“So Smith had legislation about the Compact before the Senate, and then he let it die? Why would he do that?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
“I’m not seeing it in the records at the BLM office. But I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh, by the way, Hayduke has been arrested. He got in a fight in the pizza parlor in Escalante.” Silas told him what happened.
“You going to bail him out?”
“I don’t know. He’s being held in Panguitch, which is an hour and a half away. He’s being formally charged tomorrow morning.”
“You should go and post for him.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, there’s going to be trouble. Plus, he’s bailed you out a few times. I might not like him, but he’s been there for you. You need to be there for him.”
“I’VE BEEN COVERING Utah politics since Brigham Young was the Governor of Utah.”
“When was that?”
“1851.”
Robbie laughed and bought the man a cup of coffee. “I appreciate you seeing me, Mr. Dawson.”
“It’s just James. Or Jim. You’ve got some interesting questions, and while I’m old, I’m not out to pasture yet. I still keep a desk at the Tribune, and I can write pretty much anything I want. I’ll tell you what I know, and if anything you’ve got going leads to a story, I’d like first crack at it. Agreed?”
Robbie nodded and sat down by the window of the café. Jim Dawson sat across from him. He fidgeted as if he wanted a cigarette. “So, what do you want to know?”
“Tell me about C. Thorn Smith.”
Dawson smiled. “What’s he done now?”
“Somehow he’s involved in a project to develop a resort in the Escalante region. My father’s wife was trying to stop the resort, and she did, at least temporarily. But then she disappeared, and she was recently—”
“Found. Yes, of course. De Silva, right?”
“That’s right. Penelope de Silva. She went missing five years ago. Her body wasn’t found until recently. My father, her husband, moved to Moab to be closer to where he thought she disappeared. He has been searching—”
“Searching for her ever since. Yes, yes, I cover politics, but everybody in the press knows about your father. We call him the Dreamer.”
“I know. He loves that.”
“What does C. Thorn have to do with this?”
“I was hoping you would tell me. He was a backer of this project, a booster I guess you’d call it. But suddenly he dropped off the radar screen.” Robbie filled him in on the possible connection between the Escalante Resort and Penelope’s murder.
“Yes, of course. Now I get it. Did he drop off the radar screen before or after Ms. de Silva was murdered?”
“Before. But not by much. A few months or so.”
“And this project, it was in the Escalante?”
Robbie told him about the project and its backers.
“Of course, don’t you see? These people are all connected, at least the major players. Eleanor Barry was C. Thorn Smith’s executive assistant when he was mayor of Salt Lake City. She was with him on his gubernatorial campaign, and served under him for both his terms here. There were rumors, gossip really, that she actually did serve under him, if you know what I mean. But that was never proven.”
“She is the face of this project. She runs a real estate development business out of Escalante now. And she’s got Jacob Isaiah as a major backer.”
“You see, there’s another connection. Isaiah has had his hand in the senator’s pocket since Smith’s first term as governor. Isaiah has funded both of Smith’s gubernatorial campaigns, as well as his various runs for the US Senate.”
“So it’s easy to see why Smith would back the Escalante project.”
“Of course, but he backs every development opportunity that comes along. He’s never met a mine, a gas field, a hydro project, or a resort scheme that he didn’t like. It’s his Achilles heel. It works well in Utah, but it doesn’t play well outside of the West. Voters in Utah love his boosterism, but it doesn’t do him much good in Iowa, New Hampshire, or South Carolina.”
“The first three US presidential primaries. But being too tight with the business community can’t hurt you that much, can it? Didn’t you have a vice president who ran a major oil services company out of the White House recently?”
Dawson laughed. “So true. No, it’s just that Smith has more challenging blind spots.”
“What’s the dirt on him?”
“Well, it may have started with Eleanor Barry, but I don’t think it ended there.”
“But you’ve had presidents who have been philanderers in the past.”
“True, true, but I think someone has something particularly incriminating on Thorn, and they are lording it over him.”
“Do you know who?”
“No idea. If I did, I’d have put the thumbscrews to them.”
It was Robbie’s turn to laugh. “My dad thinks that the senator is mixed up in Penelope’s death somehow.”
“It’s not out of the question, but it’s a hell of a stretch. She was a thorn in his side, if you’ll pardon the pun. I could see him taking someone out politically, digging up some particularly incriminating opposition research, but I don’t see him killing someone.”
“He proposed amendments to the Colorado River Compact a few years back. Then he dropped them. What was that about?”
“He wanted more water for the upper basin states. But California, Arizona, and New Mexico have more electoral college votes and have more members in the House of Representatives; it was a no-win situation. He had to let it drop.”
“There wasn’t something else? What about this rumored dirt?”
“I haven’t heard of anything.” Dawson made a note in his pocket notebook for the first time during the conversation. “But let me look into it.”
“Will you call me if you find anything?”
“You bet. You know, it’s a funny thing about Smith. He’s got something up his sleeve. He’s a climber. Mayor, governor, senator. What’s next? He’s a young man, just early sixties; he’s got a lot of political life left in him. If someone really does have dirt on him, and it was bad enough that it would keep him from the next rung on the ladder—a long-shot run for the party nomination, say, and maybe the second billing on the big ticket—then I might reconsider what I just said. That might be enough to push him over the edge.”
26
SILAS DROVE TO PANGUITCH THE following morning. In the middle of October, the weather in the high plateau of southwestern Utah could fluctuate wildly from brilliant sunshine to violent storms. Silas got a little of both on his hour-and-a-half drive. A brief deluge near Bryce Canyon forced him off the road until the sun appeared and cast golden light across the storybook landscape.
He arrived in the small town set in a green valley between upland portions of the Dixie National Forest an hour before Hayduke’s scheduled court appearance. He ate breakfast at a diner on Main Street and proceeded to the courthouse.
Shortly after he arrived, Hayduke’s case was called. The young man was led into the courtroom wearing a jumpsuit emblazoned with the words GARFIELD COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. He looked pale and disheveled.
The case docket was read and a public defender made a brief statement explaining that the situation had been an innocent dispute and that Mr. Charleston had promised to apologize to the complainants to settle the matter out of court. He asked that the Class B misdemeanor charges be dropped.
The prosecutor rose to her feet and explained that Mr. Charleston had a history of violent behavior, had been charged with assault in the past, and had recently spent several months under close supervision for both physical and mental trauma associated with post-traumatic stress disorder.
“This young man,” said the prosecutor, “has a troubling propensity for aggression and antisocial behavior. He has no ties to Garfield County and is a flight risk before
trial. The people recommend bail be set at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Hayduke looked straight ahead. From behind, in the gallery, Silas couldn’t discern the expression on his face.
The public defender spoke briefly with Hayduke. The young man nodded and then the public defender addressed the court. “My client is a veteran of the Second Gulf War, your honor, and has undergone treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder in the past. After suffering an injury earlier this year, he voluntarily sought treatment for recurring trauma associated with his combat experience. He is not a threat to society. We suggest a more reasonable bail of one thousand dollars, which is more in keeping with charges associated with a simple scuffle.”
The judge set the bail at five thousand dollars and Hayduke, without a glance back, disappeared from the courtroom, his head down.
SILAS WAS WAITING for him when he emerged from the court building.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The young man sounded subdued.
“Josh—”
“It’s nothing, Silas. I’m fine, really. Getting shot just triggered some stuff. Some bad feelings. I worked through them.”
“Where were you?”
“Seattle, with my parents.”
“I thought your complexion looked more West Coast than Baja.”
“You bailed me out.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I figure I owed you. Plus, I can’t have my sidekick locked up in the joint. Who’d watch my back?”
“What are we going to do now?” asked Hayduke.
“What do you mean? We’ve got to get back to Escalante, man. We’ve got work to do!”
“AGENT TAYLOR, IT’S Silas Pearson.” He was standing in the washroom of a gas station halfway between Panguitch and Escalante.
There was a moment’s pause. “What can I do for you, Dr. Pearson?”
“In the spring, when we were in Page, you told me that my … acquaintance Josh Charleston had a criminal record.”
“He does: assault.”
“I just picked him up from a courtroom here in Garfield County. He got into it with Eleanor Barry’s husband and ended up punching him.”
“That sounds consistent with his impulsive behavior.”
“I don’t know how stable the man is. I wonder if you have people who could do a behavioral profile?”
“What does this have to do with the cases we are working on?”
“Likely nothing, Agent Taylor, but I’d feel a lot better if we could rule some things out. I’m starting to feel as if Mr. Charleston is more liability than benefit to this …”
“You were going to say investigation, but then you know that you’re supposed to be keeping your nose out of this, don’t you?”
“I’m thinking that Josh might be doing more harm than good.”
“I’d say that is true for both of you, Dr. Pearson, but yes, maybe more so for your friend Hayduke.”
“IT’S A TOWN of eight hundred people; I don’t think you’ll just blend in.”
“If my Jeep hasn’t been towed, just drop me there. I’ll camp out in the Monument; I’m happier that way anyway.” Hayduke had been mostly quiet for the hour-and-a-half drive back to Escalante.
They drove into town and Hayduke’s Jeep was where he had left it. As Hayduke was getting out of the rental he stopped. “You know, this shit doesn’t make any sense. Your good buddy Jacob Isaiah, and that fucker who pointed a gun at us, Paul Love—I just don’t see how they could have killed all those people.”
“I do. I think it’s perfectly feasible. They had a lot of money on the line.”
“They had money on the line in the Hatch Canyon business, and at the Grand Canyon, but in the end, neither of them was involved in the death of the Wisechild girl or your wife’s friend from Flag.”
“They were involved, but just not in the way we thought. What are you thinking?”
“You told me that Smith’s name has come up again.” Hayduke had his hand on the frame of the Ford but hadn’t gotten out.
“Yeah; he had this big idea a bunch of years back to rewrite the Colorado River Compact. Hold more water behind Glen Canyon Dam for the upper basin states. Surely you and Penelope must have discussed this.”
“A little, but that sort of thing, you know, legislation and such, didn’t interest me much. I’m more of an action kind of guy. So, you think the Compact ties into what Eleanor Barry wants?”
“I do. Both she and her investors want the water level high enough to build a new marina at the Hole in the Rock. It’s not going to happen unless we can reverse climate change or find some other way of refilling Lake Powell.”
Hayduke said, “I think this all comes back to Smith. He’s been a constant throughout all of this. That slimy fucker wanted to refill Lake Powell by changing the Law of the River six or seven years ago. I bet if that kid of yours looks into it, he’ll find out that C. Thorn is back at it again. Didn’t you tell me he’s touring around the state talking about water?”
“That’s right. I saw him in Blanding the other day. But why now?”
“Because everybody who was trying to stop him is dead.”
“You’re not.”
Hayduke straightened up and looked around. “Not yet.”
27
“IT’S JIM DAWSON CALLING. I wonder if you’ve got a minute this morning to have coffee?”
Twenty minutes later Robbie Pearson was sitting in a coffee shop a few blocks east of the Salt Lake Tribune offices. Dawson was waiting for him.
“You said this might be important?” Robbie sat down with a coffee.
“It might be. I don’t know.” Dawson drew a deep breath. “Six years ago, one of my colleagues—a veteran political reporter named Harvey Kresge—died in a car accident. He was on his way to cover a rally in Price and he went over the guardrail on Soldier Summit. There wasn’t much left of him or his car. They say his brakes failed. Whatever happened, Kresge was working on a lot of files at the time. This was just before C. Thorn’s last run for reelection for the Senate and old Harvey was the bulldog assigned to cover him. Now, don’t get me wrong here; the paper had endorsed Smith. They were big fans. But Harvey marched to his own drummer, and he wasn’t making it easy for Smith. So, tragic accident. And nobody really picked things up. All his files got put in the basement and that was that. Kresge had this habit of holding all his sources close to his chest. He’d written Personal, do not open on the boxes of his paper files, so nobody had. After our conversation the other day, I decided to go and have a look. I remembered that Kresge had done a few stories on this Colorado River Compact business and wanted to see what he might have had.
“I spent a few hours reading his notes. Your stepmother was a royal pain in the ass to C. Thorn Smith. I mean, Kresge had a whole file filled with information that she had provided him. None of it had ever been used in print, but it was damning stuff.”
“What was it? No, wait, don’t tell me. Smith was having an affair. The rumors were true.”
“There were photos.”
“You’re kidding. And Penelope was the one that had these? Jesus, I never thought that Penelope would play that kind of hardball.”
“She was, and she did.”
“And she gave all this to Kresge?”
“She did. I don’t think she took the photos herself. I don’t know who did. They were in a file that Kresge had with Penelope’s name on them. It looks like private eye stuff. No nudes or anything, thank God, but there were shots of Eleanor Barry holding hands with the senator and him looking all dewy-eyed at her. There was one of them kissing. It looks like it was shot through the back window of a car. Both of them were married to other people at the time.”
Robbie was quiet for a while. Dawson sipped his coffee. Finally Robbie spoke. “You think that Penelope gave these same photos to the senator?”
“Not much good to her or her ca
use if she didn’t.”
“So my father’s wife was blackmailing a US senator.”
“Risky business, son. Very high-risk proposition. And there’s more. There was a purpose to this blackmail. It wasn’t about money. It was about something that seemed way more important to Ms. de Silva.”
“The Colorado River.”
“You got it. The Compact. I figure she struck a deal with Kresge. She was feeding him stories, and gave him the photos to hold on to. I think the deal was that if Smith didn’t drop the senate bill to amend the Colorado River Compact, then he could publish them.”
“Why wouldn’t Kresge just publish them anyway? What was in it for him to hold onto a juicy story just so some environmentalist could kill a bill in the Senate?”
“Good question. I can’t be sure. De Silva must have had something else for Kresge; otherwise he would have run them leading up to the election six years ago.”
“You haven’t found out what that was?”
“Not yet. I’m going to dig further. But I think I can guess.”
“No way. That wasn’t her—”
“Easy, son, that’s not what I meant. I think she offered him exclusivity. There’s got to be more copies of these images kicking around. Someone must be holding a copy of them. There were other names in the files, people that Kresge talked to, or who were helping him dig up dirt on the Colorado Compact story. Wanna guess who?”
Robbie didn’t hesitate. “Darcy McFarland.”
The reporter held up his index finger indicating that was one.
“Kiel Pearce.”
A second finger. Robbie felt his stomach turn over.
“Two more names. I don’t think that Kresge ever talked to them. I’m not really sure who they are. One guy’s name is Josh Charleston.”
Robbie’s mind was racing. His hands had started to sweat and he rubbed them on his jeans until they were hot. “Hayduke. He calls himself Hayduke.”
“Abbey fan, hey? Get a lot of those in the environmental biz. The other guy’s name was Tabby Dingwall.”
The Same River Twice Page 10
