She nodded. “If he’s not there, I’ll go to the bus and then I’ll walk down the trail we took earlier.”
Chee said, “I’ll hike the other main trail. Let’s meet here in twenty minutes.”
She said, “If he’s not in the john, you should tell Dashee and the agents. They can help us.”
“Right. All this might embarrass Palmer enough that he’ll act like a grown-up. I’m sick of this hide-and-seek stuff.”
The porta potties were the old-fashioned wooden kind with a simple peg latch. The doors to all three stalls stood open, the interiors unoccupied. He found Palmer’s leather bag on the floor in the one on the far end. Chee decided to come back for it—or tell Palmer where it was—after he found the man.
He turned around to see the two FBI agents. They continued the campsite search while he went back to tell Bernie, who acted on their plan. Then he found Dashee.
“Have you seen Palmer?”
Dashee looked up from his sandwich. “You let that guy get away again? Check the bus. Maybe he’s in there taking a nap.”
“Bernie’s doing that. Cowboy, you’re in charge while we’re searching for him.”
Dashee grew serious. “Mr. Keevama would like to talk to the delegates, share another story about why we hold this place sacred. I’ll tell him to go ahead when everyone finishes lunch if you guys haven’t found Palmer. And we’ll ask the Hualapai woman to speak. That will keep things calm for a while here. Good luck.”
The coach driver, sitting with a plate of food on her lap, opened the door when Bernie knocked. No, she hadn’t seen Mr. Palmer since the bus had unloaded.
Bernie called Palmer’s name as she hiked down the trail, moving as quickly as she could through the fog. It would be easy, she thought, to slip and fall here, especially now that the fog had come this high. Maybe Palmer had walked away from the group to have a cigarette or catch a few minutes of quiet. He should have told Chee, she thought, not just disappeared.
After about ten minutes of searching, she reached the overlook where the group had stopped. If Palmer wanted privacy, he needn’t have hiked farther than this, but there was no sign of him. The trail continued through the fog, deeper into the canyon. At some point it must connect to the main trail that originated on the rim, the route Chee would check.
She felt uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.
“Palmer, are you down there?”
Only silence answered.
28
Bernie continued down the trail, past the overlook and a few more switchbacks. The route grew steeper and required concentrated focus. She searched for Palmer’s tracks, calling his name, disappointed in the lack of response. She zipped her jacket against the thick cold.
Then she heard what sounded like a muffled human voice above her on the slope, invisible in the fog bank. “Palmer?”
No one called back. Hikers, she thought. Or maybe it was a single hiker talking to his dog or even himself. Or maybe even Chee or the feds calling for Palmer, the same as she had been.
She heard the voice again—no, two voices this time, both male, a rumble of conversation confused by the fog. She couldn’t tell if they were hiking up toward the rim, or away from her on the long trudge toward the river. “Palmer! Is that you?”
The voices stopped. After a few moments of silence she heard rocks colliding with other rocks and then a louder, crashing sound of someone or something falling and sliding far above her.
“Palmer?” She looked up the trail and beyond it into the boulders and vegetation that clung to the slope until everything disappeared into the gray cloud. She didn’t see any rocks rolling her way, but she knew the noise had come from the slope above her and to the right, probably the location of the other trail. To investigate it, she would have to forge her way up the slope. The disturbance meant something was wrong, and the odds were high that Palmer was involved.
She used her hands and arms as well as her feet and legs to climb toward where she’d heard the noise, stopping to catch her breath when she had to, wishing the fog had stayed in the canyon so she could see what lay ahead and locate the connecting trail more easily. Each time she stopped, she listened for other human sounds, called Palmer’s name, and heard only silence in reply.
She paused again when her lungs called for mercy. Maybe Palmer had returned to the lunch area. Maybe Chee had found him and she should head back—it was long past the twenty minutes they’d agreed on. But the feeling in her gut and the memory of the argument and the scrambling above her told her to give the search a few more minutes. She was bound to find the other trail soon.
She came to a place where the hillside flattened. She took a sip from her water bottle and reassessed the situation, looking for a sign. On the slope above her to the right, she spotted a splash of turquoise through the chilly fog, the same color she’s seen in Palmer’s coat. “Palmer? Palmer, are you up there?”
She muscled her way up toward the color. When she got closer, she knew she had found his prized Pendleton. She heard a moan.
“Palmer!”
She saw him a few yards below the place where the discarded jacket lay, his white shirt nearly invisible through the fog. He sprawled on his back, wedged between the trunk of a ponderosa and a rock. His pressed jeans were streaked with dirt. Without the tree, he would have continued sliding, probably with enough momentum to break his back and fracture his skull. She squatted next to him, grabbing the tree for balance. She could see his chest lift and sink. He was breathing, but barely. She touched him as she said his name again.
His eyelids fluttered open.
“It’s Bernie. I’ll help you. Don’t try to move.”
He looked at her with a hint of recognition, then closed his eyes again. She noticed his paleness, and that sweat beaded on his forehead. His lips trembled. She didn’t see any obvious bleeding, a good sign in an otherwise difficult situation.
“Try to relax now. We’ll get you out of this.”
He opened his eyes and found her face. “Whaa happen?”
“I think you fell.”
She removed her jacket and gently placed it over him. Palmer’s shoulder pushed against the tree in an awkward, painful-looking position. She took his cold hands in hers. “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this.” Her backpack had first aid supplies. She knew Chee would be looking for them. She felt the tension in her neck and shoulders relax a bit.
A rustling above her caught her attention. She glanced toward it, attempting to see through the thick fog. “Hello! Is someone there? Chee? We could use some help.”
The rustling came closer. “Bernie? Is that you?”
It wasn’t Chee’s voice. “Who’s there?”
“Byrum Lee. You’re way off the trail. Are you lost?”
“I’m fine. It’s Palmer.”
The rustling stopped. “Palmer? What’s going on?”
“Looks like he had a bad fall.”