The Find (19 page)

—
♦ —

GEORGE'S JACKET WAS CRUMPLED
, his eyes red-rimmed, but he grinned at Anna as she came into the boardroom, and then he dipped his face over his coffee mug.

‘I have some good current information on the infrastructure grants,' she said. ‘If they did want to apply, and if we were in a position to provide some of the seed money, as well as—'

‘Let's wait for everyone else,' George said. ‘Excellent Chinese last night, don't you think?' One by one the others came in, saving her from small talk. Brian seemed to have made an effort; he was freshly shaven and dressed in a newish denim shirt buckled into his jeans.

‘So,' George said, ‘following on from yesterday, I contacted Daniel Wilkinson at the university. He saw the point right away and was keen to be part of such an innovative solution. He spoke to Fleming, the Earth Sciences dean, who also saw the point. I have here…' he reached inside his leather organiser, ‘a faxed letter to that effect.'

Everyone around the table made some kind of movement, looked up, shifted position or reached for a pen.

George handed Anna the letter. She saw the embossed crest at the top, the name at the bottom, could hardly read the words between.

‘Fleming did express some concern that he had not had a report from Dr Swenson, but under the circumstances he saw the necessity to act quickly. I had a word with Brian here and he's agreed to go along with you, show some institutional support.'

She nodded, wiped the moisture from under her eyes, and looked around at all of them.

‘Thank you.' It felt astoundingly good, to have people clearly behind her. ‘Brian and I will do our utmost to make this work.'

Sheila bent over her laptop.

‘You'll need to leave in an hour's time in order to catch the one o'clock flight,' she said. ‘I'm confirming your reservations now.'

‘Let's move on, then. What were you saying?' George asked.

‘In terms of what we can offer in return for the loan of the specimens, I've been looking at ways in which the museum — and the university too — could support the St'alkwextsihn. Matched funding is available for community infrastructure. It seems to me that there are things they are already working towards which we could perhaps support.'

‘Question!' Ken Ruzesky raised his hand.

‘With respect, would we be going to these lengths for, say a group of Creationists?'

‘So far as I know, those people don't have any kind of land claim.'

‘Thank the Lord!' George said, and each of them joined the laughter in his own way, and then waited for Anna to continue.

Everyone was at the hotel, drinking coffee, wondering who was going to pay their bill. Phoning, or trying to.
Message box full
: maybe she already knew? But when was she coming back? Why hadn't she called?

‘Just where the hell is she?' Swenson said.

‘Don't talk to me that way,' Scott said and turned his back on the man. Jason, too, was losing it:

‘Who is this guy on the cliff? No one's telling me anything and I'm supposed to be heading up when she's not here. When's she coming back? What's the point of a cell phone or a direct line if you're not going to answer them?'

Alan Coxtis, on the other hand, answered his cell. He was in the band office, fielding calls on three lines.

‘You can come up,' he told Scott, ‘if you've got something to say.'

‘Where the hell are you going?' Swenson asked as he left the breakfast room. He passed a CBC van and three squad cars at the entrance to the cliff trail and was flagged down and asked where he was going. Minutes later, he pulled in and parked under a raven carving, leaving a cloud of dust to settle behind him. The office was just the same as it had always been: a low-slung temporary building, with a roof and guttering that needed attention, four creaking steps up to the entrance.

Coxtis came out from behind his desk, grasped Scott's hand, waved at the seating area, though neither of them went there.

‘It's Thompson,' Coxtis said, and immediately it made a terrible kind of sense. ‘On the edge. He has the bones that were stolen and says he's going to throw them down and then jump himself if nothing has changed by sundown. He'll go through with it.' Coxtis' forehead shone with sweat. He wore the usual jeans, white t-shirt and raven pendant, but looked a very different man to the one who had led the crowd of protesters up to the dig: greyer somehow, his edges blurred, like a reflection in window glass.

‘So?' he asked Scott. ‘What do you bring to this situation?'

‘Anna went to the museum to try and work out an offer. Something to do with taking the specimen as a loan.'

‘
Something?
Was that what you came to say?' The phone was ringing again.

‘She must be on her way back now!' Scott hoped that this was true, knew he had to make it happen if it was not: there was a floatplane due in at 1 p.m. and another at 5:30. ‘She was sure she'd have something worthwhile. Can you tell Thompson that? She really wanted—'

Coxtis walked over to his phone.

‘
Meaning well
is not going to help here,' he said as he picked it up. Through the window behind him movement caught Scott's eye: kids were playing on the rope swings that hung from the branches of a stand of large cedars on the edge of the play area. Different rope, bright new plastic equipment in the cleared area, but essentially, the scene was unchanged from when he used to play there as a kid during his mother's visits to her relatives. He had played with Thompson, for heaven's sake. His heart was racing as he raised a hand to Alan and pushed back outside. Kids swarmed over the bars, watched from the bench by one of their grandmothers.

Again, he called the museum's main number. Not in her office.

‘Is she in the building? Because I need to talk to her immediately.'

Who was he? they wanted to know. She was in a meeting.

‘Can you please go ask her to come to the phone?' There was an appalled silence, finally, a promise to take his number and call him back.

Half an hour later, back in town, the call came. Not her. A man's voice:

‘Ruzesky here. Arthropods. Who's this?' it asked, friendly enough.

‘One of the volunteers at Big Crow. There's an emergency... a man threatening to jump off the cliff.'

‘Anna and Brian just left for the airport, twenty minutes ago. Try her cell,' Ruzesky added.

If she did not yet know what was happening, surely she'd find out on the way? It was 11:45 a.m., 12:45 there. She must be planning to make the five o'clock floatplane, could get to the cliff by six-fifteen. By six-thirty the gorge was normally in shadow, but it was still
light
for hours. Did the sun shining from the west still catch the top of the cliff? Or was the viewing spot in the shade of the hills opposite? Scott couldn't remember. In any case, a veil of white was forming over the sky, like a cataract on an eye.

Ignorant, blissful, damp with the sweat from their dash for the plane, Anna relaxed in her seat. She would call Scott and Jason as soon as they left the plane, on the off-chance that one of them was in town. She'd ask them to keep the news to themselves until she arrived; she and Brian would get a taxi from the dock to the site carpark and walk up. It would be dusk by the time they reached camp and made their announcement.

In all conscience, she thought, Mike Swenson should be taken aside and informed first. He could do nothing. They had a faxed agreement from the Department of Earth Sciences at the university and so it did not matter one bit whether he personally liked their proposal or not.

In the morning, she thought, I'll take the proposal to Alan Coxtis. It's not a foregone conclusion, of course, but I'm looking forward to it, and to having an intelligent man like him at least not
so much
against us. And I'm looking forward to the dig returning to how it should be — a team of people with a common goal that is bigger than all of our ordinary concerns. I'm looking forward to being back in charge, the real me. And I would like to thank Scott for all his help, insight and so on during a time of crisis. I'd like to thank him publicly: an extra word of thanks.
Everyone has been fantastic, but an extra word of thanks…
A long run of complications and bad luck, she thought was about to come to an end. They had an offer. A workable compromise.

Brian, sleeping beside her in the aisle seat, woke with a start as they began to descend. It was only as they drifted through departures that she switched on her phone, realised something was very wrong. A man, she learned, might end his life because of what she had found.

Finally, Scott's phone rang

‘Sundown?' she asked him. ‘When is sundown?'

‘Sundown is whenever he decides it's sundown,' Scott said. ‘Can't you get here sooner?'

‘
You
must talk to him,' she said, standing with Brian beside her at the edge of a moving throng of people. ‘Listen carefully. We acknowledge their claim and would like to support it. We would like to borrow something of theirs. In return...'

—
♦ —

THREE-THIRTY, THE SKY GREY
, the sun a blur of white light. It was cool in the car, but the heat hit them as soon as the doors opened. Constable Eileen Donohue and Scott Macleod climbed out of the squad car, nodded at Gus and Garth and the other media types.

No, Eileen Donohue told them, nothing to say.
Good thing
, Scott thought. He could barely speak. Dry mouth, heart trying to get the hell out of his chest. Sweating at the slightest exertion. How had he ended up here? Anna. He met her on the cliff and now he was going back there. The rest of the excavation teams were in the hotel, taking showers and watching TV. He was here, following Eileen Donohue down the trail.

Both of them carried walkie-talkies and his backpack contained a sheaf of papers that Anna had faxed through to Coxtis' office, and, at Thompson's request, some bottled water. Eileen Donohue was pleased about the water. She'd had training in dealing with people who were attempting suicide, but this, she explained, because of the political element, was very different from anything she'd met before. She had spent two hours on the cliff earlier in the day and Thompson had not said a thing to her, nor let her get closer than twenty metres.

‘I talked about myself and my dogs and told him how I lost my older brother when I was a teenager, but it didn't work out. He told me to stop. So it's good about the water, that he wants something from us, and trusts us enough to ask.'

Or maybe, Scott didn't say, he's just thirsty. Wants to keep his head clear. Would rather feel good until the last possible moment. They moved into deeper shade, the trail slightly uphill. Eileen was panting a little, and at every step her pant legs rubbed together with a short, brisk sound.

‘You've got to remember,' she said as the trees began to thin out, ‘we must try, but it won't be our fault if he does it. Warn him before you make movements of any kind. Get his permission before you approach. Before you make any kind of move.'

It was too much. He was going to throw up.
Turn back
, he thought, but they had arrived. The officer Eileen was relieving reported no change and then set off back down the trail. There was Thompson: he had climbed over the rusty bit of fence there to protect the public and was sitting, shirtless, with his back to them, just a metre from the edge, his backpack, t-shirt and a row of jacketed specimens beside him. He appeared to be gazing straight out across the gorge but he turned when he heard them approach.

‘Bring the water, Scott,' he said, getting to his feet. ‘Just you. Leave her behind.'

It was about eighteen metres to the fence. Standing well clear of it, Scott handed the bottle over. He noticed that Thompson was not wearing a watch.

‘Get back,' Thompson said. From five metres away, Scott watched him break the bottle open, tip back his head and drink; once he'd finished, he set the bottle down by his feet. Almost instantly, it fell on its side and, caught by a breath of wind, rolled over the edge.

Thompson turned back and leaned his elbows on the fence. He had a baseball cap over his half-and-half hairstyle, and the jeans he wore were baggy and belted tight about his waist. He'd clearly been working out for some time. There was absolutely nothing but air behind him and despite the half-grin he wore, his gaze was fierce, and the bones on his face seemed prominent, as if forced towards the surface by the tension within.

‘I've got a message and some detailed information from Dr Silowski,' Scott said, noticing Thompson's eyes, not just the power in them but the colour, the same deep brown he'd see if he looked into his own.

‘Are they leaving?'

‘Look at it. It's worth considering.'

‘Who says that?'

‘The band council is talking about it right now. They want you there with them to join in the discussion when Anna arrives.'

‘Alan Coxtis,' Thompson's face hardened, ‘spends far too much time with the wrong people, trying for the wrong things.'

‘Maybe he has to.' Without knowing what he was doing, Scott took half a step forward.

‘Stop!' Thompson told him. ‘A few more acres of upstream land tacked onto the reserve? What's the point? When do we get back downriver where we come from? There are no fish here now. No one wants to hear the truth! It's all horse-trading and back-rubbing, and I don't know why the hell I'm talking to
you
.'

Scott remembered, downriver, a different cliff at the swimming hole, a different kind of hot day long ago. He was new and waiting for or avoiding his turn. Thompson, skinny, dark, slipped down over the edge and lowered himself onto the ledge, and then turned to face out. Sometimes it could be twenty minutes or more before a person finally jumped, but Thompson simply took a breath and stepped right out into the air. There was a modest splash, and then moments later his head shot up from the water. He shook the water out of his hair and then made for the beach in an easy crawl.

He'll step out just the same way here, if he chooses to, Scott thought. He needs to get to the rush as fast as possible, whether that's a fight or a dive, or the top of the speedometer.

From somewhere in the forest behind him, came a sound almost like laughter: the Big Crows. Thompson heard it too.

‘My spirit,' he said, his eyes fixed on Scott's.
Hell
, Scott thought. But you can't fly. Not for real.

‘She won't be long. Hear what she has to say.'

‘What are you doing with those people?'

‘Learning, I guess. Can we sit down?' Scott asked.

‘Go ahead,' Thompson said, but stayed standing himself even as Scott sat down and reached into his pocket. ‘Evolution, science...' Thompson continued, leaning his arms on the railing, ‘You're learning that, but what do you know about your own culture?'
Not much
, Scott thought.
Enough.
And what is it, now, anyway? And what do I know about anything? What I know is
I don't want you to jump
. Still looking at Thompson, he pulled out his tin and opened it.

‘You can't escape where you're from,' Thompson said.

‘No?' Scott said, licking one paper and joining it to another. He managed a smile. ‘Wouldn't you rather be somewhere else right now? I sure would.' His hands shook but there was no one close enough to see it.

‘I will be, soon,' Thompson replied, as the shadow of a bird passed over the ground between them.

Scott held out the joint. Thompson shook his head, closed his eyes a moment. The wire of the fencing divided his body into diamond shapes.

‘People think they can't make a difference,' Thompson said, frowning, ‘but we can. People think the only way forwards is to suck it up and get over it, and that's wrong too. And people think they have to follow the script that someone else wrote. But they're wrong, too. I want to do something.'

‘Just one thing? Don't you want to do something you can see through?' Scott's heart thudded in his chest. It felt so very close to the surface, as if it might burst through. ‘Are you leaving that to the others? Because—'

There was a strange, wet, hollow call from the ravens behind them.

‘Don't argue with me,' Thompson said. Scott lit the joint, took a lungful, and held it out, wordlessly. There was a pause, seconds long before Thompson said:

‘Okay. Bring it here, then back off.' When Scott had handed it over, he sat back down because his legs were jelly; he watched Thompson pull hard on the joint and exhale looking around him at the trees and the sky. He watched him crouch down, put the joint on the ground, reach for one of the jacketed parts of the specimen, a white lump the size of his own head. Standing again, he threw it up and out. A moment later Scott felt the dull, distant thud of its impact somewhere in his chest.

‘Back where it belongs,' Thompson said.

‘Anna will be here in less than half an hour.'

‘I don't have that long,' Thompson said, just as a pair of ravens passed overhead, close enough for them to hear the creak of wingbeats, feel the wake of disturbed air. Both men looked up, watched the birds rise over the gorge, circle lazily — as if, it seemed to Scott, they were preparing to witness what would come next.

The radio on Scott's belt crackled into life and Thompson's eyes met Scott's, wide open, bright with fear. He gave the smallest of nods, and Scott brought the radio to his ear: Anna.

‘Is he all right? We'll be five minutes now.'

‘They're here,' Scott told Thompson. Still, the two birds circled overhead. ‘And it's because of what you are doing that they have come up with this offer,' he knew this was not perfectly true, but he figured it could pass — hell, Thompson could come back here later if he wanted to. ‘They want to know what you think of what they are offering, and so do the elders, and Coxtis; they need you to be there.'

Above them, the two ravens seemed to hang still, silhouetted against the dull sky. Then, almost as if they had lost the ability to fly, they tumbled in unison down through the air above the gorge. A second later, they beat their wings again, veered and made a twisted double loop in the air, rose, flew steadily back the way they came. From the direction of the roost came more cawing and then a strange, metallic warble.

What would Thompson think it meant? Jump, or don't jump?

‘They pulled back,' Scott said. ‘They didn't need to go all the way.'

‘Go away!' Thompson said. ‘Go away and take them all with you! No one comes here, understood?'

Scott turned and walked towards Eileen, one moment confident, the next terrified that Thompson would choose to step out into nothingness. As he and Eileen passed into the darkness between the trees, the ravens croaking above their heads, he willed himself not to look back.

Anna watched Scott emerge from the trail, head up, his face shocked but loose.

‘No one to go on the cliff!' he called out. ‘No press, nothing. He's thinking it over... I think, maybe, it could be okay.' She breathed in deep, felt as if she too had been temporarily saved. She climbed in next to him in the back of the taxi. Brian, in front, twisted around to introduce himself and add his thanks to Anna's. He hadn't done anything, he said, just tried to pass the time. He'd talked a bit until some ravens flew over and her call came. No one should say anything, he said. The discussion should not begin. They should just wait until Thompson made his decision.

She noticed how exhaustion made Scott's face seem older. Traces of the day's exertion and emotion rose from his skin, a salty, bitter smell.

He closed his eyes briefly and then, before supplying the detail, bent to reach into the backpack jammed between his legs; his vertebrae pushed up beneath skin and damp t-shirt, disappeared again as he straightened. He offered the water to her first, tipped his head back and drank. The sound of his swallowing seemed to fill the car, and it was as Anna watched him drink that she realised that Scott was no longer, if he ever had been, a pleasant young man she was giving some work experience in exchange for some of his reassuring manner, a kind of charm against the devil Swenson. He was someone quite extraordinary and could be anything he chose; when he pushed the water bottle between his knees, leaned back in the seat and looked across at her, she had to look quickly away at the road ahead, a narrow ribbon winding through the third-growth conifers.