The Adam Enigma (19 page)

March 31, 2016
Taos, New Mexico

B
eecher 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 hand 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

A
rriving 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 see 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.”

Pete chuckled. “That's an understatement.”

The female reporter said, “I know this must be a hard time for you. Thanks for taking the time to tell us your story. We are all praying for their well-being.” Turning to the camera, she continued her reporting. “The Taos County Sheriff's Department has informed me they are sending out search parties at the break of dawn. Live from Taos, I'm Julie Lone Wolf.”

Ramsey was stunned. “They're talking about the guys you left with? Right?”

“The last time I saw them they were being bound up by a bunch of nasty Mexicans from across the border. I was running as fast as I could.”

“Christ, what happened?”

Pete shook his head. “Somewhere away from prying eyes and ears.”

He was so amped up, he shot out of the ER entrance, passed Myriam's car and was across the parking lot into a secluded grove of pine trees. Someone had placed a picnic table in the middle. He leaned against the edge and waited for them to catch up.

“Sit down,” he ordered. When they did, he paced the tiny clearing, checking the trees. A fretful cold wind stirred the pine needles. Wreaths of white vapor plumed his narrow face as he squinted through the green boughs. “It's going to snow tonight,” he said as if checking the weather was the only reason they had dashed outside. At last he stopped pacing, apparently satisfied they were alone. Settling onto one of the benches, Pete told the story of what happened during the supposed search for the diamonds.

Ramsey had never seen his usually laid back friend so pent up before. There was an urgency behind his words, as if he were working through the details until he came to the important stuff. So he stayed mum. Myriam, taking her cue from her one-time postdoc, said nothing.

“Me and the four South African mercenaries left the clearing a little after noon and headed toward the site of the kimberlite. That's when the shit hit the fan. Someone shot Buttercup out of the sky.” He paused dramatically.

“Buttercup?” Myriam ventured.

“One of his drones,” Ramsey explained.

Pete nodded. “In the next instant a half dozen Mexican desperados materialize out of the pines and take us totally by surprise. They disarmed the South Africans and zip tied them. They must have figured I wasn't a threat because they left me loose. They marched us back to the camp.”

Pete jumped up again and spun around. In contrast to his earlier cheerfulness, he was now more somber. With the drug effects wearing off, it was now clear how much he was shaken. “I could sure use a drink,” he said, but instantly shook his head. “Can't touch the stuff anymore.” He resumed his story.

“The ring leader recognized me.”

Startled, Ramsey asked, “How?”

“His name is Julio and I'm pretty sure he works for the woman who owns the Rio Chama Café . . . Rosa Cisneros. He was trying to kill me and he would've. Then out of the blue this Indian guy puts two arrows in him and saves my life. It was so weird. I mean, I thought it was one of those psychedelic trips I used to experience. This guy Julio is about to put a bullet in my brain one second and the next, this Indian guy is leaning over him and, I swear, it's like he's giving him last rites. I mean, how fucked up is that?

“Then I died. No seriously, the white light, sounds of angels singing. I was walking down this long tunnel. And here's the crazy part.”

“You mean you're just getting to what's crazy?” asked Ramsey.

It was a testament to just how strange his experience was that Pete merely nodded and went on. “Instead of going back over my life or seeing my dead friends and relatives, I was moving into the future. The future was getting better and more beautiful and there was this voice telling me what the world could be. Telling me what I was destined to become. All the while I was trying to figure out whose voice it was. It was driving me crazy. I knew it from somewhere. I just couldn't figure it out. And then all of a sudden I knew. It was your voice Jonathan.”

Ramsey felt himself stiffen at the revelation. “My voice?”

“Yeah, your voice. Crazy, huh man?”

Ramsey didn't know what to think. He didn't want dismiss his friend's experience, but being spoken of as a kind of oracle made him uneasy. Besides, he wondered why Pete didn't want to go to the police.

Pete shook his head as if reading Ramsey's mind. “No police, old man. Something big's going down here and I want to find out what it is.”

“You were almost killed, Pete,” said Myriam.

“I've a guardian angel,” Pete said, grinning. He slapped the picnic table and danced a jig. “I get it now. My DeVere fellows weren't only looking for diamonds. They were also after your guys' Adam Gwillt. I think I know how too.” He clenched his fists. “How fast can you drive?” he asked Ramsey.

“Why?” Ramsey said warily.

“I have to get back to the lab right away. It's beginning to make sense in an odd way.”

“You've lost me.”

“You know the guy Beecher, the one who looked out of place with Haas and the South African mercenaries?”

The color drained from Myriam's face. “Hiram was with you?”

“You know him?” Pete asked.

She nodded. “What happened to him? Is he dead?”

Pete shrugged. “I don't know, Myriam. Do you know the South Africans too?”

“Of course not.” Her hands started to shake, her car keys rattling in the still night air.

“I'll drive,” Ramsey said gently.

Gratefully, Myriam handed him her keys.

The two men rode in silence toward Taos, waiting for Myriam to offer up some answers about Beecher. She stared out the car window lost in the shadows pelting past them in the forest. Twenty miles outside of Espanola, the snow Pete predicted began. The Mercedes' temperature gauge showed the outside air temp had plummeted forty degrees to 28. With the icy wind it would be a lot colder.

“You called it,” said Ramsey, setting the car's thermostat to 70.

Pete shrugged. “Gotta a pal who works for the National Center for Atmospheric Research. I share data from the drones with him.”

Myriam fidgeted with her seatbelt, unbuckling and rebuckling the clasp every half minute.

Ramsey had never seen her so distraught. At the University of Oregon—even when her world began to fall apart around her after the Peru debacle—she'd been icy calm. Now she stared into the fat snowflakes, her body trembling. Several times she started to speak but withdrew into herself, sighing. Tears shined against her makeup in the green glow of the dash lights.

She said to Pete, “You're sure the man's name was Hiram Beecher?”

“Yes . . . Why?”

Pulling a tissue from her purse, she dried her tears and sat up straight. She then slid the seatbelt clasp into buckle with a decisive click.

Ramsey read all the telltales pointing to her standing on the edge. With the right questions he could nudge her to tell everything, the same way he did in interviews as a human geographer. He hesitated for a moment, arguing with himself whether this moment was the time to push her about her relationship to Beecher.

He cleared his throat and said to Pete, “He's the same guy who signed the contract hiring me to investigate the Milagro Shrine.” Then gently to Myriam, “Hiram will make it.”

Pete added, “Those South Africans are the kind of men who are trained to handle these kinds of situations. They'll get your friend through it.”

“Thank you, both of you. That's very reassuring.” Myriam settled back into her seat. She knew what lay beneath the warmth in Ramsey's voice. He was a skilled interviewer, using compassion to draw her out. It didn't matter. She had to tell someone all she knew.
It's why we hired Jonathan in the first place
.

“Hiram is more than a friend. He and I have been together for over four years now. It was love at first sight. He even joined The Friends of the Shrine and supported it financially when I asked him to, without any questions.”

She swiveled in her seat. “Did he tell you why he was with the South Africans?”

Pete nodded. “Something about protecting his investment. Remember, we were looking for diamonds.”

“As far as I know he never had any business interest in diamonds.” Myriam pursed her lips. She flicked a glance at Ramsey and continued. “Hiram asked me to hire you to find out what happened to Adam. At this point we believed that Adam was the real power behind the healings.”

Ramsey kept his voice calm though his fingers gripped the wheel at the news. “You didn't think it was important to tell me that?”

“Hiram said he wanted you to discover it on your own, and once you did it would lead you to Adam. That's what we were all hoping, that you would find him alive and well.”

“Do any other members of the Friends of the Shrine believe Adam is the power behind the healings?”

“I can't say for sure. Whenever Father Michael, talked about the healings, he'd always refer to the shrine and not to Adam as possessing the power. At first I believed him completely. Though I suppose after a while most of us began to suspect Adam was the source.” She frowned. “It was easier to accept that the shrine itself—rather than a human being—possessed an inexplicable convergence of healing forces. How could one person make so many different kinds of healings happen? Last night Rosa and I had a conversation with Carlotta and she all but confirmed that Father Michael knew a lot more about Adam as the source than he ever let on publicly or with me.”

Ramsey nodded, trying to put together the pieces. There were still quite a few parts missing, but the picture was beginning to come together.
Father Michael . . . Carlotta said that I should talk to him. He must hold the key
.

“Is Father Michael at the shrine now?”

“Not likely. In the past year he's spent more time away than there. And since Adam disappeared, he's been mostly gone, skyping with the leadership of the Friends of the Shrine telling us to keep up hope and that all will be well.”

“You have his contact information?” Ramsey asked.

“Yes. You should get ahold of him as soon as possible. Father Michael once said to me, ‘There is nothing more powerful than a miraculous healing. It has always been the guiding force on the planet.' Then he went on to say, ‘Jesus knew this. In one of the Gnostic Gospels he told his followers to organize their communities around this principle. Jesus was well ahead of his time. Now the Milagro Shrine is making it happen.'”