Incident at Devil's Finger

Prologue THE MORNING CLOUDS were lifting, exposing the small house to a sun that seemed to burn hotter over the Southwest. Mercifully, the clapboard-and-stone rambler was partly shaded by an oak and a poplar. From the cool shadows of a porch, its resident—a tall angular man, a pilot by trade—watched the arrival of his visitor. He came in a blue 2018 Chevy truck. It was dusty gray from weeks of traveling up and down the region, sometimes in Texas, often over to Arizona, and now into the hilly desert east of Los Angeles. Inside his house, the tall man offered his visitor a cold beer, then went to open a window. A slight breeze was up. His visitor was an old acquaintance, a square man with lines in his face and a surly disposition. Today the mood was elevated, however. He was there to talk business. He was standing by the table that displayed a topographical map of the region. “The detail’s pretty good,” the visitor said, eyeing the Arizona terrain in particular. “Not great, but for now . . .” In various dull colors, the map showed Arizona’s geographical features—mountains, rivers, canyons, and deserts. The state’s famed red rock formations, surrounding the tourist town of Sedona, were scattered amid swaths of green. “Never been to Sedona,” the visitor said. He had his finger on the spot, moving it slightly. He absentmindedly scratched the scars above his wrist, then put the cold beer to the side of his temple for moment. “And you say middle of June?” “That’s right,” the tall angular man said. “And she’s doing this at the height of tourist season.” “That’s the idea.” The tall man traced his finger along a blue thread. “See this, the Verde River. They’re closing off the Sedona area for reclamation in the Verde Valley, so she’s got one day before they close it down.” “I suppose there’s a permit, right.” The tall man reached for a photocopy of the permit, and handed it to the visitor, who read it aloud. “US National Parks and Bureau of Land Management. Sounds like the big time.” His eyes went quickly over the text. “This permit has been issued to Magnifica Art Events, Los Angeles, for an outdoor event involving one aircraft and parachute activity above and on federal land.” The date and time-frame were given. The helicopter was arriving from a launch site in Flagstaff. It would leave the area immediately after release of the airborne event. The artist would land in a designated area. Official viewing areas were designated. Park rangers would be present as monitors and for traffic control. “So they let in a helicopter,” the visitor said. “Yeah, got through a loophole.” The tall man pointed at the sentence about “aerial delivery into a National Park.” It said: “If determined through a park planning process to be an appropriate activity, it may be allowed pursuant to the terms and conditions of a permit.” “Well, good for her,” the visitor said. He scratched the one-day stubble on his chin and took a swig from the cold beer bottle. His part in the proposal looked doable. Medium risk at worst. Both men were creatures of the region, with its distinct features—the Colorado River leaving the Rockies, running south and turning west through the Grand Canyon, coming out at Hoover Dam in Nevada, and then continued straight down to Mexico. Around Sedona, the watershed had produced great swaths of forest, now mostly national park. That was where rivers had plunged down the continental rift over eons, carving out the famous Red Rock pinnacles and mesas that jutted up across the Verde River Valley. “So all the pinnacles and mesas are here,” the visitor said, putting his finger on the sets of circles showing elevations. “And this one is Devil’s Finger.” The pinnacle was marked as a thousand feet in height. The tall man said, “Once she jumps from the copter, she’ll come down between these big ones, Cathedral Rock and Table Top, then land in a big open area below Devil’s Finger. That’s where the crowds will be.” “Okay. So, she really wants to do this?” “That’s right. I’ve seen crazier.” The tall man chuckled. The two men had served in the Middle East, different time and place, but they both knew crazy. “Scars make better stories than tattoos,” it was said, but neither man had managed to take a bullet. “Yeah, I read up a bit on what she does,” the visitor said. He’d found plenty of articles on Magnifica. The art press had given her names like the “flying artist,” “bird artist,” and “wing artist.” She jumped from helicopters using a swoop parachute, calling it something between “performance art” and “land art.” In this case, the Park Service was viewing it as good publicity, an eye-catching art event before the Arizona valley was closed off for a season. “And you say she’s rich,” the visitor said. “Trust me, she’s loaded. Here’s for starters,” the tall man said, handing over a thick white envelope of bills. “Okay then,” the visitor said. “I’ll be in touch.” Outside the front door, the visitor pulled on the old army-green fedora he’d bought a couple years back in Taos, New Mexico. Then he padded out to his Chevy truck. He opened its lock box and took out the small gun, which was in the duffle bag that held his dark green Forrest Ranger uniform, including the prim tan hat. He returned up front, jumped in, and began driving out of the lightly populated suburb. More clouds had gathered above the mountain ridges, now green with spring, but soon to turn brown, like the desert beyond. He had another long drive ahead.