half hour or so. I’ll let you wash up, or unwrap, whatever, and go put on some coffee.”
“I don’t know about you,” Constance said as soon as the woman closed the door, “but I’m freezing. I intend to change clothes and then we’ll see.”
When they returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, Beatrice had a tray ready. She picked it up. “This way.” She led them into the other side of the house, where they stopped at a comfortable room that probably had been intended as a den. There was a wood burning stove, some bean bag chairs in a corner, an overstuffed sofa, also pushed out of the way, and two desks and several office chairs. A computer system was on one desk. An assortment of bottles and glasses was on an end table, and computer printouts, maps, rolled up papers, notebooks, seemed to be everywhere.
A large topographical map had been thumb tacked to one wall. Three red circles made a triangle. Charlie walked to it.
“Here’s Grayling,” Beatrice said, pointing to one of the circles. “This one is the big resort hotel going up, not quite finished yet, and that one is Old West. That’s where… where the incident occurred.”
Charlie nodded. He had looked up the area at home, but this map was a superb USGS map that showed every rock, every dip and hollow. That’s all that was out there, he thought: rises, dips, hollows, chasms, peaks, dry lakes, dry riverbeds, barren rocks, scrub desert brush… . Behind him Beatrice was pouring coffee.
“We started at seven this morning,” she was saying to Constance, “and by this afternoon, Byron knew we all had to see the location for ourselves. The stories just weren’t making any sense, and they vary so much about where things happened. We drew to see who’d go today, who’d wait until tomorrow. So Polly and Mike and Byron went out, oh, an hour ago, maybe. They’ll be back any minute now.”
Byron wished that Beatrice had come instead of Polly, and knew it was unfair, and even tried to force himself not to see the little byplays that always occurred when Polly and Mike were together. If only Mike weren’t such an ass, he thought, and knew that was hopeless too. Mike was an ass, yearning so openly for
Polly’s attention that it was embarrassing for everyone around them. And Polly could be a bitch, he also knew, teasing just enough to make Mike even more an ass, but never enough to warrant a dressing down. Mike was twenty-six, Polly a couple of years older and very attractive, with pale hair and blue eyes with incredible lashes. Mike was overweight, a wrestler who would make a damn good psychologist some day, but at the present time was simply a pain in the ass. At the last minute Byron had decided to let Mike drive his Land Rover in, more to keep him busy than because he feared for his Cadillac. After all, he had thought, the road was used every day by the workers at Old West; it had to be okay. Okay turned out to be an overstatement. It was just passable, with deep ruts and rocky places and precipitous hills. Mike loved driving it. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror to grin at Polly, who was being shaken like a malted milk.
He rounded a sharp curve and Old West came into view. Two buildings, the old hotel and another one halfway down the street, were the original structures, aged, weathered silvery, looking very much at home in the desert. Everything else was new. Dust swirled in the street, settled, swirled.
“See if you can drive all around the place,” Byron said when they drew close. The road wound by an area with a portable toilet and a parked trailer, then behind the old hotel, and the new buildings, and finally behind the railroad station, where it ended. The last quarter mile there was no real road, just a bulldozed surface. It was late enough for the shadows of the buildings to fill the street and made deep pockets of darkness. Wood that had not turned silver gleamed golden in the shafts of sunlight streaking in low between the
“I don’t know about you,” Constance said as soon as the woman closed the door, “but I’m freezing. I intend to change clothes and then we’ll see.”
When they returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, Beatrice had a tray ready. She picked it up. “This way.” She led them into the other side of the house, where they stopped at a comfortable room that probably had been intended as a den. There was a wood burning stove, some bean bag chairs in a corner, an overstuffed sofa, also pushed out of the way, and two desks and several office chairs. A computer system was on one desk. An assortment of bottles and glasses was on an end table, and computer printouts, maps, rolled up papers, notebooks, seemed to be everywhere.
A large topographical map had been thumb tacked to one wall. Three red circles made a triangle. Charlie walked to it.
“Here’s Grayling,” Beatrice said, pointing to one of the circles. “This one is the big resort hotel going up, not quite finished yet, and that one is Old West. That’s where… where the incident occurred.”
Charlie nodded. He had looked up the area at home, but this map was a superb USGS map that showed every rock, every dip and hollow. That’s all that was out there, he thought: rises, dips, hollows, chasms, peaks, dry lakes, dry riverbeds, barren rocks, scrub desert brush… . Behind him Beatrice was pouring coffee.
“We started at seven this morning,” she was saying to Constance, “and by this afternoon, Byron knew we all had to see the location for ourselves. The stories just weren’t making any sense, and they vary so much about where things happened. We drew to see who’d go today, who’d wait until tomorrow. So Polly and Mike and Byron went out, oh, an hour ago, maybe. They’ll be back any minute now.”
Byron wished that Beatrice had come instead of Polly, and knew it was unfair, and even tried to force himself not to see the little byplays that always occurred when Polly and Mike were together. If only Mike weren’t such an ass, he thought, and knew that was hopeless too. Mike was an ass, yearning so openly for
Polly’s attention that it was embarrassing for everyone around them. And Polly could be a bitch, he also knew, teasing just enough to make Mike even more an ass, but never enough to warrant a dressing down. Mike was twenty-six, Polly a couple of years older and very attractive, with pale hair and blue eyes with incredible lashes. Mike was overweight, a wrestler who would make a damn good psychologist some day, but at the present time was simply a pain in the ass. At the last minute Byron had decided to let Mike drive his Land Rover in, more to keep him busy than because he feared for his Cadillac. After all, he had thought, the road was used every day by the workers at Old West; it had to be okay. Okay turned out to be an overstatement. It was just passable, with deep ruts and rocky places and precipitous hills. Mike loved driving it. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror to grin at Polly, who was being shaken like a malted milk.
He rounded a sharp curve and Old West came into view. Two buildings, the old hotel and another one halfway down the street, were the original structures, aged, weathered silvery, looking very much at home in the desert. Everything else was new. Dust swirled in the street, settled, swirled.
“See if you can drive all around the place,” Byron said when they drew close. The road wound by an area with a portable toilet and a parked trailer, then behind the old hotel, and the new buildings, and finally behind the railroad station, where it ended. The last quarter mile there was no real road, just a bulldozed surface. It was late enough for the shadows of the buildings to fill the street and made deep pockets of darkness. Wood that had not turned silver gleamed golden in the shafts of sunlight streaking in low between the
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