Slickrock Paradox

by Stephen Legault

  “Sit, please,” said Leon, pointing to a matching couch. Both men sat.

  “What did the FBI men tell you when they were here?” asked Goodwin.

  “They said that they would catch the evil man who did this to our daughter,” said Leon.

  “There is a witch at work,” said Evelyn. Leon nodded his head. Silas could see that Darla in the kitchen was less convinced. She rolled her eyes in exaggerated disbelief.

  “We are glad that you found our little girl, Mr. Pearson.”

  “It’s Silas,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Now her soona, her soul, can travel to the underworld. Now she is no longer just qatungwu.”

  “Lifeless, a body,” translated Goodwin.

  “I hope it brings some peace,” said Silas.

  “How was it you came to be in that place, where you found her?”

  Darla brought strong black coffee on a tray and handed them each a cup. Silas sipped his. It was hot and delicious. “I was looking for my wife,” he said. “She has been missing for three and a half years. I thought that maybe she was in that place, but instead I found your daughter. There was a storm, and a flood, and when it was over, I saw her. Under a cottonwood tree.”

  “Is that what happened to your leg?” asked Leon.

  “I was caught in the flood. It’s on the mend.”

  “And why were you looking there? In that place. It’s big country,” asked Leon.

  “I’ve been searching for over three years. I’ve looked everywhere. She went on a hike, within a day’s drive of Moab, and never came back.”

  “Third Mesa is within a day of Moab. Did you look here?”

  “I did. Almost three years ago. Around the Peabody mine. She was . . . an environmentalist, an activist. She worked here on the mesa for years trying to stop the mine.”

  Darla said, “There are only so many white women who come to Hopi. Maybe I have seen her. Do you have a picture?”

  “She was half-Hispanic. Her mother was from Baja,” Silas said, digging out his wallet. He showed the picture to Darla, Leon, and Evelyn.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “I don’t think so. Lots of white people have been trying to stop the destruction on Black Mesa, but only a few come and talk to our people about what we want,” said Leon.

  “I expect that Penelope did. That’s the way she was. I can’t help but think that somehow maybe . . . I don’t know, that my wife would have wanted me to find your daughter.” Silas drew a breath. “I had a dream. The night before. In it, my wife told me to go to this place. The place called Sleepy Hollow. It’s where I was when the flood came. It goes into Courthouse Wash, in Arches Park. It’s where I found your daughter.” The stillness that followed was interrupted as the wind rattled the metal trailer.

  Outside a dog barked. Leon sipped his coffee, drew a long breath and exhaled quietly. “You will keep looking for your answers. My little girl, she has some of the trickster in her, some of the coyote. Maybe your wife does too. One or the other of these women has been tricking you, Mr. Pearson,” said Leon. “When a person dies, they do not go to heaven as your people believe, but instead live on, as spirit, in the rocks and in the corn. In the sky. Sometimes they play tricks. Sometimes they get into our heads, and even our dreams. I don’t know if it was our little girl who got into your head, or maybe it was your wife, your Penelope. One of them wanted you to find Kayah. Whichever ghost led you to my daughter wanted you to find her because Kayah will help you find your wife. You go and do what you have to do to learn what happened to our little girl, and that will help you find your Penelope.”

  Silas sat in complete motionless silence. He felt his heart racing and his breath coming in staccato pulses. He put the cup of coffee down on a tiny end table and stood up.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” said Leon, pushing himself up. “Our daughter’s soona is soon at rest. She won’t play in your head anymore.” Leon put out his hand and Silas shook it and went to the door.

  “Thank you for the coffee. Again, I am very sorry about your daughter. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get a little air,” he said. He opened the door and stepped out into the desert.

  Ten minutes later Darla came out onto the porch with Roger. Silas was sitting in the cab of the truck. He hadn’t moved since coming out of the trailer. Roger and Darla walked over to him.

  “You okay?” asked Roger. Silas said he was, and Roger continued. “You should hear this. I asked about who Kayah was friends with, if she had a boyfriend, who she was working with. The FBI asked the same questions, I guess. Darla just told me something that she didn’t tell the feds.”

  “Why not?” asked Silas.

  “They didn’t show any respect to my father and mother. And they didn’t ask me, just my parents.”

  “Darla says Kayah got a job working with Dead Horse doing archaeological surveys. Mostly for the sake of the Archaeological Resource Protection Act, in advance of some building or development.”

  “About two months before she disappeared,” explained Darla, “Kayah came home for a long weekend. We stayed up one night talking, you know, the way sisters do. She told me about a man she worked with, about how they were . . .”

  “Involved?” asked Silas.

  “Yes, involved.”

  “Who was it?” asked Silas.

  “A man named Peter Anton.”

  “Yeah, Anton was a hired digger for Dead Horse Consulting. I’ve heard his name around,” said Silas. “Anton must have been forty years older than her.”

  “And he was married,” Roger added. “He was also a professor at NAU.”

  “It’s bad for the Hopi to do this,” continued Darla. “The katchina don’t like this sort of behavior.”

  “When she went missing, was this known to the FBI?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t speak with them. Just my mother and father, and they didn’t know about this Peter man. It would have been very bad for them to know. Maybe I should have said something, but I was embarrassed . . . If Kayah showed up, well, it would have been very bad for her if people knew about this. If she was dead . . . Well, what good would it have done?”

  “Where is Anton now?” asked Silas.

  “I don’t know,” said Darla. “I’ve never met him.”

  Silas looked at Roger.

  “I don’t know either. He left NAU around the same time that Kayah disappeared. He got a gig overseas, in Saudi Arabia. I don’t even know if he’s back in the country. What are you going to do?” asked Roger.

  “Find Peter Anton,” said Silas.

  THE SIX-HOUR DRIVE BACK FROM Third Mesa gave Silas a lot of time to consider what he’d learned from his visit to the Wisechild family. The evening sky was shot through with lightning. Thunderheads hung over the tableland of the Colorado Plateau like so many anvils, threatening to crash to earth. Near Kayenta the heavens opened up and Silas, back in his car after returning to Roger’s trailer, parked on the side of the road while rain fell to earth as a single wave of water. Ten minutes later the storm had passed and moved on across the desert.

  The most troubling thing he had learned was that Kayah Wisechild may have been romantically involved with Peter Anton. Did the FBI miss this when they were investigating Wisechild’s disappearance two years ago? Had they missed it again, now that the case was officially a murder investigation?

  There was the business of witchcraft Leon Wisechild mentioned. It was always present among the Hopi and their neighbors, the Navajo. Silas was too pragmatic to believe that a witch had led him to the body in Courthouse Wash, but he was hard-pressed to explain how a nighttime vision of his wife was all that different. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the words that the elder Wisechild had imparted to him: “Follow her.” The words of a desperate father hoping someone—anyone—would find the person who killed his daughter? Or was there something more to his plea to Silas?

  Silas knew that he had to talk with Peter Anton, bu
t he had no idea where the man might be. Saudi Arabia was a long way from Moab, Utah. He also knew that he should inform the FBI of what he had learned, though doing so would create another entanglement with Taylor, something he was anxious to avoid.

  Finally, he knew that he had to learn what it was Kayah Wisechild was working on at the time of her disappearance, and death. It might be conceivable that at some point in the past the young woman knew Penelope. If they had worked on a project together—possibly a campaign to protect important archaeological sites?—Silas might find out more about what his wife was doing when she disappeared.

  It was nearly midnight when he drove through Moab, too late to make his inquires, so he pressed on for home. When he finally arrived, he collapsed on top of his bed, delaying his slumber only long enough to touch the face of his wife in the photograph next to the bed on the nightstand and tell her that he was trying to understand.

  WHEN HE WOKE, he took his morning coffee, along with his portable phone, outside to watch the sunrise over Castle Valley. He dug a scrap of paper from his jeans and dialed the number he had scrawled there.

  “Salt Lake Office, Bureau of Investigation, Trace Evidence Unit.”

  “Dr. Rain, please.”

  “One moment, let me see if she’s in.” There was a silence, then a familiar voice came on the line.

  “This is Rain.”

  “It’s Silas Pearson, Doctor.”

  “Hello, Silas. You know, if you want me to call you Silas, you’re going to have to at least call me Kathleen; Katie would be preferable.”

  “We’ll see about that. Listen, this is a little unorthodox, and you can tell me to go fly a kite, but I want to ask you something.”

  “Is this with regards to Ms. Wisechild’s remains?”

  “In a way. It’s about the investigation.”

  “I’m not a part of this investigation team, as such. I’m auxiliary to the core unit. Are you sure you don’t want to talk with Assistant Special Agent in Charge—”

  “No, thank you. If what I have to talk with you about proves relevant, I’ll leave it to you to decide if Agent Taylor gets involved. I assume you have access to the investigation records?”

  “I do, but I’m not at liberty to share them with you, Silas.”

  “Well, let me run this by you. There is some evidence to suggest that Kayah Wisechild was in a relationship with someone she worked with when she disappeared. A man named Peter Anton. He was married at the time, likely still is. He’s a good forty years her senior. He’s adjunct at NAU and a consultant with the firm that Kayah was working with, called Dead Horse. They’re based here in Moab. Does the Bureau know about this?” He could hear keys tapping and assumed that Rain was accessing the FBI’s internal files on the investigation.

  “How did you come by this information?” she asked.

  “I visited with the family—”

  “Yesterday,” she said, cutting him off.

  “That’s right. You’ve got notes there?”

  “Yes, Agent Taylor noted that he passed you and another man while departing the Wisechild home.”

  “Does he mention Peter Anton, or any suggestion of an affair?”

  “Let me . . .” Silas assumed she was scrolling through the notes. “No. Nothing. He says he questioned the parents about boyfriends and co-workers, but they didn’t say anything about an affair.”

  “They likely didn’t know, and he likely didn’t know how to ask. The man I was traveling with speaks Hopi, and he knew the family. There was trust there. And he asked Kayah’s sister, Darla. She knew. The parents didn’t. In the Hopi tradition, that kind of behavior is considered taboo, the work of witchcraft.”

  “It’s pretty much taboo everywhere, isn’t it?” asked Rain.

  “Do you think it’s important?” asked Silas.

  “I’d say so. I’m not the lead investigator, though.”

  “No, but you are FBI. Do you want to bring it to Taylor’s attention?”

  “Taylor will already be following up with the employer, this Dead Horse Consulting company. That’s standard. He might learn about this Anton fellow there. He’ll certainly ask. He’s likely to turn up this same information on his own. If I send him this information, he’s going to scream about you interfering with a federal investigation and obstruction of justice. That’s going to end you up in an interview room at the Grand County Sheriff’s Office, if not a trip to Monticello. I don’t think you want that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “And that’s likely not going to help you find your wife.” Silas was silent. “Are you still there?” Rain said.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll monitor Taylor’s notes and if in the next day or so if this doesn’t come up, I’ll ask about it. The cause of death would lead me to believe that this was a very personal crime, perhaps a crime of passion, though not necessarily between lovers. I suspect that somebody had a grudge against this girl.”

  “Can you tell me how she died?”

  “No. It would prejudice the investigation. Frankly, Silas, you’re still a suspect—excuse me, a person of interest—until Taylor says otherwise. He makes a notation that your being at the Wisechild residence yesterday is considered suspicious. If you had information about how the girl died, it could be difficult to establish guilt or innocence. That would lead to trouble, for both you and me.”

  “Okay, I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “Let’s hope that I’m not wrong and that you prove to be trustworthy.”

  “I guess it could mean your job.”

  She laughed. “No, I’m not worried about that. I’m one of only three people doing this work for the FBI. And there’s only eighty board-certified forensic anthropologists in the entire United States. I won’t get fired for this conversation. I might get a letter on my file, but nobody will care so long as I keep leading our people to the bad guys. What I am worried about is finding this killer, and I’d very much like you to find your wife. It’s why I got into this line of work.”

  Silas felt a strange sense of relief. It had been a long time since anybody but his closest friends had offered him help. Mostly people just avoided him, or in the case of Jacob Isaiah, scorned his efforts. Here was a complete stranger, and someone in a position of considerable authority, offering him encouragement and assistance.

  “Thank you” was all that he could manage.

  “I’ll call you if anything turns up. You do the same. Goodbye, Dr. Pearson,” she said, and he could tell she was smiling.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Rain.” He broke the connection.

  SILAS HAD NEVER been to the offices of Dead Horse Consulting, but he had driven past them heading south on 191 many times. Located in an industrial complex near the BLM and Park Service Headquarters south of town, Dead Horse was a broad-based business, specializing in environmental assessments, planning, design, and archaeology.

  On Monday morning he drove from his home in the Castle Valley and stopped at the bookstore. He wanted to read up on the company online before he headed out there.

  When he finally set out for Dead Horse’s office, he had learned that the person he needed to speak with was Jared Strom. Silas parked next to several white four-door, extended cab pick-up trucks, all with the Dead Horse logo artfully displayed on the front doors. When he had visited the company’s website, he found that the logo wasn’t at all what he expected. It did not involve a horse, but rather a stylized motif from the ancient Pueblo art found in Dead Horse Canyon.

  Silas entered the air-conditioned office. The receptionist behind the long, faux-maple counter looked up as he approached. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Strom, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, as long as he’s here. What was your name?”

  “Silas Pearson.”

  She picked up t
he phone and spoke with someone. “You’re in luck. He’s in the back. His assistant is paging him.”

  A moment later a broad-shouldered man with a ball cap covering a mostly bald dome entered through the door. He reached out a meaty hand to Silas. “Jared Strom,” he said.

  “Silas Pearson.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “Sure, follow me.” Strom turned down the hall at a brisk pace, and Silas, cane in hand, had to hurry to keep up. Strom led him through a warren of cubicles and partitioned offices to the rear of the building.

  He stopped at a doorway and turned, noticing Silas several steps behind. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I think I only have one speed.”

  “I banged up my ankle last week. Otherwise, I’d be fine.”

  “Hiking?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Let’s sit in my office,” he said, opening the door to a windowless room. He closed the door behind Silas. Strom reached down and moved a pile of files and folders and maps from a black leather chair and motioned for Silas to sit. “Do you want anything? Ice tea? Or something hot?”

  “No thanks. I won’t take much of your time. I want to ask you about something. It’s a little sensitive.” Strom waited.

  Silas continued, “I was the one who found Kayah Wisechild’s body.”

  The man paled. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together.

  Strom said, “The FBI and the Sheriff’s Office came by yesterday morning. I had heard it on the news. They are saying the body was found by a hiker.”

  “That was me.”

  “I see,” said Strom.

  “I want to ask you about Kayah Wisechild, if I may. You see, finding her body has been, well, troubling me.”

  “No doubt it has.”

  “How long did she work here?”

  “Two summers. The first one was three years back. She was a senior at NAU, finishing her degree. We hired her as an intern. The following spring, when she was looking for work again, we found her a full-time position.”

  “What did she do?”