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A Gathering of Diamonds
A Novel by Eric Wilder
Published by Gondwana Press
Edmond, Oklahoma
SmashWords Edition
©2006 by Gary Pittenger
Discover other titles by Eric Wilder at Smashwords.com.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Prologue
As he emerged from the underbrush, the first thing the young man saw was blood streaming down his arm. His oozing wound appeared almost blue in full moonlight illuminating the rural road. Puffy clouds were all that remained of an all day rain and mud caked his clothes. Too exhausted to care, he dropped to his knees and took a long drink from the muddy puddle. Like the searing ache in his left shoulder, his breath came in short bursts. The pain marked a gaping hole large enough to insert four fingers. Doubling over with growing nausea, he coughed up bile and muddy water onto damp earth, then closed his eyes and fought the urge to sink into the mire and give up. The baying of distant hounds caused his brain to reject that desperate message.
The dogs had his scent and he summoned his remaining strength to scratch his way back into the undergrowth. He didn't get far. Creeping vines, briars and thorns wrapped him in their grip and tore at his skin, tangling him inextricably. His struggles only locked him tighter. Finally, he lay still. The baying of the hounds had startled him but another sound caused his hair to bristle. It was the rumbling rattle of an old pickup moving slowly down the dirt road. Unable to free himself, he closed his eyes and listened as the truck's throaty rumble grew louder. Soon the packs of dogs were on him, growling, and nipping at his ankles. There was little that he could do as he listened to the engine of the approaching vehicle. Within minutes, it reached him.
A powerful beam attached to the truck flooded the ditch beside the road, spotlighting the young man trapped in the patch of briars. The truck's slamming doors brought with it the acrid odor of unwashed bodies and the crazed laughter the young man recognized.
"Get them dogs out of the way," a raspy voice said.
The dogs yelped as someone kicked the lead animal then grabbed its collar and yanked it away from the ditch. Pushing his way through the pack, a large man in dirty overalls prodded the young man with the barrel of a shotgun. Tobacco juice dribbled down his cheek and a vacant socket gaped in the center of a jagged scar. He gazed at his victim with his one good eye.
"Found you, didn't we?"
Not waiting for an answer, he struck the young man with the butt of the gun. Something in the victim's hand caught his attention and he stepped on his wrist. A glittering object tumbled from the opened hand. Radiating colors revealed a hypnotic ice-blue aura that momentarily transfixed the man with the gun. Snatching it from the ground, he held it toward the light of the moon.
"I told you he'd have it," said the second man, glancing with an idiot's grin at the fallen victim.
"Shut up and give me that bottle." The man with the gun tipped the crockery jug over his shoulder, drinking until moonshine gushed from his twisted mouth. He did not bother spitting out his tobacco. "Cut him loose and throw him in back of the truck."
The sound of snarling dogs was the last thing the young man heard as the shotgun barrel smashed into the back of his head. Lunatic laughter soon died away in the forest and usual night sounds returned as the pickup disappeared down the winding dirt road. When its rumbling ceased murky clouds swept over the sky, covering the moon. Then the rain returned, washing the young man's blood from the earth and leaving only a swath of tattered cloth as evidence the event had ever occurred.
Chapter 1
A white-tailed doe raced across the road in front of the car, rousing me from a flashback and sending a crisp shot of adrenaline buzzing through my brain. Slowing the red rental convertible, I clutched its leather-covered steering wheel as a sharp pain behind my right eye nudged me back to reality.
Beyond the car's hood stretched the foothills of northern Arkansas, their autumn colors mimicking a watercolor painting still damp at the artist's hands. I had left the Big Easy at dawn, stopping only once in Little Rock for gas and a cold drink, the last ten miles or so missing from my memory. The road grew steeper with every passing mile, forcing me to concentrate on driving and forget the reason I had come here in the first place.
Heat devils rose off sun-blistered blacktop and early September sun, refusing to release its grip on summer, cooked the skin on back of my neck. After cresting the next hill, I saw a tall building topped off with a clock tower crowning the horizon. Its windows glimmered in the wake of late afternoon sun and I didn't have to check the map to know I'd reached Brannerville. The tiny college town lay nestled in a bowl-like valley in an even older range of rolling hills. It had weighed heavily on my thoughts for the past thirty days.
When I reached downtown Brannerville I pulled into a service station to stretch my legs and top the gas tank. A massive courthouse constructed of hand-hewn red sandstone blocks occupied one corner of a town square. Shops and stores rimmed the courthouse and people in shorts and casual clothes filled the square, browsing in store windows or just soaking up late afternoon sun. A man clad in overalls and clutching an oily red rag interrupted my thoughts.
"Help you?" he asked, his hillbilly accent making his question almost imperceptible.
"Unleaded," I said, leaning away from his black-toothed grin.
He used the oily rag to dab his sweaty forehead. A rumpled welder's cap crowned his bald head and when he rested his hairy forearms on the door of my car I could smell his breath, stale from last night's whiskey. He also had a dagger tattoo on his hand that he had probably put there himself.
"Where you from?" he asked, likely as curious about my accent as I was of his.
"New Orleans."
"Kid in school here?"
"Something like that. Which way is the college?"
"Down the road a piece," he said, pointing a stained finger in the opposite direction from the way I had come.
"What's the building next door?"
"Courthouse and police station."
"Lots of crime here?"
"About the same as hair on a mangy yellow dog," he said.
I waited for him to smile, but he didn't. Instead, he stole a cockeyed glance at me to see if I had. When I obliged, he rubbed his chin and spat tobacco juice in a glob on hot concrete.
"What's the population around here?” I asked.
"About thirty thousand when school's out. Twice as much counting college kids," he said, wiping his oily mouth with an equally filthy hand.
"Someplace around here I can get a sandwich and cold drink?"
"College strip around the corner," he said. "Can't miss it."
Easing back into the car, I pulled out of the filling station and cruised down the brick-paved road toward the direction he had pointed. It didn't take long to find the strip-bars, restaurants, book stores and souvenir shops bordering a congested square that reminded me of a similar area near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge—and probably a hundred other college towns across the country. Fall semester had just begun and scores of students in cars, on bicycles and many more on foot, crowded the four-block quadrangle. Nosing the car into a vacant alley between a tee shirt shop and barbecue joint, I went inside for a sandwich.
As I exited the café a half hour later boisterous students were still pouring in. The indigo sky had begun turning azure but late afternoon heat remained. When I took a deep breath, the humidity made it feel like a kick in the groin. Then I noticed someone gazing into my car. She was frowning as she scribbled something on an unfolded pad.
"Problem, Officer?"
"Somewhat. You're parked in a no parking zone."
The young female police officer didn't possess the pervasive twang of the man at the filling station, or the waitress in the barbecue joint. Instead, she had a pleasant voice and spoke in neutral Midwestern tones.
"Didn't see a sign," I said, glancing around.
"You're illegally blocking an alley," she said. "I could have had you towed."
"Sorry. I'm from out of town."
The pretty police officer stared and me and shook her head. "You know what they say about ignorance of the law?"
Ignoring her cool stare, I read the tag on her uniform. It said her name was Armstrong. Officer Armstrong was small, no more than five-three, with short-cropped blonde hair sun-bleached almost white. It complemented her surfer girl tan. She also had expressive eyes the same hue as the darkening sky and every straight seam of her freshly pressed khaki uniform defied the rampant heat and humidity.
"Uncle," I said, raising my hands.
Officer Armstrong didn't smile. Instead, she said, "Can I see your driver's license?" I fished it out of my wallet and handed it to her, waiting as she made a notation on her pad. "Is this your car, Mr. Logan?"
"Rental."
Returning it to me, she said, "Pay this at the courthouse tomorrow. It's already closed for the day."
"Thanks, Officer Armstrong," I said.
She didn't react when I used her name. Ignoring eye contact, she said, "Next time watch where you're parking."
She strolled alone to a tan and white police cruiser parked in front of my convertible. They obviously didn't bother with partners in the small town of Brannerville. With red lights flashing, she spun the tires in loose gravel and disappeared over the hill. Raising the red convertible's canvas top, I switched on the air conditioning full blast and headed north.
***
It was late when I reached the hillside college, shades of crimson and pink already draping the hillsides. The person I was looking for had probably already left for the day, but I decided to give the place a look anyway. As I parked the car and walked toward the largest of several red stone buildings, hazy clouds began masking the sky, further darkening it a smooth shade of early evening gray. A sudden chill permeated the air.
Overhead, a nighthawk floated in a thermal updraft and speeding cyclists, laboring with their ten gears up the steep grade toward town, passed on the street. A jogger brushed me on the sidewalk, almost knocking me down. It would not have taken much. After thirty days flat on my back in a hospital bed, my muscles labored from the strain of the hilly campus. Finding the front door locked, I entered through a door in back.
Somewhere down a darkened hallway, someone was humming as he pushed a broom across the floor. The tune echoed inside the empty building, reminding me of the interior of a cave and threatening to overload my dangerously fragile mental state. The cleaning person could have as easily been on the third floor or ten feet away. It didn't matter. The drifting sound caused a predictable reaction and I began to feel the madness starting to return. Against my will, my thoughts began racing back to distant murky memories.
This time it did not happen. Instead, the red glow of a nearby fire alarm returned me to reality but left me with a throbbing head. I was looking for a water fountain when a light radiating from an open door revealed a name on the glass. It said Dr. Theodore Fridel—History. I rapped on the glass to get the attention of the man sitting behind a desk.
"Help you?" he said.
Dr. Fridel looked nothing like I had imagined. Instead of looking old and gray, he seemed no more than thirty but he conveyed the image of age as he gazed up at me with myopic eyes trapped behind thick-framed glasses. His hair and mustache were coal black, the same color as his eyes, and clashed with his peach-colored sports jacket and wide zigzag tie that he had probably bought from the nickel box at a garage sale.
"I'm Tom Logan," I said. "You were my brother's thesis adviser."
Recognition replaced Fridel's initial disbelief. Standing, he pointed to a chair in front of his desk.
"Your brother, you say?"
"Half brother. Much younger."
"I see." From the way he blinked his eyes and frowned, I realized he didn't. "Exactly how can I be of service?"
"I'm here to find out what happened to Bill, what really happened."
"I'm sure you read the police report—"
I held up a hand to stop him. "I was hoping you could add something. Explain why Bill seems to have vanished without a trace."
"Regrettably, it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I was his thesis adviser but we were not close. Your brother, I'm sure you know, was quite secretive."
Our father and both our mothers were relatively young when they died. I was almost old enough to be Bill's father and had taken care of him during most of his formative years. Secrecy was only one of his unusual traits of which I was well aware.
"Maybe you can tell me something about this," I said. Reaching into the pocket of my jacket, I removed a small leather pouch. Professor Fridel's mouth dropped open when its sparkling contents rolled across the desk toward him.
When he regained his senses, he said, "Is this a diamond?"
Chapter 2
Sight of the large diamond mesmerized Professor Fridel and for a long moment, he sat unmoving in his chair.
"Is it a fake?" he finally asked.
"It's real. Bill sent it to me."
"Where did he get it?"
"Don't know. I thought that you might."
Glancing up at me with an appraising stare, he shook his head as he turned the large crystal in the palm of his hand. Blue light reflecting from the stone formed dancing patterns on the wall behind him.
"This looks uncut," he said. "A single crystal. Where in the world?”
I interrupted him, realizing he knew no more of the origin or significance of the uncut gem than I did.
"Perhaps you can tell me something about Bill's thesis. Maybe it'll shed light on his disappearance."
"I've gone over this with the police a thousand times. Surely there's no more I can add," he said, irritated by my insistence.
Fridel's buckshot eyes seemed to question just what I might possibly accomplish by hearing more than the reams of information he had already given the police. I had read the report, but I wanted to hear it from him. Deciding bluster wouldn't work, I tried reason.
"I was the closest thing to a father Bill had and incapacitated, in a hospital, when he disappeared. For my own piece of mind I need to find out what happened to him."
Fridel did not mention the guilt I'm sure he could see in my eyes and hear in my voice. He sighed and said, "Sorry, Mr. Logan." His own eyes returned to the diamond still clutched in his hand. "Your brother was involved in an anthropological study of Arkansas hill people. These people are direct descendants of first generation Europeans and because of the region's secluded nature, little interaction with the outside world has occurred. Even after three hundred years. Bill felt their craft, culture and art might mirror the past and his thesis sought to do just that."
Such an obscure quest was exactly what would have excited Bill's passion and sense of adventure. On a camping trip, many years before we had spent three days searching for and cataloging arrowheads found in a meandering streambed—three laborious days beneath hot Texas sun. A study of Arkansas hill people was exactly what would have excited Bill's curiosity.
"The police report said his truck turned up in central Arkansas."
"Abandoned," Fridel said. "Far up in the heart of the Ouachita Mountains."
I found myself wringing my hands in anticipation of his explanation. Instead, Fridel grew silent, his eyes still locked on the diamond.
"Bill's effects were sent to me in Louisiana. Mostly his clothes and a few items like broken tennis racquets, textbooks and chipped china. They sent me none of his thesis material. Do you have it?"
Fridel blinked, removed his milk bottle glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "No, I assumed—"
"I know how thorough Bill can be, Dr. Fridel," I said, raising my palm. "You say his thesis was almost complete. Surely he kept detailed notes."
"I'm really very sorry. Bill did maintain a detailed account of his work—volumes of notes and recorded interviews with the hill people. I just thought you, or the police—"
"No problem," I said, seeing Fridel was at a loss. "Maybe you can tell me if Bill had a base of operations while working on his thesis."
The diamond continued to lock Fridel in its spell but my question awakened him. Shaking his head as if he had a bee on his nose, he pushed the crystal across the desk to me.
"Like most college students Bill was usually short on cash. When he worked on his thesis he always camped out to save money." Fridel opened his desk drawer and fumbled around inside a moment before removing a crumpled piece of paper. "It says here that he always stayed at the Chaparral Camp Grounds in Turkey Gap."
***
Turkey Gap. The name sounded exotic and foreign. Landlocked, deep within jagged Ouachita Mountains peaks, it seemed as far removed from my former life in New Orleans as Beijing. Still, I rolled the name over in my mind as I parked the red convertible outside the county courthouse.
Rain had fallen during the night and water lay in puddles in worn indentions in the limestone pathway leading to the front door. Joggers were everywhere, despite early morning sun already hot enough to raise a fine mist off the grass and muddy puddles. The courthouse still lacked appreciable human activity at this early hour but a sign directed me to the basement for payment of my parking ticket. Taking a deep breath, I pressed the down button and waited for a slow moving elevator to arrive.
The musty basement was tomb-like, devoid of windows, and dim lighting from corroded fluorescent fixtures imparted a seedy appearance to its flaking plaster walls. Mustering my courage, I continued forward to a closed door at the end of the hall. There, sitting behind a gray metal desk, I found a suspender-clad old man with a hearing aid. He either didn't hear the creaking door, or didn't care. As I stood in front of his desk, he continued writing in a large, leather-bound book. Finally, ever so slowly, he glanced up from his work.
"Help you?"
His voice sounded like a cracked record, vintage 78 RPM.
"Need to pay a parking ticket," I said.
The old man nodded and walked with a pronounced limp to the gray filing cabinets in the rear of the room, soon returning with an armload of filings bound together with cardboard. A tie of purple paisley clashed with his white shirt, yellowed with age. Despite the room's stuffiness, he appeared perfectly comfortable. A living mummy, I thought, already entombed.
"Three dollars," he finally said.
Handing him a five, I regretted instantly my lack of correct change. Five minutes later, he returned from the file cabinets with six quarters, one Kennedy half-dollar and a hand-scrawled receipt. Thanking him, I hurriedly caught the express back upstairs.
The basement had seemed like a dungeon. Upstairs, wonderful sunlight reflected through windows and doors. Taking a deep breath I glanced outside, studying lines of the massive old sandstone building as I attempted to relax from my trip into darkness. Concentrating as the doctors at LMHH had taught me, I blocked out the cause of my suddenly palsied hands. This time the exercise proved useless, failing to prevent my blackout, but instead of the darkness of Vietnam, my mind returned to the streets of New Orleans.
***
I stood on a second story balcony above a Chartres Street antique shop looking out over similar, seamless buildings across the street. Near the flat roof of one of the buildings grew a stunted palm, a tropical plant protruding from the vertical wall, surviving like a weed between decaying bricks, sustained and nourished with water from a cast-iron rain gutter.
The palm was an anomaly. Unlike the agglomeration of hanging and potted plants, azaleas and groomed magnolias, and even tourists and residents populating the Quarter's ancient brick valleys, the palm was free and wild. Nothing owned it and it owned nothing but its place in the mortar.
***
Unlike most of my seizures, this one was brief. As I opened my eyes, I remembered the fading dream and wondered what it meant. Gazing out the window, I realized that somewhere between Louisiana and northern Arkansas the natural sequences of the two locales had reversed. In Brannerville, unlike New Orleans, plants and creatures surrounded man-hewn stone. In stark contrast to the French Quarter's tame streets, nature surrounded man instead of the reverse. The thought frightened me. A door slammed and I wheeled around to find courthouse halls suddenly brimming with activity.
Taking a deep breath, I leaned against the wall until my heart quit pounding. When it did, I recognized Officer Armstrong standing just inside the doorway. Having for a moment forgotten my trip into the musty basement, I walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder.
"Arrest any dangerous felons lately, Officer Armstrong?"
At first, she did not recognize me. Then she smiled and said, "Occasionally the Sheriff lets me run in a drunken college student."
It was my turn to smile. "Buy you a cup of coffee? I'd like to hear all about the Brannerville crime wave."
"There's a machine down the hall," she said, motioning me to follow her.
We soon reached a tiny snack bar that was not what I had in mind. Coffee from the quarter machine was as dark and strong as last month's oil change. As we sat at a Formica-topped table jammed in a rear corner, I found it tasted much like it looked.
Officer Armstrong was direct. "What are you doing in Brannerville, Mr. Logan?"
"Tom," I said. "Someone I needed to talk to at the college."
"Are you enrolling?"
"I'm a little old for that."
"You don't look that old," she said.
"I’m probably old enough to be your father."
"Not quite," she said. "I'm over thirty."
I felt guilty for prying into the life of someone I'd known only briefly but found I was strongly attracted to the young woman—a feeling I hadn't experienced in what seemed like many years and its sudden and inexplicable appearance greeted me like a long-departed friend.
"You're Bill Logan's brother. I saw your picture in the paper. I'm sorry."
Her recognition caught me by surprise. "I was in the hospital when he disappeared." The Louisiana State Mental Hospital. I found myself hoping she hadn't read that part. "Did you know Bill?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "But I'm familiar with the facts of the case."
"Such as they are. His body was never found."
"You think your brother is still alive?"
"I wish I could believe it but Bill would never purposely stay away this long without calling me."
She must have seen the pain in my eyes. Acting unlike a police officer, she leaned across the table and wrapped her hands around mine.
"Tom, I'm so sorry."
"Let me show you something," I said, reluctantly extracting my hands from her gentle grasp. "Bill sent this to me in the hospital just before he disappeared."
I dumped the diamond onto the table between us.
"Ohhh, it's beautiful! Is it a diamond?"
"As best as I can determine. Any ideas?"
Officer Armstrong continued staring at the diamond as sunlight reflected off whitewashed walls, penetrating its angular surface and sending shimmering beacons dancing on the vertical face of the coffee and beverage machine.
"You think this is somehow important to your brother's disappearance?"
"I have no idea what it means. I was hoping someone here could tell me."
She shook her head while continuing to stare at the diamond. "Maybe Professor Quinn could help."
"Professor Quinn?"
"He teaches geology at the college. He won't know about your brother, but I bet he knows all about diamonds."
"Will he see me?"
"If I ask him for you," she said.
She fumbled for her cell phone, excused herself for a moment, and walked a short distance up the hall. When she returned to the table, she winked and smiled.
"You can go over now. His office is in the geology building on campus. You can't miss it."
"I don't know how to thank you, Officer Armstrong."
Her neck flushed and she looked at the floor. "Don't worry about it. And Tom," she said. "My name is Amber."
"You're a thoughtful person, Amber. I would like to repay your kindness. Dinner later? Bowl of gumbo, maybe?"
She made a face and said, "I'm working tonight. Besides, I don't eat gumbo." Then she said, "But if you'll settle for something else, I'll do the cooking. My place? Tomorrow night?"
Her unexpected invitation caught me by surprise and for a moment, all I could do was gaze into her big blue eyes. My voice had deserted me.
She quickly broke the spell, glanced at the clock on the wall, and said, "Where are you staying?"
"Holiday Inn, on the main highway."
"Pick you up at seven," she said.
With the swaggering gait of a cop on the beat, she walked away down the long hallway. Halfway back to the open office door she turned around and said, "Good luck with Professor Quinn. He's an old bear, but if anyone can tell you about the diamond, it's Uncle Enos."
Chapter 3
The tiny building housing the geology department did little to inspire visions of intelligence or imagination but made it easy for me to locate Quinn's office at the end of a long hallway. The door was open but the office empty. After a passing student informed me I could find the Professor in the basement, it took me ten minutes to screw up my courage enough to close my eyes and start down the steep stairs.
The coffee room was homey and well lighted but the concrete walls made me feel like I was entering a bomb shelter. I blocked it from my thoughts when I found Professor Quinn locked in heated conversation about plate tectonics with three graduate students. Near the top of the hour the students departed, their discussion unresolved. Saved for their next coffee break, I guessed.
An old brown western shirt, probably the same vintage as the geology building, draped Professor Quinn's rounded shoulders. The shirt and his buckskin sports coat of the same vintage at first seemed casual attire for a college professor. Then I remembered my own college days and decided his appearance was probably normal. The turquoise-ornamented bolo tie matched his scuffed Troop boots. When he stood to shake my hand, I saw just how short he was—no more than five-seven. He was stout and had jowls like a bulldog that imparted a look of perpetual irritation. I soon found his appearance a close reflection of his personality.
"Professor Quinn, I'm Tom Logan. Amber Armstrong called on my behalf."
"Yes she did. How can I help you?"
Glancing around the windowless coffee room, I pondered retiring first to the privacy of his office. Since we were the only two people in the basement, I decided it probably was not necessary.
"Amber said you might shed some light on this."
Dropping the diamond into Quinn's hand, I waited as he removed an antique pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses from his shirt pocket and perched them on his stubby nose. A minute passed before he raked his hand through thin brown hair.
"Where did you get this?"
I explained having received the diamond from Brother Bill, omitting where I was when I received it. Professor Quinn had heard all about Bill's disappearance. In broken sentences, he began commenting on the stone.
"This is at least ten carats. Uncut. Good color. Probably very valuable. Let’s go to my office."
My heart was racing when we reached the top of the stairs, and not from exertion. Thoughts triggered by my sojourn into the basement suddenly replaced my preoccupation with Bill's diamond—dark thoughts from another place and time. I struggled to divert the mind-numbing flashback already filling my head with Technicolor visions—back to the tunnel in the jungle. This time it did not happen.
"Mr. Logan, are you all right?"
Quinn had grabbed my shoulders and was shaking me, causing my eyes to focus. Light from the window behind his desk flooded through, temporarily freeing me from dark bonds of a distant past.
"Sorry, Professor, I sometimes have these spells."
"Sit down, Mr. Logan. Maybe you should see a doctor."
Quinn quickly forgot my problem and began thumbing through reference books that occupied shelves on most of two walls. He returned with one yellow-paged volume and after ten wordless minutes, he pushed the reading glasses up on his forehead, folded his construction-worker hands and gazed across the desk at me.
"Mr. Logan, are you sure you're feeling okay now?"
"I'm fine," I said. "Please tell me about the stone."
He frowned with concern, but continued. "You obviously know this is a diamond. What else do you want to know?"
"Bill was working in the Ouachita Mountains, near Turkey Gap. I think he may have found the diamond there. Maybe, it somehow caused his disappearance. You think it's possible?"
"Diamonds in Arkansas? Yes. Related to your brother's disappearance? That I don't know."
I ruminated briefly over his words. "Then there are diamonds in Arkansas? Not just quartz crystals cut to resemble diamonds?"
"Real diamonds, Mr. Logan. Not quartz imitations. Except for a very recent find in the western United States, diamonds occur in situ at only one place in the United States and that place is in Arkansas."
"In situ?"
"In place or at the source," Quinn said.
"Where in Arkansas?"
"Murfreesboro. Diamonds were once mined commercially there, although never successfully. Now it's open to tourists who can dig and keep what they find."
"Then Bill could have found the diamond in Murfreesboro?"
"Maybe. It's also possible he could have found it somewhere else in Arkansas."
I was suddenly all ears. "Please continue."
"The explanation requires a bit of scientific jargon."
"I'll stop you if you get too far over my head."
Quinn's expression changed slightly and I wondered if it was his half-hearted attempt at a smile.
After pausing briefly, probably to assess my probable degree of understanding, he said, "Are you familiar with the term igneous?"
"Somewhat."
He took my answer as a no and began explaining. "Igneous rocks are formed by solidification from a molten or partially molten state and are either plutonic or volcanic. Volcanic rock pierces the earth's surface before hardening from its molten state. Plutonic rock hardened beneath the earth's surface, without penetration."
"And what does that have to do with diamonds?"
"Diamonds are composed of the element Carbon. Carbon transforms into diamonds when subjected to intense heat and pressure, such as found in an active volcano. The mine at Murfreesboro is an old volcanic plug that's been eroded to ground level."
I realized the old man was in the process of telling me something very important and nodded for him to continue.
"The Murfreesboro plug is but one of many extinct Cretaceous volcanoes extending south of Hot Springs through Texas and into Mexico. Are you familiar with the theory of plate tectonics or continental drift?"
"Just the snippet of conversation I caught earlier in the coffee room," I said.
"It's really a simple idea. Several concentric layers and a molten core comprise the earth. The crust is the top layer, very thin compared with the others, and is broken along planes of weakness like a cracked eggshell. These individual portions, or plates, are in constant motion. There is evidence they have moved or drifted throughout geologic time."
"If you say so."
"Look at a globe sometime. It's easy to imagine the east coast of South America once connected to the west coast of Africa."
"I follow what you're saying, but what does it have to do with diamonds in Arkansas?"
"Let me finish and it'll begin to make more sense."
"Sorry," I said.
"Convection currents in the hotter layers of the earth cause these plates to move, thus the term continental drift. This movement is extremely slow and it would likely go unnoticed during a person's lifetime. The movement of these plates has caused tremendous change through geologic time. Forces generated by plate interaction are more powerful than anything that is possible for a human to create—even a hydrogen bomb.
"Extinct volcanoes such as the Murfreesboro plug parallel the Ouachita Mountains, a range much older than the Rockies. These mountains are at the earth's surface in Arkansas and southwest Oklahoma, but present only in the subsurface in Texas and Mexico.
"Everything north of the Ouachitas was part of the Continental Plate during the Cretaceous Period. The Gulf of Mexico Plate collided with it. Eroded Ouachitas, and its associated volcanic plugs, are the fossilized remnants of the collision of these two plates.
"And the diamonds?"
"Diamonds form under very specific conditions. Carbon, the allotrope of diamond, remains in a liquid state until conditions are favorable for the formation of diamonds. Because of the intense heat and pressure needed to cause this transformation, it must occur many miles beneath the earth's surface."
"How many miles?” I asked.
"Fifty to two-fifty," Quinn said. "But the exact condition for transformation of carbon into diamond exists within a tolerance of only several hundred feet. The temperature above a certain level would be too cool, conditions below too hot."
A light suddenly flickered in my brain. "You're saying conditions necessary for diamonds to form rarely occur?"
"Exactly. Volcanic plugs exist throughout the world but only a few contain diamonds. The reason is the zone was either never exposed or else eroded away. It is unusual and statistically rare to have the few hundred feet where diamonds occur preserved at the earth's surface."
"So what's your conclusion?" I said.
"I conclude the Murfreesboro plug is a rare occurrence. Still, the other plugs along the trend likely solidified at a similar depth. One of those plugs might very well contain diamonds."
I mulled his words, and then said, "Why hasn't someone already found it?"
Quinn didn't immediately answer. Instead, he slowly shook his head, folded his short arms and frowned.
"Did I say something wrong?" I said, sensing a sudden chill in the book-crowded office.
"Just that you can't imagine, as a geologist, how many times someone has asked me that question."
"And what's the answer?"
"The answer is we discover new things every day. We call it technology. Do you think the Wright Brothers would have learned to fly if they had asked that same silly question? Just because no one has found it doesn't mean it isn't there."
"Then Bill's diamond could have come from another diamond-bearing plug? Not from Murfreesboro."
Quinn continued to frown, tired of conversation and conspicuously displeased with my skepticism. "It's not that far-fetched, Mr. Logan."
Maybe the idea wasn't so far-fetched. I forced myself to consider the possibility. Perhaps Bill had located a previously undiscovered diamond-bearing plug. Maybe the knowledge somehow was responsible for his disappearance. Perhaps even his death.
Again, Quinn interrupted my thoughts. "You look pale, Mr. Logan. Would you like a glass of water?"
"Thank you," I said.
When Quinn returned from down the hall with a paper cup of cold water, I took it gratefully. Then I said, "Let’s just say there is an undiscovered diamond deposit in Arkansas. Is there something specific we should look for?"
"Yes. Igneous rock called kimberlite often forms in association with diamonds. When kimberlite erodes, it creates soil with a unique blue color. Farmers sometimes find diamonds when they plant crops in this often very fertile blue earth."
"Then I'll find the diamond plug—”
"Where you find blue earth," Quinn said, completing my sentence.
"Where would I begin my search for this plug?"
"Your brother's thesis notes should give you the answer," Quinn said.
"I'm afraid all the work Bill did in southwest Arkansas has disappeared, along with him."
Quinn rubbed his chin and grunted. Then he said, "If I were beginning a search for this mythical plug I suspect I would start in Turkey Gap."
I sank back into the worn old chair, picturing an ancient, vanished coastline where giant volcanic cones abounded in a setting of long extinct, exotic vegetation. After visiting Professor Fridel, I had already decided my next stop in Arkansas would be Turkey Gap. Now I knew what to look for when I got there.
Again, Quinn's raspy voice disturbed my thoughts. "How do you know my godchild?"
I blinked and said, "Your godchild?"
"Amber."
"She gave me a parking ticket," I said, smiling as my thoughts returned to the moment.
Quinn leaned back in his chair. For the first time since meeting him, he smiled—this time a real smile.
"Don't feel too badly. She has ticketed me twice. Make's no exceptions when it comes to her job."
"She said you were close friends with her father."
"Best friends," he said. "Both Amber's parents are deceased. They died in an auto accident while she was attending Berkeley."
"Berkeley seems an unlikely place to train to become a police officer."
"Poet," Quinn said.
"Amber is a poet?"
Quinn nodded. "One of the best."
"What's she doing directing traffic in Brannerville?"
"Ever try making a living as a poet, Mr. Logan?"
Chapter 4
Next morning I awoke with a start, a dull ache remaining from a remembered migraine and a forgotten nightmare. I wanted desperately to get in the rented convertible, return to Pineville and fade back into a familiar world of four bare walls and mind-numbing drugs. Instead, I slipped on my bathing suit and padded outside to the courtyard swimming pool.
Sun had just emerged from behind distant tree-covered crests and the courtyard was deserted. Slipping up to my neck in cool water, I took a deep breath of morning air and gazed out across the hills. Sometime during the night it had rained. Now, banks of dark cumulus clouds rimmed Brannerville. Along with colors of hazy morning gold, they painted the horizon with a wildly contrasting palette.
Ten laps of the small pool left me panting and wondering if I had the physical strength to continue my search. A familiar voice saved me from having to think about the mental energy that I would need to complete the task.
"Up early, aren't you?"
It was Amber, peering over the gate at me. She was dressed in revealing pink shorts and singlet for an early morning jog.
"Morning. You're up early yourself."
"I like to exercise before work. It invigorates me for the rest of the day."
"You look great. If I had legs like yours I'd run ten miles every morning."
"You get legs like these by running ten miles every morning," she said, unabashed by my brazen compliment.
She did have great legs, long, tanned, and tapered—a dancer's legs but without the emaciated look of some long distance runners.
"Why don't you slip on some running gear and come with me?"
Amber's voice had a wonderful resonance and I found myself smiling with pleasure and wishing I had running gear so I could go with her.
"I'd really like that. But I don't have anything to wear."
"Hey, that's a woman's excuse," she said, smiling wryly. "Don't you at least have tennis shoes and shorts?"
I did. Five minutes later, I joined her, feeling slightly foolish in Bermuda shorts, dark socks and worn-out tennis shoes. A hundred yards from the motel, I followed her up a wooded trail, into the hills. After a mile, she slowed to a walk to let me catch my breath.
"You live around here?"
"Just over the ridge," she said.
"Hope I'm not holding you back. Run ahead if you want."
She laughed and shook blonde hair out of her eyes. "Don't worry about me. Are you all right?"
"A little winded."
"What about yesterday? Uncle Enos said you almost fainted outside his office."
"Must be the altitude," I said.
"It's only nine-hundred feet above sea level here."
"I'm fine. Let's run."
I sprinted up the path, not wanting to continue the conversation. When we reached the top of the distant hill Amber grabbed my arm and stopped me, grinning as I doubled over and began to turn blue.
"Can you make it back to the motel?"
"Of course I can," I said, but without much conviction.
"Sure?"
"I'm sure."
Then she did something quite unexpected. Patting my behind, she said, "Take it easy. I'm leaving you here but I'll pick you up for dinner tonight at seven."
With that, she hurried away over the rise at a rapid, lung-busting clip. She had barely disappeared from view when rampant greenery closed in around me, returning me against my will to the jungles of Vietnam.
***
Jungle night, dark as a black glove cloaking a war waged on many fronts, mine fought along jungle trail systems, winding out of North Vietnam that skirted Laos and Cambodia. North Vietnamese regulars traveled in small convoys, always at night, always on trails that extended, like distended entrails, through dark triple canopy.
We were on ambush, lying in wait like stalking animals, and my muscles ached from two days of disuse. My bladder was full and I was almost blind from staring into darkness. Our squad had placed three claymores on one end of the trail, three more on the other—six weapons forming two claws of a deadly pincer as we flanked one side of the trail in a semi-circle.
The opposite flank encompassed thick jungle growth impossible to penetrate. At least as fast as hapless Vietnamese soldiers would have to exit the scene of impending carnage. I was lying on my stomach trying not to squeeze the trigger of an M-60—locked, loaded, and ready for blood.
I heard something—bamboo snapping beneath someone's foot. Whispers pealed like church bells. It was not the choir and they were not on their way to Sunday school. Stench of unwashed bodies accosted my nostrils and I began to see wraith-like movement along the trail. A row of single file soldiers moved slowly past our position.
An exploding trip flare lighted the jungle with smoke and billowing crimson and our clacker man blew half the claymores. So close was I to the blast, I didn't hear the remaining weapons detonate but I saw the bloody result through dilated eyes suddenly awash in strobe-like eruptions of murderous light. As I watched, bodies of terrified soldiers began dissolving in slow-motion explosions of flesh, blood and bone.
Three North Vietnamese Regulars somehow survived the blasts only to have us greet them with free fire from grenade launchers, M-16s and the M-60. Realizing they couldn't escape through thick jungle they raised their weapons, opened fire and charged, headlong, into our position.
Every third round from the M-60's muzzle was a tracer that continued lighting up the night until my bullets were gone. The semi-circle of flashing death destroyed bamboo, trailing vines and any hapless creature caught in its deadly swath, my finger clenched on the big gun's trigger until thirty seconds after the last round of ammo had passed through the chamber. A dying flare told me there was nothing left to shoot at but my twitching trigger finger kept trying anyway.
One of the charging Vietnamese soldiers almost made it until taken out by a close range gut shot. He died after thirty minutes of screaming agony. At first, there was silence, and then darkness. Left only was the stench of death, spent blood and gunpowder and urine from someone’s loosened bladder—maybe my own.
I opened my eyes on the hilly trail above the Holiday Inn. Someone was screaming. It was me.
***
Amber arrived at seven dressed in army-green shorts and a pink flowered blouse that complemented her hair, eyes, and complexion. She was driving a topless Jeep complete with roll bar.
"What do you do when it rains?" I said.
"Stay home."
"Glad it's not raining."
"So am I. Hope you don't mind but I also invited Uncle Enos. He liked you a lot."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, but I've known him since I was a little girl. Sometimes he comes on like a wounded bear, but he's really a pussy cat."
"I'll take your word for it," I said.
Amber turned off the main blacktop a mile from the motel and I realized the necessity for the Jeep. She lived in a mobile home at the end of a narrow dirt trail on a mountain overlooking Brannerville. Professor Quinn was waiting for us when we reached the trailer.
"This is beautiful," I said, getting out of the Jeep and looking down the mountain behind me.
"My little acre of paradise," Amber said.
It was. Towering pines surrounded the trailer and a giant hammock hung suspended from the trailer's patio beams. Mosquito mesh enclosed it and I suspected Amber slept there when nights were warm. A flop-eared hound sauntered out from under the trailer, wagging its long tail and licking my hand with a warm tongue.
"Admiral's not dangerous," Amber said.
"Sure he won't lick me to death?"
She laughed. "He might try but I suspect he'd rather have your leftovers from dinner." She glanced at Professor Quinn and said, "We're here, Uncle Enos."
"About time. I'm starving."
Amber hugged the old man affectionately as a black cat slithered between her bare legs. I soon learned she had three more cats and a parrot named Bones. Other animals appeared as we sat on the ledge overlooking Brannerville—a possum, three raccoons and a skunk. They ate cat food straight from Amber's palm. After washing up in the trailer, we returned outside to watch the dying sunset. Quinn uncorked a bottle of Arkansas red wine and offered me a glass.
"No thanks," I said.
"Sure?"
"I don't drink."
I was glad I couldn't see their reaction in the dim light of dusk. Amber was a vegetarian and for dinner, she prepared a Chinese vegetable stir-fry. After eating, we watched the flickering lights of Brannerville. Quinn continued to grumble about his desire for a thick porterhouse and baked potato. Far away, a whippoorwill trilled.
"The moon will totally eclipse tonight," Amber said.
Old Man Moon had reached his apogee and he was already yellow and full. As we watched, one of his edges began darkening slowly.
"What's your line of work?" Quinn said, breaking the darkened silence.
"I am presently unemployed. Before that I was a petroleum engineer."
Quinn was un-awed by my former profession. He only grunted and his frown and headshake were apparent, even in the dark. Amber, sitting beside me in a canvas director's chair, surprised me.
"I'm impressed," she said, clasping my hand in an affectionate way I didn't expect.
"Professor Quinn tells me you're a poet."
I heard her sigh and could only imagine the expression on her pretty face.
"I'm a police officer," she said.
"Can't you be both?"
"Police work has changed my artistic perspective. Now I write Neo Pop and it's not exactly widely accepted by the American literary scene."
"Because it's total nonsense if you ask me," Quinn said. "All the major literary journals published Amber's work before she—"
Professor Quinn stuttered and Amber finished his sentence. "Before I joined the Beat Revolution."
I interrupted and said, "At the risk of sounding stupid, what is Neo Pop?"
"It is short for New Populism. Field described it as poetry of mass culture. At its best, it is brash, sexy and loud. But it makes a statement in an easy, unstuffy way."
"Poppycock," Quinn said.
Amber and I both looked at the old man and laughed. In forty-odd years I had never heard that word used in actual conversation. Our momentary levity was lost on the Professor who continued trying to out glare the moon.
"You're a prude, Uncle Enos," Amber said.
Quinn said, "Maybe you should find a gentler profession, more compatible with poetry."
"You're very wrong," Amber said. "Creating poetry is the most violent profession. Even Frost said 'Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.' It's real and visceral. Why shouldn't everyone, not just New York stuffed shirts, be able to enjoy it?"
When the old man grumbled, Amber hugged him, obviously incapable of sustaining any palpable anger for very long.
"You understand, don't you Tom?"
"You're talking about passion."
"Yes. Passion for life, and the written word."
When she returned to her chair she grasped my hand again. Above us, the moon stole away behind earth's shadow leaving only a crescent of light, and then more. Feeling almost human, I squeezed Amber's hand and said, "Please recite a poem for us."
I could feel her hand tense. She began in whispered tones—
If the Man in the Moon had a penis, someone would demand its nightly eclipse.
I waited for her to finish. When I realized the entire poem consisted of only two lines, I said, "Wonderful," and again began to laugh.
"And what are we supposed to make of that?" Quinn said.
"Whatever you want, Uncle Enos," Amber said, squeezing my hand.
We watched the moon become completely black. When it began to lighten Professor Quinn tried to make conversation, but soon lapsed into silence as the phenomenon continued to unfold above us.
Finally he said, "Early class tomorrow and too much esoterica for this old man. Ready to go, Tom?"
I wasn't, but said, "This was wonderful, Amber. Sorry it has to end. Maybe I'll see you again before I leave town."
"Lunch tomorrow," she said. "I'll pick you up at noon."
Admiral followed her into the trailer, wagging his tail and smacking his lips over an old bone he had dug up from somewhere. I followed Professor Quinn to his old yellow Metropolitan.
The car started on the first turn of the key and Quinn said, "Neo Pop police poet, bah!" Then he said, "She likes you."
His pronouncement intrigued me and I said, "How do you know?"
"I have never heard her recite before. Not even for me and I've known her for thirty-two years."
Chapter 5
I didn't have to wait until lunch to see Amber because she stopped by the motel on her morning run. Having felt silly wearing Bermuda shorts and black socks on our first run, I had visited an athletic store for shoes and running togs. Now, even though I felt unlike an excellent sprinter as we raced up the hill, I looked like one. When Amber sprinted ahead, I made it back to the motel without suffering a flashback.
Just before noon, she picked me up in her tan and white police cruiser, the squad car's front seat returning me to earlier days in New Orleans when I sometimes rode shotgun with the beat cops. It felt good remembering simpler times, before bouts of rampant drinking and drugging had stewed my brain—before Vietnam.
Another glorious day adorned the Ozarks and a gentle breeze rustled golden leaves outside the restaurant. With autumn temperatures in the low seventies, we ate outside on the patio, watching leaves rustle and college students, loaded down with bags of heavy textbooks, pass on the sidewalk. Both caught in the hypnotic moment, we stared at each other across the table as we sipped our tea.
"When are you going to Turkey Gap?" she finally asked.
"Tomorrow."
"I was hoping you'd stick around Brannerville a while."
"It's beautiful here in the hills. I'd like to stay longer but I have to finish what I came here to do."
"Maybe you can visit, after your investigation," she said.
"Maybe."
"Tell me about yourself."
"Not much to tell," I said.
"You're an engineer?"
"Not any more."
She blinked, sensing my reticence, and let the subject drop. She grabbed my hand across the table and said, “Tom, can I be direct with you?"
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Thirty days is a long time. Your brother's trail's a bit stale."
"It's the only trail I have."
Amber let go of my hand, crossed her legs and squirmed in her seat. She frowned and glanced up at two squirrels quarreling over a nut on a tree limb above us.
"What do you really expect to find in Turkey Gap the police haven't already uncovered?"
"All his thesis notes are missing. The police found nothing pertaining to his work, either at his apartment or his office at the university."
"Maybe he had them with him when he disappeared?"
"But why? His adviser said he had reams of information. What would possess him to take it with him?"
"I don't know. Maybe he didn't think they were safe in his apartment, or at the university."
"Maybe," I said.
Amber's thoughts haunted me. After lunch we returned to the Holiday Inn. When I opened the door of the squad car, she pulled me close and kissed me. Her voice was husky as she said, "Check out of the motel. Spend the night with me."
***
I felt free and alive, along with a snippet of apprehension, as I maneuvered the red rental up the rutted dirt road to Amber's trailer. Above me, bordered by clear blue Arkansas sky, a phalanx of ducks headed south. Admiral, wagging his tail and smiling a friendly doggy smile, met me. When I stepped out of the car, he licked my hand.
Amber had not given me a key to her trailer—maybe because she never bothered locking her door. I took my suitcase inside then sat on the covered patio, basking in warm breeze and restful sounds. Soon I moved to the inviting caress of her hammock, falling quickly asleep. I dreamed of jogging, this time alone, back home in Louisiana.
***
There were no hills, only vast stretches of profuse vegetation and water. Clouds, filled to capacity with warm summer rain, darkened the sky. Misty haze rose off dew-covered grass. Everywhere water puddled in low spots on flat earth. A commotion caught my attention as I crossed a bridge over a high-water creek.
Stopping to look, I again heard something splashing in the pool below the bridge. Flooding caused by recent rain had left the creek littered with broken bottles, limbs, and other waterlogged debris. Now rain had abated, water finally receding. Only two or three inches of water remained in the shrinking creek and a fairly large fish, its body half exposed in shallow water, was causing the commotion. It strained and flailed against the current, trying in vain to swim upstream, back to the place it had lived before the storm dislodged it.
I watched, wondering if I should help. After checking the water depth on the opposite side of the bridge, I decided that it was not appreciably deeper. There was little that I could do. The fish was a carp, the wild counterpart of a common goldfish. This fish was not used to a bowl.
As I watched, the big fish seemed to make a conscious decision. It could never return to its former home. As if it realized the futility of its endeavor, it turned and started downstream toward even shallower water. I watched until it disappeared, hoping the young carp would make it to a distant pond or drainage ditch before water in the creek dried up completely.
***
Gentle motion awakened me. It was Amber, smiling as she rocked the hammock. "Nice nap?"
"Yes," I said.
"Have to change. I can only take cop clothes for just so long."
In five minutes, she returned in a yellow flower-print cotton dress. The material was sheer. When she passed in front of the window, I could see she had on nothing underneath. She went to the trailer's tiny kitchen and began slicing carrots and cucumbers. We feasted on the veggie snack served with homemade dill dip, outside on the patio.
Later we had beans and rice cooked Cajun style but without andouille sausage. Amber even had a bottle of Tabasco and made a face when I doused my bowl of beans with hot pepper sauce. Much later, we sat on the ledge overlooking Brannerville, the stars seeming brighter than I'd ever noticed. One, cut loose from the Milky Way, shot past, leaving a trail in the sky.
As we enjoyed the peacefulness of separation from the rest of the world, Amber recited several poems written by an Italian poet. While she meditated, arms and legs folded in the lotus position, I pondered the enigma of this beautiful young woman with the body of a professional athlete who found no disparity between poetry and police work—someone who carried a deadly weapon but would not eat meat.
The night was ripe for a mystical experience and I didn't have long to wait for one to occur. When Amber unwound herself from her meditative position, she drew closer and wrapped one willowy arm around my neck. With her free hand, she unbuttoned my shirt and began gently massaging my chest.
Finding my emotions torn between lust and fear, I said, "Maybe you should know I haven't been with a woman in several years."
She grinned and said, "You're not gay, are you?"
"Wish it were that simple."
She snapped her fingers and said, "Veteran. Missing bodily parts?"
My own smile faded. "No missing parts."
"What then," she said, inching her hand farther down my torso.
"Nothing physical, doctors tell me."
"You're impotent," she said, but without withdrawing her hand from near my belt.