The Adam Enigma

by Meyer, Ronald C. ; Reeder, Mark;

  The man’s voice was like a drum in Haas’s head, beating in rhythm with his heart. Haas had mustered all his courage and asked, “Act how?”

  “Act to save your world.” The shaman had then walked out into the dry dust wash and disappeared.

  As Pieter Haas strode briskly across the street toward the Old National Centre and his meeting with the Reverend Billy Paul, he was sure that Adam had to be the shaman who saved Madeleine 35 years ago. And he needed to act. Greta had learned all about the Brothers of the Lord, their mission and their leader Billy Paul. It had also been relatively easy to uncover that the Brothers of the Lord didn’t have Adam Gwillt but that Billy Paul was obsessed with finding and killing the shrine’s former caretaker. What was hard for Haas was to find a way to locate Adam. It finally came to him. The complex plan needed everything to fall into place at the right time and he had to convince Reverend Billy Paul to play along. The thought of aligning himself with a charlatan like Paul made him sick. But Haas was a master of using the lie to his advantage. In the end he felt certain that Billy Paul would do everything Haas would tell him to do.

  March 30, 2016

  Rio Chama, New Mexico

  Myriam sat at her usual table in the Rio Chama Café atrium. The night air was crisp. Snow lingered in the high plains under overhangs and along dry streambeds even though it was late March. She wrapped her coat around her to ward off the chill, but she couldn’t stop the deeper cold that ached her heart.

  She and Beecher had just had a grinding row over the phone.

  “I’ll be in Taos for two, maybe three days,” he told her.

  “That’s four nights you’ve been away this week.”

  “It’s business.”

  “It’s always business,” she said sharply, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “What is it this time?”

  Beecher paused and Myriam knew that whatever excuse he came up with was just another lie. “I’m trying to close the deal on a big project. It’s important,” he said finally.

  So am I, she thought bitterly but kept it inside. “The shrine’s important too. You said you wanted to see it succeed.”

  “I do, but tonight . . . this week, work has to come first.”

  “Then just stay there, and don’t think of coming home for a little nooky and then leaving again for your important deal!” Myriam had hung up and refused to answer Beecher’s repeated attempts to call her back. But now she felt rotten.

  She stared out at Rio Chama. A half moon filled the street with light. A lone car sped through town in the direction of the shrine. She knew she wasn’t really angry with Beecher. This whole thing with Adam’s disappearance had left her empty again. It was like pouring salt on old wounds from her university days, wounds she had thought healed forever. She longed to walk at the Milagro Shrine and feel that lost peace and joy again.

  Rosa set a pot of coffee on a trivet and sat down. “So, tell me,” the café’s owner said. “What has you here alone on a Friday night? Must be man trouble.”

  Myriam smiled wanly. “That obvious, huh.”

  Rosa laughed, her dark hair came lose from its bun and fell about her face. She didn’t bother to tie it back, just pushed it aside. “Wild guess, actually. So, you’re having trouble with Hiram.”

  Myriam nodded. “He no longer takes any time to talk with me or go out for walks. He’s short-tempered and snaps at me whenever I ask a question. Every time the phone rings, he jumps a little. He’s a changed man.” Everything around here has changed, she thought bleakly.

  “You ask him about it?”

  “He just laughs and apologizes. Says, right now his business needs all his attention.”

  “When did it start?”

  “A couple of weeks. I remember we’d gone to see Carlotta about Adam’s disappearance. She was a mess. I think Hiram was hoping she could help figure out what happened to her brother.” Myriam stared down at the table. “I’ve never felt good about not helping Carlotta more through her loss.”

  Rosa nodded knowingly. “She certainly has been a wreck. She didn’t leave her house for weeks. She’s better now. I mean I saw her at the mercantile a couple of days ago and she seemed all right. Maybe we should pay her a visit, see if she could use some help.” Rosa smiled. “It’ll take your mind off your man troubles. And may be Carlotta will have some news about her brother. Whaddya say?”

  Myriam nodded. “I’d sure like to know what happened to him. Maybe something with his disappearance ties in with my trouble with Hiram.” Rosa said, “Or maybe see if there’s something she knows about Adam she hasn’t told anyone about.”

  Myriam’s head jerked up in surprise. She studied her friend, spotting a glimmer of knowing a secret, deep in her dark eyes. She recalled Rosa’s statement from just a few days ago. “So, that’s what you meant when you said you didn’t want to ‘jinx’ it, right? You think Carlotta’s hiding something?”

  Not wanting to reveal the truth, Rosa went with Myriam’s suggestion. “I don’t know why I said that. You’re right, maybe there’s something she knows and just needs somebody she can trust to talk to.”

  Myriam still had a sense that Rosa wasn’t telling her everything, but let it go. She was more concerned for Carlotta and now wanted to see Adam’s sister as soon as possible.

  The ride to Carlotta’s was over a bumpy gravel road with high banks on both sides. Only the moon overhead gave any illumination. The lights were all on when they arrived and Carlotta was already waiting by the front door when they walked up the old wooden steps.

  “Heard Rosa’s truck rattling down the drive.”

  “We just thought we’d check in on you,” Rosa replied. “See how you’re doing.”

  “I must have seemed out of it to everyone for a while after my brother disappeared. I’m much better now. Or maybe ‘resigned’ is a better word. I fear Adam’s not coming back. Fortunately, I have to teach my class every day and it’s forced me to keep it together.” She turned partly away as if to say goodnight but changed her mind. She held the door wide open. “Truth is, I’d appreciate the company. C’mon in, I’ve got water in the kettle.”

  The three women sat around Carlotta’s wooden kitchen table. The room smelled strongly of roasted chilis and fresh ground coriander. Beside the window hung a Mexican rista, the red peppers adding their pungent smell to the kitchen.

  Myriam inhaled deeply from the coffee cup in front of her. “This is heavenly. It’s as good as yours, Rosa.”

  Rosa smiled. “I can’t quite put my finger on the spices though.”

  “Nutmeg,” Carlotta said. “Add a little lemon and it really pops.” She eyed the two women. They could almost be mother and daughter, she thought. Both had high cheekbones and their noses were slightly curved. Though Myriam was older, her hair was still dark, so black in places that it had a hint of blue in it. Carlotta was sure that Myriam had Native American ancestors. She smiled, also aware that this wasn’t just a social visit to check up on an old friend.

  “So, what’s the real reason, you come to visit me at nine o’clock on a Friday evening?”

  Rosa laughed, showing even teeth. “Busted. I dragged Myriam out here because, well . . . maybe there’s something here that can help us find out what happened to Adam.”

  “I’ll try to help.”

  Myriam let out a long breath, suddenly aware she felt better than she had in a long time. Even if they couldn’t find Adam, just talking about him buoyed her spirits.

  “C’mon, let’s take this to the living room. We’ll be more comfortable there.”

  A mesquite fire burned in the fireplace giving off a sweet aroma. They sat in three large chairs facing one another.

  “Where to begin?” Carlotta asked.

  “Why not start at the beginning before his accident,” suggested Myriam. “Maybe there’s a clue in his past that’ll tell us where he went.”

  “Sure . . . well . . . right before the accident, Adam was withdrawn, reclusive . . . a virt
ual hermit in his apartment in Des Moines, Iowa. He ventured forth only for coffee and to hunt down books in this old bookstore on Ingersoll Avenue. I think it was called Ancient Ways or something like that. I visited him once. He had a loft on the top floor of an upscale condo complex. He’s always had this unique relationship with one of the wealthiest men in Iowa. Bookshelves lined every wall, and some of the books were hundreds of years old, original editions. He was really proud of the first English translation of Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Kept it on a small stand by itself. Every surface was littered with notebooks, all in his handwriting. I teased him about getting a computer so that he could keep his writing well organized and get rid of the clutter. He said he needed to write longhand . . . to feel the idea come out of him organically without a machine getting in the way.” Carlotta laughed.

  “What?” asked Myriam.

  “Nothing . . . just that he wrote everything in pencil as if a pen were too newfangled or something. At any rate, everything changed after the accident.”

  Rosa’s eyes widened. “I never heard the whole story about the accident. Only that it was a miracle he survived at all.”

  “That’s pretty much it. He was on a motorcycle. God knows why he was driving a motorcycle. A delivery van ran a stop sign and hit him flat on. Crushed his spine, his pelvis. Every bone on the right side of his body was broken. The ER doctors didn’t give him a chance. They were just keeping him sedated so he wouldn’t have any pain until he died. Basically he was in a coma for several months.

  “Then one day he woke up. He could barely talk and he couldn’t move. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened. The doctors said he could go home, but his loft was out of the question since he couldn’t walk. So he came down here and I took care of him.”

  “You did a good job,” Rosa said.

  Carlotta shrugged. “Maybe. You know, when he arrived, not only was his body in bad shape but there was extensive brain damage. His neurologist in Des Moines doubted he would ever be able dress himself and feed himself again. So, I fed him and changed his clothes and bathed him. I figured I’d be taking care of him forever. I thought it was going to be this enormous burden, but it became just the opposite. One day he came out of his dreamlike trance and was better and the next day better again, until a week went by and he could walk on his own. His mind was still foggy. He had trouble interacting with what was going on around him. It was clear that he was intensely sensitive to the world surrounding him. When I asked him to tell me what was going on in his head, he said he saw and felt stuff nobody else sees and feels. At first I thought his brain was still scrambled by the accident, but eventually he was able to get it under control and operate in the world. You know what he was like, never having an agenda, yet somehow knowing just what to do and say.” She laughed again.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “My brother who had never really engaged with people before suddenly would talk to anyone at the shrine. When Father Michael gave him the job of caretaker, he was there every day. He was kind and listened, even people who were obviously troubled and just wanted to complain. And he always seemed to have the right thing to say to them. And that’s not the only thing that changed.”

  She got up and led them to Adam’s bedroom. It was completely bare of anything except a simple futon on the floor. The closet was empty and so was the chest of drawers.

  Myriam pursed her lips. “I don’t get it. So he took everything with him when he left.”

  Carlotta shook her head. “He left his room the way he lived in it—no books, no notebooks. He had only one change of clothes. On Sundays he washed everything. He would sit outside under the ramada without a stitch on no matter what the weather, watching the mountains while I washed and dried his clothes. He’d always been quirky. But now his quirks were endearing instead of strange.”

  The women went back into the living room.

  Myriam watched the flames for a moment. Adam’s behavior reminded her of her youngest son. He was a high functioning autistic who had learned to live in the world though always on the edge, never really a part of it. She’d seen this sort of thing happen with other autistic children.

  She asked, “Did the doctors ever say what was going on?”

  “They said it might be acquired savant syndrome. I looked it up. In the thirty or so known cases, ordinary people who suffer brain trauma suddenly develop almost superhuman new abilities—artistic brilliance, mathematical mastery, photographic memory. The neuroscientists said that as part of the brain goes dark, the brain reorganizes itself in unpredictable ways, often allowing capacities that were in the background to move to the forefront.

  “Even so,” Rosa said, “He had to be thankful for all you did for him.”

  “Oh yes. Adam was always immensely grateful for me taking care of him. But all the thanks really goes to him. When he arrived I was at my wits end. My two sons were going to hell, out of control and using drugs. You know all about the meth problem around here don’t you, Myriam? Adam connected with the boys in a way I didn’t think possible. They came to love him and he loved them back. Now twelve years later, the youngest one, Brett, is in Caltech’s early entry program and Alex is one of those IT entrepreneurs in Seattle. Adam turned their lives around.” The corners of her mouth turned down in a sad moue. “They miss him too so much. They would do anything for him. Alex came back and spent time with him whenever he could. And, praise the Lord, they both have been helpful since Adam’s disappearance. They both miss him.”

  Rosa said, “We all do. If you don’t mind, I think we should pray for him.”

  They held hands and closed their eyes. After a few moments, Carlotta made a little “aah” sound. “It’s almost like he’s here.” The other two women murmured “yes” in agreement.

  When they stopped, Myriam asked, “Did anybody ever visit him and did he have any friends beside you and the boys.”

  “His wealthy friend from Des Moines, Malcolm Grossinger, came around a few times, and of course Father Michael often stopped by and they chatted. One time I overheard Adam telling the Father that he had surrendered to the realization he had become the essence of the healer.” Carlotta blushed. “Mind you, I normally respected Adam’s privacy when Father Michael visited him. But this one time I listened in. He told him he had become a conduit to the other world. I think he said that he when he first woke up from his coma, he spent most of his time in the other world. When Father Michael asked him what it looked like, Adam said there was an infinite world of forces that hold and guide us just like a loving mother holds and guides her child. I remember his words after that exactly. ‘I have become just as Jesus said, a child, trusting these forces.’ When Father Michael asked him what was happening now, Adam replied, ‘I’m being absorbed by these forces.’”

  “Did that mean anything to you?”

  “Over the last year, at times, I swear Adam had become transparent, like I could look right through him. I told myself I should get my eyes checked.”

  As the women were departing Myriam asked, “Has Father Michael been around?”

  “Yes, whenever he can. He travels a lot you know.”

  Myriam nodded her head thoughtfully. “Over the past three years he’s traveled almost constantly.”

  March 30, 2016

  Taos, New Mexico

  Beecher tried calling Myriam back but she wouldn’t pick up. After the fourth try he didn’t bother to leave a message. He cursed and tossed the phone onto the table. It lay there staring at him like an accusing finger. His anger cooled and with it came remorse. She’s right to be angry. I haven’t been much of a doting lover lately. Maybe I should have told her at least about the mysterious meeting tonight. He shook his head and banged his fists together. No! You’re not thinking clearly. The less she knows the less danger she’s in. You have to keep her safe from all of this.

  Beecher was sure that he had lost favor with the Reverend and that the charismatic preacher no longer trusted him.
His instructions had mentioned no names, only to meet a contact here tonight. Billy Paul was becoming more and more erratic and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of payback for failing to get rid of Adam the first time. Beecher pressed his hand against the Glock and shifted his gaze around the room and into the parking lot.

  The phone buzzed and he gave a little start. A text message appeared. It was from the Reverend Billy Paul. Your contact has arrived.

  Beecher looked up as the door to the coffeehouse opened. A man dressed in an impeccably tailored Savile Row suit entered. Graying hair around the temples put him in his forties. His back was ramrod straight, his hands long fingered. His pale blue eyes quartered the room, questing. Beecher pegged him instantly as ex-military. When the eyes fell on him, the man smiled. He came over, his stride easy, confident. He stopped and bowed slightly. “Mr. Beecher,” he said quietly in a clipped accent Beecher couldn’t place.

  Beecher rose and they shook hands. The man’s grip was firm. He was an inch taller than Beecher and not nearly so broad. Yet there was something in the man’s stance, the way he stood cat-like, that told Beecher here was a man who would not hesitate to kill.

  “Sit please, Mr.—”

  “Haas . . . Pieter Haas. As quaint as your American custom of informality is, I think we would be more comfortable talking at my hotel. The El Monte Segrado. I’ve taken the liberty of booking a premier suite for you.”

  “I have a hotel already.”

  “Yes, but the Reverend suggested we upgrade you.” He smiled, his teeth very even and very white. “I’m sure you’ll find the accommodations to your liking.”

  The invitation was direct, couched in a way that was not threatening so Beecher could not refuse. In Vietnam he’d heard of men like this, though he had never met any. They were called “fixers”—men who were genteel and ultra-polite, and who could always be counted on to get the difficult jobs done with a minimum of fireworks.