?” Harrison asked.

  “I’m not hungry,” Claire replied.

  Ada wore a black dress and a red-and-black scarf knotted around her neck. Her hair was pulled straight back. There were bright dots of rouge on each cheek, the sign of an older woman whose eyesight is failing.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” Claire said, knowing full well that her own courtesy to Ada was being graded by Harrison. One would think that well-educated people would learn good manners somewhere along the way, but Claire knew the opposite was often the case. The more advanced the degree, the ruder the person was likely to be. Rudeness from someone who should know better came with a capital R.

  Ada had sliced her chicken breast into tiny pieces. She speared one with her fork and held it in suspension between her plate and her mouth. “Harrison said your handwriting expert has confirmed that the notebook is Jonathan’s.”

  “Based on a handwriting analysis, he believes it’s Jonathan’s,” Claire said. It was a slight correction, but would Harrison consider it a discourtesy? She resisted the temptation to look for his reaction and kept her eyes focused on Ada. “August could do some tests on the paper to date it, but that would mean taking the notebook out of the library.”

  Ada put her chicken down on her plate. “Is that necessary?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” Harrison said, soothing her.

  “Anything could happen to the notebook if it leaves the center.”

  “August has impeccable credentials,” Claire replied. “I have full confidence in him.”

  “We all believe the manuscript to be authentic,” Ada insisted.

  “True,” Claire said. “August has established that the briefcase came from Vietnam and is made out of elephant hide. I met with Lou Bastiann.”

  “He’s the Lou who is mentioned in the journal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he one of Jonathan’s antiwar friends?” The piece of chicken had made its way to Ada’s mouth, and she began chewing on it.

  “No. He’s a fan of Jonathan’s who served in Vietnam. He told me he sent the briefcase to Jonathan from Saigon. When he came back he looked Jennie up. They’ve stayed in touch over the years.”

  “Many of Jonathan’s fans looked me up after he disappeared,” Ada said.

  “Of course they would. You’re his mother,” Harrison said in a soothing-as-Pablum voice. Claire was glad she hadn’t gotten any food. Anything chewed on at this table would taste like mush. “Ada is concerned about the death of Tim Sansevera,” he told Claire.

  “We all are,” Claire said. “I wrote to his mother and expressed the center’s deepest sympathy. I’m hoping we can get together when she feels up to it.”

  “Curt Devereux got to Slickrock Canyon before you?” Ada asked, fixing her sharp black eyes on Claire.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know when?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “He should have gone back for that duffel bag the minute he heard it was there. Has it occurred to you that he may have had something to do with the young man’s death? Curt bungled the investigation of Jonathan’s disappearance. Perhaps the duffel bag contained a clue that would prove his incompetence and connect him to Jennie Dell.”

  It was a thought that continued to occur to Claire, coming out of the night like a moth and disappearing back into it again. “Ellen Frank, the ranger who is investigating Tim’s death, seems to know what she is doing,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t trust the rangers to investigate one of their own,” Ada declared. When she got angry, the red spots on her cheeks turned redder, making the rest of her skin appear powdery white. “I’ve asked Nick Lorenz, my private investigator, to look into it. He’ll get in touch with you.”

  Claire was intrigued by the prospect of meeting Nick, another character who seemed to be popping out of the pages of the Jonathan Vail history book. “In all the reported sightings of Jonathan, did Nick ever find any proof that he was still alive?”

  “No,” Ada said. “Which is why I came to believe my son died in Slickrock Canyon, that Jennie Dell was responsible, and that Curt Devereux is protecting her.”

  “Did Nick find any evidence that Jonathan left an heir?”

  “No,” Ada said again.

  Claire intended to ask Nick Lorenz the very same questions, wondering if his answers would be so unequivocal. With any luck, Harrison wouldn’t be present and she wouldn’t be constrained by his notions of politeness. Coaxing money and cooperation from a benefactor resembled walking on eggs. She could do it when she had to, but she’d rather be doing something else. She hoped to meet Nick as far away from Ada, Harrison, and the university as possible.

  “Ada and I have been discussing publication of the journal,” Harrison said, tearing at a piece of bread with his long fingers. His eyes turned into warning lights across the table, and Claire understood why he had arranged for her to arrive late. “Now that it has been authenticated, Ada has agreed to allow UNM Press to publish it. The university, of course, is extremely pleased. Ada will act as an adviser.”

  Adviser, Claire wondered, or hatchet woman? “Will Avery be the editor?” she asked.

  “The committee hasn’t decided yet.” Harrison’s position as head of the center automatically gave him a spot on the UNM Press Review Committee and the power to approve or veto any project. Claire doubted that Avery would want the job under Ada Vail’s conditions. “Since you are a Vail expert, we would like you to contribute in some way,” Harrison said to Claire. “To write an introduction, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” said Claire. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to get something to eat.” If there was anything she didn’t want to do at the moment, it was eat, but a trip through the cafeteria line would take her away from the table.

  “Certainly,” said Harrison.

  Claire walked to the other end of the cafeteria and made her way through the food line, dawdling in front of the salads, weighing the worth of vinegar and oil versus Thousand Island, hesitating before the main course (chicken breast? beefsteak?), considering and reconsidering what she would drink. By the time she returned to the table, Ada and Harrison had finished their lunch and were preparing to leave. She said good-bye, sat down at the table, stared out the window, and picked at her salad.

  She was tempted to call Avery when she got back to her office, but she didn’t feel she’d been authorized to pass on what she’d heard. She knew it was only a matter of time before he would call her. Later that afternoon, Nick Lorenz phoned to set up an appointment.

  “Where is your office?” she asked him.

  “I’m semi-retired,” he said. “I live in Rio Rancho. I don’t go into the office as much now, but I still keep one across the river in the North Valley.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Claire said.

  “All right,” Nick replied in a brusque voice that left Claire wondering whether he wanted to meet with her at all. They set up a time for later in the week.

  The following morning Avery called. “Could you meet me beside the duck pond?” he asked in a whispery, conspiratorial voice. “Say in fifteen minutes?”

  “I’ll be there,” Claire said.

  She left the center, walked around the corner of the library, and sat down on a bench that faced the pond. It was one of those crisp fall days that felt more like the beginning of a season than the end of one to Claire. The leaves on the trees around the pond had changed color. A breeze brushed the surface of the water and turned the reflection to liquid gold. Her sense of having an assignation with Avery was diminished by the fact that they were meeting in plain sight—not only in plain sight but under the brilliant New Mexico sun. There were shadows and lies in New Mexico, but secrets seemed to prefer a murkier climate.

  Claire watched
as Avery came up the sidewalk, taking giant steps. He wore black jeans that made his legs seem even longer. His blue windbreaker flapped while he walked, as if it were an outer manifestation of an inner agitation.

  “Claire,” he said, taking her hand and pecking her cheek without actually looking at her. “Have you heard what the committee is planning to do with the journal? They’re going to let Ada Vail decimate it.”

  “Harrison implied that would happen, but I didn’t feel I could tell you until it became a fact.”

  “It’s a fact,” Avery said. “The committee announced their plans this morning.”

  “In all fairness to them, Avery, if they didn’t follow Ada’s wishes, she’d take the manuscript elsewhere.”

  “Let her,” he said. “This could be the most important publication you or I will ever have a chance to be involved with, but it will have no significance whatsoever after Ada wields her scissors. A censored book is not a book the press ought to publish. They’re asking me to edit it, but that’s nothing more than being a production editor. Good grief!”

  “Harrison mentioned my writing an introduction.” It would be publishing points for Claire, but not the kind of points she wanted.

  “Don’t do it,” Avery said.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I’d quit first,” Avery said. Claire couldn’t help noticing that he hadn’t offered to quit his job. That was the control the committee had over both of them—they’d have a hard time finding jobs they liked better anywhere, much less in New Mexico. “Have you spoken to Tim Sansevera’s mother yet?”

  “Not yet,” Claire said. “She hasn’t answered my letter.”

  “Call her, please,” Avery said, taking her hand, tilting his head, and looking into her eyes.

  “It’s a very long shot, Avery.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  Claire and Avery walked to where the sidewalk divided and went their separate ways. She called Vivian Sansevera when she got back to her office and was rather relieved to get an answering machine. She left a message saying they needed to talk.

  Chapter Eleven

  NICK LORENZ’S OFFICE WAS ON FOURTH STREET, in a strip mall that time and development had passed by. As Albuquerque expanded, new development leapfrogged over the old. Strip malls on the edge of town replaced those closer to the center, and the new malls had a high rate of occupancy. In the older ones, parking spaces were always available, even in the middle of the day.

  This mall had a mail drop, a dry cleaner, a store that sold used clothes, and a store that sold used books, but empty storefronts were spaced between them like gapped teeth. Here the storefronts were known pretentiously as “suites.” For her two o’clock appointment Claire found a parking space right in front of Nick’s door, a sure sign that prosperity had gone elsewhere. If she hadn’t known he was semiretired, she would have thought his business was failing. In the sixties and seventies, when he put in a lot of time for Ada Vail and presumably did do better, this sad little mall might have been on the cutting edge of the city’s development. To stick with a place and a client through good times and bad could be considered a sign of character or the kind of pit-bull determination that Nick was known for.

  He was keeping a low profile in his strip mall. There was no sign on the door, but he had told Claire he worked out of Suite 4. His window presented the blank face of plastic blinds closed tight. She knocked, and Nick came to the door. He was shorter than Claire, with a stocky build and a bald head circled by a ring of frizzy brown hair that reminded her of a clown’s ruff. When he gripped her hand and smiled, she saw gold fillings in his teeth. He wore brown polyester pants and a short-sleeved white shirt open at the neck.

  The office was done in dubious taste, with shag carpeting and fake wood paneling. Claire, who hadn’t expected much in the way of decoration, was bothered more by the imitation Indian art on the walls, swirling ceremonial dancers in garish shades of orange and yellow. There was a shelf behind Nick’s desk full of photographs of the private eye at various stages of his career. She wondered why Ada would hire someone with such a tacky office, but it was possible she had never been to Nick’s office, that she didn’t expect good taste in a private eye, or that Nick’s fortunes had taken a downturn. Here was a man who had dedicated years to the search for Jonathan Vail and had come up empty. Claire had to wonder why. Was there nothing to find? Was he the wrong person to find it? Nick Lorenz might have been out of his element, an urban PI lost in the wilderness.

  “Have a seat,” Nick said.

  Claire sat down in the chair he offered. He remained standing behind his desk, with his hands on the back of the desk chair, as he questioned her about what she had seen in Slickrock Canyon. Her memory of that day was perfectly clear, and she relayed the events she had witnessed.

  “It’s possible that Curt Devereux was in the canyon with Tim Sansevera before you arrived,” Nick said.

  “It’s possible. The rangers are investigating. I would hope they would check his alibi and establish his whereabouts.”

  “He has seniority; they might not. Ada doesn’t have much faith in the federal government.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Claire replied. “But right now they are the official investigators. Does anyone else have the right to intervene in an ongoing investigation?”

  “Not really,” Nick said. He set the chair in motion with one hand and stopped it with the other.

  Claire moved to the edge of her chair, intending to change her role from inquiree to inquirer. “Did Ada give you a copy of Jonathan’s journal to read?” she asked.

  “Yes, and it confirmed my opinion that Jonathan and Jennie were on drugs and got careless. She was a looker. I remember the first time I saw her, at a demonstration at UNM. A band was playing and she was dancing on the stage with her long blond hair swinging. There was a woman capable of wrapping Curt Devereux around her little finger.”

  Nick was enjoying discussing Jennie Dell a lot more than Claire was. She changed the subject. “Did you ever go into the canyons when you were looking for Jonathan?”

  “Sure. I went to Slickrock, where Jennie claimed she saw him last.”

  “What about Sin Nombre?”

  “Where is it exactly?” His hands halted the motion of the chair as he stared at Claire.

  “A few miles into Slickrock toward the west.”

  “I think so,” Nick said. “I never found any trace of Jonathan. Jennie did a good job of concealing the evidence and the body.”

  “By herself?” Claire asked.

  “Either by herself or with the help of Curt Devereux. I never saw any evidence that anyone else was there.”

  But it seemed to Claire that if you accepted the premise that Jennie was capable of concealing a body so well that it couldn’t be found for thirty years, you would also have to accept the idea that she was capable of concealing the presence of someone else in the canyon.

  “Did you ever talk to Sam Ogelthorpe?” she asked Nick.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you believe he saw anyone?”

  “Maybe, or maybe he was just seeking attention. Hard to tell with Sam. He produced a cow carcass, but he could have killed the cow himself. If he was telling the truth, then I’d be wrong about Jonathan dying in Slickrock Canyon. He could have died on Cedar Mesa, which would make the body just about impossible to find.”

  “Do you think Ogelthorpe could have killed him? It would have been a lot easier for him to hide the body than it would have been for Jennie Dell.”

  “That’s something we may never know unless Sam confesses. I’ll tell you one thing,” Nick said. “I am convinced that Jonathan Vail is dead. Ada had unlimited funds, and I spent years looking for him. I searched Utah. I searched the Southwest. I went to Mexico. I went to Canada. Everywhere there was a sighting—and in the early years there were plenty of ’em—I went. Nothing ever checked out.”

  But was it in his interest that nothing ever checked out? Claire wond
ered. Searching the West—north and south—for Jonathan Vail could be a lot more lucrative than doing background checks and conducting surveillance of unfaithful spouses, which is what his business was likely to consist of in Albuquerque.

  “Did you ever feel you were getting close?” she asked.

  “The only time I felt that was in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. Beautiful place. Have you been there?”

  “I have,” Claire said. She knew it to be a charming town of cobblestone streets, pastel houses, and hand-carved doorways. The market had the most beautifully arranged produce she’d ever seen. Even the street vendors were artists in San Miguel de Allende. It had a cosmopolitan population. In some ways it resembled Santa Fe, but to Claire it was more interesting. The weather was good and living was cheap. It wouldn’t be a bad place to spend a winter—or a life.

  “I spent more time down there than I did anywhere else,” Nick said. “Several people contacted Ada in the seventies claiming they had seen Jonathan in San Miguel. That was when the book took off and his reputation spread. At that time vets could go to the Instituto de Allende on the GI Bill, and it became a haven for a certain type of vet. The American Legion post was a bunch of guys stoned on drugs. A kind of cult developed around Jonathan. At one time soldiers hated him for his antiwar views, but later they began to see that he’d been right. When it came to draft dodgers, Mexico had a policy of taking the bribe and looking the other way. It was a place Jonathan might have ended up.

  “The vets had a writers’ group, and a couple of them told me that Jonathan came to their meetings, but they were so zonked out it was hard to know what they saw. My personal opinion was that it was someone posing as Jonathan. They told me the guy—whoever he was—got in a bar fight at La Cucaracha. Some reports said he killed somebody, others said he got killed himself. In the seventies bodies weren’t embalmed in Mexico. They had to be in the ground or out of the country in twenty-four hours. Whoever got killed in that fight was buried the same day in a pauper’s grave with no identification. I checked it out. If you can’t afford to go on paying for a grave, the bones get dug up and dumped on the ground and the hole filled with someone else. It made it difficult to track down just who got killed. I didn’t hear of any more Jonathan Vail sightings in San Miguel de Allende after that, but they slowed down everywhere in the late seventies. When amnesty was granted, I stopped searching. If Jonathan was alive at that point, he would have come back.”