“Not much,” Chandler said.
“It surprised me,” Sherman said. “It makes me uneasy when I don’t know what I’m poking into.”
“Well, the man we’re working for told me there’s a lawsuit involved in this somehow. An old inheritance dispute. Nothing we need to know about. Just tell me more about the woman.”
“Well, she said her dad’s name was Clarke and he was killed in that collision of the two airlines that killed so many people back in the 1950s. She told people she was looking for where her daddy was buried. Wanted to visit the grave.”
“But she didn’t find it?”
“Guess not,” Sherman said. “I think that collision, and the fires that followed it, left a real mess. Had to gather up body parts in bags. And a lot of them burned.”
Remembering Sherman’s attitude brightened Chandler’s mood. He relaxed, enjoying the cool shade, enjoying the amazing, incredible view. Like every other adult American, he had seen so many dazzling photographs of this canyon that it had become a cliche. But Chandler was thinking those photographs had never captured what he was seeing now. He was struck by the mind-boggling immensity of this hole worn out of the earth crust, officially 277 miles of it on the guide book map he had bought, from the Glen Canyon Dam to Lake Mead, not just one canyon but hundreds of them, cutting through layers and layers and layers of stone and other minerals, lava flow and ocean- bottom sediment being hurried into the Colorado River and onward toward the Pacific by the inexorable force of gravity and running water. He was thinking suddenly of his terminal year as a college student, just before his macho appetite for sexual adventures got him arrested and then expelled, thinking of the geology class, of old Dr. Delbert projecting color slides of these same cliffs on the screen and trying to lead them upward from the pale yellow strata near the bottom he called Tapeats Sandstone. “Over that,” he said, “is Bright Angel Shale. That gray on top of that is Muav Limestone.” And upward, through other layers, colors, ages, with Dr. Delbert jabbing the screen with his pointer, until they finally reached the dark strip of Hermit Shale, and into the Coconino Sandstone and the Toroweap Formation.
And thus it would go, with Delbert’s creaky old voice stripping off the layers of the Colorado Plateau from the core of a newly formed planet to the last volcanic age, hardly a millennium past. It was the only class that Chandler had really enjoyed. The only class that had seriously interrupted his preoccupation with the seduction of the daughters of the super-rich. They were always there, all around him, nodding and giggling through these lectures. He thought now he should have become a geologist.
He was considering that when another cloud formation made its way across the canyon, changing the light pattern, reminding him that time was passing, that Sherman still hadn’t called. Why not?
Chandler dug his cell phone out of its belt holster and punched in the number Sherman had given him. It rang, and rang, and rang, and rang. He checked the number. It was correct and it was still ringing. Suddenly a voice.
“Yes.”
“Sherman?”
No answer. Then: “Who is this calling?”
Odd, Chandler thought, but it sounded like Sherman. Sort of. Had that no-nonsense “cop talking” ring to it.
“It’s Chandler, dammit. Who were you expecting? And where the hell are you? We’re wasting too much time. Is Tuve cooperating?”
“What is your business with Mr. Sherman?” the voice said. “Identify yourself.”
“Just a moment,” Chandler said. “Can you hear me all right? I can barely hear you.” He rechecked the number he’d punched. It was Sherman’s. But he was, almost certainly, talking to a cop. Which meant something had gone very wrong.
“Can you hear me now?” Chandler asked.
“Perfectly,” the voice said.
“Well, I’m very curious about this. You seem to have Sherman’s phone. Where’s Sherman?”
“You were going to tell me who you are. And where you’re calling from.”
“Oh, yes,” Chandler said. “I’m Jim Belshaw. And I’m calling from the Best Western at Flagstaff. Sherman was supposed to come and meet me here. How come you have his telephone?”
“How come you have his number?”
Chandler thought for a moment about how to make his voice sound angry. “Well, you just better ask him that. But let me talk to him. What the hell’s going on? He was supposed to be here an hour ago. Is he all right?”
“You a friend?”
“Yes. Yes I am. Has something happened to him?”
“I’m Officer J. D. Moya, Arizona State Police. And Mr. Belshaw, I want you to stay right where you are until I can get someone there to talk to you.”
“Sure. I’ll be here at the Best Western. Did something happen to him? Can I do something to help?”
“I hate to tell you this,” Officer Moya said, “but the man in the car is in critical condition.”
“Critical condition?” Chandler said. “Car accident? Or what?”
“Shot,” Moya said. “Do you know why he carried a gun?”
That left Chandler speechless. But only for a moment.
“Somebody shot him? Carjacking, was it? Or maybe an accident. But I didn’t even know he had a gun.”
Moya didn’t respond to that. He said, “What was he doing parked out by the rim of the Grand Canyon?”
“I have no idea,” Chandler said. “Was he alone? Have you caught whoever shot him? I’d be surprised if he’d be
