The Adam Enigma (5 page)

April, 1950
Edinburgh, Scotland

C
aine 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

C
aine 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

I
t 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 leather 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.

The professor had two PhD's—a doctorate in divinity and another in political science. Most importantly, he was the man who had steered Ramsey to follow in his father's footsteps. Now an emeritus professor of religious studies and international relations, he had changed little since Ramsey walked into his class over twenty years
ago. That first day he had noticed the man's shock of white hair that rolled behind his ears and down his back in long braids. He was thin and ramrod straight and dark complected, like his mother. She had been one-sixteenth Lakota. A large curved nose dominated his narrow face, slightly pocked from childhood measles. He had stood in front of the class like a Plains Indian warrior challenging everyone to be smarter than he was. And when it happened, which was rare, it was like
counting coup
—the ancient Lakota way of besting someone without hurting him.

Throughout the years of graduate and postgraduate work, Ramsey had stayed in touch with his old mentor through emails and the occasional Christmas card. Everything seemed fine, but he was unprepared for what he found when he returned to start his business twelve years ago. Professor Orensen had lost much of the color in his face. The bounce was gone from his step and he merely walked to his classes, whereas before he had galloped. In talking to him, Ramsey discovered the once vibrant personality had become bitter and old. Though he was up for retirement, he kept on teaching. However, it was like a routine, a rut worn in the carpet of academia. Twice Ramsey had approached him about it, only to be shrugged off. Only much later did he learn that the man's wife of fifty-three years had died of brain cancer a year earlier.

Then four years ago the professor had seemed to get a second wind. His old vitality returned and Ramsey discovered their mentor student relationship was deeper than ever. It had since developed into the most rewarding friendship Ramsey had. They even co-taught his class in emerging ethnic and religious identities.

Ramsey waved as he threaded through the crowded restaurant, the savory smells of hot soups and warm bread filling him with a pleasant sense of being home, its stark contrast with the Café Rio underscoring the problem he'd come here to discuss. The two men shook hands and he grabbed the menu as he sat down. “Give me a moment.”

“I already ordered the usual. Burger and fries,” the professor said.

Ramsey closed the menu and let it fall onto the table. “Have I become that predictable?”

Orensen chuckled. “About your dining habits, maybe. Can't say much about the rest of your life.” He took a sip of hot tea. “So why the meeting?”

Ramsey was grateful Orensen had never been one for small talk, especially when he sensed a person needed advice. “Some things have come up. Remember my postdoc fellowship at Oregon and the program administrator, Myriam St. Eves?”

“The one you said was both the best and the worst person that ever entered your life?”

“That's the one. A week ago she called and all but demanded I meet her in New Mexico where she has a second home. While I was there, she offered me a job. She wants me to investigate some unusual phenomena surrounding a healing spot called Rio Chama de Milagro Shrine.”

Orensen's eyebrows raised and his eyes narrowed. For a moment Ramsey thought the professor might get up and leave.

“Did I touch a nerve or something?” he asked.

Orensen shook his head. “You just surprised me. I happen to know it very well.”

“Really? How come you never told me?”

“I had an experience there I don't tell anyone about because . . .” He licked his lips and took a sip of tea. “It just sounds too crazy.”

The waitress came and set two orders of burgers and fries in front of the men. She placed a dish with salsa beside Orensen's plate.

“Thanks, Pam,” he said.

“No problem, professor.” She looked at Ramsey. “No pickles and French's Mustard?”

“You got it.”

She left and neither man touched his food. They looked across the table at each other and Ramsey wondered if he should ask what had happened there. He could sense the man's expression telling him it was very personal and had something to do with the difficulties after his wife died. He decided to wait.

Orensen took a deep breath. He felt the sweat bead up on his brow and wiped it away with the napkin. His thoughts raced.
We don't speak openly about the shrine, and now this. What should I do?
His ancestors on
his mother's side would have called this unexpected meeting a sign, an omen to be heeded.
I didn't believe in that stuff
, he reminded himself.
At least not until four years ago. Now I'm on the lookout for such things
. He took a sip of tea; the warmth in his throat spread through him.
It's a good story. Somebody should hear it before I die
.

Just then the restaurant's door blew open and a gust of cold air rattled through the room. The waitress closed it, apologizing to the customers.

The professor smiled.
And it would seem the universe has selected Jonathan as the one
.

“I'll tell you what happened. I was at a conference of religious instructors in Santa Fe. I was receiving one of those honorary awards for distinguished service in my field. You know the plaque they give to washed-up old folk. It was the anniversary of Melinda's passing. I felt horrible, wishing she could be there. The award was as much hers as mine. She put me through school, moved from her family in San Diego to the Midwest and never complained . . . not about the harsh winters . . . the small town. We used to joke that one lifetime was not enough for the two of us.”