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Following the merciful conclusion of the livestock show, Matt was assigned a story that he almost welcomed. It would require a good deal of chair time for research. But that was fine with him, as he was no longer breathing in dust from the livestock show rings, and daily sessions cleaning barnyard goop off his boots.
Crusty told him that the state and the federal government were due to wrangle in court over local water rights, and this, unlike armed men in helicopters, was the kind of story that galvanized the more prominent members of the community. For that reason, the story also greatly aroused the interest of the Avalanche’s editor. But it was a terribly complex issue, with a long history of litigation and controversy, and thus the first task was to spend several days gathering background material.
This involved an entire day with the county tax records, which were excruciatingly dry. Still, he accumulated some good notes as to who owned what land, and what water rights, and when.
With that done he decided to review the last hundred years or so of the history of water use in the area. The library staff at the university was already used to his presence from time to time. They had been exceptionally helpful with some of the odd requests for information he had thrown at them in the past. Of course, that may have been because of the fresh sweet rolls he brought by on the mornings he camped out there. If he had wanted to knock out an entire library staff, he mused, spiked sweet rolls would have been a simple way to do it.
The smell of the fresh cinnamon buns in the box under his arm made him hungry all over again, even though he had had a modest breakfast. Inside the library entrance a poster for an upcoming concert first caught his eye, and next to it was a one bearing the legend "Missing."
It was the same picture the sheriff had had them print last Tuesday, that blonde girl who'd been sought near Fort Davis, only this picture was about four times larger than the version he'd seen before.
She was almost pretty except that she looked stressed, like someone dragged out of bed at three in the morning. Her eyes were large and set deep in the sockets; the expression on her face was strained. Similar faces painted on velvet were sold by the side of the road, solemn children's faces, often with a tear or two rolling down their cheeks.
Matt knew enough about the case to realize that she wasn’t ‘missing’ in any conventional sense, that she hadn’t wandered away from a campsite, for example. But what in thunder could she have done to be hunted like that, he wondered.
Even the sheriff hadn't known. He told Crusty the FBI had placed the notice, and they were not known for sharing details of their cases with small town law enforcement. Maybe it had been a kidnapping. He couldn’t imagine anything classified or worthy of spying on at the observatory.
He spent an hour searching out books, newspapers, and ledgers, and piled them all on the table. Sliding out a legal size note pad, he sat down and lost himself in concentration.
Ninety minutes later he stood up, stretched, and ambled into the stacks to search out a history of the El Paso Salt War. On the way back, he noticed an unusually large pile of books spread out on a nearby table.
The one on top caught his eye. It was a volume about cuneiform, a writing system he remembered from a graduate course he had had years ago. Cuneiform dated to the fourth millennium B.C., he recalled. Judging by the title, this volume seemed to be in German—odd that a student at Sul Ross would be interested in that.
He glanced at the titles of the other books in the pile that were visible. One was called The History of the Ancient World. Another was called Something or Other on Evolutionary Biology (the first words in the title were hidden by another book), and two or three others seemed to be on gnarly sounding mathematics and engineering, including a small one titled The Derivation of Topological Structures.
Most curious. Whatever sort of student would be interested in that bizarre combination of exotic topics? Maybe some professor had gathered them. Even so, it would be a fairly remarkable professor to be conversant with that variety of subjects.
He returned to the table and skimmed the first chapter on the Salt War while keeping an eye out for the mysterious genius. While jotting down yet another item someone walked past him, laid another book on the pile, and sat down. The brilliant mystery person was a woman, a young woman. She had opened the new book and was leafing through the back pages, evidently looking for something specific within the index.
Matt was dumbfounded. Picking up his notes and books he moved to a closer table. From the new seat to one side it was clear she was no older than any other college student, nothing like a distinguished professor. He opened his notebook and pretended to scan it while studying her over the top.
The woman was completely absorbed in what she was doing. Her dark brown hair, worn in a shoulder-length ponytail, was so smooth the rows of overhead lights could be counted in it. The reflections shimmered as she looked from one book to another. At last she stood and glided gracefully to a globe on a stand at the end of the room.
Wow.
No way was this the typical student, twiddling a pencil, messing with her cell phone, tapping a foot, keeping track of newcomers. She was dressed like a student, but she moved with unconscious grace, like an athlete or a dancer, extraordinary and utterly entrancing.
She stood on tiptoe to study the globe, referring to the book in her hand, brows drawn together, then back to the globe, nudging it gently in precise movements with slender fingers.
Everything about her was attracting, riveting, and totally fascinating.
What an image! There’s got to be a story here. This needs to be recorded!
Without looking down, he reached slowly into his gear bag and eased out the Avalanche’s third best camera. Setting it on the table, he switched it on. Using the little monitor on the back to aim it, he zoomed the lens at the globe fifty feet from him and took two photos. Just before the third shot his cell phone vibrated. Nuts!
“Hello?” he whispered.
“Matt!”
“Yeah.”
It was Dwayne, from the ad department.
“Whataburger. Five minutes.”
“Uh, yeah. OK.”
Blast it!
