Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “I thought of that.”

  “Think about it some more. Are you driving back to town? I’m spooky about this place. I want to get back where there are people.”

  “All right. Let’s stop by Eden Foster’s place. She’s not far off your route if you’re driving back to Durango. She heard you were around and asked if you’d drop by.”

  “Who is Eden Foster?”

  “Somebody to know if you live around here. She’s interested and she’s active, if you know what I mean. Used to teach in some eastern university. Moved out to Santa Fe, and then she decided she liked it better here, so she bought out a dealer over on the highway and she sells Indian art, paintings, jewelry, and rugs. Only the best.”

  They had reached the cars. Gallagher paused, looking back toward the mesa. “Raglan? I wouldn’t mention those tracks if I were you. No need to get a lot of crazy rumors started.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “And that white van? It may not have been the same one. I’d bet there’s two dozen white vans between here and Tamarron, and we’ve no evidence the man who entered your place has any connection with the one outside the café.

  “If folks started putting this together we’d have all sorts of rumors going around, just when all that was sort of quieting down.”

  “What do you mean by ‘all that’?”

  Gallagher hesitated. “There’s been talk, over the years. It’s easy for somebody to disappear out yonder. When it happens, it always revives every old story they’ve ever heard. There’s talk of witchcraft, too. Most of the Indians won’t talk about it, but the belief is there. Most of them can point out a witch or two, but don’t think it is just the Indians. Most of the whites who’ve lived here any length of time hesitate when you ask, and then just shrug it off. They won’t admit they believe, and maybe they don’t, but they don’t disbelieve, either.”

  Chief was standing off a little, his head up, nose in the wind. “What is it, Chief? Something wrong?”

  The dog came closer, but looked back again toward Erik’s shelter. “I think it’s Kawasi,” Mike said. “He’s worried.”

  “You lead off,” Gallagher said, “I’ll follow.”

  Mike Raglan motioned Chief into the car, then got in himself. As he drove off he said, “I’m wondering, too, Chief. Why did she go off like that? Why did she run away?”

  When they reached the highway, Gallagher pulled alongside. “We’ll go to Eden’s. Make it by lunch,” he said. “She sets a good table.”

  Gallagher pulled on by and Mike followed, the big dog filling the seat beside him.

  “Looks like we’re in trouble, Chief. Gallagher’s a good man but he’s got a job to do, and right now he has two missing people and a burned-out café, and I’m the only connecting link. All I have to offer is a cock-and-bull story that in his place I wouldn’t buy for a minute.”

  Chief offered no comment, not a growl, a whine, or a yawn. He simply kept his eyes on the road.

  “Just the same, Chief, I’d like to know more about that garage. No reason why they shouldn’t have it if they want it, but what do they use it for? Does somebody find it convenient as a place to leave cars when they are not being used?”

  Up ahead, Gallagher slowed, then turned right off the highway onto a gravel road that led around a small hill, pulling up in a gravel parking area before a two-story house built of native stone. There was a wide veranda, and to the right of the house a wide green lawn, several beautiful old trees, and a lot of flowers. Before Mike had a chance to do more than notice them, Gallagher was going up the steps. Raglan followed as the door opened.

  Eden Foster was a stunning woman. She was slender and dark with large gray eyes. She was wearing a beige blouse and slacks, and a turquoise necklace.

  “Gallagher! You’re just in time for lunch!”

  “Don’t you think I know it?” He turned slightly. “Mike Raglan, this is Eden Foster.”

  Their eyes met and he was suddenly wary. He could not have said why. She was beautiful, with a lovely smile, and a warm handshake to greet him. “Come in, won’t you?”

  Inside, it was dark and cool, Navajo rugs on the floor and a couple of very fine ones on the walls. There were many shelves of books. Mike noticed three of his own, and near them two books by Evans-Wentz and one by Eliade.

  The breakfast room to which they were shown was cool, fronted by glass with a fine view of the garden he had glimpsed.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll forgive me, I hope? I asked Gallagher to bring you if he could. I did not want to miss a chance to meet one of my favorite authors.”

  “Thanks, but I am not really a writer. It just happens that I’ve written a couple of books.”

  “Nevertheless, you’re an interesting man and most of them just pass through. Good company is hard to find when one lives so far from everything.”

  She turned toward what was evidently a kitchen door. “Mary? You may serve now, if you will.

  “You’re younger than I expected. From your books I would have thought you older.”

  “It’s the light in here,” Raglan said. “It’s deceiving.”

  Mary was a Navajo girl with large dark eyes. She brought a tray with sandwiches, and a bowl of celery stalks, olives, and spears of cucumber. For a moment, as she turned to go, she was standing behind Eden Foster, and Mary looked directly at him, her face expressionless.

  Eden turned her attention to Gallagher, asking about his wife, his children, and his garden, in that order. Mike listened, ate a celery stick, and looked out the window, but he was thinking.

  What was it about her? She was beautiful, and had a figure a man could dream about, so why had he become suddenly suspicious? What was it about her that bothered him?

  She turned to him then. “And you, Mr. Raglan? Will you be with us long?”

  “Call me Mike. When you call me Mr. Raglan, I start to look around to see if my father is here.” He paused. “No, I shan’t be around long.”

  “A new book?”

  He shrugged. “Visiting.” He glanced at her. “The books are incidental, written when I have leisure, but this is just a visit to a friend.”

  “A friend,” Gallagher said, “who is building a house over in the desert.”

  Raglan looked at the garden. He had not come to talk, but to listen. Had Gallagher brought him here simply to meet a neighbor or was there more involved?

  Eden Foster sat opposite him, and poured coffee. She looked up at him. “That would be Erik Hokart, I expect? I know of no one else building over that way.”

  It was a large desert, he thought, and there must be others who were building. “He’s a friend of mine,” he said.

  “I wonder if his wife would want a home out there. Women usually like to be close to other women.”

  “He’s a single man,” Gallagher said. “Likes to be alone. Isn’t that right, Mike?”

  “He has a lot to think about.” But then, so they would not think Erik too alone, Mike added, “He’s a very important man to a lot of people. You can bet the government knows where he is.”

  Eden’s large gray eyes met his. “Is he so important, then?”

  “To them, he is.” Did Mike notice a little frown around her eyes, he wondered, or was he being overly suspicious? “There are people in the Pentagon who would consider him a national treasure.”

  That might be stretching it a bit but not very much. He took a sandwich from the tray. “Beautiful flowers,” he commented. “They add so much to a place. And I like to see the marigolds there.”

  Eden Foster glanced toward the garden. “Marigolds?”

  “They help to keep insects away,” Raglan said.

  “I wouldn’t know. Mary takes care of the garden.” She turned her attention to Gallagher. “You must invite Mr. Hokart to come over. I should like to meet him.”

  “He’s not around,” Gallagher said. “We’d like to talk to him, too.”

  She looked at Mike. “But
you’re his friend. You must know where he is.”

  “Of course.” He picked up another sandwich and smiled at her. “I do know. I know just about where he is and we’ll be in touch. I’ll tell him you want to meet him.”

  The smile had gone from her eyes. They were cool now. Or was he imagining things? He had been doing a lot of imagining lately, so he was probably seeing ghosts where they did not exist.

  He sipped the coffee. It was very good, with a slight flavor he could not quite place. He started to mention it, then decided not to. “You’ve a lovely place here,” he said. “This was a nice thought, Gallagher.”

  “It comes with the territory,” Gallagher said. “What kind of an investigating officer would I be if I didn’t know where there was a free lunch? And in good company?”

  “I’ll agree on the company.” Raglan smiled at Eden and her eyes warmed, lingering on his. He was glad then that he had known a lot of women. This one knew what she was doing, all of the time.

  The conversation turned to local topics and people and he enjoyed his coffee and another of the tiny sandwiches. In the distance he heard voices: Mary talking to someone, but who?

  Of the people and conditions about which they talked he knew nothing, although Eden seemed well informed, until she commented, “There was a fire over your way. We could see the smoke. Anything serious?”

  “Only to people who eat there. Benny’s Café burned. Grease fire, I expect. They happen every once in a while.” He got to his feet. “We’d better run, Mike. Time I checked in with the office. Be seeing you, Eden.”

  Mike got up, picked up his hat, and followed Gallagher to the door. As he passed the bookshelves, he glanced again at the titles. “You’ve some interesting books. I’m flattered to see mine among them.”

  He stopped at one bookcase and took down one of his books, idly riffling the pages. “The next time I come over I’ll sign one for you, if you like.”

  “Would you? That would be wonderful!”

  He paused on the steps. “If you should see Erik before I do, tell him not to worry. Everything will be all right.”

  Her expression was wary. He glanced quickly at the table near them as she took his hand. “Do come again, and there’s no need to wait for Gallagher to bring you. He’s always so busy with that awful police work.”

  “Can’t be helped, Eden. There’s too much going on. That fire in town, and then we can’t seem to find Erik.” Gallagher paused. “Or that girl, either.”

  Eden Foster had started to turn away. Now she stopped and turned around.

  “Girl?” Her tone was a little shrill.

  “Pretty girl. Young. Big dark eyes. She was around town and then suddenly she disappeared. If we don’t find her soon, we’ll have the feds down here, nosing around.”

  “What sort of a girl?” Eden asked. “A Navajo?”

  “No, but she looked like an Indian.” Gallagher’s eyes were innocent. “You talked to her, Mike. Was she an Indian?”

  “Not from around here. At least that was my impression.”

  Eden’s eyes were on Raglan’s. “You talked to her? And she disappeared?”

  Mike Raglan chuckled. “Not while I was talking to her. She was too polite for that. Seemed like a nice girl.” He paused. “She left that café just in time. It burst into flame not a moment later. She was lucky to get out.”

  He got into his car and pulled away, Gallagher following. When he drove into town he pulled up in front of the café where he had talked to Kawasi. Gallagher parked alongside him.

  “Pretty woman,” Gallagher said. “Food’s good, too.”

  “You’re a devious man, Gallagher.”

  Gallagher’s eyes were innocent. “Thought as long as you were going to be around you should meet people. Eden’s one of the brightest and damned good-looking along with it.”

  He paused looking up the street. “Smart woman. Hasn’t been here all that long but she’s made friends. Been a guest at the governor’s mansion two or three times, has money in the bank, good credit rating. Keeps to herself, but goes out to dinner at the homes of the best folks, supports local charities. Not in a big way. Modest support. No talk about her. Respected woman. Nobody would say a word against her.”

  Mike Raglan rested his arms on the wheel. “Mary seems a nice girl.”

  “Navajo. I know her folks. They live over toward Navajo Mountain, where they run some sheep. Mary did well in school.”

  He paused. “Indians don’t make much show of what they know, and I’m betting Eden Foster thinks she hired what we back in Oklahoma used to call a blanket Indian, meaning no disrespect. What I mean is that Mary not only has considerable education but she’s bright.

  “Her father’s gettin’ along in years, so when Eden offered her good money, she took the job. That way she can stay close to home and her father.”

  “Those books of mine? The ones Eden has? She just bought them. That book I had in my hands hadn’t been read, and it was the third printing, which came out only last month. I think Eden Foster wants to know what I am and how I think.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Neither man moved, just sitting where they could talk without raising their voices. Mike Raglan spoke after a minute or two. “Eden Foster should read some detective fiction if she plans to play games around here. She needs to get used to our ways.”

  “What d’you mean by that?”

  “She’s careless. Remember that Eric Ambler espionage story I mentioned? The one the prowler took?”

  “I remember your story.”

  “It was lying there on the table near the bookshelves.”

  “Hell, a lot of people read his books. I do myself. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “No? Gallagher, I get a lot of books, so when I finish one that I intend to pass on to somebody else I make a check on the cover with a marking pen so I won’t get it mixed up and keep it around. That book had my mark on it.”

  Chapter 14

  *

  BACK AT TAMARRON, Mike Raglan went down to the San Juan Room and his usual table near the window. With a cup of coffee before him he took out his notebook and opened it to a blank page.

  What did he actually know?

  Aside from Erik’s daybook, he knew only what Gallagher knew: Two people had disappeared and a café had been burned to the ground under what seemed peculiar circumstances. The information in the daybook gave him an advantage which he was not yet prepared to share with Gallagher.

  The police officer would immediately seize it as evidence and he wished to review the material himself. Moreover, there was small chance it would be accepted at face value.

  Had Erik not written down his day-to-day experiences he would simply have vanished without a clue, and after a few days it would have been taken for granted that he had fallen off a cliff into the river, and no further questions would have been asked.

  If what the daybook implied was true, considered with what Kawasi had told him, those who had been called the Anasazi existed on the other side of a curtain, carrying on their own civilization and wanting no communication with anyone from this side. Apparently there had been a way through that was occasionally used until blocked off by the dam that created Lake Powell. However, there seemed to be an area, in the vicinity Erik wished to build in, that was an anomaly, a region of occasional erratic openings caused by some local instability. The window in the kiva appeared to be outside that instability and to offer a permanent way into the world beyond the veil. Undoubtedly that was the reason it had been closed off by filling in the kiva. That, of course, was supposition. Somebody already on this side had wanted it open—hence the glowing red line on Erik’s blueprint.

  Raglan was irritated with himself. Why had he not checked the kiva? Had he deliberately avoided it? Was he afraid of what he might find? Did he fear to look beyond, because of what he might discover?

  We accept the familiar and the usual. We are comfortable with it. We do not want our nice three-dimensional world
shattered. We enjoy our certainty, and even Einstein shied from the erratic world of the quantum theory. It suggested a chaos with which he was not prepared to deal.

  Each of us enjoys the familiar and the usual. No matter how miserable it may be, one’s own home is a haven. To step through the door, drop into a familiar chair, and sleep in one’s own bed is vastly comfortable. It is an escape from the world outside. It represents safety, security. Once inside the door, one can lay down the burdens of the world and relax. In a larger sense, our three-dimensional world is such a place. We are used to it, and the suggestion that it may be only a part of a much greater reality is disturbing.

  On the notepad Mike Raglan wrote: Erik. What did he know of Erik, after all? A cool, quiet, reserved man, a scientist with a considerable aptitude for business, not one likely to go off on a tangent, nor to give much credence to the fantastic.

  Either Erik’s notebook was an elaborate fiction, something completely out of character, or it was something Erik believed to be true. Knowing the man, Raglan decided the daybook had been written in good faith, written actually for Erik himself alone. Sending it to Raglan had been an afterthought, conceived in a mood of sheer desperation.

  The material in the daybook fitted no pattern of hallucination with which Raglan was familiar, especially given the man and the circumstances.

  Suddenly a memory of the old cowboy and his gold intruded. His gold, and the warning. The area the cowboy talked about had not been sharply designated but was probably now on the bottom of Lake Powell. There had been no lake when the story was told.

  Below Erik’s name Raglan wrote the name of Kawasi. She could be an actress hired for a part. It could be a plot to extort money from Erik, but no such request had been made, and nothing in this sequence of events fit the pattern.

  What could he expect from Gallagher? The man was a sober, serious police officer of considerable experience as such. Moreover, he had lived in the area, knew the people, and understood a good deal about the Indians and their beliefs. Enough to consider what was happening with an open mind.