Beckon

by Tom Pawlik

  Friedrich Nietzsche,

  Ecce Homo

  Chapter 21

  Western Wyoming

  Five days earlier

  The old wooden sign read, Welcome to Beckon. You’re not here by chance.

  At the time George Wilcox didn’t pay much attention to the sign, as he was more occupied by the rustic clapboard buildings grouped along both sides of the road. A crusty, weathered gas station stood at the edge of town like an old watchman at the city gate. Beside it were a general store and a diner among a handful of shops and houses. The whole town seemed as out of the way as it could possibly be, cradled in the embrace of a steep, wooded bluff. And high above it loomed a gray mountainside that cut a jagged edge against the sky.

  George pulled their white Lexus into a parking space in front of the modest one-story office directly across from the diner. The white hand-painted lettering on the front window read, Dwight Henderson, MD.

  “Well, I guess this is it.” George shook his head and sighed. Not even the GPS had been able to locate this town, and had George not gotten directions over the phone—very specific directions—he’d never have found it at all.

  Miriam sat quietly beside him, staring out the window. Her gray hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, and her gaunt face held no discernible expression. But she had come through their three-day road trip up from Texas like a trouper. Then again, she had always loved to travel. It seemed to be one of the few things about her that hadn’t changed over the last four years.

  George would never have driven this far with her, but the opportunity was too compelling to pass up and he was well beyond the point of desperation. Though now that he saw the town for himself, doubt was creeping back into his mind, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made the worst mistake of his life.

  George got out, and his aging body popped and creaked as he stretched. Being in the car for the better part of ten hours had stiffened his already-stiff joints. He was still in pretty good shape for seventy-three, but despite all the walking, swimming, and elliptical workouts, seventy-three sure didn’t feel like forty. Heck, it didn’t even feel like seventy.

  He opened the door and helped Miriam out. It would do her good to stretch and walk around a bit.

  “What beautiful mountains,” she said brightly. “How long are we staying?”

  George took her arm, quietly thankful that she was in a good mood. “As long as you want, sweetheart.”

  “Lovely. Did you see the mountains?”

  “Yes, dear. They’re beautiful.”

  George found the doctor’s front door unlocked and swung it open. “Hello?”

  The place was tidy and quaint, George thought, exactly what most people would’ve expected a small-town doctor’s office to look like. But it wasn’t what George had expected.

  Although he wasn’t sure what he’d expected.

  He heard a vehicle approaching and turned as a rust-colored Ford pickup pulled up and two men got out. The driver was a tall and sinewy fellow with reddish-brown hair, wearing a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. The other man was a much shorter, mousier chap, though slightly better dressed in a white shirt and tan trousers.

  The taller man smiled and waved as he approached.

  “Mr. Wilcox,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Malcolm Browne, Mr. Vale’s business manager. It’s good to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” George said and motioned to Miriam, who was standing nearby. “This is my wife, Miriam.”

  “Of course.” Browne smiled and kissed her hand gently. “A very nice pleasure to meet you too, Mrs. Wilcox.”

  Miriam was all grins. “I’ve seen you on my paper towels.”

  Browne chuckled and turned back to George. “And I believe you already know Dr. Henderson, correct?” He motioned to his companion.

  George blinked and nodded. “Oh . . . yes, we spoke on the phone a few times. Though you’re a little younger than I had expected.”

  Henderson smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  Browne rubbed his palms together. “Well, you must be tired after your trip, and I know Mr. Vale has been very eager to meet you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” George said. “So where is he?”

  Browne pointed up the wooded hillside to a magnificent log home perched near the top of the bluff, partially hidden by pine trees. “Just up the hill there,” he said, moving back toward his truck. “You can follow us and we’ll head right on up.”

  George shepherded Miriam into the car, and they followed the truck through town to a narrow gravel road. The road twisted up the steep, wooded incline, and as it did, George’s doubts began to grow.

  He knew Miriam would have counseled him to keep an open mind. She had always taken such a levelheaded approach to life. So calm and even-keeled. Mostly because of her faith, George thought, though he had only paid lip service to Miriam’s religiousness before. Her devotion to her Bible and her steady reliance on prayer. He had always taken those things for granted but had come to miss their influence of late. Now that they were no longer there.

  Now that she was being taken from him one memory at a time.

  They had met in college fifty years earlier. George had graduated from Baylor as an aeronautical engineer and was immediately recruited by Lockheed. He worked his way quickly through the ranks of their management program while Miriam finished her degree, and they were married shortly thereafter.

  George worked at Lockheed for twelve years before striking out on his own with a pair of fellow engineers. They started Aerodigm Technologies to manufacture select components for jet engines out of a plant in Ohio, but their business quickly expanded to more complex chemical-propulsion and missile-guidance systems. In a few more short years, they had plants across the country, and George had quietly built a solid reputation with Aerodigm’s largely military clientele.

  Meanwhile George and Miriam purchased a four-hundred-acre ranch outside of Austin. George drove the black Jaguar to work and saved his Porsche for the weekends, while Miriam preferred the less ostentatious silver Mercedes or the Lexus. The only point of stress they might have had was that after forty-eight years of marriage, they remained childless. Miriam had often suggested that they adopt, but George refused, preferring the freedom to travel over the burden of raising children that weren’t even his own. They bought a second home in Colorado and a third in Maui. Life had been good to them. Very good. And for the most part, George Wilcox had always slept well at night.

  Until four years ago.

  George hadn’t been prepared for the reality of Alzheimer’s. The pain of watching himself become a stranger bit by bit to the woman who had once known him better than anyone else had. He would have rather lost her all at once than endure this slow, steady decay of her mind.

  She had been the brightest ray of sunlight in his life for nearly fifty years. But now he hardly knew her. And all he had left of their life together were a few old pictures and videos.

  Ahead, the road opened to reveal a better view of the log home. Pea gravel crunched under the tires as they rolled onto the wide, circular driveway. George whistled inwardly as he got out of the car. The place was palatial—at least fifty thousand square feet, he guessed. It looked too big to be a house, more like a small inn or lodge. Thick log beams and tons of smooth river rock provided a rustic yet majestic exterior, and George found himself eager to see the inside.

  “Nice place.”

  “It used to be a rather exclusive little hotel,” Browne said, now sounding more like a tour guide. “It was originally built by the Vale family in the early 1900s. They catered mostly to wealthy city folk who wanted to get out into the country and try their hand at hunting elk and such. Mr. Vale has gone to great lengths to restore and upgrade the facilities. I think you’ll find them quite comfortable.”

  Browne led them through the thick, wooden front doors and into an expansive flagstone foyer.

  The woman who greeted them ther
e was slender and attractive, with thick locks of burgundy hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  “Welcome, Mr. Wilcox,” she said. “I’m Amanda McWhorter, Mr. Vale’s personal assistant. He’s very eager to meet with you.” She gestured to the hallway beyond the foyer. “If you’ll just have a seat in the great room, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

  The spacious, vaulted room beyond the staircase contained a set of leather couches facing each other. Behind them, an old barrel with rusted iron bands stood off to one side of the massive stone fireplace, and an antique wagon wheel garnished the other. And above the hearth hung an impressive rack of elk antlers.

  Browne motioned to the couches. “Make yourself at home. I’ll have your luggage brought up to your suite.”

  George helped Miriam settle into one of the couches, and Dwight Henderson sat across from her. George walked over to take in the view from the wall of windows. The bank of glass overlooked a steep cliff with a dense forest of pines far below. Amid the trees, he saw sections of the gravel road that ran from the house through the wooded hillside to the town below. Beyond it lay a vast stretch of rolling bluffs that seemed to spread for miles to a row of mountains off in the distance. George breathed a sigh and shook his head. It was quite the vista.

  “No matter how many times I look out there,” a voice said, “I never get tired of that view.”

  George turned to see the man he assumed to be Thomas Vale. He looked to be perhaps in his early thirties, with an angular face and long black hair. His body appeared lean and trim beneath his black silk shirt and gray trousers.

  “Welcome to Beckon, Mr. Wilcox.” Vale shook George’s hand. “It’s good to finally meet you in person. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” George said. He could see Vale’s green eyes seemed to hold bright flecks of yellow pigment in the irises. The effect was slightly disconcerting.

  Vale glanced at Henderson, who also declined the offer of a drink.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be drinking alone,” Vale said as he poured himself some brandy from the liquor cabinet across the room. “I imagine it must have been hard to believe when Dr. Henderson first contacted you. After all, how does one begin a conversation of this nature? I’m guessing you were pretty skeptical.”

  “Still am.”

  Vale sat down with his drink. “No doubt. But hopefully we can assuage those concerns.”

  “I certainly hope so.” George nodded toward Henderson. “Dr. Henderson was pretty cryptic about the nature of this . . . treatment. Which, frankly, didn’t help to inspire much confidence.”

  “And yet here you are,” Vale said, spreading his hands. “I’m guessing you’ve gotten beyond a certain level of desperation. Perhaps to the point where you wondered what you had to lose.”

  George sat down beside Miriam and ran his fingers across her shoulders. She’d been ignoring their conversation. Lately it seemed like she’d been ignoring him more and more, slowly drifting like a boat that had lost its moorings, floating away from the dock down a dark river.

  “But you said this treatment has never been tried on someone with Alzheimer’s before. How do you know it’ll actually help her?”

  “The human body is its own best medicine,” Henderson interjected. “Essentially all this treatment does is help the body heal itself.”

  “I’m afraid the nature of it forces us to maintain a certain level of secrecy.” Vale let his gaze drift up to the ceiling and offered an odd sort of half smile. “You see, it’s not exactly a conventional medical treatment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Henderson leaned forward. “It’s a remedy that a local Indian tribe has been practicing for . . . well, probably for hundreds of years.”

  George stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Now, Mr. Wilcox, we’ve actually—”

  “You dragged me all the way up from Texas for some crazy Indian remedy? Are you kidding me?”

  Henderson looked flustered. “As—as you recall, I explained that you would need to keep an open mind. I told you—”

  “You didn’t say anything about this being some hokey, superstitious nonsense. I never would have come.”

  “Which is precisely why we didn’t tell you,” Vale said in a calm tone.

  “Mr. Wilcox,” Henderson said, “I’ve personally witnessed this treatment’s effectiveness. Look, I don’t believe in the supernatural either, but this is an organic compound that produces a real physiological effect. Now . . . of course the local . . . medicine woman insists on a certain ceremonial procedure, but the cure itself—I assure you—is an actual, physical compound.”

  “What kind of compound?”

  “It’s called perilium,” Vale said.

  “Yes, but what is it?” George said again. “You say it’s some kind of organic compound, but that doesn’t really tell me much.”

  “For the moment all we can tell you is what I explained over the phone,” Henderson said. “Perilium enhances the body’s natural immune system. And the body, in turn, responds to whatever disease state happens to be present. The end result is the same regardless of whether the patient suffers from cancer, MS, or indigestion. Or Alzheimer’s. Perilium simply helps the body heal itself.”

  George glanced at Miriam, wondering what he’d gotten her into. Though it wasn’t as if they had many other options. If this perilium didn’t work, she would spend the next three or four years suffering with her Alzheimer’s and would eventually die. Or perhaps she’d have some sort of allergic reaction to the drug and die right away. Either way, she was no better off if he refused.

  He took a breath and leaned back. “You’re asking for a pretty big leap of faith. And a lot of money.”

  “And in exchange, you get your wife back.” Vale’s pleasant demeanor had evaporated a bit. “Exactly how much is that worth to you, Mr. Wilcox? How much would you pay to cure your wife’s Alzheimer’s? To not spend the next years watching her die a protracted and unpleasant death?”

  George fell silent, tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch. “And if it doesn’t work?”

  Vale shrugged. “Then you’re under no other obligation. The only condition is that you abide by the nondisclosure agreement you signed. But you and your wife will be none the worse for wear.”

  George shook his head. “So why do I feel like I’m being hustled?”

  “Not at all,” Vale said. “Say the word and I’ll call the whole thing off. You can keep your money and go home.” He downed the last of his drink. “The only thing you’d lose would be your wife.”

  George stared at the man. Vale sat on the leather couch entirely nonchalant.

  Miriam seemed equally placid and leaned into George. “I like this house,” she whispered.

  George looked into her eyes and could see a vague sense of recognition there, that he was still familiar enough for her to feel comfortable being with him. But he wondered how long that would last. He wondered what it would be worth for the chance to have her back. He was ready to retire and enjoy his golden years. He pictured himself living in Maui and spending his afternoons out on the ocean fishing.

  But he had always pictured Miriam on the boat with him.

  George took a breath. “So what exactly does this . . . treatment . . . entail?”

  Chapter 22

  It was just after ten o’clock when George brought Miriam up to their suite on the second level of Thomas Vale’s mansion. Vale and Henderson had spent the evening making preparations for the ceremony, as they put it. But the whole thing was making George feel more and more uncomfortable.

  Miriam hesitated in the doorway of the bedroom, her eyes darting about warily. “Where are we?”

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” George said, drawing her gently into the room. “This is where we’re going to sleep tonight.”

  “Where’s my bed?” Miriam said. “I want to go home now.”

  George had worried that all t
he travel would be too much for her. He tried to smile reassuringly. “But we’re on vacation, remember? Up in the mountains. I made a special bed for you. Just for you.”

  That seemed to work as Miriam peeked over his shoulder at the beautiful, king-size, log-post bed on a low dais. Her expression softened, and just then Henderson arrived with a small cup of hot tea. Miriam normally had a cup at bedtime back in Texas. It was the only way George could get her to take her medications.

  George took the cup and cast a wary glance at the doctor.

  Henderson offered what George assumed was intended to be his own reassuring smile. “Just a mild sedative. Like I said, there’s nothing dangerous at all about the ritual. My only concern is that the woman wears ceremonial native garb. And we want to avoid causing Miriam any undue alarm.”

  Henderson had explained earlier that since the ceremony had never been performed on anyone who was “cognitively compromised,” he wanted to make sure Miriam wouldn’t react violently or do anything that might disrupt the ritual. It seemed that this medicine woman was hypersensitive to protocol during the rite.

  But despite all of Henderson’s assurances, George was still filled with misgivings and doubt. He insisted that he remain at Miriam’s bedside during the entire ceremony, and Vale had agreed to allow him to stay in the room only as long as he kept out of the way.

  George helped Miriam as she drank the tea and then got her ready for bed. He had brought along her favorite nightgown. Then he kissed her on the forehead and wished her a good night, just as he did every night.

  Vale arrived as Miriam was settling in. He pulled George aside and spoke in urgent but hushed tones. “Nun’dahbi is on her way up. It’s extremely important that you remember not to approach her or speak to her at all. And avoid any eye contact.”

  “Nun’dahbi?” George said, noting how strange Vale was acting. He seemed downright nervous.

  “It’s her title,” Vale explained as he lit several candles situated around the room. “She’s the spiritual head of her tribe. And this ritual is actually a process whereby they welcome a new member into their community. It’s an extreme honor and should not be taken lightly.”