Slickrock Paradox (13 page)

Silas knew that he had to talk with Peter Anton, but he had no idea where the man might be. Saudi Arabia was a long way from Moab, Utah. He also knew that he should inform the
FBI
of what he had learned, though doing so would create another entanglement with Taylor, something he was anxious to avoid.

Finally, he knew that he had to learn what it was Kayah Wisechild was working on at the time of her disappearance, and death. It might be conceivable that at some point in the past the young woman knew Penelope. If they had worked on a project together—possibly a campaign to protect important archaeological sites?—Silas might find out more about what his wife was doing when she disappeared.

It was nearly midnight when he drove through Moab, too late to make his inquires, so he pressed on for home. When he finally arrived, he collapsed on top of his bed, delaying his slumber only long enough to touch the face of his wife in the photograph next to the bed on the nightstand and tell her that he was trying to understand.

WHEN HE WOKE,
he took his morning coffee, along with his portable phone, outside to watch the sunrise over Castle Valley. He dug a scrap of paper from his jeans and dialed the number he had scrawled there.

“Salt Lake Office, Bureau of Investigation, Trace Evidence Unit.”

“Dr. Rain, please.”

“One moment, let me see if she's in.” There was a silence, then a familiar voice came on the line.

“This is Rain.”

“It's Silas Pearson, Doctor.”

“Hello, Silas. You know, if you want me to call you Silas, you're going to have to at least call me Kathleen; Katie would be preferable.”

“We'll see about that. Listen, this is a little unorthodox, and you can tell me to go fly a kite, but I want to ask you something.”

“Is this with regards to Ms. Wisechild's remains?”

“In a way. It's about the investigation.”

“I'm not a part of this investigation team, as such. I'm auxiliary to the core unit. Are you sure you don't want to talk with Assistant Special Agent in Charge—”

“No, thank you. If what I have to talk with you about proves relevant, I'll leave it to you to decide if Agent Taylor gets involved. I assume you have access to the investigation records?”

“I do, but I'm not at liberty to share them with you, Silas.”

“Well, let me run this by you. There is some evidence to suggest that Kayah Wisechild was in a relationship with someone she worked with when she disappeared. A man named Peter Anton. He was married at the time, likely still is. He's a good forty years her senior. He's adjunct at
NAU
and a consultant with the firm that Kayah was working with, called Dead Horse. They're based here in Moab. Does the Bureau know about this?” He could hear keys tapping and assumed that Rain was accessing the
FBI
's internal files on the investigation.

“How did you come by this information?” she asked.

“I visited with the family—”

“Yesterday,” she said, cutting him off.

“That's right. You've got notes there?”

“Yes, Agent Taylor noted that he passed you and another man while departing the Wisechild home.”

“Does he mention Peter Anton, or any suggestion of an affair?”

“Let me . . .” Silas assumed she was scrolling through the notes. “No. Nothing. He says he questioned the parents about boyfriends and co-workers, but they didn't say anything about an affair.”

“They likely didn't know, and he likely didn't know how to ask. The man I was traveling with speaks Hopi, and he knew the family. There was trust there. And he asked Kayah's sister, Darla.
She
knew. The parents didn't. In the Hopi tradition, that kind of behavior is considered taboo, the work of witchcraft.”

“It's pretty much taboo everywhere, isn't it?” asked Rain.

“Do you think it's important?” asked Silas.

“I'd say so. I'm not the lead investigator, though.”

“No, but you are
FBI
. Do you want to bring it to Taylor's attention?”

“Taylor will already be following up with the employer, this Dead Horse Consulting company. That's standard. He might learn about this Anton fellow there. He'll certainly ask. He's likely to turn up this same information on his own. If I send him this information, he's going to scream about you interfering with a federal investigation and obstruction of justice. That's going to end you up in an interview room at the Grand County Sheriff's Office, if not a trip to Monticello. I don't think you want that, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

“And that's likely not going to help you find your wife.” Silas was silent. “Are you still there?” Rain said.

“Yes,” he said after a moment.

“Here's what I'm going to do. I'll monitor Taylor's notes and if in the next day or so if this doesn't come up, I'll ask about it. The cause of death would lead me to believe that this was a very personal crime, perhaps a crime of passion, though not necessarily between lovers. I suspect that somebody had a grudge against this girl.”

“Can you tell me how she died?”

“No. It would prejudice the investigation. Frankly, Silas, you're still a suspect—excuse me, a person of interest—until Taylor says otherwise. He makes a notation that your being at the Wisechild residence yesterday is considered suspicious. If
you
had information about how the girl died, it could be difficult to establish guilt or innocence. That would lead to trouble, for both you and me.”

“Okay, I appreciate what you're doing.”

“Let's hope that I'm not wrong and that you prove to be trustworthy.”

“I guess it could mean your job.”

She laughed. “No, I'm not worried about that. I'm one of only three people doing this work for the
FBI
. And there's only eighty board-certified forensic anthropologists in the entire United States. I won't get fired for this conversation. I might get a letter on my file, but nobody will care so long as I keep leading our people to the bad guys. What I am worried about is finding this killer, and I'd very much like you to find your wife. It's why I got into this line of work.”

Silas felt a strange sense of relief. It had been a long time since anybody but his closest friends had offered him help. Mostly people just avoided him, or in the case of Jacob Isaiah, scorned his efforts. Here was a complete stranger, and someone in a position of considerable authority, offering him encouragement and assistance.

“Thank you” was all that he could manage.

“I'll call you if anything turns up. You do the same. Goodbye, Dr. Pearson,” she said, and he could tell she was smiling.

“Goodbye, Dr. Rain.” He broke the connection.

SILAS HAD NEVER
been to the offices of Dead Horse Consulting, but he had driven past them heading south on 191 many times. Located in an industrial complex near the
BLM
and Park Service Headquarters south of town, Dead Horse was a broad-based business, specializing in environmental assessments, planning, design, and archaeology.

On Monday morning he drove from his home in the Castle Valley and stopped at the bookstore. He wanted to read up on the company online before he headed out there.

When he finally set out for Dead Horse's office, he had learned that the person he needed to speak with was Jared Strom. Silas parked next to several white four-door, extended cab pick-up trucks, all with the Dead Horse logo artfully displayed on the front doors. When he had visited the company's website, he found that the logo wasn't at all what he expected. It did not involve a horse, but rather a stylized motif from the ancient Pueblo art found in Dead Horse Canyon.

Silas entered the air-conditioned office. The receptionist behind the long, faux-maple counter looked up as he approached. “May I help you?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Strom, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don't. Will that be a problem?”

“No, as long as he's here. What was your name?”

“Silas Pearson.”

She picked up the phone and spoke with someone. “You're in luck. He's in the back. His assistant is paging him.”

A moment later a broad-shouldered man with a ball cap covering a mostly bald dome entered through the door. He reached out a meaty hand to Silas. “Jared Strom,” he said.

“Silas Pearson.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Sure, follow me.” Strom turned down the hall at a brisk pace, and Silas, cane in hand, had to hurry to keep up. Strom led him through a warren of cubicles and partitioned offices to the rear of the building.

He stopped at a doorway and turned, noticing Silas several steps behind. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I think I only have one speed.”

“I banged up my ankle last week. Otherwise, I'd be fine.”

“Hiking?”

“Something like that.”

“Let's sit in my office,” he said, opening the door to a windowless room. He closed the door behind Silas. Strom reached down and moved a pile of files and folders and maps from a black leather chair and motioned for Silas to sit. “Do you want anything? Ice tea? Or something hot?”

“No thanks. I won't take much of your time. I want to ask you about something. It's a little sensitive.” Strom waited.

Silas continued, “
I
was the one who found Kayah Wisechild's body.”

The man paled. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together.

Strom said, “The
FBI
and the Sheriff's Office came by yesterday morning. I had heard it on the news. They are saying the body was found by a hiker.”

“That was me.”

“I see,” said Strom.

“I want to ask you about Kayah Wisechild, if I may. You see, finding her body has been, well, troubling me.”

“No doubt it has.”

“How long did she work here?”

“Two summers. The first one was three years back. She was a senior at
NAU
, finishing her degree. We hired her as an intern. The following spring, when she was looking for work again, we found her a full-time position.”

“What did she do?”

“How much do you know about what we do, Mr. Pearson?”

“Not much, I'll admit. You seem like a going concern.”

“We're a full-service environmental and archaeological consulting firm. What that means is if you want to do something around here that would trigger any kind of environmental assessment, or anything to do with the Archaeological Resources Protection Act—we just call it
ARPA
—then you hire us. We do any field work and report writing that's needed to satisfy the
BLM
, the Forest Service, or the Park Service.”

Silas had heard Penelope talk about such firms many times. She had painted them as eager to green-wash any project so long as the pay was sufficient. Silas had dismissed this as his wife's typical one-sided bias. “What was Kayah doing for Dead Horse?” Silas asked.

“She worked for me. I run the archaeological services side of things. Kayah was young, and a little naive, but she was a solid technician. For example, if someone wanted to build some condominiums up there on the bench above Moab, or out near Canyonlands, or anywhere else around here, they'd hire us to tell them how to do it so they don't mess up the environment and don't disturb ancient Pueblo sites of significance. In such a situation, Kayah would work with one of our senior archaeologists at the proposed site and make sure there was nothing of significance there. If there was, we'd advise our client on how to develop the site without violating the various pieces of legislation, the National Environmental Policy Act and
ARPA
, or sometimes even tell them that they couldn't build where they wanted to.”

“That happen often? Where you'd have to say no?”

“Well, we just advise. It's up to the
BLM
and other agencies to say yes or no.” Silas couldn't remember many situations where someone had been told no by the
BLM
.

“Did Kayah work with a man named Peter Anton when she was here?” Silas watched for a reaction. If Strom had any, he didn't show it.

“She did. They worked together on a couple of projects.”

“Where is Anton now? I heard he was working on a project in the Middle East.”

“I don't know. Peter was only ever with us on contract. We haven't used him in the last two years.”

“Don't you think that's a little strange?”

“There are dozens of guys like Peter Anton out there. They—”

“That's not what I mean. I mean the timing. Don't you think it's strange that Peter Anton, someone who worked with Kayah before she disappeared . . . before she was killed, suddenly decides to go off to the Middle East just after she vanishes?”

Strom was silent a moment. “I see what you're driving at, Mr. Pearson.”

“Do you?”

“You think Peter was involved in Kayah's death just because he takes a contract overseas around the time she vanishes.”

“Seems suspicious, doesn't it?”

“Only if Peter hadn't done that sort of thing every year or two for most of his professional life. He's spent almost as much time in Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Jordan—you name it—as he has here.”

“Is he in the States now, or overseas?”

“I have no idea.”

“Where does he live when he's in the
US
?”

Strom shrugged. “I think he had a place near Cortez, in Colorado. He loved Mesa Verde.”

“You don't have a number for him?”

“We could ask Julie on the way out.”

“Did you know that Peter Anton was
involved
with Kayah Wisechild?”