River Run

by Toni Dwiggins

  “You have to ask, Mr. Lassen?” Quillen indicated the rock ledge.

  The ledge was waist-high, a storage space for equipment. Long-handled tongs. Rubber dishwashing gloves, gray as the rock. An ultraviolet light. A radio. A black storage bin, hinged in the center, collapsible, transportable, with ventilation holes punched around the top.

  “Actually,” Quillen said, “I had to ask. I'd wondered how the scorpions got onto our raft—I'd been thinking our bow line disturbed a nest. But I wanted to damn well know. So I located an expert at the university. Dawn, she's an entomologist, said it was unlikely we'd disturbed any hibernaculum, which I learned is the proper term. It would have to be flooded or fully uncovered for the scorpions to swarm. She had a simpler explanation. Someone collected them.”

  Reid's face, I thought, showed true surprise.

  “Here's how you collect scorpions,” Quillen said. “They're nocturnal predators, so they're out and about at night. All you need is an ultraviolet light, long tongs, and a ventilated container. Gloves are a good idea, too. You pluck them up, one by one. I told her there must have been hundreds aboard our raft. She assured me that one could find fifteen or twenty in an hour. And so it would have taken several hours, or nights, for our collector to gather enough.”

  I shivered. I'd shivered when Quillen relayed Dawn's explanation to Walter and me, yesterday. On the raft, it had seemed the gates of hell had opened. Rather, someone opened the gates of hell.

  Quillen said, “This, Mr. Lassen, is a staging site.”

  Reid glanced at the nearly hidden doorway. “How did you find it?”

  “I didn't. Armed with Dawn's explanation, I asked the search team to have another look. Fortunately we have a team dedicated to avenging their chief. They scoured the beach, the cliffs, the gorge. It took over an hour, but they found this place.” Quillen moved to the rock shelf and picked up a notebook that had been obscured by the bin. “Fortunately, our collector kept a record. Dates, number of specimens. You do realize who the collector is, Mr. Lassen?”

  “Gary Phipps. If I had to guess.”

  “My conclusion, as well. Phipps is now subject of an FBI manhunt. He's no doubt gone off-grid. We'll find him. We'll nail him. We've got prints from the equipment on the shelf and DNA from the cooking gear in the tent. Either he doesn't watch detective shows, or he's fanatically convinced he's bulletproof.”

  “Probably both.”

  “Or,” Quillen said, “he was taking credit. He wanted you to know who unleashed holy hell.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Can you? My question is, why did he focus his ire on you here?”

  “Not just me,” Reid said. “All of us, on that raft.”

  “You were the target. The rest of us were collateral damage.” Quillen flipped open the notebook and showed it to Reid. “Take a gander at the collection dates. The most recent is the night before our trip. He was expecting us. I can reconstruct how he knew we were coming—he'd gotten hold of a Park Service radio.” Quillen indicated the portable radio with its stubby antenna on the shelf. “He listened to our trip arrangements beforehand, to our reports after landing. And while we were hiking, he put the scorpions aboard.”

  “Shit.”

  “For what it's worth, I believe you're surprised at this place.”

  “You got that right.”

  “But let's back up a minute. How did he know you were in the Shinumo, to begin with? Maybe he followed you, at some point. He knew about his father's big find, and became territorial. Or maybe he was part of your scheme—you needed him because he knew the location. Did you pitch it as one-upping his dad? Did he know the real goal? Hard to believe you'd cut him in on that pipeline deal. So let's say at some point you had no further use for him, or he turned against you. At which point he went off-grid. Here, as it turns out.”

  Reid said, “Simply, no.”

  “Simply, yes.” Quillen tapped the notebook. “The first collection date was the night before your party's raft trip. So he must have known about it. Knew when, and where, you would land. And that you'd hike up to the cavern to run that last checklist. Which you did. And that gave him time enough to find a place to set up surveillance, to monitor the beach, to be sure he wouldn't be interrupted. Watching for rafters. For hikers. Maybe seeing your niece—just one more rafter being dropped off here, one more hiker heading upcanyon. Time enough, all in all, for Phipps to take his leisurely time in depositing those scorpions on your raft. A nasty vengeance.”

  Reid said, “Supposition.”

  “Confirmation.” Quillen offered the notebook.

  Reid didn't accept. “Agent Quillen, here's what makes sense. Gary had been stalking me. So he somehow found out I had a raft trip planned with my fishing buddies. He set up here, territorial about his dad's find—he thought I'd land here. But just because that notebook says he'd collected scorpions, doesn't mean he got the chance to unleash them. Because my party didn't stop here and go for a hike. We came to the Canyon for the fishing. We stayed on the river. And, damn you Agent Quillen, I've told you I'm certain we landed downriver.”

  “And I'm certain you landed here.”

  I spoke. “What happened to your scorpions, Reid?”

  He turned to me. “Mine?”

  “The ones Phipps collected night before your party was due. The ones you say he didn't get the chance to put on your raft.”

  Reid shrugged. “He let them go.”

  “Humane, huh?”

  “Or he kept them to add to the collection he made for the second attack. On our raft.”

  I said, “That's a span of over two weeks. He kept them alive?”

  “Food. Water.”

  Walter moved, edging around Reid. “I'll check.”

  Reid shrugged.

  Walter shot him an appraising look, and turned to the ledge. He put on the rubber gloves, taking care. The gloves were small. He had to tug them into place. He delayed. I worried, then, for my partner. I was feeling uneasy, myself. Remembering. I remembered the translucent thing hiding in the seam of my PFD, the stingered tail raised. I remembered the padded blue mat on the floor of the raft, the mat coming alive, rippling with scorpions. I remembered the electric jolt of the sting on my ankle. Now, watching Walter pull on the gloves, thinking of Phipps pulling on the gloves, I shuddered.

  Quillen moved back, leaning against the alcove wall.

  Walter set his shoulders and flipped open the interlocking flaps of the bin lid. Flipping them so hard they bounced. He leaned forward and looked inside.

  I found I was holding my breath.

  And then there was no more delay. Walter reached into the bin and lifted, all in one mentally-practiced movement, one near-panic movement, a nightmare he'd surely never expected to bring to life, expelling his breath, a scar ripped off, and he turned then to us, to Reid, to his old friend who stood closest. “Help me,” Walter said. And Reid reached out to help. Reflexively, automatically, without a second thought, Reid opened both his hands to take what Walter was trying to get rid of. For a moment, the snake hung from the tips of Walter's gloved fingers, head and tail twisting, suspended between the two men. And then it passed to Reid's open palms. And he held it. Without fear. Without phobia.

  Because there was no phobia.

  There never had been.

  There appeared to be a dawning realization, Reid holding the snake. Drop it? Fling it?

  But Walter closed in, his face gone pale. “You lied,” Walter said, voice gone hoarse. “Back in grad school, on that field trip, when I stumbled upon that snake, and yelled, and you and the others came running, you offered sympathy. More than that, you gave me cover—with my stigma, a neophyte field geologist spooked by a snake—you said you shared that phobia. No stigma, if rockstar Reid with his field cred was also phobic. And with that gesture, you bound me to you. You need conquests like you need air. You like your conquests indebted. And when the two of us later came across a snake, you exhibited the phobia again. We even
talked about getting therapy.” Walter eyed the snake in Reid's hands. “As it turns out, you didn't need therapy. Because you were never phobic.”

  Reid stood frozen, the snake twisting in his hands. Drop it? Fling it?

  Walter kept his focus on Reid's face. Not looking down, to Reid's hands.

  I didn't know how much longer Walter could hold it together. I didn't know how long until the snake started curling up Reid's arm, probing Reid's cast. I crowded in beside the two men and took the snake from Reid and set it on the rough ground at the mouth of the alcove.

  Walter's eyes flicked, to follow as the snake slithered out. Only a garter.

  Only a phobic would fear a garter.

  Reid had shown no fear.

  And my partner was holding it together.

  Reid dropped his hands and wiped the fingers on his pant legs. “This? Proves nothing.”

  Walter's attention snapped back to Reid. “This proves you lied, when Cassie and I first visited you in the hospital. I asked if you were still troubled by the phobogenic reaction, causing amnesia. You nodded yes. You claimed it. You knew I'd damned well buy it, with our history.”

  “You just poisoned our history.”

  Walter said, “It was poison from the start.”

  Reid turned to Quillen. “You got something else to spring on me?”

  “The snake will do it.” Quillen stepped away from the alcove wall. “It seems you have a habit of lying. Your first hospitalization, you lied about not remembering where your 'fishing party' had anchored. In consequence of your manufactured amnesia, the search team didn't know where to look for survivors. Your second hospitalization, you again lied. To me. You claimed a memory flash, a vision—it was the snake that caused you to panic on your so-called fishing trip.”

  Quillen glanced down at Reid's hands. Hands that had just held a snake, no sweat.

  Reid put his hands in his pockets.

  “The problem for you,” Quillen continued, “was lying to me. You made a fraudulent statement to a federal agent. That's a federal crime, Mr. Lassen.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I SAID, “THERE'S A boatload of ways to die in the Grand Canyon.”

  Walter and I sat on the curved stone wall that bordered the walkway outside our rim cabins. This bump-out, where Quillen liked to meet, had become our hangout. We faced away from the chattering passers-by. We took in the view of the great chasm. It was nearly evening and the dying sun highlighted plateaus and crags and spires and cliffs, turning the rocks to fire. Way down below, in the depths of the earth, the gorge was in shadow. The river, at the bottom, was hidden from us.

  Walter finally responded. “So he said.”

  Ranger Pete Molina had been recovered by his SAR team yesterday, caught in an eddy, around about this time, at the end of the day. The river held onto him for awhile.

  “I wonder how many survived, because of him.”

  “A boatload,” Walter said.

  I zipped up my parka. Not scorpion chills any more, just the chill of the South Rim in April near sunset.

  “Here they come,” Walter said.

  I shifted focus from the Canyon to the walkway. Neely and Justin were approaching, from the direction of the main lodge. She carried a large plastic shopping bag with the Bright Angel Lodge logo. The gift shop? She was looking better, her HGP sweatshirt unstained, her jeans fitting. Justin wore his customary chinos, along with a Grand Canyon sweatshirt. Wow.

  The gift shop.

  They took seats, unsmiling, on the curved wall facing us.

  Neely said, “We got your text. What's the news?”

  I said, “I Skyped with Becca today. I've been checking in on her. I would've visited but evidently Charlotte is her surly self—she barely tolerates Wes staying there. By the way, Becca appreciates you giving Wes time off.”

  Justin said, 'We won't need him for awhile. We're editing. The news?”

  “Becca is recovering some memories.”

  The HGP team sat forward.

  “She had traumatic amnesia. Unlike Reid, she wasn't faking it. Disorientation, confusion, memory loss. The victim can sometimes recover events—islands of memory, it's called. Here's what Becca just remembered. After she'd been down in that cavern for awhile—she's not sure how long—she saw lights 'sweeping' her campsite. As she calls it. This was before she fell further, down into the salt bed. Lights, as in someone with a flashlight up in the tunnel, at the edge where the crevasse opened. As in someone looking down at her.”

  Justin said, carefully, “Maybe hikers, exploring the tunnel?”

  I said, “Random hikers wouldn't have shot at her.”

  Justin gave a silent whistle.

  “Yeah, Becca remembers gunshots. Fortunately, she was mostly protected by a rock ledge. Fortunately, the shooter wasn't accurate. Shooting with a casted hand, maybe—which would explain why he couldn't rappel down for a closer shot. At the time, she thought it was some beast she'd been hallucinating. Growling, with flashing eyes. Now, she remembers. It was someone with a flashlight and a gun. Not a beast.”

  Neely hissed, “I'd call him a beast.”

  No argument there. I said, “That beast is facing five years in prison for lying to a federal agent. That gives Quillen time to locate Gary Phipps, maybe definitively connect Reid to the scheme—conspiracy to commit felony fraud and environmental crimes. That gives Becca time to remember who pushed her into that cavern to begin with, time to nail Reid for attempted murder. Quillen's heading to the Devil's Nose, as we speak, to interview her.”

  After a moment taking that in, Neely said, “Good.”

  Justin said, “Not good enough.”

  “Not for Edgar, no.”

  We fell silent. I envisioned the canyon floor, where the avalanche hit, where Pete and Neely performed CPR on Edgar. Was Reid up on the clifftop, watching? The last footage from Edgar's camera had shown, only, falling rocks. Not the man who made them fall.

  Two good men dead, because of Reid Lassen. Edgar's death, I called murder. Pete's death, I called the consequence of Reid's crimes. Neither case prosecutable. Becca's case, perhaps, prosecutable. Nail the villain.

  Neely suddenly said, “Anybody hungry?”

  I gaped. Seriously?

  She picked up the shopping bag and withdrew a large pizza box and plastic plates and utensils.

  It was close enough to dinner time but I had no appetite.

  Nor did Walter. He said, “Neely, this isn't the time.”

  “Yes,” she said, “it is. For Edgar.”

  And then I understood, even as she opened the pizza box to reveal an omelette.

  “I had to supply my own truffle—brought it back from L.A. Nancy at the lodge cafe cooked it for us.” Neely withdrew a serving knife from the shopping bag, sectioned the omelette, and slid wedges onto plates.

  We all accepted with thanks.

  Justin took a bite, chewed, swallowed, nodded. “You were right, boss. The truffle does lift it to the next level. Edgar would have loved it.”

  “Edgar loved omelettes.”

  “Edgar loved good footage.” Justin turned to Walter and me. “I'd like to get you two on camera, explaining that salt bed. I'll segue from there—it needs to stay sequestered. Or bad days on the Colorado River.”

  “We're on board,” Walter said. “No limits.”

  I nodded, my mouth full.

  Neely said, “Good. Because we've got news too.” She suddenly produced a grin.

  It was the first smile I'd seen from her since Reid's avalanche killed her cinematographer. I wondered what revived her.

  “National Geographic,” she said, “has optioned our documentary.”

  I said, “Wow.” Still, it took me—and a clearly surprised Walter—a few moments to digest the news, to segue from talk of death and felonies and the fate of the river to the fate of the documentary. I thought, Edgar was right, on that ridge in Paradox Valley. Neely's good. Justin's good. Edgar was monumentally good. We were all doing
a good thing, with this docu. Whatever Walter and I could add to the omelette was good by me. I found a smile, matching the one that appeared on Walter's face.

  NEELY AND JUSTIN PACKED up the shopping bag and retreated to her cabin to edit more footage.

  Walter and I remained, watching the Canyon segue into twilight.

  I said, “There's one more death that needs talking about.”

  “Harvey,” Walter said, without hesitation.

  I watched darkness climb up the canyon walls. There was no way to achieve justice, for Harvey. There'd been no body found. There was motive—a secret discovery stolen. There was opportunity—two men alone in the Bolivian wilderness. There was means—a shove into a ravine. A chisel to the back of the head. Forensics could have nailed that one, match a fracture in the skull to the chisel on display in the geodesic dome. But there was no body.

  Walter said, “We'll talk. I have dozens of Harvey stories.”

  “Any that don't include Reid?”

  “That's what selective memory is for,” my partner said.

  IT GREW DARKER, AND colder, and we finally made the move to flee indoors, shaking off the gravitational pull of the great chasm. I glanced back at it. See you tomorrow.

  At my cabin, I hesitated. I wanted a hot shower. But I wanted a mug of hot chocolate, more. I detoured to Walter's cabin, to the lab, where we kept the Godiva packets. I said, following Walter inside, “Hot cocoa?”

  He nodded, absently, heading for his desk.

  “You working tonight?”

  “National Geographic.” He opened his laptop. “I believe I'll want to brush up on the Redwall Limestone. It's iconic, here in the Canyon.”

  I left him to it, busying myself with the kettle and the mugs and the packets of powdered chocolate. When I took a steaming mug to Walter, he was already deep into the ancient rock formation.

  I blew on my cocoa and then hazarded a sip and the rich sweet brew gave me a buzz.

  The chocolate, I suddenly thought, was the color of Vishnu Schist.