Slickrock Paradox

by Stephen Legault

  “How much do you know about what we do, Mr. Pearson?”

  “Not much, I’ll admit. You seem like a going concern.”

  “We’re a full-service environmental and archaeological consulting firm. What that means is if you want to do something around here that would trigger any kind of environmental assessment, or anything to do with the Archaeological Resources Protection Act—we just call it ARPA—then you hire us. We do any field work and report writing that’s needed to satisfy the BLM, the Forest Service, or the Park Service.”

  Silas had heard Penelope talk about such firms many times. She had painted them as eager to green-wash any project so long as the pay was sufficient. Silas had dismissed this as his wife’s typical one-sided bias. “What was Kayah doing for Dead Horse?” Silas asked.

  “She worked for me. I run the archaeological services side of things. Kayah was young, and a little naive, but she was a solid technician. For example, if someone wanted to build some condominiums up there on the bench above Moab, or out near Canyonlands, or anywhere else around here, they’d hire us to tell them how to do it so they don’t mess up the environment and don’t disturb ancient Pueblo sites of significance. In such a situation, Kayah would work with one of our senior archaeologists at the proposed site and make sure there was nothing of significance there. If there was, we’d advise our client on how to develop the site without violating the various pieces of legislation, the National Environmental Policy Act and ARPA, or sometimes even tell them that they couldn’t build where they wanted to.”

  “That happen often? Where you’d have to say no?”

  “Well, we just advise. It’s up to the BLM and other agencies to say yes or no.” Silas couldn’t remember many situations where someone had been told no by the BLM.

  “Did Kayah work with a man named Peter Anton when she was here?” Silas watched for a reaction. If Strom had any, he didn’t show it.

  “She did. They worked together on a couple of projects.”

  “Where is Anton now? I heard he was working on a project in the Middle East.”

  “I don’t know. Peter was only ever with us on contract. We haven’t used him in the last two years.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

  “There are dozens of guys like Peter Anton out there. They—”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean the timing. Don’t you think it’s strange that Peter Anton, someone who worked with Kayah before she disappeared . . . before she was killed, suddenly decides to go off to the Middle East just after she vanishes?”

  Strom was silent a moment. “I see what you’re driving at, Mr. Pearson.”

  “Do you?”

  “You think Peter was involved in Kayah’s death just because he takes a contract overseas around the time she vanishes.”

  “Seems suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  “Only if Peter hadn’t done that sort of thing every year or two for most of his professional life. He’s spent almost as much time in Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Jordan—you name it—as he has here.”

  “Is he in the States now, or overseas?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Where does he live when he’s in the US?”

  Strom shrugged. “I think he had a place near Cortez, in Colorado. He loved Mesa Verde.”

  “You don’t have a number for him?”

  “We could ask Julie on the way out.”

  “Did you know that Peter Anton was involved with Kayah Wisechild?”

  Now Strom’s eyes registered surprise. “What? Peter? No way. He was a married man. He has a great marriage. No way was he messing around what that girl. I don’t—”

  “Before she disappeared she told someone about it.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it. If you ask me, that’s nothing more than a rumor, the words of someone who had maybe been rebuffed and who wanted to get even.”

  “Can you think of anybody who would want to kill Kayah?”

  Strom studied Silas a moment. “You seem to be asking a lot of the same questions the FBI was yesterday. You said you found the body. What’s your interest here?”

  “I don’t know,” Silas said, “I just can’t get her out of my head.”

  “Look, I didn’t know the girl. She was here for two summers. She did her work. She wasn’t a spectacular archaeologist; just average. Young, you know? When she disappeared, everybody just assumed she went back to the Res. That’s what these kids sometimes did.”

  Silas noted the xenophobic tone to his remarks. Somehow Kayah had gone from a valued employee to just “average” within a five-minute conversation. Strom had gone from having worked with her on projects to not really knowing her.

  “What was she working on before she disappeared?”

  “I honestly don’t remember.”

  “Could you check?”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “Maybe none; might help me sleep better.” Strom regarded him, his eyes narrow. He turned in his chair and pulled his computer over. Silas tried to read over his shoulder without being too obvious.

  “Well, looks like she was working on a contract we had assessing some BLM lands. We were looking at the impact of off-highway vehicle use on trails east of Canyonlands. Nothing terribly exciting; just looking at how access to those areas was affecting low-value sites, such as those with minor rock art panels and flint scatter zones.”

  “Who was that client? Did you work for the BLM?”

  “No, we were working with the Southern Utah Off-Highway Vehicle Club.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Couple of projects doing site restoration in Arches. Park Service was the client.”

  From his chair, Silas could see at least four entries on Strom’s screen. He squinted to read the final entry. There was something that Strom wasn’t telling him; it was there on the screen.

  “That’s it,” said Strom, closing the window and turning around. Silas quickly focused on him.

  “You sure?”

  “Like I said, nothing all that interesting. I don’t see how that will help.”

  “I’m not sure either. I do have one last question,” Silas said, reaching for his wallet.

  “Sure.” Silas handed him the picture of Penelope.

  “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  Strom looked at it longer than was necessary. “Who is she?”

  “My wife. Her name is Penelope de Silva. She went missing in this area about three and a half year ago.”

  “You’re that guy . . . the one who has been looking for his wife. You opened a bookstore.”

  “That’s right. Have you seen her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe around town, but that was five, maybe six years ago. I think I remember her speaking at one of the public land hearings then.”

  “Not more recently?” Silas asked.

  “No, nothing. I haven’t seen her.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “I’ll have Julie get you that number, if she has it.”

  “Thanks,” said Silas. Strom followed Silas out of the office.

  “Would you find Dr. Peter Anton’s number and give it to Mr. Pearson here?” he asked his assistant.

  Silas left the building via the main doors. He was deeply engrossed in his thoughts about what he had seen over Jared Strom’s shoulder. The last project that Kayah Wisechild had worked on before she disappeared had been for Jacob Isaiah.

  SILAS DROVE BACK INTO MOAB. He parked at his store, and was tempted to walk the six blocks to Jacob Isaiah’s office and confront him. He bet the developer knew a great deal more about the disappearance of Kayah Wisechild than he had let on. Instead, he unlocked the store and turned on the air-conditioning. Then he sat at his desk and considered his course of action. If he confronted Isaiah now, he’d likely learn little more than when the man had visited him just two days ago. In fact, Isaiah mi
ght use his considerable power and influence to create a barrier to Silas’s ongoing clandestine investigation.

  He needed another way to learn more about the project Wisechild had worked on. What he needed to do was talk to Penelope. She would know. Nobody lifted a finger to build something, dig something, log something, or drill a hole in something within five hundred miles of the canyon country without Penelope knowing about it. But he’d had his chance, and he had chosen to grade papers and give lectures to bored undergraduates instead.

  Silas sat at the desk for a while, mulling over his options. The piece of paper with Peter Anton’s number on it held a Colorado exchange. It rang three times and a woman answered. Silas sat up, surprised to reach someone. “Is Peter there, please?”

  “Yes, may I tell him who’s calling?”

  “It’s Silas Pearson, but he won’t know me.”

  “Hold on, please.” Silas heard the woman call her husband.

  “This is Anton,” came a deep, resonant voice.

  “Dr. Anton, it’s Silas Pearson calling.”

  There was a moment’s pause. “Yes?” he finally said.

  “I’m a friend of Roger Goodwin’s. He told me I might be able to find you at this number.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Silas hadn’t really considered how he was going to play this, so he decided to play it straight and see what happened. “It’s about Kayah Wisechild.”

  “What about her?” asked Anton without hesitation.

  “Did you hear that her body had been found?”

  “I did. Down in Courthouse Wash. It was in the Denver papers.”

  “That’s right. Dr. Anton, I was the person who found her.”

  “Okay . . . I’m sorry, it was Pearson? I’m not catching your point right now. Who are you again?”

  “I’m the man who found her. I was . . . hiking. I run a bookstore in Moab. I’m just a regular citizen; I’m not with the police. I recently visited her family on Third Mesa. I spoke with Kayah’s sister. She told me that you and Kayah knew each other. Well.”

  There was a moment’s pause. “What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “Start talking then.”

  “Can we meet?”

  Silas could hear the man breathing. “You can come to Mesa Verde. I volunteer there two mornings a week, cataloging artifacts and working on their collection. I’ll be there tomorrow. Call me and I’ll meet you when you arrive.” He gave Silas his cell number.

  “Dr. Anton, have the FBI spoken with you?”

  “No. Listen, do I need a lawyer for this? Or are you after something? Money?”

  “No, I’m not after anything, and I’m not a cop or a private investigator or anything like that. I just want information. That’s all.”

  “Come to Mesa Verde tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see you then.” Silas hung up the phone. He felt a mild electric buzz after the call, as if things were starting to click into place. He stood and stretched. His ankle was beginning to feel better. Soon he might be able to hike again. Maybe he’d test its limits with a stroll downtown to get a cup of coffee. Taking his cane, just in case, he locked up the shop and headed toward Main Street. He was sweating before he got there. He bought an iced coffee from a café and drank from the frothy concoction, then walked another block to the Visitor Center where he turned right and headed up Center Street.

  Absentmindedly, Silas drew near to the Grand County Administration building, which housed the sheriff’s department. He stopped twenty yards from the front doors. The tell-tale black SUVs the G-men drove might be parked around back. He was about to turn around when something occurred to him: the Sheriff’s Office wasn’t the only tenant of this building—so was the records department for the county. Feds or no feds, he decided to pay the registrar a visit.

  The records department was on the second floor. Ten minutes after explaining his business he was seated at a table with a stack of development applications in various stages of approval. He had asked for all of the applications that Jacob Isaiah had filed in the last five years, and now he had a considerable stack of paper to work through.

  Methodically, he read through them all, looking for connections to both Kayah Wisechild and his wife. As he worked his way through the paperwork, he grew horrified by how poorly grown men wrote, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was reading term papers once again.

  After some time, he found what he believed was the last project Kayah Wisechild had worked on. The application was on hold, pending a federal environmental assessment and completion of the requirements under ARPA for assessment of archaeological resources. Silas noted that Dead Horse Consulting was listed as one of several firms retained to do the preliminary assessment work, and that project lead had been transferred—around the time that Kayah had gone missing—from Peter Anton to Jared Strom. And while he didn’t see any reference to Wisechild, he wouldn’t expect to, given her subordinate status within the company. The dates matched, however. The location was listed as latitude and longitude.

  He looked up at the clerk and asked, “Do you have a map of the county?”

  He regarded Silas quizzically. “Of course,” he said.

  “Would you help me find this location?”

  The clerk shrugged and brought a map over, unrolling it on the table in front of Silas. “What’re the coordinates?”

  Silas read them out. The clerk smiled. “What is it?” Silas asked.

  “I don’t need the coordinates for that one,” he said. He pointed on the map. “Here. That one is mostly in San Juan County. We don’t have all the records for that here.”

  “Why is there paperwork on it here?”

  “Part of a bigger proposal spanning the two counties. Something about an all-season resort, condos, a golf course. It’s been on the books for a while. You haven’t heard of it?”

  “My wife keeps track of these things,” said Silas quietly.

  “This is Canyon Rims. It’s BLM land. A recreation area, about half an hour south and west of here.”

  “I’ve been there a few times,” said Silas, thinking about the map on his wall. “I guess it’s time I went for another walk.”

  HE WOULD KILL TWO BIRDS with one stone. He would meet Peter Anton Tuesday morning, and then return to look around the Canyon Rims region later in the afternoon. By 6:00 AM he was driving south, past Moab and over Hatch Wash and past the turnoff to the Canyon Rims region. The Outback was set up with his camping gear, hiking equipment, food, and libations. He figured he would camp in the Canyon Rims region while prowling around, to the extent his ankle would allow.

  He made good time to Monticello, where he turned east on the notorious Route 666. This highway cut through some of the Southwest’s most spectacular country, running east to Cortez and then swinging south through Shiprock, New Mexico, and the Navajo Reservation, to end at Gallup. The highway had recently been renumbered to 491 by the state’s governor because of the bad publicity the number brought to the region.

  Silas drove the route as far as Cortez, where he stopped for gas and a watery service-center coffee, then pressed on to the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park. He called Anton on his cell phone and received instructions to proceed through the park to the Chapin Mesa Museum, where the archaeologist was working that morning.

  Though Mesa Verde was only three hours from the Red Rock Canyon bookstore, Edward Abbey’s many books made only passing references to the area, so he hadn’t considered looking there for his wife. Immediately upon driving into the park and flashing his park pass, he fell in behind a series of diesel-belching buses and lumbering RVs. The impressive view over the North Rim was effectively blocked by the oversized traffic, so he cursed briefly and turned his mind to figuring out the best way to approach Peter Anton.

  The Chapin Mesa road wove its way along the high forested rim and then out onto the Mesa itself. After about half an hour of driving Silas arrived at the museum. Gratefully, he stepped from
his car and stretched. At the museum entrance, a ranger ushered Silas to the back rooms. Silas knocked on the door they approached.

  “Come,” bid a voice from behind the door. The room he stepped into was crowded with artifacts, mostly pottery, but also cases filled with flint shards, spear tips, tools, cooking ware, such as mortars and pestles, and even bones. A strong scent of earth tickled his nose.

  “Over here,” came the voice again, and Silas found the source of the voice behind a tall stack of narrow drawers.

  “Dr. Anton?” Silas asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “It’s Silas Pearson.” Silas limped around a large table containing numerous pots and pot shards. Anton was tall and lean with short gray hair and dark-rimmed glasses. His eyes were deep blue, and the hand that shook Silas’s was firm and dry.

  “So, how did you discover Kayah’s body?”

  After Silas told him, he asked, “Does that explain the limp?”

  “Yes, but it’s just a sprained ankle.”

  “You were lucky—you not only survived but you found Kayah . . . And now you think I had an affair with her?”

  “Well, I understand the two of you knew one another—”

  “That’s right, we did,” said Anton, leaning back on the cabinet of drawers.

  “I mean, more than just professionally.”

  “We were friends. I suppose I was a mentor to her, a father figure, while we worked together at Dead Horse. Her own folks didn’t really pay her much attention or give her the support she needed. She was the only member of her clan to go to college. She graduated in the top of her class. A very bright girl.”

  “Darla Wisechild told me that you and Kayah were in a relationship.”

  Anton suppressed a smile. “You think I was sleeping with my protégée and that I killed her in some lover’s quarrel.”

  “Well, I suppose it does seem curious that Kayah Wisechild goes missing, and then, shortly afterward, you disappear to Saudi Arabia. And this information about an affair—”

  “It’s completely false; utterly and completely absurd. I’ve been happily married for forty-one years now, Mr. Pearson. I have never, never cheated on my wife and I would never even dream of doing so with someone as young and vulnerable as Kayah Wisechild. The timing is purely coincidental, and your accusations conjectural. I have been to the Middle East at least twenty times in my career. I wrote my doctoral dissertation on the lost city of Babylon. My trip to Saudi Arabia was planned six months before Kayah went missing. I was very sad to hear she had disappeared, but not because we were lovers. We were friends, and she was a good archaeologist, dedicated and thorough. Her whole life was ahead of her.”