George Hungerford, foreman at Hebgen Dam, and Lester Caraway, his assistant, were awakened by the major shock and within moments recognized it as an earthquake. With their wives, they hurried to a water gage downstream from the dam to see if the river flow showed that the dam was leaking. As they neared the gage, Hungerford heard a roar. He glanced up to see a wave of water about 4 feet high moving down the river. Fearing that this meant the collapse of the dam, he returned to his house on the highway above the gage and tried to telephone a warning, but the line was dead. The two couples then drove toward the high ground near the dam and arrived there at about 11:55 P.M.
The moon was obscured by dust, and it was very dark. The water had withdrawn from sight, but they noticed that the downstream side of the dam was wet. Then, before they could see it, they heard water again; it was coming down the lake. They climbed out of the way and watched the water rise, overtopping the dam by about 3 feet. After 5 or 10 minutes it receded, then disappeared from sight. “All we could see down the dam was darkness again,” Hungerford recalled.
The crest of the dam was again submerged in 10 or 15 minutes, but this time by less water, and the water receded sooner. In all, there were four surges over the crest. Between them, Hungerford and Caraway could see no water on the upstream side, even once when they ran out onto the dam. The water in Hebgen Lake had been sloshed about like water in a bathtub, and it continued to oscillate, though less violently, for at least 12 hours after the quake.
âIrving J. Witkind, U.S. Geological Survey, describing the seiche that
occurred in Hebgen Lake during the 1959 earthquake. A seiche occurs wherever an earthquake shock is transmitted through a lake or large river. Seiches have been observed to transit Great Salt Lake consequent to earthquakes
,
sometimes cresting the levees across which the trains and highways run.
TUESDAY DAWNED SLOWLY. IT WAS SNOWING HARD, THE PERFECT icy cloaking for my mood. Not having anywhere I could think of to go, and having no one to do it with even if I got there, I pulled the covers over my head and stayed in bed.
I had found scant sleep in the hours between 2:00 and 6:00 A.M., and since then I had lain awake, tense as a rabbit scenting coyote on a turbulent wind. The best I could do was to try not to think, but even at that battle, I was losing.
Losing. I was losing Ray.
Why? And who was that woman in his mother's kitchen? And whose idea had it been to invite her there? Ava's? Katie's? His?
I tried to remember what she had looked like. She was taller than I, I thought, and her hair had been ⦠pale brown. No, blond. Try as I might, I couldn't remember much about her, but at the same time, I did have a very strong impression of her. She had stood straight, and yet softly. Everything about her was soft and pliant. Yielding. Cooperative. Willing. Everything I was not.
And she had made Ray laugh, and whisper in her ear. Or had that been a kiss?
For the hundredth time, I rolled over sharply in my bed and crammed the pillow over my head. I was wired and angry, frightened and distraught, but I could not manage to cry.
Â
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THE PHONE RANG at about ten o'clock. It was Tom Latimer. “Can you come with me for a few minutes this morning?” he asked. “I want you to run a make on some of the people who'll be attending the state geologist's funeral.”
“Oh, that's all I need,” I told him. “I'll just waltz into a funeral and start pointing them out to the FBI. That will endear me to them. Really put the salsa into my attempts at professional networking.”
“You won't even have to get out of the car.”
“Whatever.”
I was just climbing out of the shower when the phone rang again. This time, it was Ray.
“Em,” he said with his usual terseness.
“Ray.”
There was a pause. “You phoned.”
Now I waited. What should I say? What could I say? Finally, I said, “I didn't hear from you. There was the earthquake and all. I was worried.”
“Oh, right. Are you all right?”
A flash of anger heated the top of my head.
All right? Me? Hell no! I am a shambles, but it doesn't have a thing to do with that earthquake! It has to do with the man I love only asking me as an afterthought how I fared in it!
Forcing my voice to a level tone, I said, “Yes. No trouble at all. I dropped by your mother's last night to check on you all, but you seemed busy.”
“You
did?
Iâ”
“No, I didn't stay. It was Katie's bright idea. You were in the kitchen with ⦔ I almost said
your friend.
But that would have been spiteful, and spite was beneath me. This was Ray I was talking to, not Katie. The Ray who had asked me to marry him. The Ray to whom I had made certain promises. One of those promises had been that, while I was as yet unready to consent to a marriage, I would open my heart and mind to a growing relationship. Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself that part of being open meant being willing to hear an explanation, and, hopefully, hear that I was wrong.
Ray said nothing for the space of four heartbeats, then: “Oh. Yeah. That was an old friend from Saint George. I was helping her with the dishes.”
A thing I've never before seen you do,
I wanted to say, but again I held my tongue.
And neither have I heard you make such excuses.
There was a pause; then he said, “Em, is something wrong?”
I didn't answer. I couldn't stand to say,
Yes. I saw you touch another woman. I saw you laugh with her.
Ray's next words came with a soft purr. “Come on, you're my tough girl. A little earthquake didn't get you worried, did it?”
The irony of his words almost made me swoon. I could not think of a thing to say.
After awhile, Ray ended the silence by saying, “Okay. Well, I'm glad you're okay. You just take it easy, okay? I have a lot to do before going on shift today, so I'd better go.”
Go?
Faye's words rang in my head:
Confront it.
I blurted, “I think we should get together.”
Now Ray was silent.
I said, “When do you get off tonight?”
“Well, late, andâ”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Uh, too much going on at work.”
“How about Thursday? You usually have Thursdays off.”
There was another pause. “Yes. But I have to ⦠ah ⦠I promised Katie I'd take her skiing. Her husband, Enos, has been working so hard lately that she never gets to go.”
Take Katie skiing. Sure.
“Skiing,” I echoed. “At Alta.”
“How'd you know?”
“Just an unlucky guess.”
Which confirms that I will tell Faye and Logan I will not go skiing with them.
Or maybe you should, dingbat. What is this? Em is not allowed?
If I go but don't tell him I'm going, he'll think I'm just there because of him. But I could of course go and just avoid him, stay on the bunny slopes. He'll be on the expert runs and I'll never see him. Or he'll see me with Logan â¦
Now you're cooking with gas!
As I tied myself in knots trying to figure out how to play the
situation, there was continued silence from Ray's end of the line. I felt opportunities slipping away. The opportunity to be willing. To be exactly what he wanted me to be. To be who I was and just say good-bye.
The big goodbye.
Finally, Ray's voice came on again, this time more direct, less evasive. “Right. I think you're right. We need to get together. I have my break at six tomorrow evening. We can meet at the Pie.”
In my eyes there abides the face of a stricken man, perhaps a fireman, whom we saw carried into a lofty doorway in Union Square. His back had been broken, and as the stretcher bore him past, out of a handsome, ashen young face, the dreadful darkening eyes looked right into mine. All the world was crashing about him and he, a broken thing, with death awaiting him inside the granite portals, gazed upon the last woman of his race that he was ever to see. Jack, with tender hand, drew me away.
âCharmian London, on the devastation caused by the April 18, 1906, San Francisco earthquake
WENDY FORTESCUE HUNKERED DOWN IN THE PEW AT THE synagogue. She wondered if Jews called their benches pews. Here in Salt Lake City, everything was all screwed up. It was the only place she knew where Jews were called Gentiles. But that was a Mormon thing, and this funeral was Jewish.
She didn't like funerals, Jewish or otherwise, because she didn't like being part of a death. She particularly disliked this one, with everybody pumping her for information about Sidney's death, and asking why the police were so interested in talking to everyone.
Because it's a murder investigation,
she wanted to tell them, but the police had told her to keep her mouth shut. There was crime-scene tape covering half the backyard of the house, so they
couldn't keep her ignorant of the situation. But keeping her mouth shut was no problem. About the last thing she wanted to do was go blabbing anything about the facts of her living situation or, in fact, anything else about her personal life to much of anybody. Wendy knew she had a loud mouth, but it wasn't a big mouth. The distinction lay in an examination of what exactly came out of her mouth; she could have told them that if they'd asked. A bigmouth was someone who couldn't keep things quiet. A loudmouth was someone who had no compunction against stating what was on her mind.
Take weepy Ted Wimler, who was sitting in the men's section. Ted was a big mouth. Always wanted to be the big gossip reporter, the one who knew what was cooking with everyone. But Ted was not a loudmouth. If something was on his mind, it was stuck there forever. He had the consciousness of a gnat. But Wendy knew she was a loudmouth, because if someone asked her opinion of Ted, she'd open up her mouth and give it: He was a whining, self-pitying insect. And so-so in the sack. Too quick on the trigger after too much time getting the mechanism cocked, as it were. If she was ever sorry for indulging herself in a quickie, it was that one.
Now, Logan de Pontier, on the other handâwho was sitting next to Tedâhe was worth taking time with, but he wouldn't give her the time. Oh well. Wendy took in the robust, whiskery presence of the geologist she'd most like to screw. She wondered, not for the first time, what was ticking up inside that boy's braincase. The thing was, he wanted a relationship, not a sex partner, and that meant not just curiosity but companionship. The long pull. The whole enchilada.
Logan had seemed interested in that Em Hansen chick, the one who had turned up at the pizza thing with Ms. Long Legs with the attitude. Whatever. But Hansen had not been interested in Logan, so maybe the old boy'd need a little relief sometime soon.
Of course, he hadn't called her when things had fizzled between
him and Sidney. Wendy smiled. This was one of those little things she wasn't supposed to know about, but when you live in someone's basement, you may as well be an ant crawling around underneath her table. Or under her bed. Although things hadn't seemed to progress past dinner between those two. She had to hand it to old Sidney, because she was just that: old. The dew was off the lily. Forty-eight if she was a day. Ten years older than Logan, minimum. What had he seen in her?
And old enough to be Ted's mother, if you went by his emotional age. What a jerk. Left notes for her all over the placeâstuffed into Sidney's mailbox, jammed into some trite little potted plant or another. What level of professionalism was that? It was crap, that's what it was.
Wendy stretched and yawned. The service was droning on and on. Out of the corner of her eye, she measured Hugh Buttons's response to the proceedings. Fidgety. Huh. Usually, he seemed more doleful, playing out his “world's on my shoulders” gag. Not for the first time, she wondered if it had been Hugh who had stayed with Sidney the night before she died. But if it had been Hugh, she would have thought he'd be showing a little more emotion. Of course, the real question was not who had spent the night, but who had circled back and killed her. Woof. Creepier yet, she might even have been there when it happened!
A buzz like a jolt of electricity zapped through Wendy's brain at the thought of the actual murder, and she shook herself to discharge it. She didn't want to think about it. Didn't, didn't, didn't. It was good that Sidney's kids had been with their father that morning, across town, where he lived with his new wife, a less pushy woman. Good, good, good.
Wendy noted that Pet Mercer was sitting not far away. Now, that girl was up to something. Sure, as science reporter for the
Tribune,
she had interviewed Sidney several times, but that didn't mean she had to attend her funeral. Had Pet, with her prodigious knack for digging, figured out that Sidney hadn't just slipped?
Wendy had watched her carefully out in the lobby before the service. Pet had moved systematically through the crowd, nabbing people with questions.
Wendy recognized a policeman among the mourners. The good-looking, athletic one with the incredible buns and thighs. He had come around the house and interviewed her again just before the funeral, all trussed up in his navy blue uniform. Now he was in street clothes, obviously trying to blend into the crowd, little that a hunk like that could hope to blend with the rest of these bozos. What was his name? Raymond, that was it, Officer Thomas B. Raymond. He had “Mormon” written all over him: presumptuous, distracted, and hum-baby, how clean and healthy these Mormon studs could be!
Up in the front pews, just behind the blubbering family members, Wendy checked out the official lineup, or rather, the lineup of officials. Those to whom putting in an appearance is a political act, not a personal one. Maria Teller, director of the state's Department of Natural Resources, Sidney's boss, a butt-kissing buck passer if ever there was one; she was there to look good, in lieu of the governor himself. A couple guys from various state agencies, a few county and city goons. She looked around at Officer Raymond to see if he was hip to that deal. Gonzo. Zip. Nope, he was staring at some other doorknob kind of guy, a younger guy, a slide rule and pocket protector type of guy in a bad suit, who was sitting at the other end of her row. Now, who in hell was he? She'd seen Pet Mercer try to hit on him before the service, and he'd all but turned into smoke as she approached. He seemed familiar. Was he a relative of Sidney's? No, wrong ethnic group, too white-bread, too goy. Oh, now she remembered; he was a young hopeful in local party politics, a real hard-on, who looked like he was being kicked into the job.
Mercifully, the service was now ending, and everyone was rising to his or her feet to watch respectfully as the family of the departed filed by. She stood up and watched Officer Raymond
bird-dog his quarry. Sometimes it was downright convenient to be short, because people just didn't see her watching them.
Wendy threaded her way quickly through the clogged aisle, hoping for just a glimpse of the good officer's buns in motion.
Yeah!
He was tailing the other guy all right.
Yipe! Dodged out of sight!
Wendy moved up behind the man Officer Raymond had been watching, hoping to catch a little whiff of who he was and what he was doing there. This was going to be tough. He seemed to be alone. He wasn't talking to anyone, even seemed to be avoiding drawing attention to himself. Damn, this called for extreme measures!
Several minutes later, when Wendy had escaped to the safety of her car, she dipped her hand into her coat pocket and drew out a handful of business cards. Took a look at each one in turn. Smiled. Yes, she had sure scored when she slipped her hand into the mystery man's pocket! Here were five or six of his business cards, all fresh and crisp, like he'd just put them in there that morning. Of course, he didn't seem quite enough to be the type who knew to carry business cards, so it was probably his wife who had put them there: Here, dearie, don't forget your business cards, you never know whom you're going to meet, gotta make those contacts and haul home big bucks so I can be queen of the cul-de-sac!
Wendy had to squint to read the guy's name, because the card was one of those corporate jobs where the company's name is much more important than the jerk who does the work. It read
Hayes Associates, Salt Lake City, Enos Harkness, Structural Engineer.
Hah!
thought Wendy.
Just as I thought, an engineer. But what's an engineer got to do with Sidney's death?
Â
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MICAH HAYES SAT resolutely at his desk, enduring his open-door hour, rapping his pen sharply on the edge of his desk. Through the doorway, he observed the back of Tina's bowed head and mentally auditioned several of the dismal fates he thought might await her. She was an imbecile. Anyone could see that; it showed in her insipid smile, her hopefulness. Hayes knew there were Bible verses that suggested that God looked after people like her, but he knew better. It was people like him who looked after people like her. Tithers. Taxpayers.
Because all too often,
he thought seethingly,
the Tinas of the world suck up the tithe money. They're too quick to marry, and five kids later, they're on their own, wondering what hit them. And then people like me, who pay the lion's share of the tithing, see our money drain into the sands of welfare as those children grow up and make equally idiotic choices. Money the church could have spent building new temples, using firms like mine. The very best form of recycling,
he decided, with a slight tightening to one corner of his mouth that would have become a smile if his contemptuousness had not stanched his sense of humor.
But here's a thought: I could propose to the church that my firm build special housing for them. Yes, that would be good. I could reuse the plans for those condominiums I put up near Park City, save costs. Just simplify the plans a bit. Downgrade. Leave out the hot tubs the Gentiles like to bask in. Two bedrooms, but with bunk beds ⦠yes, and an enclave of the disadvantaged would provide the low-wage workers needed for so many businesses, perhaps even a steady source of the divorced mothers I need to have sit right where Tina is now sitting. Got to catch every advantage from the upswing in population and visitation this city will have now that the Olympics are here to advertise its credentials. But meanwhile, I move forward with the mall ⦠.
Outside the door of his office and across the reception area, the elevator doors opened, revealing a tall dark-haired young woman who stood with one foot turned outward in a vampish
posture. Micah Hayes knew her, although wives were discouraged from coming around the company and interrupting their husbands.
Katie Raymondâno, I keep forgetting that it's Katie Harkness nowâcome to check up on her husband's progress.
Katie enjoyed a healthy dose of the Raymond family beauty, but these particulars of her looks were lost on Micah Hayes. Being an unsentimental man, his lack of response to the kittenish sexual heat that flickered behind her well-groomed exterior had nothing to do with the fact that he had known her since she was born. As he did with all people on whom his gaze fell, he examined her only to evaluate how she might be useful to him. He reviewed in a fraction of a second his earlier assessments of her to see if anything had changed.
Proud,
he had decided long ago.
Far more ambitious than her husband. A pity she was born a female. Might have been able to form a personality that brutal into a good right arm.
If he had been capable of carrying his entire evaluation into consciousness, he would have added, Patrician in all the most presumptuous ways. High gut-level intelligence, unperturbed by the consumptive forces of intellectuality. Instead he thought,
Unusually pleased with herself today. She's up to something. Look at the way she flaunts those breasts, like money she's about to spend.
Katie scanned the reception area before stepping out of the elevator, saw Hayes's open door, saw him staring at her. She smiledâno teeth, eyelids half-loweredâstepped off the elevator, and advanced toward his doorway. “Good morning,” she said. “How nice to see you today. How are things going?”
“Fine, and thank you for asking,” he answered, slipping into the display of deep dignity that served so well when dealing with the ladies and less guileful men of the church. “Tell me, Katie, what brings you here today?”
Katie tipped her head forward slightly and took him in from the top of his balding head to his belt buckle, past which the desk obscured him; then her eyes continued to pan downward, as if could see right through the wood.
Hayes would have found this action disconcerting if he hadn't considered such displays of presumption a flaw that, in the transparency of its calculation, indicated his advantage.
She's decided she can handle me. Let her keep thinking that.
“I thought I'd take Enos to lunch,” Katie said. “It seems that's what I have to do if I want to see him.” She offered Hayes a coy, pettish pursing of her lips. “You keep him so busy.” She tugged lazily at her gloves and slowly pulled them off, revealing long, tapering fingers as supple and expressive as a dancer's legs. She was attired today in a long white coat made of a good-quality synthetic that approximated polar bear fur. The collar stood up next to her dark hair, setting it off to brilliant effect.