The Adam Enigma

by Meyer, Ronald C. ; Reeder, Mark;

  Easing forward through the Lancaster lines, Caine positioned himself at the front.

  The battle’s start was fifteen minutes late. The combatants were waiting for the re-enactors, King Richard and the Duke of Norfolk, who had not yet emerged from the Yorkist’s ornate pavilion. It rose golden behind the lines of troops. A standard with the Royal Coat of Arms for England fluttered at the entrance. The top half beneath a jeweled crown bore three French crosses and three lions passant while the bottom half-reversed the same images. Beneath the shield in lettering large enough for all to read was the monarchy’s motto in French: Dieu et mon droit (“God and my right”).

  The Trickster nodded. Very apt. The bankers think of themselves as barons and untouchable. But I can bring every one of them bad fortune whenever I please.

  The tent flap swung open and Caine watched Ketterman stride through the men at arms. He wore a metal cuirass over chainmail armor, mailed gloves, greaves, and a helmet with a face guard. On his shoulder was a white rose surrounded by the colors of his house—black and red. He yelled at everyone and kicked the young page who held his sword.

  Caine took his eyes off his target and checked the field. The armies were lining up on opposite sides, readying for the horn blast that would send them hurtling across the field at each other. The early morning sun glinted off chainmail and helmets. Pennants showing the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York fluttered in the breeze. These were anachronisms, of course. In the real dynastic wars for control of England, neither the House of Lancaster nor the House of York had chosen a rose as their emblem. To which gods each side prayed, Caine was not sure, but he was sure the Trickster had been there, bringing good and bad fortune to each side.

  Any moment now, Caine thought. A horn sounded once. The re-enactors readied themselves. Another blast and they raised their weapons—harmless foam maces and broadswords—high into the air. He checked his own weapon. The staff concealed a tiny needle coated with ethyldichloroarsine, a nerve agent that caused burning pain, sneezing, coughing, vomiting, and pulmonary edema—followed by death.

  A third wail from the horn and a great yell rose from nearly five hundred throats. The lines charged each other.

  The Trickster zigzagged through the melee, never taking his eyes from his quarry. Reveling in the chaos, he avoided battle with Yorkists when he could. When forced, he quickly dispatched opponents with sharp blows from his staff to the soft tissue behind the knee, knocking them down and leaving them unharmed. But at last Ketterman stood in front of him. The man’s faceplate had swung open. He was four inches taller than Caine and sneered at him.

  “Henry Tudor dispatches a fat old man to fight me. Let the usurper send a champion who is worthy.” He raised his foam broadsword to strike.

  “It isn’t Henry Tudor I fight for,” Caine said.

  Ketterman’s blow halted in the air above the Trickster’s head. “”What is this?”

  Taking advantage of the bigger man’s hesitation, Caine jammed the staff into the armpit at the weakest part of the armor and released the dart. The thin needle slipped easily through the chainmail’s linked metal rings. Ketterman jerked once. “What!” he gasped. He tried to take a step and fell to his knees. His face contorted in a grimace. Hands clawed at his cuirass and he cried out against the sharp itching pain. He slid over onto his side. Violent coughing wracked him and his arms fell shaking to the ground. “Who are you?” he rasped.

  The Trickster watched the banker struggle, his movements growing weaker. Panic filled the man’s eyes. He could no longer speak. Bloody foam rimmed his mouth. Caine leaned in close and whispered, “Today I am your bad fortune.” He closed the faceplate. Turning slowly, he saw that the battle had by-passed him. He stared down at Ketterman who now lay still as a corpse, though he wasn’t yet dead. That would come much later after much pain. He walked away casually toward the northern edge of Sheep Meadow and the Neil Singer Lilac Walk. Tomorrow there would be a slight downtick in the financial markets and the public would not know why. But those in power would.

  Ketterman was the third principal bank negotiator he had dispatched in a year. Bringing bad fortune to these people was Caine’s way of destroying and re-creating the world. I have done well and had fun doing it.

  During the preceding few weeks Caine had shocked a number of people who in one form or another were in conflict with Ketterman with the tweet “Ketterman will soon join his ancestors.” His death would work to their advantage if they prepared to act quickly. One of those people was Sam Conklin. That’s how the Trickster and Conklin met over a simple tweet. Conklin thought it was a miracle, but Caine knew better.

  April, 1950

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Caine was walking on Calton Hill. To the west lay the Salisbury Crags and beyond them the Firth of Forth. The sounds of traffic were muted this early in the morning. He loved the slow walk. The infrequently traveled path was lush with gorse and everywhere around him were lochs and glens. He thought it was as if God had brought to the Scottish lowlands a wild piece of the highlands to remind all Scots of their true heritage. Each step brought him upwards, out of the mist that had settled over Edinburgh and hid the 400-year-old cemeteries of the capitol city’s Old Town. Holyrood Palace was barely visible. It’d been sometime since he had ascended Calton Hill to walk among Edinburgh’s prized collection of monuments—Nelson’s telescope, the city observatory, and Caine’s favorite national monument, the unfinished copy of the Parthenon.

  He sat atop the tall hill and breathed in deeply, wrapping the clean air around him like a blanket, and settling within its crisp folds like a babe nestling to its mother. The gods are near, he told himself, and sighed contentedly.

  In times past, he had sat here for hours, under the night sky waiting to be called. He always knew the best times to be alone. But today was not one of those times. The King was in residence and the cultural center of Scotland was buzzing with excitement. His Majesty’s presence had brought thousands of tourists from the kingdom and around the world. It can’t be helped. Transitions happen when they happen.

  He stood up and rested a slim fingered hand along the gray bricks of Nelson’s Telescope. The monument pointed north toward the Firth of Forth as if spying on the sea and what dangers it held. As he waited, the sun rose above the fog settling in the low parts of Old Town, brightening the cobalt blue sky. Somewhere out of the mist a bell tolled. He counted the peals—seven o’clock. It’s nearly time.

  The sound of lorries chugging up the main road, engines straining with the loads of tourists coming to visit Calton, made a plaintive counterpart to the rustle of the wind in the shrubs. Then into the dark blue heaven splashed a sound like God playing bagpipes. Caine looked skyward straining to hear. The sound, like breezes to anyone else, brought him a new task. He listened. There on the steps of the old observatory a woman is in labor. A baby is coming.

  The message ended. Caine had walked over to where the crowd had gathered. The terrified husband was yelling for somebody to help. A handful of onlookers gathered around helpless.

  Caine threaded his way through the tourists. He gazed at the mother. Her hair hung in stringy wet curls; her face was a blotchy patchwork of bright red and pasty white. Her breathing came in labored gasps, dampening, slower, slower with each contraction, each push weaker than the last. A young man began running down the hill, shouting he was going for help. The nearest phone booth was miles away and the ambulance miles beyond that. They would never arrive in time.

  Caine knelt down and gently placed his hand on the woman’s rippling belly. At once the muscles in her neck tightened. Her hands gripped the ground, tearing out handfuls of sod. She screamed and with a giant push, the new baby emerged from the portal of the womb into his hands. A small woman rushed up with a white picnic cloth and took the baby.

  “It’s a boy,” she cooed to the mother.

  “His name is Adam,” Caine said.

  He walked away, the crowd parting for him like
the Red Sea. Arthur’s Seat, Holyrood Park’s highest peak, loomed ahead of him, its barren rocky outcrop thrusting upward to form a rugged throne. He headed toward it, the crowd forgotten, but the baby’s presence loomed in his consciousness. He breathed in deeply, recognizing the beginning, like all great beginnings marked by wailing and crying. The wind veered and rushed toward him, the breeze whispering words only he could hear: Change is coming . . . Change is coming.

  December, 2015

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Caine stood at the top of Arthur’s Seat looking past the dark green and yellow of the blooming gorse of Holyrood Park into Edinburgh below. The sharp tang of salt air mingled with the oily trace of car exhaust. He frowned at the smog layering the city with a thick haze.

  It took only sixty years to change from that idyllic summer morning to this dreary winter day. More change was coming now and he loved it. He looked skyward as if he could somehow see limned against the dark blue of the Scottish highland sky the old Celtic gods—Llyr, god of the sea, and Math, god of wisdom. Do you remember me brothers? He thought also of Dwyn, god of mischief, lord of change.

  The dark buzz of his phone shook Caine. The sudden appearance of smart phones reminded him of the marvelous changes happening in the world and even greater ones on the way. Caine was suddenly exhilarated. How wonderful! So much change in so few years. New ways coming, nearer and nearer.

  He pulled himself from his musing and glanced at the number, recognizing it. He let his face ripple into the familiar features the caller would remember. Then pressing connect, he let the caller’s face appear on the screen. He said, “So did you grab the opportunity I handed you?”

  Startled by the question, it took Conklin a moment to answer. “Yes, you were right.”

  “I take it you were able to regain control of your family ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the oil shale rights below.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a rich man now.”

  Caine heard the hesitation in Conklin’s sudden breath. Then the man was saying, “They’re saying Ketterman was murdered.”

  “I would call it bad fortune. But bad fortune for someone is good fortune for another. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Caine’s all but admitting he killed the man, Conklin thought. “Can we meet?”

  “How about next Thursday 2 o’clock in Austin? I believe the gay bar three blocks off the capital would be a fine place. . . .You know the one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring that fellow Hiram Beecher with you. Until then.”

  Caine slipped the phone back into his pocket. Another piece of the change.

  Looking out upon the gorse, its flowers turning from yellow to golden as the sun rose higher in the sky, he smiled, reveling in the knowledge of change whipping across the world.

  March 26, 2016

  Grinnell, Iowa

  It was just past midnight when Ramsey pulled into the driveway of his restored Victorian house in Grinnell, Iowa. The small Iowa college town was a place where he felt grounded and at peace. Ramsey always maintained that the best days of his life had been his four years at Grinnell College. The quiet beauty of the small town suited him perfectly. After recovering from his psychotic episode in Peru, Ramsey had used a portion of the substantial inheritance from his father to set up his consulting firm with a remarkable young man from Myriam’s postdoc research team. Not only was Dr. Ron Grange brilliant, but his father was a highly successful and connected lobbyist in D.C. As the firm grew, Ron wanted to move their offices to the East Coast, where most of the world’s geopolitical powerbrokers were located. But the idea of living in a large metropolitan city had not appealed to Ramsey. The two men compromised. Ron chose to live in Bethesda and Ramsey returned to Grinnell. He had found the Victorian house on the edge of the campus and had rented office space on the upper floor of a local bank.

  Parking his car in front of the garage, he carried his bags to the back entrance. A motion light flicked on, bathing the house’s large portico in a soft light. The back door was unlocked. Inside a note from the housekeeper was pinned to the refrigerator. “Dinner is ready; just heat for two minutes in the microwave. Gladys.”

  Food would have to wait until tomorrow. He went into his office, and after pouring himself a snifter of fine cognac, stood in front of the French doors that opened onto the backyard. The soft scents of spring filled the crisp night air. Somewhere in the trees beside the garage a barn owl hooted. He tipped his glass in salute, glad to be back amid familiar sights and sounds. But even as he took a sip of the fine brandy, his thoughts kicked him out of the comforts of home and back into events of the past two days. The memory of what happened beside the Cottonwood tree was losing its vibrancy, and he could have called Myriam and graciously decline her offer. But then there was what had happened at Chicago’s O’Hare airport late this afternoon.

  While waiting for a connecting flight to Des Moines, he had looked up Adam Gwillt on the Internet. But after twenty minutes of searching, it was as if man didn’t exist. The only information he found was a short article in Rio Chama’s local newspaper about his disappearance—along with a picture of Adam—that was probably placed at the request of the sister, Carlotta. Otherwise, nothing. He had recalled again how the apparition beside the cottonwood tree had looked remarkably like the picture of Adam that Carlotta had shown him. But was it really him? The question was becoming both perplexing and intriguing. Then the strangest thing had happened. While sitting in O’Brien’s Restaurant & Bar enjoying a burger and fries, he had overheard the name “Adam Gwillt.” Looking over his shoulder, he saw a man talking on his cell phone. By his fine clothes, Ramsey surmised he was a successful businessman. Just as he got up to ask about Adam, the man had looked at his watch, grabbed his computer and dashed off.

  For a moment Ramsey had thought about chasing after him. Then he noticed the man’s credit card receipt on his table. Walking over casually, he had read his name: Malcolm Grossinger. A quick Internet search revealed he was the president of Midwest Cable based in Des Moines, Iowa.

  Ramsey wasn’t sure how he felt about coincidences. He knew that the famous Swiss psychologist Carl Jung had built a whole theory of psychological development around meaningful coincidences that he called synchronicity. Taking another sip of the fragrant brandy, Ramsey felt like he was being steered along some path much like what had occurred on his journey to Peru. Back then I was led astray by some mysterious forces. Is the same thing happening again? Am I misreading what happened in the last two days? Or, as Jung might say, “are these signs that providence is at work in my life.”

  But today the problem at hand was quite different. What should he do about Myriam’s offer and what were all those coincidences around Adam Gwillt about? It came down to rationality versus intuition, he supposed. So he settled into the large wingback chair before the fireplace in his office. Around him on the walls hung beautifully framed historical maps collected by his father from around the world. Ramsey senior had been a physical geographer and his appreciation of cartography was not lost on his only son. For that I am grateful, Ramsey thought.

  Cradling the brandy snifter in both hands, he studied the last picture of his father before he suffered a massive, fatal heart attack in Ramsey’s junior year in high school. It hung in a frame over the mantle. His father’s face was sallow, the eyes hollowed, the once-sharp neckline layered under fat. It was taken while he was standing in his study, one hand resting pretentiously on a globe of the world and the other inside his favorite blue-checked waistcoat. It was a pose he’d always wanted to make, standing like the nineteenth-century-British Empire’s imperious Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli. After the picture, he had wheezed into the chair behind his desk and clucked at his son’s disapproving frown as he pulled out a cigar from the humidor on the shelf behind. “I’m a dying man so give me my pleasures and listen to my advice,” his father had said. After lighting up, he leaned back into the soft le
ather and blew a smoke ring into the air, and said thoughtfully, “Jonathan, geography is the one reliable way of making sense of what is happening in the world, and it will be the overarching field of the twenty-first century.” He had died a week later.

  “So what would you do, old man? Would you take this job?” Ramsey asked, nodding toward the picture.

  He could hear his father’s old chuckle, the same laugh when he’d asked him to sign the permission slip to play football in junior high school. The old man had lit one of his cigars and said, “Jonathan, you have both rationality and intuition. When they come together, you’ll know how to decide.”

  Ramsey reviewed Myriam’s offer for the hundredth time since leaving New Mexico. His rational side told him to accept the challenge. I could take the job. Businesswise there is neither gain nor risk. The two young staffers in his company, recent geography graduates from the University of Kansas, could handle the campaign in Ecuador to incentivize locals to preserve a large portion of the unique rain forest ecosystem. Both were familiar with his methodology and strategies. Also businesswise, Ron Grange could handle the upcoming D.C. and LA meetings on resource use in the Arctic. The only possible hiccup was the weekly undergraduate seminar on the geopolitics of newly emerging ethnic and religious identities he was teaching at Grinnell College. But his co-teacher could easily handle the class.

  Ramsey took a sip of brandy, savoring the mellow sweetness. On the other hand, his gut feeling was unclear. Better not to peek behind old doors.

  He set the brandy onto a low table. The wall clock said twelve thirty. It was still not too late to call the one person who could give him the perspective he needed. Picking up his phone, he punched in a number. It answered quickly, not going to voice mail. A dry chuckle and then, “Jonathan.”

  It was good to hear his old mentor’s voice.

  Ramsey rode down Main Street to the Frontier Café. The day was windless, but gray clouds covered the sky and there was a hint of an early spring snowstorm in the sharp sting of the air. Leaning his bike against the rack out front, he glanced inside. Professor Orensen was already waiting for him at their favorite table.