Pete watched the Indian close the man’s eyes and whisper, “All will be forgiven, my son.” Then the newcomer slung his bow across his back and walked to him. “Who are you?” he managed to say, though the pain in his head was excruciating.
“I’m your ticket out of here.”
He started to go and Pete grabbed his leg. The Indian gently unclenched the fingers. “I’ll be back. I have an ATV at the top of the mountain. I have to make a stretcher. I don’t fancy carrying you, it could end up killing us both.”
Pete said, “What’s your name?”
The Indian smiled. “That one called me father, I guided him across the threshold.”
March 31, 2016
Rio Chama, New Mexico
The concern over the truckload of Hispanic toughs following Pete and the diamond hunters drifted away as Ramsey became mesmerized by the sun glinting in and out of the pines on his way to Rio Chama. It took him into a state of contemplation. He held the belief that sacred places arose out of some singular magical event, real or imagined, occurring at a particular place within a given culture. From that moment on people in that culture made the place sacred. They built shrines, pilgrimaged there, and connected with the presence of a higher power there. It became a gateway to fulfilling the hardwired drive in all humans for self-transcendence.
His thoughts drifted back to the University of Oregon and his talk with Myriam St. Eves when he first arrived.
He and half dozen other postdocs, including Pete Miami, had met at Eugene’s Twisted Branch Tavern, a local brewery. Myriam held informal seminars here, where postdocs and graduate students talked about their theses and research plans. After a few rounds, the ideas flew thick and fast and no one could separate the chaff from the wheat.
Holding a St. Pauli Girl in one hand as a microphone, Ramsey harangued Myriam and the other postdocs with a certain religious fervor, aided by the alcohol, about an idea of his that he had formulated when he first started taking classes with Professor Orensen at Grinnell College. “The Protestant Reformation and its rejection of the trappings of the Catholic Church freed people to take their religion and God wherever they went. No longer attached to the old sacred shrines and pilgrimages, they could build churches anywhere and everywhere, creating sacred places out of whole cloth. I, Jonathan Ramsey, propose to revolutionize the understanding of America’s dramatic success by what I am calling the ‘Sacred Place Hypothesis.’”
Of course, all of that had happened before the Peru incident.
In the past week, with his investigation of the Milagro Shrine, those ideas took center stage once again in his thoughts. Now, while driving to the Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine, he had to rethink what they represented. How could the presence of a single living person, in this case Adam Gwillt, be responsible for so many miraculous healings and change the underlying physical structure of a place? It was mind-boggling. What am I missing? It was a refrain that had been with Ramsey since he first set foot on the shrine. Then it came to him. I need to find Adam Gwillt. Christ, perhaps my whole life has been about finding Adam.
A deep pothole in the road shook him out of his reverie. He glanced at the road sign. He was entering Rio Chama. Has my life been headed down the wrong path since Peru? He shook his head. Maybe. Maybe it’s always been about answering the question as to whether there is a supernatural power behind sacred places? Maybe after fifteen years Adam represents the opportunity to resolve it once and for all.
Filled with a new sense of purpose, he began to formulate some questions for Myriam. That’ll be the place to start.
Myriam could not meet until mid-afternoon. Sitting at an out-of-the-way table in the Café Rio, Ramsey caught up on business. He sent several texts to his business partner Ron Grange about an upcoming meeting at Blue Island, Illinois. The project was standard fare for their company—revitalizing a decaying urban neighborhood. They’d handled a dozen such ventures and pretty much had it down to a science.
It was late in the afternoon when Myriam arrived. He watched her get out of her car and walk into the café. She limped slightly, favoring her right leg. She joined him and waited for Ramsey to speak. Instead, he reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a battered Ronson lighter and a half crumpled pack of cigarettes. He started to light up when Rosa came over. The restaurant owner was very apologetic but firm. “You can’t smoke in here. You’ll have to go outside.”
Ramsey nodded and reluctantly put the cigarettes back in his coat pocket. He drummed the tabletop with the lighter.
Myriam smiled. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
She pointed at the lighter. “As a post doc you always smoked when you became totally absorbed in what you were doing . . . especially when something didn’t sit well.”
“Old habits,” Ramsey muttered. He hadn’t smoked in six years. “I need the truth from you. You remember Pete Miami? It turns out he’s been doing some cutting edge research over the past five years looking for kimberlite pipes in this area. He operates out of Taos.”
“I had no idea.”
“I asked him to look at the shrine with his sophisticated GIS equipment. It revealed some pretty amazing energy coherences associated the shrine that I now believe are connected to Adam Gwillt.”
Myriam looked around to see if anybody was listening. “I believe the same thing.”
Ramsey was just about to ask Myriam about Hiram Beecher when his phone buzzed. “I should take this.” He picked up and after a few words felt the color drained from his face. Hanging up, he said to Myriam, “That was an emergency doctor in Española. Somebody dropped Pete off at the hospital and told them to call my number. He’s been shot.”
“Is it serious?”
“The caller didn’t say.” He hesitated wondering if he should tell Myriam that the last time he saw Pete was with Hiram. He decided not to complicate matters. “I have to go.”
Myriam pushed away from the table. “I’ll drive.”
Rosa came over. “Someone’s been shot?”
Ramsey nodded. “I think you know him. Pete Miami from Taos.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh no!”
Ramsey looked at her. The worry on her face was more than simply for an injured acquaintance, but he didn’t have time to ask her about that. Myriam was already rushing out of the restaurant and Pete needed him.
March 31, 2016
Taos, New Mexico
Beecher tried to lift his right arm but it wouldn’t obey him. His left was just as useless. In fact his whole body was numb. His head was woozy and when he opened his eyes, the piñon pines danced until he felt sick and had to close them. After breathing deeply for several seconds, he opened his eyes again and the trees settled down once more on the earth. His head began to clear and he felt a coarse tingling in his arms and legs. The nape of neck burned as if he’d been snake bit. But a voice in the back of his head told him that if that had happened he’d be dead.
He managed to roll over and saw the bodies of Haas and the four mercenaries lying in a pile. Their zip ties had been removed but they weren’t moving. Beecher wasn’t even certain they were breathing.
He concentrated trying to remember what happened. It was right after Julio ran after the geologist guy. The leader of the Mexicans was waving his gun around, yelling all kinds of crazy shit. It had gone on for about half an hour until he finally stopped. Then the Mexicans had gathered around, chattering excitedly among themselves. He cursed himself for not paying more attention in high school Spanish class, but a few words came back to him. The men had been arguing what to do with them. A couple of them had wanted to kill Beecher and the others. The leader had vetoed that, but his solution wasn’t any kinder. Beecher remembered them taking all their food and water, the phones, and rifles. The leader had laughed and said, “The Gringos won’t last a day out here.”
Then one of the Mexicans had stepped behind him. Beecher’s mind cleared. He recalled shaking and writhing. His arm was working and he put his han
d to back of his neck. He felt two burn marks.
“I was tasered!” he said aloud.
He got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled over to the others. They all had similar burns on their necks.
I have to get out of here. He reached inside his vest, felt for the communicator stuffed inside the hidden pocket. He breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. The Mexicans had missed it. He heard a groan behind him and he hastily shoved the communicator back into its hiding place.
Beecher turned. Haas was sitting up. Goren and one of the other mercenaries were already helping their fellows to their feet. The Mexicans may have gotten the drop on them, but they were tough men and soon they spread about the clearing, reconnoitering. Five minutes later, the men came back to report to Haas.
By that time Beecher and Haas were comparing notes. It had gone down the way Beecher thought. He was the first one tasered. The others were hit a few minutes later.
Goren came up to the two men. He saluted Haas. “It’s as I thought, sir. They took everything. Didn’t leave us any food, water, communications, or weapons.”
“They intended us to die out here,” Beecher said. He told them what he had understood.
“That raises some interesting questions. How did they know what we were doing? Whose side are they on?”
“They must’ve followed us,” Goren replied.
Haas nodded in agreement. “That was a charade about trespassing on their land. In reality there are only two possibilities. They were after the diamonds or they were protecting Adam Gwillt. In any case they wanted us dead and for it to look like an accident.”
“We’re a lot harder to kill than those Mexicans think,” Goren said, setting his mouth in a tight-lipped scowl.
“What do you suggest?” asked Haas.
“Stay with the mission, sir. We head out to those ruins and see what we can find. Before we were ambushed, I saw signs somebody was there at least this morning.”
“The information we got in South Africa was that Adam’s biofield signature was still there just before we lost contact with Greta two hours ago when all this happened. He may still be there. We’ll complete our mission.”
“Is that wise?” Beecher said, more as an accusation than a question. If Adam was there I’m sure with all the gunfire he’s left by now.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Beecher, we’re thirty miles from the nearest road and there’s not a hint of rescue coming our way. Our best bet is, if he’s not there, to see if Adam’s men left any supplies. Also, the drone went down in that area. We might be able to salvage some of its parts and build a transmitter. Unless you happen to be carrying a spare sat phone on you, that’s our best bet.”
Beecher kept his expression noncommittal. His communicator could reach Conklin, if not from this camp site, then certainly from the nearest high peak—perhaps half an hour away. But he didn’t say anything to Haas or the mercs. He could see the suspicion in their faces. Haas especially didn’t trust him. Maybe he thinks I set up the ambush. Wish I had, you smug son of a bitch. Then I’d be on my way back to Taos and home to Myriam, a cold beer, and a shower.
It happened that fast. One moment Beecher was wondering what he was going to do and the next he’d decided. He was no longer part of the South Africans or Billy Paul’s insanity. It was as if the taser had been the crowning moment, clearing all the doubts and angst from his head. He now saw the Reverend Billy Paul and the Brothers of the Lord for what they truly represented—a secretive, militant society that refused to grow spiritually into a beneficial brotherhood that helped mankind. And the DeVere group wasn’t any better. They used the shield of capitalism to foster the exploitation of others to feed their need to maintain power.
But Beecher couldn’t just walk away from them here. Haas and Goren would be too skeptical of his motives. Plus there was Myriam to think of. Just looking at the primal anger in Haas’s face confirmed that the man was a killer. He’d have to go with them until he found an opportunity to separate himself from the group.
“Good enough reasons for me,” Beecher said. “Let’s head out.”
Goren led them along the edge of the ridge. There was no trail, just rough rock that canted inexorably toward the valley floor. The team was zigzagging across a field of boulders when Beecher saw his opportunity. Goren halted at the top of a granite slab. “Stay off the rock face,” he warned. “It’s too steep.”
The slab tilted at a sharp angle and was slick. He followed the others, staying at the edge, then faked a slip. Seconds later he was sliding feet first toward the bottom. He groped the rock face like he was desperate and even cried out. Actually he was in no real danger. He’d spotted a soft landing of pine needles and dirt at the base and hit it square. But he doubled over and grabbed his ankle screaming as if he was in pain.
Goren and another merc came to his aid.
“Idiot,” Goren fumed, when Beecher cried out as Goren tried to ease his boot off. “I told everyone to stay at the top and not to cross the rock face. Now you’ve gone and sprained your ankle.”
Goren squinted up at the rock face, then stared hard at Beecher. “We’d be hard pressed to get ourselves up there without the burden of carrying you.”
“You can’t leave me here,” Beecher whimpered.
Goren barely hid his disgust at Beecher’s whining. “We can’t do anything for you now. Once we get to the ruins and find supplies, I’ll send someone from the team back for you. You’ll have to hold on until we get return.”
Beecher forced himself to look frightened. “I can climb back up with just a little help.” He made a show of getting up and trying to walk, collapsing like a rag doll after one step.
Goren shook his head. “Stay put. We’ll come back for you as soon as we can.”
The merc started to leave and Beecher grabbed his pant leg. “Don’t leave me!”
Goren shook him off. “You’d better stay quiet. You don’t want to attract any wolves or coyotes.”
Beecher started to say something but went silent. His eyes darted around the area like a frightened rabbit.
The two South Africans scrambled back up the slope. At the top, Goren conferred with Haas. A few moments passed, and Haas then waved at Beecher. “Hang tight,” he called out.
Beecher heard no warmth in the man’s voice and he knew that if he really had been injured and had to stay put, they would never have come back for him anyway. He watched the five men march out of sight. He then waited another fifteen minutes to be sure they were well out of earshot and wouldn’t be able to see him. Carefully he made his way up the slab without making a sound. At the top he retraced their trail to the clearing.
Retrieving the communicator from its hidden pocket, he activated it. He spoke one word. “Geronimo.” He waited a few seconds.
Conklin’s voice came through loud and clear. “Hear you five by five. I see your position. Follow the trail back to the logging road.”
“Roger that,” said Beecher. He settled back and looked across the valley. Without binoculars he couldn’t make out the Anasazi cliff dwellings clearly or see if Haas and his men had reached the ruins. It didn’t matter. By the time they scouted the area and decided they might as well try to hike out, he’d be long gone. The question was, what to do now?
March 31, 2016
Española, New Mexico
Arriving at Española’s small rural hospital, Ramsey and Myriam rushed to the front desk, asking about Pete.
The receptionist pointed down the hall to the emergency room. “First bed on your right,” she said.
When they entered, to their surprise Pete was sitting comfortably on an ER bed. It was a quiet evening and he was the only one in the room. His head wound was bandaged. The instant he saw Myriam and Ramsey he leapt from the bed with the studied grace of a gymnast. He embraced his old-time buddy. “Nurse told me they called you.”
He cocked an eyebrow as he recognized Ramsey’s traveling companion. “Dr. Myriam St. Eves . . . didn’t expect to s
ee you.” She held out a hand and he swatted it aside. “Hugs all around,” he said.
Ramsey shook his head in perplexity. “From what the Doc said, we expected you at death’s door.”
Pete disengaged from Myriam and waved the sentiment away. “Word to the wise, if you’re going to be shot, come here. Best pharmaceuticals in the country. Make you feel like Superman and ten years younger.”
“And a whole lot dumber,” Ramsey said wryly.
Pete grinned. “There’s that.”
“Sure you should be up and around?”
“Doc just signed my discharge papers. I’m supposed to take it easy for the next couple of days.” Pete pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Concussion protocol right here. Though I got to tell you, I feel strong enough to wrestle a grizzly bear. Course, that’s the drugs talking.” He winked.
Looking down at Myriam, he said, “You look wonderful, haven’t aged a bit. Jonathan told me all about you and your shrine.” He frowned. “We have to talk about that, later.” Then he was grinning again. “For now, let’s get out of here before the Doc changes his mind.” He grabbed his hat and coat. “Do I have a story to tell! My car?”
“We came in Myriam’s car. It’s–”
“Faster and more comfortable. Let’s vamoose somewhere private so I can tell you what happened.” He charged out of the room and down the hall.
Ramsey and Myriam exchanged glances as they quickly followed, caught like swimmers in his riptide wake.
Passing the receptionist, Pete suddenly stopped and starred at the TV in the waiting room. He shouted at the receptionist, “Turn this up.” To Ramsey he said, “You have to catch this.”
A Native American reporter from the Taos Bureau of a Santa Fe TV station was interviewing a woman with a thick South African accent. “My husband and his friends went into the mountains to hunt wild turkeys. There were supposed to be back hours ago. I lost all communication with them. I haven’t been able to call them. Something is terribly wrong.”
The Adam Enigma Page 17
