CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WE RETRACED OUR ROUTE, hiking the humpbacked path down from the mesa to the barely-there road where we'd left the SUV, and then driving the roundabout journey back into the valley, encountering again the Dolores River following its paradoxical course.
We followed it across the valley into the red-rock canyon cut into the northeastern wall. There, we took a jog onto a well-maintained dirt road, passing through scrubby sagebrush land, and quickly came to a dead end.
A chain-link fence and barbwire-topped gate blocked further progress.
“End of the line,” Wes said. He shut off the engine, leaned back against the headrest, and tipped his ball cap down.
I got out and craned my neck to look up the red canyon wall to the mesa where we'd stood about an hour ago.
Doors opened and slammed shut.
I trailed Neely and Justin and Edgar and Walter, all of us crowding up to the gate.
We could see, on the other side, a few squat flat-roofed buildings, uninspired-looking oblongs. Of more interest were the six squat towers overlooking what appeared to be a big pool, with a smaller one at the far end of the fenced enclosure.
Two cars were parked outside the nearest building.
There were no people in sight.
Neely called out, “Yoo-hoo!” Nothing. She tried again, louder. Nothing. She shouted, “We'd like to do some filming here!”
That did the trick.
A door banged open in the nearest building.
A wiry man in jeans and checked shirt and work boots came hurrying out, striding to the gate. A deep frown seamed his tanned face.
The man eyed Edgar's camera. “You can't use that here.”
Neely launched her pitch. “Hi there! I'm Neely Hawthorne, with Hawthorne Group Productions. This is my crew—Justin Brice, Edgar Easton—and my geologists, Walter Shaws and Cassie Oldfield.” She waited for the man to introduce himself. When he didn't, she continued. “We're here doing a documentary on the Colorado River, and its tributaries—like the Dolores. The salinity issue. We'd love to ask a couple of questions and get a little footage.” She flashed her high-wattage smile. “What do you say?”
“I say this is a restricted area.”
“A couple of minutes will do it.”
“Who are you, really?”
Justin took over. “I'm a journalist, and I do have some understanding of what's at issue here.”
The man's eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“For starters, why your river is so salty.”
“For a documentary.”
“That's right. We'll do a brief backgrounder. How the valley was formed millions of years ago when a huge salt dome collapsed. How groundwater still dissolves the old salt beds, brining the Dolores. Seven times more saline than ocean water. And the Dolores feeds that salt into the Colorado—its biggest salinity point source.”
The man said, “You've already got your story.”
“Half of it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. We'll explain how salt's a problem. For power plants. For crops. For native species. For us.” He added, “Ancient civilizations died when their rivers got too salty to irrigate crops.”
“Ancient doesn't involve me.”
“How about modern? You, and this facility, are doing a valuable job here. Extracting brine from the groundwater—and then injecting it, as I understand, down deep in a rock layer where it will stay put.”
“Get the hell out of here,” the man snapped.
Justin actually flinched.
Neely stepped in. “I'm sorry, but I don't understand your anger. Mister...?”
“Darrill Jansen,” the man said, voice gone steely. “Remember that name. That's the name going on the complaint to your film company. Hawthorne Group Productions, was it?”
Now she was the one to flinch. “Mr. Jansen, what's the problem? All we want is to be sure to get it right.”
“No you don't.”
“Yes,” Walter said, stepping in. “We do.”
Jansen's focus swung to Walter. “You're the geologist, you and Miss Oldfield. Yeah, I caught your names too. You think I don't know why Miss Hawthorne wants geologists on her project?”
We were all struck pretty much dumb.
Walter found his voice. “Perhaps you'd care to enlighten us?”
“It's the injections,” Jansen said. “The deep-rock injections.”
We just waited.
“Come on,” Jansen said. “You're here because of the earthquakes.”
That took us aback.
“Don't play ignorant,” Jansen said.
Walter said, “I understand that you're injecting salt brine, at high pressure I presume, down into deep rock. I understand that could cause earthquakes.”
“Tremors,” Jansen said. “Mostly small ones.”
Neely put up her palms. “All right, Mr. Jansen. Small quakes. So how about you give us the latest on that?”
Jansen now advanced up to the gate. Right in our faces, only the steel separating us. “I know why you're here. You're here to get some kind of bullshit evidence about the quakes being worse than reported. And I know who hired you.”
Very carefully, very sweetly, Neely said, “Oh?”
“Damn right. The Lassens.”
If he had suddenly electrified the gate we could not have been more shocked.
“Lassens?” Neely asked. “L-a-s-s-e-n?”
“Who else? They're the ones leading the group in the valley, trying to shut us down. They own that damn fishing lodge and filed a complaint, tremors hurting their business.”
I gaped.
Lassen.
Fishing lodge.
Fishing buddies.
WE PILED BACK IN THE car.
Wes straightened. “Where to now?”
Neely was already Googling the address for a fishing lodge run by someone named Lassen.
“What are the odds?” I asked.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WALTER STARED UP AT the sign. “That's pure Reid.”
The carved sign hung from a log crossbeam over a slatted gate set within a split-log fence, all of it pure decoration, as opposed to the chain-link barbwire fencing at the brine-extraction facility. Here, one could straddle the low fence. No need, though, because the gate stood open.
Wes had parked the SUV outside the gate and taken his usual reclined position while the rest of us got out and stood gaping at the Lassen lodge—the Devil's Nose Lodge, as the carved letters in the wooden sign read.
Walter said, still eyeing the sign, “Dance right under the devil's nose, he'd tell us, in the field. I always took it as encouragement. Be bold. Climb the cliff. Go in the cave.”
I watched Walter appraising the sign. That what he was doing now, about his past with Reid? Reappraising? What had Reid said or done back then, right under the devil's nose, right in front of Walter and the other grad students on those field trips—and they all should have taken notice, but they didn't? Walter was sure taking notice now. He'd started today's journey out of sorts, vexed that Reid had neglected to mention the Mancos when we'd talked geology at the hospital. And now Walter was gobsmacked by the 'devil's nose' at the Lassen lodge. Reid's old homestead? Must be.
Walter had been silent during the drive from the brine facility, and the rest of us had followed suit. Even Neely. It was a short loop drive, ending at the sprawling lodge that abutted the red cliff, with a knockout view of the Dolores River and the mouth of the canyon we'd just exited.
It was, I thought now, a primo site for a fishing lodge. One could stroll down to the river and throw a line in the water.
I wondered if the place was open for business. There were no guests rocking on the slider swing on the deep front porch. There were no vehicles in sight, other than a white van with black lettering that said LASSEN.
Still, the place looked cared-for. The planked siding was evenly stained, and the pitched roof looked tightly shingled, and the doors
were painted red as the cliffs, and the windows—tall here, wide there—gleamed in the bright midday sun. A concrete patio swirled like a river along the long front face of the lodge. At one end, a cottonwood tree shaded Adirondack chairs and wood tables, painted cliff-red. Leading up to the patio was a winding crushed-gravel path bordered by green cactus and red sandstone boulders.
Behind the lodge was an ocean of green. Some kind of crop.
“Nice place,” Edgar said.
“Get some footage,” Walter said, surprising me.
“No,” Neely said.
Surprising me.
But Neely had got it right, because a big red door swung open and a woman strode onto the porch, cradling a shotgun.
Neely put her hands in the air.
The woman laughed, a big strong laugh that carried all the way to the gate, where we stood on alert.
“Was hunting varmints,” she called to us.
I thought, she might find that we qualify.
The woman set the shotgun on the table beside the swing and headed our way.
First thing I noticed was the obvious, her faded jeans and plaid shirt and scuffed boots, the sort of clothing a lodge owner in Colorado would wear. The sort of clothing I wear, more often than not. Next thing I noticed was her height, at least five foot eight. Her hair, next—slate gray in a spiky cut. I was thinking, Reid has a wife? As she got closer I could see her features, skin tanned as expected for a Colorado lodge owner but it was a golden tan with the slightest squint lines. A gently-aged face. Her eyes were coppery brown and her mouth was wide and her nose was straight and I saw the resemblance. She was every bit as good-looking as her brother. Not a wife. Reid's sister, right? Age about right. Lassen name sure as hell right.
The five of us said our hellos and gave our names, in turn, Walter last, and if the woman recognized the name of her brother's old friend, she didn't show it.
“Charlotte Lassen,” she said, in reply. “Sorry for the shotgun but we've been having a rat problem.”
Walter was supposed to take the lead here but he was studying Charlotte Lassen like she was a species unto herself.
So I jumped in. “Aren't rats nocturnal?”
“It's easier to find their burrows in daylight. The shotgun's for the snakes.”
“You don't want the snakes getting the rats?”
“I don't want the snakes getting my ferrets. My ferrets get the rats.”
I said, “Ah.”
“But that's all by-the-by,” she concluded. “Now, you all. If you're interested in booking the Devil's Nose, we're closed for maintenance. But I can show you around.”
Walter took over. “Thank you but we're not here for a booking. We're in the area doing a documentary,” he nodded at Edgar and his camera, “and we found ourselves over at the brine plant, where Darrill Jansen mentioned your name.”
She stiffened. “You here to get my anti-quake group in your documentary?”
Walter said, cautiously, “If you like.”
“I don't like. I get enough grief from the press. So you can turn around and take yourselves down the road.”
“Actually, we're here because of your name.”
She gaped.
Walter pointed at the sign. “I once did graduate work with a man who used the phrase devil's nose. He went by the name Reid Darnay. I've recently learned he goes by another name. Reid Lassen. Perhaps you're related?”
She looked more closely at Walter. And then she said, neutrally, “He's my brother. You can find him in the Flagstaff hospital.”
Walter said. “Then you know about the rafting accident.”
“I know. He phoned me.”
“We saw him yesterday. He was in and out of consciousness.”
“He'll survive.”
Walter appeared at a loss for words.
“You're looking for sisterly concern.” Charlotte Lassen lifted her arms, as if she wished to cradle her shotgun, and then she crossed them tightly. Her shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing sinewy arms. “My brother and I have a rocky relationship.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. And if that answers your questions, I believe we're finished here.”
“Not quite. We're trying to learn more about the rafting party. There were three others—one drowned, two still missing. Reid said they were fishing buddies.” Walter indicated the lodge. “I understand people come here for the fishing. Perhaps Reid met them here?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Frank Hembry, Sam Pendleton, Megan Schrader.”
“Ask Reid.”
“As I said, he's unconscious.”
“And I'm busy. I run the lodge, I do some alfalfa farming and I need to adjust the watering, alfalfa's salt tolerant to a point but this damned drought is pushing it, and then we get these crazy weather swings like this winter's storms that tore things up, and I'm backed up on maintenance, and I'm leading a group to stop those damned quakes, and I'm in a border dispute with a neighbor who harasses my clients. And I've got varmints to hunt. I'm busy, Mr. Shaws.”
He said, “It's Walter, please.”
“And I'm Charlotte. And we're done here.”
“Charlotte, I've just reconnected with my old friend. And now I learn he has a sister. And roots here. I'd like to learn more.”
“You're wearing out your welcome, Walter.”
“Then before we go, might we impose upon you to use the facilities?”
“You gonna pee in the bushes if I say no?”
Walter shrugged.
She grew a narrow smile. She hiked a shoulder toward the lodge, turned, and started up the path.
Walter took that as assent. He followed Charlotte Lassen.
Wow, I thought, pretty cagey partner.
Neely said, “I could use the facilities, myself. Justin, Edgar, you too.”
“Road rules?” Justin asked.
She grinned. She called to Wes, “Road rules, cousin,” and Wes got himself out of the car.
She didn't have to ask me, I fell in behind the others, road rules, and equally pressing I felt the need to find out who Reid Lassen had been before and after he'd been Reid Darnay.
As I walked up the gravel path toward the Devil's Nose Lodge, something caught my attention at the far edge of my field of view. Something running. Long and slinky, low to the ground. One of Charlotte's ferrets on the hunt, perhaps.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DEVIL'S NOSE LODGE, inside, was as effective as it was outside.
There was the Western decor—necessary no doubt for a Colorado fishing lodge—but the walls were a sleek silvery wood instead of knotty pine, the area rug on the slate-tile floor was a clever geometric river design, and the furniture was smooth leather, no haired cowhide in sight. The massive fireplace was framed by red sandstone slabs. Over the fireplace was a stunning photograph of a swimming trout, rainbow colors like river pebbles.
Charlotte leaned against a table, same silvery wood as the wall planks. “Only one facility, at the far end of the great room. Since you all barged in, you'll have to take turns.” She eyed Walter.
His request. He headed for the facility.
The rest of us waited. Justin leaned against another silvery table, Wes settled into a roomy leather chair, Edgar stood awkwardly by the door cradling his camera, and Neely began a circuitous route around the great room, examining this and that. I found my own table to lean against, the polished burl of an old oak. There was a framed photo on top. I leaned in for a closer look. I took it for a family photo: a slightly younger-looking Charlotte flanked by a scowling man seemingly in his twenties and a smiling girl in her late teens. Two more ridiculously good-looking Lassens.
The man was dressed all in black: jeans and T-shirt and a black bandana tied pirate-style around his blond hair.
The girl wore green: green to match her mossy-green eyes, green sweatshirt and shorts and a lime-green barrette shaped like a Dachshund holding back her red curls.
<
br /> I liked her.
I found Charlotte watching me. I said, “Your kids?”
“You wouldn't think so,” a male voice said.
I turned, startled, to see him emerge from some back hallway. I recognized him as the young man in the photo. Still dressed in black. Hair shorter, a buzz cut. Unsmiling.
“She's never around,” he said. “Took our dad's name,” he said. “I took mom's name.” He looked to Charlotte. “The family name.”
He came up to join his mother. There was no room to lean against her table so he stood awkwardly beside her.
“Meet Jeff Lassen, my right-hand man.” Charlotte added, “His father's out of the picture now.”
She supplied our names to her son, and we said our hellos.
And then another voice came from the back of the great room—Walter returning from the facility—saying, “A lot of names in play here.” Walter gave Jeff Lassen a friendly smile, introduced himself, and then took a spot in front of the fireplace. “It seems Reid wasn't happy with his family name, either. As I mentioned, I knew him by the surname Darnay. I can't help wondering why. And when he became a Lassen again.”
Charlotte said, “Facility's available. Next.”
Walter said, “Charlotte, Reid was a very close friend for a long time. And then he presumably died. I was devastated. How about you?”
She jerked, as if she'd been slapped.
“Did he allow you to believe he'd been killed?”
Her face turned stony. “Yes he did.”
“I'm sorry for the both of us.”
Jeff Lassen started to speak, got out three words, “He never even...”
But his mother cut him off. “You want the sad story of my brother? You got it. Reid left home when he was seventeen—I was fifteen. He couldn't get along with our folks. They tried to set limits, and he didn't like limits. They died not knowing where he'd gone. I built my own life, built this lodge. Married, kids, divorce. Life goes on. And then I heard that life didn't, for Reid. Same thing you heard. And then a few years ago Reid waltzes back into my life. Tells me about his life—college, geology, living in Australia. Says he's sorry for never even writing, says he thought I resented him for escaping the folks. And I say fuck that, how about letting me think you were dead? And he says sorry for that too. And he won't explain what happened, just says it was a tragedy and it hurt him and he took awhile to recover. And then he says he wants to rejoin the family. Meaning me and my kids. First he'd had any contact, and he wants to be Uncle Reid. He did forge a bond with my daughter.” She glanced at her son and gave a small smile, a sorry-about-you smile.
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