Rock Bottom (Em Hansen Mysteries) Page 9
I had heard about enough. I said, “I don’t suppose it was as easy as all that for him. I’ve heard that he did all his geology fieldwork on his own time, on his days off.”
“Oh, I’m sure he worked really hard, I’m not saying he didn’t, but, you know, it was like things sort of fell into his lap. He led a charmed life. I mean, they have his ranger hat in the museum collection up at the South Rim, and there’s an amphitheater named after him. Imagine! So I’m thinking if I worked with Molly I could be like him. Now, my life hasn’t been that easy, but really, I’d like to be exactly like him. So if you’d like to put in a kind word with Molly…”
I tried to imagine a freeloading slob like Wink accomplishing half of what McKee had. Fed up, I said, “Maybe the first thing you’ll need is a new philosophy.”
Wink’s neck stiffened.
A low rumbling began to crowd into my conscious awareness. There was a rapid coming, much sooner than I had reckoned.
Wink suddenly began pushing much harder on the oars, accelerating down-current, and I saw a mean glint in his eyes.
I looked around at the other boats. Fritz was a quarter mile farther down the river, just pulling over to the right bank so that he could climb out and scout the best route through the waves. That meant that this was a big one, not to be trifled with. “What rapid is this?” I asked.
“Kwagunt,” he said. “It’s a six on the scale of ten, just a little fella. Seven-foot drop over the run. Nice big waves.” He began to laugh.
We had closed half the distance to the rapid, but Wink was not rowing toward river right, where the others were now beaching their rafts. He stood at the oars, scanning the water.
I said, “You are going to scout it, aren’t you?”
“No need to do that! I’ve been down this river how many times is it?”
“This is your forty-third trip, or so you claim,” I blurted.
Wink grinned into the opening maw of the rapid. “You just relax, missy,” he said, letting the last word hiss from his innards, like a snake.
I glanced around at Fritz. He stood with his back to us, gazing downriver along the run of the kicking water. Mungo and Dell were clambering up over the rocks to join him. Only Brendan was looking upriver, and as he saw what Wink was doing, his eyes grew wide and he began to shout, but the roaring water swallowed his words. He was running now, jumping up over the rocks to reach his father.
I twisted around to face the waves. The smooth lip of water formed a downriver V pointing into the churning rapid. We were one hundred yards away, fifty—
Fritz turned. I could see his eyes go round, his mouth open wide. He was pointing, jerking his arms to indicate a hazard, his face growing dark with rage.
Wink pulled hard on one oar to ferry out into the V, tapped the other to swing the bow back into the current, and shot the splintering dory smack into the tallest wave in sight.
The bow of the dory leaped into the air. I held on tight as the boat rocked and pitched, bounced and bucked through the waves. Then suddenly it was over, the sound of the water was quieting, and the raw cackle of Wink’s laughter was all.
E-mail correspondence to and from South Rim Dispatcher Cleome James
FROM: Cleome James
TO: Chief Ranger Gerald Weber
DATE: April 19, 8:22 A.M.
SUBJECT: Of possible interest RE: body found at Whitmore Wash
Hey Ger—Word is getting around about what Seth Farnsworth found at Whitmore, the South Rim being a small town after all. I know you want to keep a lid on this, but if I heard something that might possibly have a bearing on how that body got to be a body, I should forward that to you, right?—Cleome
FROM: Gerald Weber
TO: Cleome James
DATE: April 19, 8:40 A.M.
SUBJECT: RE: Of possible interest RE: body found at Whitmore Wash
Yes, send it.
FROM: Cleome James
TO: Gerald Weber
DATE: April 19, 8:42 A.M.
SUBJECT:FWD: you ain’t gonna believe this one!
Okay, what I’ve got is a somewhat embarrassing note on my private e-mail from Bryson Borowitz down at Phantom. Here it is.—Cleome
(begin forwarded message)
FROM: Bryson Borowitz
TO: Cleome James
DATE: April 10, 5:31 P.M.
SUBJECT: you ain’t gonna believe this one!
Cleome, you won’t believe this one! Midmorning this chick named Lisette St. Denis Carl (I remember the name because she said it three times, like I should maybe know who she is) demanded that I “fetch that muleteer” for her because she was “in urgent need to get out of this hell-hole of a ditch.” Hell-hole ditch! That was a new one for me! Add it to our list, would ya? I explained that mules aren’t for hire from Phantom. When I suggested that it was an enjoyable hike, she pointed at her feet, like wasn’t I paying attention? They were swollen and bloody with broken blisters, not surprising considering that this little pistol was wearing sandals like you shouldn’t see this side of Rodeo Drive.
The divine Ms. Carl was followed immediately into the room by a tall, angular man with a large Adam’s apple who ordered her to get her sorry butt back to her raft. I didn’t think her butt was all that sorry (forgive me, but it’s been a while since you and I got together!) though what he probably meant was that her butt was a little old to be loaded into such tight pants. Anyway, I pretended like I wasn’t listening, and really meant not to, until a familiar name came up in the middle of their arguing: George Oberley. So I’m thinking, could they mean ol’ Winky-poo?
Anyway, this Oberley fella they were spitting about was apparently in their hire, but not as a boatman! No, you’re gonna love this, Mr. Adam’s Apple was saying that the “geological consultant” Ms. Carl hired wasn’t worth what she was paying him and she was shrieking that Mr. Apple should stay out of her personal business. Okay, so here’s where it gets really good: Mr. Apple notices that I’m listening and starts laying words on her about how the Lord didn’t mean her to do this or that but instead she should be a good camper and get back in the raft so that their Ministry—I mean really, the way he pronounced that word, you knew he meant it to have a capital M—would not be disrupted.
About then the dime dropped and I realized who this chick is. Okay, so have you Googled her already and you’re thinking what a backwoods hick I am? Yeah, she’s that Las Vegas showgirl who found Jesus! I’m talking about the wife of the late but great Reverend Amos Carl. He’s that televangelist who famously keeled over dead a couple months ago in a fit of religious fervor right in front of his whole congregation. I mean not just in front of some folks who were sitting in his church building, but in front of all the millions of good folks who were watching on the TV from the comfort of their living rooms. Remember? Hell, that made such a splash in the tabloids that I heard about it clear down here at Rock Bottom.
Then things got even weirder. Totally ignoring me, the chick turns to the Apple and squeals words to the effect of, “Dr. Oberley’s life is in danger!” Oh, baby, you should have heard the drama she loaded into that one! And I’m thinking, well, old Wink’s life has always hung over the edge, because he’s always pissing someone off, or he has it stuck where it just don’t belong, or he’s trying one scam or another to get a regular meal ticket. He’s been fired from half the commercial rafting companies that row this river, and a man’s gotta make a buck to pay his alimony and child support if he ever gets around to divorcing his wife, but really, “consulting geologist” to a fundamentalist evangelical outfit? Really? Really? I’d like to know what the Discovery Channel crews he’s wooed into interviewing him about the history of Planet Earth standing there with the Grand Canyon as dramatic background would think about that!
So I’m thinking that this must be some other George Oberley they’re talking about, but then Sandals tells Apple she overheard an argument the night before between our man and a big guy from Oberley’s rafting party and I’m thinking tha
t sure sounds like our Wink. Noticing that I’m listening, Mr. Apple hisses that she should keep her dramas to herself, but she’s really insistent, saying that last night at Cremation Campground she overheard this big dude outright threatening Oberley’s life, something about, “You put your hands on my boy one more time and you will have drawn your last breath!”
Mr. Apple finally takes her rather firmly by the arm and hauls her out of there. But that’s not the end of my tale. I was trying to figure out how the Winkster could be consulting to them but rafting with someone else, though come to think of it that sounds like his kind of scam. Then half an hour later, who should walk in but guess who, Wink himself! So I ask, “Rowing the churchy types these days, Wink?” and he kind of gives me one of his blank looks, and says, “What in hell you talking about?” So I tell him there’s been this babe in tight pants in there worrying about him (I’d figured out who she was by that time, but didn’t mention her name, just baiting him to tell me, because you know how he does love to brag), but he didn’t go there. Instead, he said, “No, I’m with the Fritz Calder party, private trip.” He enunciated the name very carefully, like he wanted me to remember it. Then he sticks his middle finger up his nose to let me know I’m still number one with him and finds his own way back out of the room.
Fritz Calder. I wrote the name down as soon as he left the room so I could look him up on the river manifest. He’s got a 21-day private trip going and the church group is God’s Voice, a 10-day run. Judging by the launch dates, they’ve likely been leapfrogging for the past few days, but as God’s Voice has only a few days left to run the rest of the canyon they’ll be pouring on the muscle and making for Diamond Creek.
I know this will make your day, you sitting up there on the rim, oh, so far away from me, my lovely! Answering all those boring radio and sat phone calls and such, I figure you’d need a little intrigue to keep your day going. We can have a wager here: I’ll put five dollars on the line that says this time someone’s actually gonna drown that jackass. Are we on? We can meet at Indian Gardens to settle up … you, me, a nice bottle of wine … say yes, my sweet peach!
Lotsa love, to you, my dove, Bry
FROM: Gerald Weber
TO: Cleome James
DATE: April 19, 9:01 A.M.
SUBJECT: RE: FWD: you ain’t gonna believe this one!
Cleome you got any other critical information you’ve been sitting on?
FROM: Cleome James
TO: Gerald Weber
DATE: April 19, 9:02 A.M.
SUBJECT: Additional info
G—You might want to come listen to the voice recordings I’ve got of the call made by the Calder party to report a man missing.—C
PS: Thanks for not puking over Bryson’s e-mail.
FROM: Gerald Weber
TO: Cleome James
DATE: April 19, 9:04 A.M.
SUBJECT: RE: Additional info
Appreciate any and all information, regardless of source, but as regards communications, advise that you not use language you don’t want to hear read back to you should you find yourself on the witness stand in a court of law.
FROM: Cleome James
TO: Gerald Weber
DATE: April 19, 9:07 A.M.
SUBJECT: RE: Additional info
Are you saying that Oberley’s death will become a matter of prosecution?
FROM: Gerald Weber
TO: Cleome James
DATE: April 19, 9:15 A.M.
SUBJECT: RE: Additional info
I require official transcripts of all calls even remotely related to this case, and you know what that means. AND KEEP THIS ON THE QT DAMN IT.
FROM: Cleome James
TO: Maryann Eliasson
DATE: April 19, 9:21 A.M.
SUBJECT: YOU WERE RIGHT!!!!
Maryann—You know that little old bit of river carnage down at Whitmore that Seth Farnsworth scraped up? Well, I think you win the pool on that one. I slipped the name OBERLEY into e-mails back and forth with Weber and he didn’t deny it or correct me. Maybe he assumed I knew who was dead from catching the sat phone call from the poor suckers who got stuck with him this run. So you’re right, it’s Wink! Is that one gigantic collective sigh of relief I’m hearing or is it just me? It’s like Christmas and Birthdays rolled into one for every woman whose path he ever crossed! But here’s the kicker: WINK WAS MURDERED! I know this because Weber said it was going to court! That’s no surprise, I guess. The only thing about this that does surprise me is that it might be a guy who killed him, not a woman! Weber wants a transcript of that call, so I played back the tape of the call made by the Calder party reporting the stupid shit missing and this Fritz Calder guy sounded entirely too calm. What can you tell me about him, and when are they pulling out at Diamond Creek so I can be there to shake his hand?—Cleome
APRIL 7: LITTLE COLORADO RIVER
Fritz did not say a word to me when, at the foot of Kwagunt Rapid, he pulled over to pluck me from the place along the riverbank where I had ordered Wink to drop me. I stood shivering even though the air temperature was nearly eighty degrees and I had on a fleece sweater underneath my life vest, which was now cinched up so tightly that I could barely breathe. I suppose I did not look like I wanted to discuss my experience. Wink was already half a mile down the canyon, probably still laughing and even breaking into song.
I climbed onto the load in the back of the raft. Fritz sat in the bow and stared down the river. Brendan took the oars and pulled manfully, guiding us down through two small rapids and four miles of flat water.
At mile 62, the Colorado River was joined by the Little Colorado, which flows in from the east, and Fritz signaled for everyone to pull over at river left so we could play in the water there. He had to stand in the bow and signal to Wink, who was still leading, bouncing along on the riffles in his dory by himself. The jerk almost overshot the beach, and I wish he had.
The waters of the Little Colorado are much, much warmer than the Big Colorado and much, much, muddier. It was fascinating to watch the two waters meet: on my left hand the Little Colorado, rushing brick red from a recent rain, and on my right the big Colorado, cold and almost green by comparison, all its silt and sand having settled to the bottom of Lake Powell. I could see the two waters run beside each other for quite a distance, slowly curling together into one water. It goes to show how much the Glen Canyon Dam changes this river: The water upriver of the dam probably is just as warm and muddy as the Little Colorado, but when you dam a river into a lake all that sediment settles out, and the water out the bottom of the dam is forty degrees cooler.
Fritz told Brendan to keep his life vest with him. The two ran up the riverbank together, the tall father all grace and arms, legs pumping in a smooth, integrated unison, and the son chugging along on his stumpy legs doing his best to keep up. A hundred yards or so upriver Fritz turned and fell like a log into the water, pulled off his vest, and sat on it, and Brendan followed suit. Together, they floated down through the red waters, laughing and hooting. Mungo joined them for a second run, and a third.
“What are you looking for?” I asked Nancy Skinner, who had waded out into the water.
“I’m hoping to see a humpback chub,” she told me.
“A who-backed what?”
“It’s a fish,” she said. “There aren’t many. In fact, they’re endangered. When the dam chilled the waters of the big Colorado and took the silt out, it about spelled the end for this creature. They couldn’t compete with the trout. The trout love the cold, clear water because they’re sight predators and because they need the higher oxygenation of the colder water.”
“The trout were introduced, right?”
“Yes, to attract anglers. Did you see that fisherman up by Lees Ferry returning from a run upriver to the dam’s outfall? He’d caught a fish that had to weigh ten pounds!”
“That’s good eating.”
“Yeah, but.”
“You’re preaching to
the choir. So what do they look like?” I asked, wading into the river beside her.
Nancy pulled a copy of the river guide out of her vest pocket and flipped it open to the page that showed the confluence. “Here it is in all its fat-headed, narrow-tailed glory,” she said. “This stretch is one of the few places you can still hope to see them. They need the warm water to spawn.”
From the picture I could see immediately how the fish had earned its name. Its back puffed straight up from its eyebrows. Quasimodo had nothing on this creature. “That really is one ugly fish,” I said.
Nancy turned and ran her fingers over the page. “Look at those fins!” she cooed. “They’re beautiful!”