DeVere had been the largest diamond company in the world for more than a century. There were younger companies nipping at their heels, especially in North America where new diamond possibilities had reportedly been found in Saskatchewan, Michigan, Wyoming and New Mexico, where DeVere held substantial interests. And now this, she thought, glancing though the papers a second time.
The elevator pinged and stopped. She straightened her conservative dark blue silk suit before hurrying across the hall and entering the closed door without announcing herself.
Pieter Haas was starring out the window at Pretoria. He didn’t turn around. “It must be important, Greta,” he said. “You didn’t knock.” The chairman of the DeVere Mining Group was a thin, well-groomed South African of Boer descent. His family traced their lineage back to the Voortrekkers who had escaped English rule in Cape Town and moved north and east into the Transvaal nearly 200 years ago.
“You’ll want to see this,” Greta answered. She had been in the chairman’s private penthouse many times, but the room never ceased to awe her. The suite was spacious with large picture windows on three sides giving an aerial view of the Magaliesberg Mountains forming a ring-like wall north of South Africa’s third capital. Thick carpet covered the floor. Rare oil paintings of the Great Trek of the Dutch colonists, interspersed with Zulu and Ashanti art and artifacts, adorned the walls.
Haas turned slowly. His pale blue eyes narrowed as she walked across the room and handed him the thick file. “What’s this?”
“Lindstrom, the Danish geologist who you have working with Pete Miami in America, gave it to me.” She handed him the data stick and he downloaded the information into his computer. She waited patiently as he scanned through the files. When his eyes widened, she added quickly, “Lindstrom’s the only one who’s seen this and I made certain you and I are the only ones he’ll speak with about it.”
Haas nodded and strode to his desk. He gestured to Greta to sit down. “Does Doctor Miami suspect anything?”
“Not as far as I know. His drones have been sending us raw data looking for kimberlite signatures in the area of northern New Mexico. Lindstrom’s the one who’s been crunching the numbers.”
“We need to follow up,” Haas said. “Who’s the man we’ve been using to buy land there for the company?”
Greta Van Horn didn’t have to consult her notes. She instantly replied, “Raphael Núnez. He owns the Rio Chama Real Estate Company.”
“Have him ask around. See if he knows anything.”
She nodded, not taking any notes.
Haas smiled his pleasure at Greta Van Horn’s abacus mind. She wasn’t a smasher—too wide in the shoulders and hips, eyes slightly askew on her broad face—but she was precise and never forgot an order, a business contact, or the fine print in any contract. She never left an embarrassing paper trail of emails or memos, and on this project that was essential.
“Anything else, sir?” she asked.
Haas shook his head and watched her leave. Then he returned to the window. A low haze covered the mountain range. It was hot and humid outside. Inside his office the air and temperature were perfectly controlled, yet he could feel stickiness in his armpits. Unbidden into his thoughts came an image of the Samburu shaman he had met nearly forty years ago and the prophecy the strange old man had told him.
Maybe the old man was right.
January, 2016
Austin, Texas
The Southwest Airlines 737 jet touched down at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport with a screech of metal and a loud explosion. Passengers screamed and lunged against their seatbelts.
Caine, knowing his presence guaranteed the safety of the plane and passengers, leaned back and smiled hugely, relishing the excitement and fear rippling through the cabin. I love being in control of death. I am the most helpful of all the gods to humans.
He took the hand of the woman sitting next to him. She was trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. “You’ll be reading bedtime stories to your little girl tonight.”
Caine was counting her heartbeats, felt the fast staccato rhythm slow. Fear ebbed from her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she looked at him and said, “Wow! It’s not about me, is it?”
“Not today.”
The Captain’s calm voice came over the intercom. “Nothing to be alarmed about, ladies and gentlemen. One of the tires exploded, but we’re fine. We’re heading to the gate now under our own power. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Ten minutes later Caine was striding through the terminal, thick with passengers and aircrew, a few heading onward to other cities, others walking to the exit. Many were young, high schoolers or a bit older, and they carried musical instrument cases—guitars mostly, though some horns and woodwinds. Nashville, Tennessee proclaims itself the music capital of the country, but Austinites call their town the live music capital of the world, with more live music venues per capita than any other U.S. city.
Outside at the taxi stand he motioned to the first one in line. The bumper sticker proudly declared, “Keep Austin Weird.”
“Afternoon,” he said, handing his bag to the black driver. “Driskill Hotel.”
“Good choice, sir. It’s a bit of historic Austin right next to the capitol and the Governor’s mansion.” The man smiled, revealing gold-capped front teeth with tiny guitars etched into them. “George Bush used to live there.”
“One should never ‘misunderestimate’ Texas voters,” Caine drawled.
“That be true, sir.”
The rest of the ride was quiet. The driver accepted a fifty percent tip and handed Caine his card. “If you need anything give me a call. I can be here in ten minutes.”
“I have a meeting at Oilcan Harry’s in the Warehouse District this evening at 8pm. Pick me up at 7:30.”
“Yes sir,” the cabby said toothily and drove off with a jaunty wave.
Inside the desk clerk found his reservation and checked him in quickly. He was in room 714, a floor above Beecher and Conklin’s rooms. Caine smiled to himself. Somebody’s going to leap across the threshold they’ve resisted all their life.
The room was elegantly furnished. He laid his carry-on luggage on the double bed and unzipped the travel bag. The costume was there, unharmed by the long trip from Scotland. Checking his watch, he saw the time was 6:15pm. Plenty of time to get ready.
Caine loved disguise. There is nothing better at enticing people to cross thresholds than the correct costume, and he had a good one planned for this evening. Pulling his phone from his suit coat pocket, he placed it next to the TV and pressed play. Seconds later Dionne Warwick’s voice came through the tiny speakers clearly and the first words to the song I Say a Little Prayer for You echoed through the motel room. Humming the tune, he carefully stripped in front of the mirror, studying himself. His skin was flawless and smooth. His muscles were well defined and yet not bulging like a bodybuilder’s. He chose a dark wig with red highlights, the same color as the women Beecher was attracted to. He began to apply makeup, painting on eyebrows in a thin line, using a dark mascara for his eyelashes and a hint of smoky eyes to give him a sense of mystery.
He checked the time. It had taken almost an hour to prepare. But when he looked in the mirror, he could see the subtle undertones of Myriam St. Eves, Beecher’s current mistress. Perfect.
The dress was a little black number that showed off his figure without revealing any cleavage or leg.
When he finished, the room’s phone rang. Picking it up, Caine heard the manager say, “Your taxi has arrived, sir.”
“I’ll be right down,” he answered.
With a final look in the mirror, he altered his voice to a husky contralto. “The name is Beatrice,” he said, pleased the words came out sounding provocative and yet somehow demure. He also chuckled at the name. “Beatrice” was the name of the guide in Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy who had led the Italian poet out of Purgatory.
The black cabby met him at the curb, the door to the yell
ow cab already open. The man straightened, his eyes wide in surprise.
Caine felt the man’s awe grow as the distance between them closed. Then the driver smiled, the harsh lights of the hotel glancing off his gold teeth. He held out his hand and said, “Watch your step.”
Caine settled into the backseat of the cab.
The cabby got in. He eased the car out of the driveway into the traffic on Brazos Street. He looked into the rearview mirror and caught sight of Caine. “A siren of splendor,” he said and whistled appreciatively.
“You believe in voodoo?” Caine asked.
“Of course. You be casting a spell tonight. I get it.”
Traffic was light and the driver reached Oilcan Harry’s in just a few minutes. He got out and held the door open for Caine, giving his hand to help him out. Caine gave him two hundred dollars. “Be back here in an hour.”
The cabby gave a low bow like a gentleman. “At your service, ma’am.”
At first sight, Oilcan Harry’s was typical of any upscale bar on the geographical fringe of the Austin Sixth Street music district. The booze behind the bar was lit by a plethora of multicolored lights. Opposite the entrance was a stage where a band began playing once the clock struck midnight. The center was open for dancing. The tables and booths were arranged in helter-skelter fashion reflecting the craziness that erupted every night at Austin’s premier gay bar and restaurant.
Caine settled into the shadows at the far end of the bar and waited.
Beecher’s lingering uneasiness about what the Reverend had asked him to do intensified the moment he stepped into Oilcan Harry’s bar. The evening was early and the bar was mostly empty. The bartender, a slender young man with brilliantly dyed yellow hair, said, “You boys looking to have a good time tonight?”
Beecher’s neck turned red and he replied heatedly, “We’re meeting someone. It’s business.”
“Of course it is, honey. It’s always business in here.” The young man winked at him. “So, what are you boys drinking?”
Conklin looked at the distress on Beecher’s face and said, “Scotch and soda for me and my friend will have double shot of Jim Beam straight up.”
Beecher scanned the crowd. A drag queen at the end of the bar gave him a little friendly wave. He gasped and almost called out his wife’s name. It couldn’t be. There was no one there a moment ago. He shook his head and looked again. The transvestite was still there, still smiling. He almost bolted out the door, but on the ride from the airport, Conklin had told him this was where the meeting was taking place.
“Why a gay bar, for Chrissakes?” Beecher had bellowed in the back of the limo.
Conklin had said, “A Texas state senator invited me and some businessmen with fracking interests to meet here. You have to do what you have to do to get what you want in Texas. And it’s where my contact demanded to meet us. I should’ve told you it was a gay bar.”
On the ride to the bar, Conklin had told Beecher how he had used the information about the impending death of Ketterman to clear up all the legal issues around his family ranch. He repeated for the third time how, when he had asked Caine on the phone if he had killed Ketterman, he didn’t deny it.
Beecher stared out the window at the dark Austin night flowing past the cab in shadows and neon. Christ, this could be a motherfucker. . . . I don’t care how necessary the Reverend Billy Paul thinks it is, he thought.
Beecher had been in a state of internal agitation ever since the email from the Reverend Billy Paul asking if the task had been completed yet. The idea was distasteful, and yet here he was in Austin to set up a hit. There was no denying that that was the purpose of this meeting.
Over the years, Beecher had never experienced any great remissions or healings while at the shrine, only that pleasant sense of peace. Sure, the video crew filmed the strange aura about Adam . . . the merging of his aura with the two little girls. There’s no denying he has some special power. But the power of Christ? Impossible!
Conklin paid for the drinks and led them to a table near the back. The chairs were padded. The light was soft, seductive. He eyed the bar and smiled at the female impersonator, waving her over.
“What the hell are you doing?” Beecher asked.
“Wait for it.”
The woman smiled and with hips swinging, walked over to their table. “Sam, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome friend.”
Beecher gaped at the female impersonator. “This is Caine?”
“I told you he was eccentric.” Then, “This is Hiram Beecher.”
Caine walked behind the older man, the tips of his fingers caressing his broad shoulders, and sat down. He smiled as Beecher choked on his whiskey. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he drawled like a Southern belle. Then deliberately setting his full lips in a little moue, added, “I thought for a moment you didn’t recognize me, Sam.”
“It took me a second. Who are you tonight?”
“Beatrice.” Caine turned to Beecher. “I love disguise. Don’t you think I fit in perfectly? In my line of activity a woman needs to be careful.”
The logic of Caine’s reasoning didn’t escape Beecher. At the same time he found himself unable to take his eyes off the woman. Man, he corrected himself. But the word didn’t seem to mean anything. He watched mesmerized as the man calling himself “Beatrice” reached out a long fingered hand and caressed his palm, running turquoise fingernails along his little finger the way his first wife Delores used to. Heat soared to his face. Feelings of shame coursed through him. He wanted to jump up and slap the transvestite, but instead his manhood hardened. He wanted to run screaming but his legs were liquid. He tried to look at Conklin, but Beatrice’s eyes melted into his. It was like a vacuum sucking his soul.
“I thought your name was Caine?” Beecher croaked, trying to dislodge the lust coursing through him and get down to business.
“Tonight I’m Beatrice.”
“You leading me to hell?” he said jokingly.
“Out of it . . . into paradise.”
As if on cue, the young man with the bright blonde hair arrived at the table. “Oh my, I see you want to take this upstairs.”
It was like Caine had put a spell on Beecher. The drag queen took his hand and led him to the back of the bar. They walked up a flight of stairs. Beecher was filled with intense anticipation and fear at the same time. Conklin was forgotten. The meeting was a distant memory echoing impotently in his thoughts.
They entered a small room dimly lit by a single green light. In the middle was a large round bed. The only other furniture was a small table covered with sex toys, lubricants, and condoms.
“This is what you been waiting for,” Beatrice said.
Beecher no longer remembered her real name. He undressed her slowly. Felt her hands unbutton his shirt, unzip his pants. His underwear slid down his legs to his ankles. Beatrice smiled and stroked Beecher’s genitals.
He was filled with excruciating erotic energy. Entangled, the two fell into the bed. Beatrice’s lips were questing everywhere and Beecher followed in kind.
Then, a sudden state shift. Beecher froze, his hand stroking Caine’s engorged member.
The man/woman smiled at him. “You remember.”
Out of the hidden depths of his mind Beecher saw himself as an eleven year-old, tossing his beloved New York Yankee baseball into the air and catching it with his Mickey Mantle glove. His next-door neighbor and dad’s fishing buddy, Big Jim Thompson, had invited him over to his rambling, ranch-style house. Big Jim was a tall man with a buzz cut. His wife was called the “shrew” of the neighborhood. She hated the kids and screamed at them. Beecher saw himself looking at nude pictures of women in a Playboy magazine. Big Jim had given him a beer—a “man’s drink” he called it. “A man shouldn’t be drinking any of that cow-piss milk.” He heard big Jim saying, “You like those breasts don’t you.” When he looked over big Jim had dropped his pants and underwear. He took Beecher’s hand and
started rubbing his genitals with it. “It’s all right.”
“You remember,” Caine repeated.
Beecher found himself drenched in sweat.
Caine had taken off his wig and was oddly playful in an almost childlike way. He stroked Beecher’s brow and said, “It wasn’t your fault. We all have a little of that in us. Nothing to be ashamed of. Some more, some less. And now . . . you’re free.”
Caine rose from the bed and walked over to an armoire near the door. He pulled out men’s clothes and began to put them on. He sat at the table and removed the makeup, eyeing Beecher in the mirror. “You know that Adam Gwillt thing you wanted done. He’s gone. I can assure you.”
“What?” Beecher’s mind swirled under a load of feelings . . . shame, lust, embarrassment, anger, desire. He couldn’t process words unless he listened very carefully. “What?” he repeated. “What did you say?”
“Adam Gwillt is gone.”
Caine stood up. All traces of Beatrice were gone from his face. He now wore Levis, a blue pastel shirt with a bolo tie, cowboy boots, and a dark gray Stetson.
Beecher thought, oddly, that Caine must have had a change of clothes in the room for afterwards. But why? . . . Unless he planned it. . . . But how could he know about Big Jim? . . . It’s impossible. Jim died years ago and I never told anyone. He shook his head, clearing the thought.
He tumbled out of bed, staggered to the chair, grabbing it for support. “What’s going on?” he shouted. The room was empty. He found his clothes in a heap by the table and put them on. He shook his head again, chasing the last vestige of Beatrice/Caine from his mind. He didn’t want to think about what happened, but at the same time he remembered what Caine had said, “You’re free.”
Beecher came down the stairs. “Let’s go,” he said curtly.
“What happened?” Conklin asked.
The Adam Enigma Page 10
