“What about Garrett, Juan, and Marko?”
“They need to understand the situation. Paulson invited them along but they have to agree to provide help on the B-29 salvage if needed. You have free rein to explore around Thor’s Hammer while on the ice, which in all likelihood will be only a few days.”
“How far do you trust Paulson?”
“He wants the bomber badly. I’m not sure how much that will impact his decision-making.”
“Jack, this is beginning to resemble an Everest climbing trip, and you know how that scares the shit out of me.”
“I’d be happier if you stayed in New Mexico and let me snoop around Thor’s Hammer,” Jack said, tiptoeing around the issue.
“Not a chance.”
“Then remember: Al Paulson’s our sugar-daddy on this trip, which means he’s not to be treated like the world’s most dangerous criminal.”
“From the sound of it,” said Leah, “Al Paulson is the least of our problems.”
Jack listened to the call disconnect and laid the telephone softly down. His earlier elation over the prospect of a trip to Antarctica faded. “Shit,” he whispered. “What the hell are we getting into?”
CHAPTER 21
Glen Janssen leaned over the horn of his saddle, staring at the endless landscape of red sandstone canyons and scrub pine trees. He instinctively pulled the collar of his coat up against the biting north wind. Three of his rangers were spread out, combing the ground. They had found remnants of a fresh campsite; the floor imprints of several small dome-style tents were still visible in the shifting sands.
The New Mexico State Police had come up with nothing. Probably to be expected. These weren’t your normal criminal types. Most likely they weren’t criminals at all, but artifact hunters caught in the act.
The ranger he’d sent into Silver City had had an interesting exchange with the proprietor of the local tavern-gem-store. Jim Dixon, who on occasion called in tips to the National Park Police, had four suspicious individuals come into the store a few days before. Dixon remembered them because they had brought in a very rare type of granite for identification. What raised red flags was Dixon’s report that the strangers drove a Chevy Blazer matching the description of the one that had escaped the canyon and ended up in the photographs. When the ranger showed Dixon the photograph featuring the man’s face through the rear window of the Blazer, he said the face did not belong to any of the three guys in the tavern. The woman had been referred to as “Leah.” The name wasn’t all that common and Janssen thought it might provide a solid lead.
What bothered Glen Janssen was the rare granite crystal they had shown to Dixon. The rock dealer said it could be found naturally only in one place: Antarctica. Once Dixon identified the rock, he said all four of them had seemed shaken.
Janssen had nixed use of the ATVs, deciding that horses would be more appropriate. It helped that Janssen loved horses, owning several himself, including the one he was riding.
Darryl Ridgeway tapped the flank of his horse and guided it toward his boss. “We’ve been all over the top of the mesa again — nothing so far. Except for footprints and tire tracks, it all looks clean.”
Janssen studied the landscape. “Where exactly did you spot them?”
Ridgeway pointed toward the opposite side of the canyon. “We were motoring up that side of the mesa when we caught a glimpse of someone crossing the arch, headed for the wash.” He swept his hand from left to right. “That’s when we saw the second and the third one sprinting across those rocks.”
“I want you guys to work back down the way they escaped.” Janssen pointed up toward the archway. “I’m going to take a quick look around the mesa.”
“We’ve combed the area three times now—”
Janssen’s face creased into an easy smile. “I know, Darryl. I’d like to have a look around up there myself just to be sure we haven’t missed anything.” He paused. “You go on ahead. I’ll be along shortly, or you’ll hear from me on the radio.”
The rangers, with Ridgeway in the lead, turned their horses around and started back down the wash, following the escape path.
Janssen tapped the horse lightly, urging the Appaloosa up the narrow, twisting trail toward the rock bridge leading across the canyon. When he reached the edge of the mesa, he dismounted and patted the animal on the nose.
Horses were still the best way to patrol the park. They fit in with the environment, didn’t make much noise, and had a sixth sense for what was happening around them. His horse Locust was especially well suited for this terrain. He wasn’t easily spooked and didn’t suffer from a fear of heights, critical for working around the steep canyons. Still, Janssen knew it wasn’t prudent to ride the animal over the arch connecting the two sides of the canyon. He grabbed the reins and gave the animal a gentle tug.
Janssen trotted across, making sure not to look down. Instead of climbing back onto the horse when he got to the opposite side of the canyon, the chief ranger simply dropped the reins and started walking through the boulders.
He spent nearly an hour combing the top of the mesa without finding anything out of the ordinary. His back aching, Janssen pulled his cowboy hat down over his ears, trying to ward off the afternoon chill. Locust had wandered over toward the drop-off, looking back on occasion at Janssen with bored disinterest. The horse’s mood would change when he pointed the animal in the direction of the stable. Then he’d have to hold the Appaloosa back from galloping happily home.
Locust had stopped near an old pine tree and was scratching his neck against the trunk. Janssen grinned. He could trust the horse to find the only tree on the damn mesa big enough to give him a good scratch, even if it grew dangerously close to the canyon’s edge.
Janssen walked over to the horse and rubbed his brown-and-white nose. “Is this whole deal boring you?”
Locust snorted in reply and backed up a step.
Janssen grabbed the reins and stepped behind the short, stumpy pine tree, hoping to catch a brief break from the cold wind. He studied the tree, wondering how old it might be, and, if it could talk, what tales it might tell from its two hundred years of living on the top of the mesa. He ran his hands over its trunk, feeling the thick texture of the bark, toughened by the harsh winters and hot summers. His hand suddenly stopped near the midpoint on the trunk.
The bark there had been compressed and rubbed smooth on a single narrow strip running around the backside of the tree. Something had been recently rigged around the trunk, leaving a slight but uniform indentation. Whatever it was, the pressure had been applied to the side of the pine facing away from the mesa, which meant the pull had come as someone rappelled down the cliff wall.
Janssen tiptoed toward the precipice, getting down on his hands and knees. He found clear markings where climbing lines had rubbed two distinct grooves in the sandstone; a sure sign someone rigged rope and put significant pressure on the lines.
Janssen was close to breaking one of his own rules — don’t take unnecessary risks without back-up. He knew he should wait until a couple of park rangers with climbing experience rigged a safety line. He crawled forward until he could see down over the drop-off. Less than one hundred feet below, a ledge jutted out from the cliff wall.
“I’ll be damned.” He pushed back away from the cliff and pulled the handheld radio off his belt clip. “Darryl, you copy?”
“Yeah, but we must be nearly out of range because there’s plenty of static. What’s up?”