River Run

by Toni Dwiggins

  Neely hooted. “And you're here with us now, Agent Quillen? Instead of talking to Charlotte Lassen? The woman uses a shotgun to hunt varmints.”

  Quillen regarded Neely. “I'm not here with you now because of shotguns. The FBI has investigated cases in which Pyrodex was used to make pipe bombs.”

  Which was why Walter had phoned Martin last night.

  “I thought bad guys made bombs with C4,” Edgar said.

  Quillen's peaked eyebrows shot up.

  Justin eyed the cameraman. “You amaze, Mr. Easton.”

  Edgar shrugged. “I did a reshoot on an action picture and they used C4 to blow the vault.”

  “In real life, Pyrodex is easier to obtain.” Quillen turned to Neely. “I'm here with you now to talk Pyrodex and potential targets.”

  She leaned in. “Pipe bombs and Charlotte Lassen? I can see that.”

  “Can you? What's the target?”

  “Trespassers? That brine plant causing quakes? The neighbor arguing boundaries? How about fish—don't anglers toss bombs in the water to stun the fish?”

  “Thank you for the input, Ms. Hawthorne.” Quillen turned to Walter. “Thoughts on the source of the Pyrodex in the towels?”

  Walter dove deeper into his report. “The granules could have been deposited, at some time and at some place, when someone wiped hands on the towels. Or, someone could have acquired the granules in, say, an item of clothing and then subsequently come in contact with the towels, at which point a transference occurred. Also, one towel could have picked up the granules, and transferred them to the second towel.” Walter added, “The towels were folded and tightly packed in the boathouse bin.”

  “The someone?”

  “The obvious would be Charlotte Lassen. Jeff Lassen. Becca Warren.” Walter added, neutrally, “Possibly Reid Lassen, who bonded with his niece over kayaking, and presumably visited the boathouse and had access to the towels.”

  “Lassens it is,” Neely said. “Take your pick.”

  Walter cleared his throat. “There is another possible source. Both Cassie and Wes sat on the towels, in the helicopter. The towels were damp. Granules could have originated in the seat fabric, and transferred to the towels.”

  “Okay,” Neely said. She took a moment. “Okay, Charlotte uses the powder for her shotgun, Becca's there, picks it up in her clothes. And then—she's Wes's girlfriend, and he gives her a joy ride in the chopper. And the powder gets into the seats. Transference, like you said, Walter.”

  Walter said, carefully, “That's possible.”

  Neely swung on Quillen. “So find Becca. Isn't that what the FBI does?”

  “It is,” Quillen said. “We've already learned that she took a sudden leave from her office assistant job, early this past Tuesday. She did it by text. None of her colleagues know where she went. I have agents searching for her.”

  Here it comes. My mouth went dry.

  “As well as searching for Mr. Hawthorne,” Quillen said.

  Neely tried to smile. She failed.

  “Do you know where your cousin is?”

  “Probably looking for Becca.”

  “Do you know where your cousin is?” Quillen repeated.

  Neely took her phone from her pocket.

  “We've tried phoning,” Quillen said. “No answer. Nobody home at your cousin's apartment. His vehicle is there. His helicopter—your film company helicopter—is parked in its customary spot. Your cousin has disappeared. Do you know where he is?”

  “I'm not his mother.”

  “You're his boss.”

  “He's not on call for the next few days.”

  “Doesn't he keep in touch?”

  “He's got his own life.”

  “How much do you know about his life?”

  She just stared.

  “Ms. Hawthorne, isn't it possible that the Pyrodex granules originated with your cousin?”

  Neely suddenly laughed. “Let's hear it for FBI thoroughness. The unlikely explanation.”

  “It's the Pyrodex in association with Ms. Oldfield's observation from the helicopter trip that suggests your cousin as the source.”

  The room went dead silent.

  Neely swiveled to face me. “What observation, Cassie?”

  I said, “I noticed that two of the rafters—Hembry and Schrader—live near dams. And Pendleton lives not far from a dam. That leaves out Reid, but...” I shrugged. Reid was the outlier. I braced myself, and continued, “And I noticed that Wes didn't think much of dams.” Another fucking dam. “It was just an observation. I passed it along to Martin last night, after we ID'd the Pyrodex.”

  Quillen said, “And Superintendent Atherton passed it along to me, early this morning.”

  Neely spat, “Wes is a river rat. All river rats hate dams.”

  “He's the only river rat with a connection, via his girlfriend, to the man who led the rafting trip. And via that man, Reid Lassen, to three rafters who live near dams. Two of whom, work at dams.”

  Neely snapped, “So what?”

  “So these are dams on a river that serves forty million people.”

  “Yes. I'm doing a documentary on that.”

  Martin cut in. “Neely,” he said, gently, “Agent Quillen is concerned about the possibility—I mean it's remote, but the chance that there could be some kind of threat directed at the dams. Um, he's learned that Schrader works in public relations at Hoover and Hembry works—well, worked—in some data job at Glen Canyon.”

  “And my cousin works as a chopper pilot and a boatman.”

  Quillen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, cutting the space between himself and Neely. “And your cousin has an arrest record.”

  I thought, oh?

  Neely laughed. “That protest thing?”

  “Yes, that protest thing—at Glen Canyon Dam.”

  “So. What. Protesters want to decommission the dam. Not bomb it.”

  Justin said, “The monkey wrench gang.”

  She turned to her journalist. “What?”

  Quillen answered before Justin could elaborate. “It's a novel about a bunch of folks who want to blow up Glen Canyon Dam.”

  That struck a note of silence. The words blow up. The fact that Quillen knew the novel.

  “I live here in the Southwest,” he said. “I read. I hike. I even drive a ski boat on Lake Powell. And I'll tell you this, I'd liked to have seen what was underneath that lake, seen Glen Canyon before it was drowned by the dam. I understand it rivaled the Grand.” His eyes went flat. “And that affects not at all my investigation. A Pyrodex pipe bomb could do significant damage, depending where it's placed—it gives a massive expanding force. I intend to follow that lead.”

  “It won't lead to Wes,” Neely said, voice cold as ice. She turned to me, face cold as ice. “You report my cousin? For hating dams? What the fuck, Cassie? He saved your life yesterday.”

  I held her look. I hated this. I sympathized with Wes. I was beginning to wonder how much more this river could be dammed and diverted before it choked to death. But we're thirsty here in the West. My tongue quilted—I was suddenly thirsty, suddenly choking on yesterday's river run. I hated this. Not only did Wes save my life but he was a good guy. Wasn't he? I couldn't shake the rafters and their dams and the strange tragedy and the missing Becca and the hostile Lassens and the barbwire and the Pyrodex-infested towels. And Wes, who had now disappeared. I swallowed hard. “I felt I had to say something.”

  Walter said, “We had to say something.”

  Neely turned a venomous look on Walter.

  Justin spoke, gently. “Neely, we can't dismiss the facts.”

  She looked like she'd been slapped.

  Edgar's face pinched in misery.

  Quillen addressed the room. “To summarize, this is a preliminary investigation. I chatted on the phone with Glen Canyon and Hoover. They'll be inspecting their facilities. They report that Hembry and Schrader have been exemplary employees. If Schrader and Pendleton are found alive,
I'll be talking with them. Meanwhile, I'll be talking with Mr. Lassen, as soon as he is able. I'll send an agent out to the Lassen place in Paradox Valley. As soon as Ms. Warren is located, I'll want to talk to her. As for Mr. Hawthorne, I've requested a search warrant for his apartment and vehicle and the helicopter. As soon as he's located, I'll want to talk to him.”

  Neely snapped, “You going to talk to everyone arrested at that protest?”

  “Just your cousin and Becca Warren.”

  Becca arrested too? I looked at the others, who appeared equally surprised.

  Neely snapped, “Then let's get back to Becca being the source of that powder.”

  “Mr. Hawthorne's vehicle blocked a Sheriff's van,” Quillen said. “When they searched his vehicle, they found a container of Pyrodex in the trunk.”

  I thought, oh shit.

  “Mr. Hawthorne claimed it was for blowing up tree stumps. He claimed he had a friend with a farm.”

  Neely said, voice suddenly small, “I'd know if my cousin had been arrested.”

  “Charges were dropped. Glen Canyon didn't want the publicity. And Pyrodex can be legally purchased.” He added, “I believe they carry it at WalMart.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE MORNING AFTER THE meeting with Special Agent Quillen, Walter and I were notified that the warrants had been obtained. While FBI techs checked Wes's apartment and car, Walter and I used an explosives-trace detector on the chopper. The only trace of Pyrodex we found were a few granules in the front seats. No way to tell if they had originated in the seat fabric, or if they'd transferred into the fabric from the towels Wes and I had sat on.

  Maybe Wes had carried Pyrodex in the chopper, as well as in his car.

  Maybe not.

  We met with Agent Quillen and Superintendent Atherton to report our findings. They, in turn, gave us their updates.

  Wes remained missing. Becca remained missing.

  Quillen's techs found no Pyrodex trace in Wes's apartment. They did find trace in the trunk of his car, as expected.

  Quillen's agents and security personnel at Glen Canyon and Hoover dams had searched for—and not found—any evidence of pipe bombs.

  Quillen's agents had interviewed Charlotte and Jeff Lassen, and with permission used an explosives-trace detector on the lodge, on the boathouse, on the boathouse bin. They'd found no trace of Pyrodex. They'd found no evidence of involvement in the matter of a Pyrodex pipe bomb or any threat against a dam.

  Quillen himself had interviewed Reid Lassen early this morning—Reid having regained consciousness. Unfortunately, Reid had not recovered his memory of the raft incident. He was able to explain the Mancos chips in rafter Hembry's pocket—a gift, a shark tooth for Hembry's birthday. Reid appeared stunned to hear about the Pyrodex, or any threat to a dam.

  We started to leave, but Quillen stopped us.

  “One more thing,” the agent said. “In regard to your employer.”

  My stomach dropped.

  Walter said, “Neely?”

  “Yes. I got a warrant to monitor her phone, yesterday before the meeting, in anticipation. I'm afraid that was justified. Fifteen minutes after the meeting, she called her cousin's cell phone and warned that the FBI was hunting him. 'Hunting,' her word. He told her there was no plot against a dam. He said he was searching for his girlfriend. He said he didn't plan to return until he found her. He sounded worried.” Quillen paused. Waiting, it seemed, for our reaction.

  I had none. Not even surprise. Given Neely's fierce reaction in the meeting, I was not surprised that she'd do what she could to protect her cousin. I fiercely hoped he didn't need protecting.

  Walter said, “And so?”

  “And so, Ms. Hawthorne's call was what we needed. I hadn't yet gotten a court order to access Mr. Hawthorne's cell data. Hers gave us his location—an out-of-the-way place in the Canyon. By the time our chopper arrived, nobody was there. So he either hitchhiked or borrowed a vehicle before he left Tusayan yesterday—this place was rather remote for an Uber—and then alerted by Ms. Hawthorne, he fled.” Quillen gave us an assessing look. “Can I assume neither of you knew about that phone call?”

  Walter said, stiffly, “You can safely assume that.”

  I said, “We didn't.”

  Quillen nodded. “I'll be giving a warning to Ms. Hawthorne—about interfering in a federal investigation. For now, a warning will suffice.”

  ON THE WAY BACK FROM the conference room Walter and I stopped by Neely's rim cabin—HGP headquarters—to let them know the latest. We didn't mention the intercepted phone call—we'd gotten our own warning from Quillen.

  But we did have leave to pass along the latest on the lack of evidence connecting Wes to Pyrodex, or pipe bombs—thinking that would cheer up Neely.

  It might have. We didn't find out, because she wouldn't come to the door.

  Edgar answered. “We're reviewing footage,” he said, apologetically, not inviting us inside.

  Justin edged up beside Edgar. “We're doing damage control,” he said, frankly.

  We passed along the updates and went to lunch.

  TWENTY MINUTES AFTER we returned from lunch, Martin phoned to tell us that the body of Sam Pendleton had been found. Submerged in the river, trapped in a boulder field, around river mile one-twelve. Tragic for Pendleton, but lucky for Pete's SAR team, because that was upriver from the site of the ghost raft. That narrowed the neighborhood.

  Hopefully, lucky for Megan Schrader, the only rafter still unaccounted for.

  One more lucky break: a zipper baggie of rock chips was discovered in Pendleton's pocket. Maybe Reid had handed out rocks all around, in celebration of Frank Hembry's birthday.

  We didn't have to drive to the morgue. Martin arranged for a Park Service official to deliver the rocks to us. I gave a brief thought to morgue tech Steve with his tattoo—vita, Latin for life—mourning a little for the deceased on the table.

  When the courier arrived, Walter and I set to work on the silvery chips. The color, and the mineral suite, and the chemistry, and the trace elements, and the comparison to Martin's collection of Grand Canyon rock samples led us to the ID: Muav Limestone.

  I said, “One more rock collection Reid didn't mention at the hospital.”

  Walter said, grimly, “Since he's on the mend, I believe we'll pay him a visit and talk some geology.” Walter opened his laptop. “First, though, I want to follow up on a hunch.”

  WHILE WALTER WAS GOOGLING his hunch, I phoned the hospital.

  I waited for Walter to finish before I said, “Change of venue. He's discharged himself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “THAT'S PURE REID,” Walter said, staring at the big white structure on the wooded property.

  Was it? Walter had never mentioned Reid's preferred living style, and of course Reid's hospital room had given no clues, so I found myself contemplating Reid's residence.

  It was, I thought, a reflection of the man. The man who lived here saw himself as an iconoclast. Reid's place, sitting on a deep lot on the outskirts of Flagstaff, was a geodesic dome. I'd seen one before, at a home show. The iconoclastic structures were said to be energy efficient with smart engineering, the domes constructed of triangular panels that distributed stress. A superior style of living, so it was said.

  The white dome put me in mind of the ancient salt dome at Paradox Valley, which I'd seen online in well-engineered diagrams. That dome had collapsed, forming the valley.

  Reid's dome stood proud.

  The perfect habitation for a geologist.

  “He used to take pride in smoking his own meat,” Walter said.

  I shifted focus to the concrete patio adjoining the dome, where a metallic black cylinder stood on tripod legs. “Looks like he still does.”

  Walter managed a laugh. Even at this point in his association with Reid Lassen, Walter could produce a fond laugh. He said, “Back in the day, when we'd all meet up at Reid's place, we'd bring the beer and the wine and the pretzels and
the pizza and Reid would supply the delicacies. A tray of smoked trout or pheasant—although the smoker he had back then was a good deal smaller because his apartment patio was a good deal smaller.”

  I nodded. My attention shifted again, to the front door—a standard-looking wood door. It swung open.

  Reid stood in the doorway. He wore a gray sweatshirt and worn jeans and woven huarache sandals with lime-green socks—Becca's color, I took note. The right sleeve of the sweatshirt was cut off at the elbow, accommodating the blue cast on his hand and forearm. He looked fit enough, for a man who had discharged himself from the hospital this morning—after Agent Quillen's visit. I wondered if that interrogation had roused Reid from his sickbed.

  He smiled and motioned with his good hand for us to approach.

  I whispered, “Think he'll have a tray of smoked trout ready?”

  We'd gotten his cell number from the hospital and phoned ahead.

  “Not freshly smoked. He hasn't had time.” Walter added, “But there will be a dish of olives. Greek or Italian. There were always olives.”

  WALTER WAS RIGHT.

  A dish of large green olives sat on the tiled coffee table.

  We should have brought pizza, I thought. It was dinnertime. Feeling a little hungry, as usual. Feeling a lot wary.

  None of us had said anything other than our hellos and how-are-you's. Reid, it seemed, was as well as could be expected. He demonstrated the improvement in his broken right hand, slightly bending the swollen thumb and fingers. He joked about the cast. “Waterproof, handy for showering.” His eggplant-bruised palm still looked painful. The other bruising—on his left hand, on his face—had progressed from the blacks and blues in the hospital to greens and browns. The abrasions were scabbed over.

  He wore his battered good looks like a veteran adventurer.