The Thunder Keeper(65)
“Are there other pipes in the valley?” she said.
“We’ll see.” He turned back to the screen. Fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The scientist was quiet, immersed in the changing images.
“Don’t find any,” he said finally. “Doesn’t mean they’re not there. It’d take a lot of time to examine the data more closely.”
The kimberlite pipe he’d found flashed back onto the screen. “Look at that.” He jabbed a finger at what looked like a disturbed area in a section of the black rock. “Somebody’s been working this pipe. Probably taking test samples of ore.”
Vicky could feel her heart speed up. “What’s the exact location?”
“Exact coordinates, here we come.” Another click-click. Numbers appeared on the screen.
“How far is the pipe from the main road?”
Hendricks studied the numbers. “I’d say about four miles in a straight line north of the big petroglyph on the cliff. I’ll print it for you.” He clicked the mouse. A whirring sound started somewhere down the corridor.
“I can’t tell you how much help you’ve been,” Vicky said, rising from her chair.
The scientist was on his feet. “Hold on,” he said, darting out the door. In two or three minutes he was back. He handed her a printout of the image.
“Not often I get the chance to go looking for diamonds,” he said, walking her into the corridor. “I’m usually after the telltale signs of oil and coal and methane gas. Not as exciting.”
She shook the man’s hand and told him she could find her way out.
This is it, she thought, clutching the paper to the front of her raincoat as the elevator dropped past the other floors. She had the evidence, the motive for three murders.
She dialed Steve Clark’s number as she made her way into the parking lot. It was raining lightly, the black clouds lengthening overhead. His answering machine picked up, and the familiar instruction came over the line. “Leave your name and number. I’ll get back to you.”
“It’s Vicky.” She slid inside the Bronco and turned the ignition. The engine emitted a low growl. “I have information on Vince Lewis’s murder. I have to talk to you right away.”
She ended the call, and at the red light on Orchard Road, she dialed St. Francis Mission. The phone started to ring as she turned onto the entrance to I-25. The green-and-white highway signs swayed overhead, and the wipers cleared twin cones on the windshield.
For the first time she noticed the black sedan in the rearview mirror. Her mouth went dry. The ringing stopped, replaced by another answering machine, another familiar voice. Where are you, John?
At the beep, she said, “Call me as soon as you get in. I know what’s going on at Bear Lake. I know why Duncan Grover was murdered.”
She clicked off, tossed the phone on the passenger seat, and swung out into the passing lane. Pressing hard on the accelerator, passing a string of cars before pulling back into the right lane. The black sedan was still there.
She turned out again, this time switching back and forth across the lanes, weaving through the traffic, the windshield wipers squealing like trapped animals.
The sedan was gone. Her hands froze to the wheel. The sedan on the highway to Laramie, and now here. How could she have been so naive? She was only gathering information, she’d told herself. There was no danger. Information was always dangerous, if someone didn’t want you to have it. Vince and Jana Lewis had been killed because of information.
The black sedan was in the mirror again. Suddenly it shot past, but not before she caught a glimpse of a dark-haired, middle-aged white man at the wheel, his face averted from her. The sedan passed three or four cars ahead before disappearing into the lane she was in.
The overhead signs blurred past. Colfax. Speer Boulevard. Vicky moved into the turning lane and followed the ramp that curved over the highway before dumping her onto North Speer. She made herself take several deep breaths. The sedan was gone for good this time.
29
Vicky spotted Lucas as she drew up in front of the corner restaurant: seated behind the plate-glass window with the words ITALIAN HOME-STYLE COOKING across the top. Alone at a table draped in a white cloth, head bent over a magazine, a mug in one hand. His dark complexion, a startling contrast to the white cloth.
How handsome he was, she thought, running across the sidewalk to the entrance. How much like Ben, even the muscular contours of his shoulders under the light blue shirt.
“Hey, Mom!” He jumped to his feet the minute she stepped inside, as if he’d felt her presence. The restaurant was warm and redolent of the odors of tomato sauce and spices. The tables were full. There was a buzz of conversation, the noise of clinking dishes.