SILAS DROVE NORTH ON 191 and turned west on Highway 279, past the Moab Tailings Project, and drove along the banks of the Colorado River. For almost thirty years, from 1956 to 1984, the Atlas Mill processed fourteen hundred tons of uranium, day in and day out. All of it within a stone’s throw of the lifeblood of the American Southwest: the Colorado River. The US Department of Energy stepped in with this new project to move 16 million tons of uranium tailings from the banks of the Colorado River to a permanent disposal site thirty miles north, near the town of Crescent Junction. Every day two trains, each up to twenty-six cars long, transported highly radioactive waste away from its burial site along the river.

The landscape that surrounded him was unimaginably grand and spectacularly beautiful, but of all the environments on earth this one was among the least tolerant of fools and their mistakes. The uncommon and exceptional wealth it made for a few brash men and women had even led to murder on occasion. Most often, however, what killed a person was their own foolishness.

Silas called it the slickrock paradox: While the stone was innocent enough to look at, once you tried to get a grip on it, it took your feet out from under you.

He stopped the Outback a couple miles down the river, at a place recently converted from a random camping site to an organized day-use area and tent campground. There were only a few vehicles so he parked close to the river. He sat on the bank of the Colorado and watched it flow. He recalled of one of his favorite pieces of Western literature, Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It, and the much-loved passage, “I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. Eventually the watcher joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river.”

Now there was a great American writer. He only wrote two books, but they stood up. Silas counted Maclean among his favorite “river poets”: Stegner, Maclean, and Ellen Meloy, the latter having passed much too soon.

When he had met Penelope she told him he was missing the best: Abbey and his pieces on the Green, Colorado, Dirty Devil, San Juan, and Dolores Rivers. The jewel, she told him, was his eulogy for the Colorado River where it had carved out Glen Canyon. Abbey floated down it, she told him, just months before the completion of the dam, and had included the piece in Desert Solitaire. Silas read it. He read it all, but remained unconvinced. He did admit—though only to himself—that when the famous desert rat wrote about rivers, he was at his middling best.

Silas watched the Colorado River as he would a telephone waiting for it to ring. He wanted answers. Silas wondered why Jacob Isaiah was suddenly so interested in him, and more important, why Isaiah was so interested in Penelope. The man had never been particularly neighborly toward him, nor had he ever been so openly hostile. Something had changed in his attitude toward Silas with Silas’s discovery of Kayah Wisechild’s body.

How was it that Isaiah knew he had found the body? None of the newspaper reports identified Silas; they all just said that a hiker discovered the body after a flood. Maybe the young couple who found him had told their story, but they didn’t know his name. Maybe the doctor or the nurses at Moab Regional finked him out, but that too seemed unlikely. The only person he figured who could have given him up to Jacob Isaiah was Dexter Willis, sheriff of Grand County. He would have to find out.

And lastly, Silas wanted to know why it was that his wife wanted him to find Kayah Wisechild. Silas had feigned steadfast resolution against Ken Hollyoak’s idea the other day, downplaying his dream and its portent. He hadn’t, in fact, stopped considering its possible meaning for more than a few minutes since learning the identity of the corpse. The direction this dream sent him on was as obvious as if there had been a road sign on 191 pointing him down Courthouse Wash. Penelope often appeared in his dreams, but she was usually mute. He felt that she had sent him to Sleepy Hollow. She wanted him to go there. She wanted him to find Kayah Wisechild. He simply had no ungodly knowledge as to why.

“I DON’T THINK you ought to come by the County Office,” said Dexter Willis. “The feds are still all over this place. I’m lucky to still have my desk.”

“Can you come by the store?” asked Silas. He had his new cell phone to his ear while he geared down coming into town.

“Don’t see why not.”

“Do me a favor, Dex. Don’t tell Taylor you’re coming to see me, okay?”

“What’s going on, Silas?”

“Nothing. I just need to ask you a few questions without getting the third degree.”

“I’ll come by in ten minutes.”

Silas was unlocking the door to his bookstore when Willis strolled up the sidewalk. They greeted each other and Silas opened the door.

“You got a soda in that little fridge of yours?” asked Willis.

“Should have,” said Silas, walking the length of the store and opening the fridge. “Dr Pepper do?”

“Perfect.”

Silas motioned toward the chair that Jacob Isaiah had vacated just a few hours before and handed the sheriff his cold drink. “I’ll get right to the point. Did you tell Jacob Isaiah that I was the one who found the Wisechild woman?”

Willis looked taken aback. “It wasn’t me, Silas. What happens while I’m on duty stays there.”

“He knew it was me in Courthouse Wash. He made a pretty big deal about it.” Silas told the sheriff about his conversation that morning.

“Leave this with me, I’ll look into it. You know that uttering threats is a crime.”

“People get riled. I just can’t understand why now.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said if I kept poking around in the rocks looking for Penny, I’d end up like the Wisechild girl. Dead.”

Both men sat in silence a moment. “Did you get hold of this girl’s folks?” Silas finally asked.

“The FBI did. They found them yesterday afternoon.”

“In person?”

“They don’t have a phone. Nearest one was at a crossroads store thirty miles from where they lived up on Third Mesa. Real middle-of-nowhere country. I believe the Hopi Tribal Police visited the residence.”

“How did they take it?”

“I don’t know. Even though the tribal police are overseen by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, communication between departments isn’t so good.”

“Did you know that she worked with Dead Horse Consulting doing archaeological surveys for our friend Isaiah?”

“Yes. Did Isaiah tell you that?”

“He did. First he comes at me as if the girl’s disappearance two years ago was headline news on CNN and then he acts as if he’s never heard of Dead Horse Consulting. He’s had them on the payroll of his various development schemes for as long as I’ve known him.”

“He’s a big player, Silas. He’s got two dozen people working for him. Maybe he just farms it out and they hire who they want.”

“Maybe.”

“Listen, we’re working with the feds to chase this thing down. You’ve got to let us do our job.”

Silas held up his hands. “Say no more. I’m just curious.”

“Careful with that, Silas. You know what they say about cats and all.” He stood up and offered his hand. Silas took it. “Listen, Silas. Jacob Isaiah, well, he’s a serious man and serious about his business. He’s been here since before they started pulling uranium out of the ground back in ’54. He’s likely to be here after both you and I are buzzard bait. I make it a point to stay out of his way. It’s just some friendly advice from me to you.”

“I appreciate it, Dex. I do.”

Silas closed the door behind the sheriff. He had every intention of getting in Jacob Isaiah’s way if it meant understanding what connection the Wisechild girl had to his missing wife. He looked around the store. He hadn’t sold a book in a month; maybe he wouldn’t wait for the following week to resume his search. There was a lot of country on the Hopi Reservation that he could search by car.