BY THE TIME I toss my bag in my cubby by the back door of the diner, I’m officially five minutes late for work. I barely slept at all last night.
Prepared for Tony’s comment, he surprises me by not calling me out on my tardiness.
“Morning,” he says without turning from the grill. “Wanda’s already made coffee. Get yourself a cup.”
That’s it.
Inhaling the combined scents of bacon and sausage sizzling on the griddle, I stand frozen behind him. “No lecture?”
He glances over his shoulder. “You want one? We’re about to be slammed by the early birds, but sure, we can stand around while you give me an excuse about being late. Or how about this option? We move on with our days, and pretend we did.”
I finish tying my apron and dash out of the kitchen. When I pour myself a cup of coffee, I make one for him, too.
“Thank you,” I say, placing the full cup on the little shelf near him.
He grunts his thanks and I know I can stop fretting over being late.
In the dining area, Wanda’s finishing the last of the place settings. I grab the bin of ketchup and hot sauce bottles. After saying hello, we work in silence. She places a paper placement and a mug in front of each chair, me following behind with the condiments.
“Late night?” she asks once we finish.
“Yeah, but not for the reasons you think.”
“Didn’t see your lights on.” She gives me a knowing smile. Today’s lip color is a frosted pink the shade of raspberry sherbet. “How’d it go with Brayden?”
“We didn’t have a connection.” I don’t want to tell her more details and I hope Brayden won’t share his version with his mom’s cousin or cousin’s cousin.
Wanda’s frosted coral lips press into a thin line of disappointment, but her voice is sympathetic when she asks, “Still stuck on Boone?”
I don’t know how to answer her. Not after last night.
The door opens and a group of older oilmen walk through it.
“Showtime,” Wanda mumbles behind her smile.
“I’ll take their table. Make up for being late.” I pat her shoulder, and then pick up both the regular and the decaf pots of coffee.
A young family with a squawking infant sits at table five. Part of me wants to reseat them at another table in the hope he’ll walk through the door soon.
Wanda and I hit our stride as the tables fill and empty with the breakfast rush.
Still no sign of Boone.
Every time the front doors open now, I glance up, hoping for him to walk through them.
He doesn’t.
I’m clearing dishes from a four-top table when the door opens and again I look up. A dirt covered oil field worker stumbles into the room and yells for someone to turn on the local news. “Sinkhole opened up south of Artesia. Brine well collapsed.”
At his announcement, the room erupts into chatter. Oil workers make calls and start talking over each other, one hand covering their ears to hear whoever’s on the other end of the line.
Wanda finds the remote and changes the omnipresent business channel to a local station.
An aerial shot of a hole fills the screen. It’s hard to tell scale given the flat scrubland, but compared to the white pickup parked nearby, the hole must be almost a hundred feet across and who knows how deep. Reminds me of one of the smaller cenotes out at Bottomless Lakes.
“Turn up the volume,” one of the regulars shouts.
“Don’t get your undies in a bunch.” Wanda presses the volume button while glaring at him.
“Anyone hurt?” the guy who ran in with the news asks.
“Doesn’t seem like it.” Another man glances up from his phone. “Not near any roads or buildings this time.”
Once I know no one is missing or dead, I tune out the gossip and the broadcast.
Boone’s not missing because he’s trapped in a hole.
He’s avoiding me. Like I asked him to.
That doesn’t make me feel better.
For the rest of the morning, every local who comes in talks about the sinkhole.
I nod and half-listen to their comments, but I couldn’t care less about a hole in the ground.
When my shift’s over, I’m ready for a nap. A sleepless night and a long morning having the same conversation on repeat have left me with a headache.
Unfortunately, I can’t go home and sleep the afternoon away. Today’s one of my shifts at the Center.
I order a turkey melt for Zed and pour myself a giant iced tea, hoping the caffeine will wake me up.
I can’t even text Boone to make sure he’s okay. I doubt he wants to hear from me after last night.
I assume if something happened to him, Shari will tell me eventually.
Waiting for Tony to make the sandwich, I pull out my phone to check my texts.
Nothing.
“Sinkhole,” Zed says when I walk into the cramped office of the Center.
“Hello to you, too.” I drop the plastic bag on top of a pile of file folders on his desk.
“You hear about it?” He moves the bag to the floor. That’s a first. Usually he begins inhaling his lunch as soon as I set it down.
“Everyone in the diner this morning was talking about it. We even switched one of the televisions over to the local news.” Also a first. “Is there a full moon or something? People are acting freaked out about a random hole appearing in the desert. Don’t sinkholes happen all over the world?”
Zed removes his glasses and folds them before blinking up at me. I’d never noticed he actually has pretty eyes.
“Do you know what a salt cavern is?”
“Huh?” I shake off my thoughts about Zed’s pretty eyes. The moon must be full or some planet goes retrograde today.
“Salt cavern?” he repeats.
“I’m guessing it’s a cave full of salt. Or made from salt.” I feel a lecture coming on, so I lean against the row of file cabinets opposite his desk.
“You’ve heard of Carlsbad Caverns?” he asks, ignoring my simple explanation to his question.
“I’ve been there. They’re part of an ancient coral reef from a prehistoric ocean that used to cover this area in the Permian era.” My heart twinges as I repeat the lesson Boone taught me about the caverns.
“Impressive.” He bobs his head. “See? I knew you were a smart girl.”
“Woman,” I say. “We’ve gone over this, Zed. Not a child, therefore, not a girl.”
Leaning back in his chair, he rests both hands on the top of his head. “Fine. Between here and Carlsbad are layers of salt as well as other limestone caves. Some of them collapsed and formed the Bottomless Lakes. Years ago, oil companies figured they could fill the salt layers with freshwater and then pump it out for their own usage, creating brine wells.”
“Why?”
“If you haven’t noticed, we’re landlocked around here. No access to saltwater from any existing ocean.”
My feet ache from working a full shift at the diner. Zed’s obviously just getting started so I reluctantly give up and sit in the chair opposite his.
“Go on,” I encourage him, hoping he’ll wrap it up quicker if I show interest. “Wait, skip the details on mining and drilling. I won’t remember them.”
He frowns in disappointment. “This is the third collapse in two years.”
“Is that unusual?” I ask, because who knows what’s the normal rate of sinkholes around here.
“Very. Remember the article I pulled for you a while back? With the perfectly round hole intersected by straight lines?”
Remembering how it recalled the symbol, I sit up straighter.
“You do. Did you pay attention to the one that appeared this morning?”
I shake my head no.
“Same pattern.”
The hairs on my arm stand up straight. It has to be a coincidence. “Doesn’t that make sense? Same area so the roads and terrain are the same. Both were salt cavern collapses.”
“All three of the most recent cave-ins have been on SFT, Inc. owned property.”
Reason and cynicism tell me there’s a simple explanation. “Sounds like SFT is overworking their land.”
“That would be the obvious explanation,” he sneers. “The one the media will latch onto and the public will accept.”
“But?” I add for him.
“What if the answer isn’t to blame an oil company? What if the truth can’t be found below ground?”
I’m tired and still reeling over my actions last night. Today is not the day I want to play hypothetical conspiracy games with Zed. I’m already thinking about swinging by the liquor store on my way home, buying margarita fixings, and spending the evening watching 10 Things I Hate About You while I wallow in my feelings.
“You’re not even listening anymore.” Zed taps a pen on the desk.
I yawn and try to cover it in my elbow. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. Can you repeat it?”
“Never mind.” He dismisses me by picking up the bag with his lunch. “Just don’t accept the explanation SFT or the local government feeds everyone via the media.”
“Got it. Trust no one and nothing.” I push myself out of the chair. “Got a new box for me today?”
“Found some files about abductions in the late nineties. Mostly in the Tennessee and Ohio areas, but there might be something in there of interest to you.”
My tiredness fades and is replaced with interest. “Thanks, Zed. Much better than another hole in the ground story.”
His mouth full of turkey, he mumbles, “Eh, you never know how the two could be related.”
Inside of the tiny closet of a room, I open the top of the banker’s box and quickly flip through the articles.
An hour later, my back aches and my neck is stiff from being bent over the table, sorting and scanning clippings, journal pages, and photos.
Rolling my head in a circle, I press my palms against my lower back to stretch out sore muscles.
A masculine voice carries from Zed’s office. Turning off the hum of the scanner, I still my breathing to hear better. We never have visitors, so whoever is out there must be another member of Zed’s group. I’ve never met anyone else. My curiosity is off the charts.
Still listening, but unable to understand what’s being said, I creep closer to the door.
Zed’s visitor isn’t another person but an old transistor radio sitting on his desk. Tuned to the local talk radio station, a man’s voice fills the office with an update on the sinkhole.
Disappointed, but still curious, I step into the hall.
Zed spots me and turns a dial to lower the volume.
“Radios are okay?” I ask, a snarky edge to my voice.
“Passive listening. No one is tracking if I’m receiving radio waves.”
All I can think of is the old images of men wearing tinfoil hats to protect themselves from transmissions. “What’s the media saying about the hole?”
“Listen for yourself.” He turns the volume back up.
A male voice is speaking about cooperating with local authorities and the EPA.
Zed interrupts, “Feds are involved already. Don’t you think that’s interesting? Why should the government care about a hole on private land in the middle of the desert?”
The announcer continues speaking, but it’s difficult to hear under Zed’s ramblings.
“Shh,” I hush him.
“Thank you,” the voice says.
“Did you shush me?” Zed interrupts.
“ . . . Spokesperson for the Santos Family Trust, owners of the land where the sinkhole appeared earlier this morning.”
“I can’t believe I’m being told to be quiet in my own office,” Zed continues speaking while I flap my hands at him to shut up.
“What did he say?” I ask, wishing radio had a rewind button like online clips.
“Blah, blah, blah, nothing to see here. I think that summarizes everything.” Zed’s cranky now.
“No, the Santos part.” It’s not that unusual a name, but what are the odds?
“SFT is the Santos Family Trust. They own a ton of acreage around Roswell. Couple hundred thousand acres. Most of it’s leased out to the oil companies, cattle ranchers, or big agro.”
Something clicks into place. “And the name of the company spokesperson?”
Zed studies me for a moment. “The great-grandson. Boone.”