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O’Hara nodded. “I do have a question,” he said, his voicesuddenly taking on a razor-sharp edge. He leaned forward toward Bromley. “We have reason to believe Oskarbi was involved in a drug-fueled secret society, of which you were a member. Is that true?”
At this, Bromley began to laugh. “A secret society? You mean a cult, don’t you? Secret societies are for the Founding Fathers and Ivy League students.”
“Just answer the question.”
“You FBI are still really defensive about Waco, aren’t you? I can answer in one word. No.”
A silence. O’Hara looked at Corrie. “Back to you, Agent Swanson.”
“I have no more questions,” said Corrie. She stared at Bromley, who still had an amused, half-incredulous look on his face. “Thank you, Dr. Bromley. You may go now.”
He got up, shaking his head, and left.
As the door slammed, Corrie turned to O’Hara. “I thought you were going to be Mr. Nice Guy.”
He grinned. “Well, the guy was so slick, I just had to pop him one. And I thought I could do you a favor by dismissing one theory in particular. He may be an asshole, but he’s no cult member.”
Corrie had to admit, as much as Bromley was a slick and evasive interlocutor, he was convincing. “Noted. Let’s bring in the next one.”
28
NORA KNEW ITwas a bad idea from the start. Corrie hadn’t been available—she was spending the weekend at Watts’s cabin, off the grid. Skip had to catch up on some work he’d neglected at the Institute and would be occupied both Saturday and Sunday.
Tappan had gone off to the East Coast, as planned. Nora didn’t want to involve anyone from the Institute.
So she’d decided to go on her own.
Corrie had found and given her the two missing chapters in Driver’s dissertation. Nora had read them with interest and astonishment. And now she was impatient beyond all reason to “ground-truth”—as the archaeological term went—the conclusions and theories in those two chapters.
She slowed her Jeep, realizing she was nearing the end of the rutted track. As she came around a hoodoo rock, she could see up ahead the staging area where the film crew had parked, their disturbances in the sand now erased by wind. She had plenty of water in her vehicle, and she would carry more in her pack. It was a relatively cool day—in the mid-nineties, with intermittent clouds—and the hike to the black formation where Vine’s bodyhad been found was only a mile. This was something she could do by herself. As far as climbing went… well, it was a steep pitch, class 3 and 4, but not one requiring ropes, belay, and a partner. Or so she hoped.
Nora parked the car, got out, and looked around. It was a great deal more lonely than it had been when the film crew was parked there. But there had been a change for the better. It had recently rained, and although the ground was dry again, the wetting was just enough to encourage wildflowers to pop out of the tawny sand, little dabs of color like stray flecks of paint on a dull canvas. The incessant wind wove skeins of dust over the ground, but Nora was glad of that: it was a cooling presence. In the distance, she could see the tall black butte outlined against the sky, looking as forbidding as ever.
She shrugged on her CamelBak, with a full gallon of water and some snacks. She took a long drink; smeared a fresh layer of sunscreen over her face, neck, and arms; donned a hat and sunglasses—and then, with no further ado, set off.
The way was easy to follow, the footprints of those many who had gone before still visible. She walked fast, the physical activity quelling a sense of unease. In truth, it was never wise to hike in a desert without a partner, nor was it smart to go rock climbing alone. She had left a message on Corrie’s voice mail telling her where she was going, in case something should happen; but it was Sunday morning, and Corrie probably wouldn’t be back in range until the evening.
As she hiked, the tent-like spire of rock with its flat top loomed ever closer. She took long strides, eating up the ground, and in twenty minutes she had arrived at the base of the pinnacle, in the swale where the body was found.
She gave it a closer inspection. It was about a hundred feet, give or take, to the top. She slowly circled the base, eyeing the best route up. Damn, it looked harder than she had recalled—but still doable. It was a class 4 most of the way, with the crux at the very top, where the volcanic rock became almost vertical: still nothing that required roping up. And because it was rough lava rock, it afforded many excellent and secure hand- and footholds. She brushed away any thought that what she was doing was still reckless—it would be like climbing a ladder, she told herself. It was unlike her to take a risk like this, she had to admit, but she was burning with impatience to see what lay at the top. Driver had advanced a remarkable, even revolutionary theory about the purpose of the witch’s fingers, but it seemed that, inexplicably, she had never actually ground-truthed her theory by climbing to the top.
Completing her circuit of the pinnacle, she decided on the best route and began to climb, lodging her boot on a foothold, grabbing two handholds, and hoisting herself up from there. It was indeed not much different from climbing a ladder. The lava was a little crumbly and friable, though, and about halfway up a foothold gave way. She still had three points secure, but it gave her a scare.
She continued on, the space below her becoming a yawning void. As she gained altitude, the angle grew steeper. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, she reached the “crux” of the climb—the hardest part: a sheer girdle of rimrock surrounding the flat top of the mesa.
She paused to catch her breath and look up. Son of a bitch, this section of the climb was definitely a class 5 pitch. There was a single visible fissure among the basalt pillars that she could“crack climb,” jamming her fingers and toes in and hauling herself up.Stupid, stupid. Don’t do it. Go down. Come back another day with a partner, ropes, nuts, and cams.
But she couldn’t. She was almost there.
It was impossible not to look down, to make sure of her foot placement. A fall now would likely be fatal, and if not, she’d wish the rest of her life, sitting in a wheelchair, that it had been.
She told herself to focus. Another rise, another finger jam and foot jam, another rise. She placed a hand on the rim itself, felt around for a hold, found one. As she was shifting one foot, the other slipped, and she was briefly hanging by a single hand, dangling, before she found another hold on top and managed to wedge her toe into the crack again.
A moment later she had hauled herself over the edge and onto the top, breathing heavily, her heart beating wildly as the terror subsided.
“Idiot,” she muttered, angry at herself. What was wrong with her?
But at least she was at the top.