Читать книгу The Height of Secrecy - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 13

The firefighters drove off, some to return to the fire, some to rest before the next shift. Jack said his good-byes and stayed behind. He would have Kelly drive him home.

She seemed to expect a round of questioning and stuck to her mother, helping clean up. When done, she found new things to do, until busy work started getting hard to find.

“I’ll be in your studio. I want to see what you’re working on,” he said, in code she undoubtedly understood to mean he would be waiting to talk.

Muscles growing stiff and pains showing themselves, he hobbled down the hall and slipped into the room. In the moment before switching on the light, he noticed the lights of Las Piedras in the distance. Dark, wild ground occupied the space between. He left the light off and stepped over to the window.

The door swung open. “You in here?” Kelly asked.

“At the window.”

She slipped in and closed the door. Darkness settled back over the room.

“I take it you’re not studying my latest masterpiece.”

“No, but I want to see it.”

“It’s not coming together. Maybe another time. What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About Thomas?”

“Yeah, and the stars.”

“But we’re not going to talk about stars, are we?”

“We can, but that’s not all.”

“I don’t have much to tell.”

“But more than you’re saying.”

“I haven’t seen him in years. He’s an old friend, but we both moved away for so long.”

“Just tell me.”

She sighed. “He was born and raised in the pueblo. Great guy. He can be quite funny or quite serious. He’s very bright. His mother encouraged him to get an education, which he did. He’s married, has a son. I heard he recently moved home.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect he wants his son to grow up in that culture.”

“Tell me about his sister.”

Kelly stepped back from the window, and picked up a brush. She twisted the handle. “After her death Thomas pulled away from who he was. It seemed to shake the foundations of his very being. After college he was teaching in Albuquerque.”

“What was he doing yesterday?”

She seemed to expect the question. She didn’t answer.

“Why was he out on that ledge?”

“Jack, I can’t say, or rather, I shouldn’t say.”

“I assume the waterfall had something to do with it.”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“Kelly, I saved his life. It could have cost me mine.”

“It’s not my secret to tell. It’s Thomas’. It’s something I know a little about, and so does Mother, but we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t know.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It doesn’t sound like it, but it does, and I can’t tell you why.”

“Why would he risk his life in the place that killed his sister?”

She shook her head. “If anyone tells you, it should be Thomas. Ask him.”

“He wouldn’t talk. Except to say it might be something that was not his to do. What would he be doing that he shouldn’t be, and why would you and your mother know about it?”

“Oh, Jack,” she whined. “If I answer you’ll just keep going. You’ll make me tell you everything.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

She sighed. “Before starting his own practice, my grandfather was a doctor with Indian Health Service. He worked at the pueblo and made many friends. Mother and Thomas’ mother played together as kids. They became lifelong friends. She died a few years ago, complications from diabetes, but when Thomas’ sister died, Mother went to comfort her. I went too. Thomas and I are about the same age. We became friends. When Lola Polly was grieving, she said more than she wanted to. Later, she asked us to respect and honor her by keeping those things to ourselves. We promised.”

“Something to do with traditions?”

“I won’t say.”

“I need to know.”

She sighed. “Ask Thomas. You did save his life. He might tell you, but I won’t. I won’t break that promise.”

“But what if he . . .”

“No, it’s not my secret to tell.” She smiled and put her arms around his neck. “How do I get this off your mind?”

He laughed. “Good luck at that. Kind of hard letting go of something after bouncing around at the end of a rope, looking at a long drop into oblivion.”

“You smell better than you did earlier. Let’s go to your place.”

“Funny. You’re changing the subject.”

She snuggled against him. “How about a dip in the spring?”

“I’m not forgetting about this Thomas thing.”

“We’ll see.”

—·—

Jack ran his finger down the page and located the file code. He slammed the binder shut and placed it back on the shelf.

The bank of off-white, four-drawer file cabinets lined the wall. He scanned the codes on the drawers, found the one he wanted—third drawer on the fifth file cabinet—and pulled it open. Old files. Discolored, and in an old format. Looked right. He pulled out a file, dated fifteen years earlier, and flipped through the pages. Nothing. He slipped it back into place, and pulled out the one from sixteen years back. Flipping through pages he found it, accompanied by newspaper articles. The case incident report was heavy on details of the death and body recovery, sparse on the why. A young woman was on a hike, got lost, found herself in an unforgiving place, and fell to her death. The reporting ranger commented he had never noticed the ledge before that day.

A newspaper article gave information on the woman, but nothing about why she was there. Her name was Maria Trujillo. “. . . survived by a husband and infant daughter. She was a resident of the Pueblo.”

No more information than that.

—·—

Jack went up to his office and opened a listing of phone numbers for agency technical specialists. He dialed the phone.

Two rings and, “Park Service, Ethnography, Chloe Bell.”

“Chloe, I need you to tell me something in your area of expertise. Oh, sorry, this is Jack Chastain.”

“Hello to you too, Jack.”

“Hi. I’m in a bit of a daze. This is all pretty hard to understand. We rescued a guy off a ledge. A guy named Thomas.”

“And you were involved?”

“Yeah.”

“A little far afield for a biologist, isn’t it?”

“Long story, but anyway, this guy was scared to death, but even after we saved him—even after the rock he was sitting on peeled off the wall and nearly killed us both—he wouldn’t talk. His mind was elsewhere. Happy to be alive, but he wouldn’t talk. Doesn’t seem like a jumper. I later learned his sister died in the same location, sixteen years ago. Why, I don’t know.”

“Slow down. That’s a lot to absorb. So, is this man Native American?”

“Yes.”

“Where was this?”

“Near Sipapu Falls.”

“Interesting.”

“Really. Why?”

She laughed. “Ordinarily, with a name like Sipapu Falls you’d think it was sacred or something. Do you know what Sipapu means?”

“No.”

“It means place of emergence from the dark underworld. The center of the cosmos.”

“Ah . . .”

“Not so fast. There’s another use of the word. A Sipapu can be the hole in the floor of a kiva, symbolizing the exit from the underworld.”

“So which is it?”

She laughed. “Neither. Hate to burst your bubble, but every-thing I’ve heard or seen suggests the waterfall was named by businessmen early in the last century. Trying to create a mystique to lure tourists to the area. It stuck. The Pueblo calls it something quite un-mysterious, like ‘place of falling waters’.”

“Then why did this Thomas guy go there?”

“The site still might have significance.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something important culturally. Maybe something else entirely.”

“What do you mean, culturally?”

“Any number of things. Could have some significance to some important story, but I’m not aware that it does. Could have importance to one of their clans or religious societies.”

“Clan?”

“Each clan has a role in the society of the pueblo. It takes all clans to make the society whole.”

“What would any of this have to do with a hardly noticeable trail to a waterfall?”

“No idea, and possibly nothing. I’m only guessing. But if it did, it might have something to do with a ritual, pilgrimage, initiation, who knows. And his sister died, what, eighteen years back?”

“Sixteen.”

“Hmmm,” Bell said. “Hard to know.”

“How can I find out?”

“I doubt they’ll tell you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not part of their culture.”

“What about you? You’re respected. You could ask.”

She laughed. “Me? A short, blonde, Jewish anthropologist from New York? They won’t share that information with me any more than they’ll tell you.”

“What do I do? This is frustrating.”

“Let me ask you a question. Why do you need to know?”

“I was nearly killed up there.”

“I understand. But why do you need to know? You’ve got to remember, traditions are important to these people, and in ways that you cannot understand. If you dig hard enough, you might learn something. It might end at that, or it might not. You don’t have the slightest clue what the consequences might be. The social ramifications, for Thomas, his clan, his society—they could be great.”

“I wouldn’t do anything. I just need to know.”

She laughed. “Oh, you silly Anglo.”