“Be careful.”
“You too.” She laughed and they said goodbye. Silas picked up his wife’s journal from the passenger seat and opened it to a place that was bookmarked. He read the passage there:
North Rim Fire Lookout. If there was going to be a museum, or some sort of built infrastructure that celebrates Edward Abbey and the National Monument that will one day sprawl across the American Southwest, it would have to be this simple building at the entrance to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. It’s the only building he ever seemed to love.
Jane Vaughn spent her life working to protect the Grand Canyon. Penelope had celebrated the work of Edward Abbey by proposing a national monument. Those two worlds seemed to converge at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, and the fire lookout where Abbey spent four summers keeping watch over the dark forests that cloaked that landscape. Silas put the car in gear and, head aching, started on the four-hour drive to the Arizona Strip and the North Rim where Abbey’s novel Black Sun was set.
THE COLORADO PLATEAU IS HIGH and dry, ranging in elevation from two thousand feet above sea level at the bottom of the gorge of the Grand Canyon to more than twelve thousand feet near Cedar Breaks in western Utah. Its striations of sedimentary stone have been bent, folded, twisted, and contorted into every conceivable shape, and some that simply can’t be imagined; they have to be seen to be believed. Among the myriad landforms that mark the Four Corners region the canyons are the most dramatic. Where the Green, Colorado, San Juan, Dirty Devil, and Escalante Rivers snake like bits of discarded wire across the land, they cut thousands of feet into the desert’s stone, bringing life to an otherwise desperate land, and form intricately beautiful grottos.
HE WOKE TO birdsong. Silas had slept next to his Outback on the ground, swaddled in his goose-down sleeping bag, in the Kaibab National Forest. It was not yet light. The air was cool, but not cold; the bite had been taken out of winter. The dawn chorus of the upland forest birds filtered through the pungent odor of the pine woodland. Thirty minutes later he was seated on a peninsula of stone near the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. He’d driven into the park and found coffee and a muffin at the North Rim Lodge before making his way along the paved path to where a few dozen silent onlookers watched the day begin. Watching the sunrise over the Grand Canyon was like watching the lights come up at an intricately designed theatrical production. The night’s blue veil was slowly pulled back, and minute by minute the striations of stone were cast into brilliance. As the day began the canyon seemed to exhale a deep breath, and on the back of that breeze dark ravens rode the thermals into the sky. Silas closed his eyes and felt the canyon’s breath on his face. When he opened his eyes again a raven was hovering just a few feet away, over the drop-off, balancing on the movement of air. It croaked once and glided off into the distance. His coffee grew cold. He felt something wet on his bristly cheek and was surprised to find a tear there. He hurriedly wiped it away. For the first time in four and a half years Silas felt he truly grasped what it was his wife had been trying to do.
It was time to get to work.
SILAS DROVE FROM the North Rim back along the route to where Grand Canyon National Park ended, and the Kaibab National Forest began. The earth was flat; it was hard to imagine that just a few miles away the defile of the Grand Canyon carved a path 277 miles long through the upland plateau.
Through a series of turns and diversions along old forestry roads, Silas found his way to his destination. The aspen forest was just starting to leaf out; the trees’ acid green leaves shimmered in the morning air. He parked in a small gravel lot and walked along the path to the fire lookout. A cabin sat squat against the earth, surrounded by dark woods. The fire tower rose four stories above, its spindly legs appearing much too fragile to support the lookout structure that topped them. He reached the base of the tower and, ignoring the warnings, stepped over the barrier and climbed the tower. He could hear the wood structure, built in the 1930s, creaking as he paced upwards. As the wind picked up the tower seemed to sway.
He reached the lookout box and tried to push open the trapdoor in the floor. It was stuck. He looked at the handle and noticed that there was a heavy lock. Silas climbed back down the four flights of stairs and turned his attention to the cabin. He tried the door but it was locked too. He went to one of the building’s small windows and wiped the winter’s grime away. He looked inside, but the room was empty. He turned around in frustration. He had wasted his time. There was nothing here that would lead him to his wife.
A heavy padlock jangled against the old door when Silas fiddled with the handle. Next to the door he noticed a box like the ones found at trailheads on National Forest lands. He stopped playing with the door and opened the lid. Inside was a register. He felt his pulse quicken.
He opened it and quickly thumbed through the entries to see how far back the journal went. It had been in its box for nearly a decade! With his palms sweating in the cool morning air he placed the book on the lid of the box and started to scan the entries.
Penelope’s wasn’t hard to find. About halfway through the register he found a place where someone had left a much longer than usual greeting, and immediately recognized her handwriting. He closed his eyes a moment and then read.
For four years Edward Abbey made this cabin and the tower above his home. From the top you can look out over the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and the vast forests beyond. It is a land of dark woods, soaring peaks, and deep canyons. It is teeming with wildlife, fish, birds, and it is threatened by logging, dam building, pollution, overuse, and bureaucratic malaise. Imagine a vast National Monument protecting all of the places Edward Abbey loved so that in the future we can all appreciate them for what they are: America’s greatest treasure.
From here, on the North Rim, we can look down a mile into the earth and see one of the great rivers of the West, and of our nation: the Colorado. But even here, in this National Park, this thin thread of rust-colored water is threatened. Too many people traveling by motorboat mean that the experience of the early explorers is lost to those who would take their time. Too many people wanting to tear up the Arizona Strip looking for radioactive dust. And the impact of that most hated of all edifices to human greed and ignorance—Glen Canyon Dam—just upstream continues to desecrate both the upstream and downstream ecosystems. It’s time to return the Colorado to its original state; it’s time for this river to be designated as Wilderness.
Silas read the passage twice and then closed the log book. The words echoed what Penelope had written in her own journal. Silas thought of something, opened the book again, and found the entry once more. Penelope had signed it and so had Darcy McFarland. A third name was on the register: Kiel Pearce. Silas stared at that name for a long time. He had never heard of this man before.
SILAS QUICKLY FOUND THE STORE located near the campground at the North Rim. After buying half an hour of internet time, he found Kiel Pearce in about five seconds. The man had a Facebook profile and listed Lee’s Ferry, Arizona, as his home address. His occupation was “River Guide for Grand Canyon Boatmen River Tours.”
Pearce looked to be in his mid-thirties, with unkempt curly hair and a pair of sunglasses pushed up to hold some of the more errant strands from falling into his face. He had a dark tan, with lighter skin around dazzling blue eyes. He wore a broad smile and had perfect, ivory teeth.
Silas scrolled through the man’s “likes,” which included the Southern Utah Wilderness Society, River Runners for Wilderness, and the Grand Canyon Preservation Society—the group that Jane Vaughn had led. Vaughn didn’t seem to have a Facebook page of her own. Back on Pearce’s page, Silas considered the man’s posts. He seemed to visit the page almost daily, posting thoughts on Wilderness, running rivers, and the boating season on the Grand Canyon, now underway. Pearce had many friends all over the country and around the world, and Silas suspected these were people he had guided on the Colorado and elsewhere.
Silas noticed, however, that the man hadn’t
posted a note in about ten days, and he immediately felt a lump form in his throat. Then, near the top of the man’s page, was a message posted by Grand Canyon Boatmen that tagged Pearce:
Kiel, we are looking for you. If you read this message, call. If others have any information about where Kiel might be, please contact us, or Coconino County Sheriff’s Department.
There were numbers listed for both.
Silas left the building without logging out of the web page.
HE FOUND A pay phone outside the store and, using his calling card, dialed the familiar number.
“Hollyoak.”
“Ken, it’s Silas.”
“Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days!”
“I’m on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. There’s not much cell reception here.”
“I’ve got some news for you on Penny’s NSA file. It’s going to take some time to get it. A few weeks, maybe a month. Taylor refuses to tell me anything about why the FBI might have been monitoring Penelope, what they might have found that could lead you to where she is, or where she got to.”
“I think I might have some ideas on that, Ken. But that’s not why I called.”
“You’re not in jail, are you? Did Smokey the Bear catch you lighting illegal campfires again, Silas?”
“That’s funny, Ken, but no. Listen, I found an entry in the register at the North Rim Fire Lookout that Penny made about six months before she disappeared.” He explained and then continued, “She wrote about the smog, development, the dam.”
“Which dam?”
“Well, according to her way of looking at the world, the only dam: Glen Canyon. I think I might be on to something. She talked about ‘The River’ a lot, both in this entry in the register and in her journal. The entry she made in the registry was signed by Darcy McFarland and a man I’d never heard of named Kiel Pearce. The problem is that nobody knows where Kiel Pearce is. He’s been missing for ten days.”
SILAS FOLLOWED KEN’S advice to a T. “Special Agent Eugene Nielsen, please. It’s Silas Pearson.”
“This is Nielsen.”
“I have something for you that might be related to your current investigation into Jane Vaughn’s death. It might also be related to the murder of Darcy McFarland last summer.”
Silas filled him in and could hear Nielsen typing in the background.
“There was a missing person’s report filed eight days ago. The Coconino County Sheriff’s Department Patrol Division in Page took the report. They are working with State Troopers running down leads.”
“Have they got any?”
“You’d have to ask them. The FBI isn’t involved, at least not yet. We don’t have jurisdiction unless the crime crosses state lines or is committed on federal land.”
Silas nodded, even through Nielsen could not see him. “Until this morning I’d never heard of Pearce.”
“But he knew your wife?”
“That’s right. At least, it seems as though he did. They visited the North Rim of the Grand Canyon together just six months before Penelope went missing. Did you know of Mr. Pearce?” Silas asked. He could still hear the quick clicks of Nielsen’s keyboard.
“No, not formally. It appears as though he crossed our radar at one point, but we haven’t maintained an interest in him.”
“Does he have a criminal record?”
“I can’t say, Dr. Pearson. Privacy.”
“Does he have an FBI file for any reason? Were you watching him too?”
“Dr. Pearson, I think you should call the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office in Page. Let me give you the number.”
“I can find it, Agent Nielsen. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Dr. Pearson, your involvement in this matter is suspicious and, to be frank, I don’t buy the dream bullshit. I think you’re in this up to your neck. I mean deep in it.”
“You were watching Kiel too. What did he and Penny have to do with one another?”
“I strongly encourage you to contact the sheriff, Dr. Pearson. What is your location now?”
“Good bye, Agent Nielsen.” He hung up the phone.
SILAS DROVE NORTH INTO THE Arizona Strip and then turned east on Highway 89A. After backtracking his previous day’s route he turned onto the road that led to Lee’s Ferry. The road paralleled the Marble Gorge, a slender defile in the Kaibab Plateau carved out by the Colorado River, and a preview for river runners of the much larger world to come through the Grand Canyon proper. It was sundown when he reached the campground at Lee’s Ferry.
The site was nearly full, but he found a spot at the far end of the campground, quickly set up his tent, and took a warm beer from the water in the bottom of his cooler. He walked through the area, nodding to a few other campers, and made his way down to the Colorado.
Lee’s Ferry is the starting point for trips down the river through the Grand Canyon. When Silas got to the river, there were several rafts being inflated for an early start the following day. Half a dozen pickup trucks with trailers were parked nearby, and a large tractor-trailer with an empty flatbed behind it idled in the evening air. Silas shook his head and wondered why someone didn’t shut the thing off when he noticed the logo on the door: GRAND CANYON ADVENTURES. That was the business owned by Paul Love. Silas and Hayduke had read the angry letters sent by Love to Jane Vaughn just a few nights before in her Flagstaff office.
Silas stood in the half-light of dusk and scanned the shore of the river. Several large pontoon-style rafts were tied up there, their rigging being secured and motors being hoisted into place by scruffy-looking river guides. Beyond the commotion of boat people and boats the Colorado River curled between cliffs and shore. All he had wanted was to sit at the end of a long day and watch the river flow, watch the color bleed from the sandstone walls of Glen Canyon and the Marble Gorge and drain from the water between them. Instead he downed the rest of his beer, threw the can in a trash receptacle at the top of the boat ramp, and wandered over to where the outfitters from Grand Canyon Adventures were outfitting the boats.
There were four guides there—three men and one woman—but none looked up as he approached. They went about their work in a methodical fashion. “Evening.”
A man in a worn and faded baseball cap with a pair of sunglasses perched on the brim looked up, smiled through a heavy beard, and nodded hello.
“I’m looking for Paul Love.”
The same man smiled and said, “You won’t find him here. He’s over with the truck.”
Silas walked to the truck. It was now nearly dark, but he could see a light in the cab. He put on his best happy tourist face and knocked on the door. He saw a face appear in the window and then the door opened. Silas stepped back. “Good evening.”
“How can I help you?” Love wore a golf shirt and a pair of jeans. He had a deep tan. The light from the cab of the truck backlit his salt and pepper hair.
“Are you Paul Love?”
“That’s me.”
“Silas Pearson. I was a friend of Jane Vaughn. Do you have a moment for a few questions?”
“What about?” Love had gone back to making notes on his clipboard.
“Maybe you haven’t heard—”
“Heard what?”
“Jane Vaughn’s body was found. She’s dead.”
Love stopped a moment and looked down at Pearson. “You a cop?”
“No. Like I said, just a friend. An acquaintance, really.”
“I’ve got a manifest to complete for tomorrow’s trip, boats to finish rigging, and a group of VIPs up in the campground to orientate. I’m pretty busy here.”
“I just wanted to know when the last time you saw Jane was.”
“I don’t recall. A year? Two? She was busting my balls about something at a public hearing. I didn’t really know her.”
“Really? Weren’t the two of you pen pals?”
Love laughed. “If by that you mean she wrote me a lot, telling me that she was going to s
hut my business down, take away my livelihood, bankrupt my family, and leave my kids on the street, then sure, we were pen pals.”
“That doesn’t sound like Jane. She said those things?”
“Not in so many words. But she wanted to designate the Colorado as capital-W wilderness. That means no motorized access. That would kill my business.”
“That’s an interesting choice of words, Mr. Love.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Love put the clipboard down and Silas took a step back from the open door of the idling truck.
“It’s just that you sent a letter to Jane Vaughn telling her that she should go and drown herself in Lake Powell.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I read the letter. Jane has it on file. The FBI likely has it too.”
“I told her to go and jump in Lake Powell.”
“The intent was clear, Mr. Love.”
“She wrote me to explain that she was going to propose a wilderness study area in the next round of management planning for the Colorado River. I wrote her back. That’s all that was.”
“Well, she had your letter with others in a file that she considered to be threatening. Why do you think that is?”
“Listen, Sherlock, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m not answering any more questions from you. If the FBI want to talk with me, they can sign up for a river trip. I leave tomorrow for seven days. But you—I don’t have to talk with you for another second. I’m done.” Love put the clipboard on the truck’s seat and jumped down from the cab. He was an agile man and stood as tall as Silas but outweighed him by twenty pounds. Silas took another step backwards.
“Jane Vaughn was murdered, Mr. Love. She was beaten to death, and her body dumped near Moab.”
“I’m real sorry to hear that. But I didn’t have anything to do with it. Now, excuse me.”
“What about Chas Hinkley?”
“The superintendent from Glen Canyon? What about him?”
“I’ve heard he’s a silent investor in your business. That’s a conflict of interest, isn’t it? If you were shut down to make way for Wilderness designation, he’d be out a lot of cash, wouldn’t he?”
Black Sun Descending Page 8
