“You’re pretty good,” Gallagher said. He made some notes, then glanced up at Raglan. “If you figure on going out to that mesa where Hokart was building, be careful. When you turn off the highway you’ll be on your own.”
He turned to Kawasi. “I’m not buyin’ what you say, meaning no disrespect. It’s pretty far-out, you’ve got to admit that, but let’s suppose what you say is true. What’s it like over there?”
“Like here, but different. The sun is…is not the same. It is like sun shining through mist. There are many green fields, many meadows, all watered by ditches.”
Gallagher got up. “You going down there? To where Hokart was building?”
“I think so.”
“Where else?”
“I’ll be there, here, at Tamarron, or en route, but I’m not looking for trouble. I do want to find him and get him out of any trouble he might be in.”
“Be careful.” Gallagher started away. “Poison Woman? Boy, that’s a new one!”
“Very old, actually. The story was that if a king wanted to get rid of a rival he just made him a present of such a girl. After that, no trouble.”
Gallagher shrugged. “Well, if you got to go…”
When he was gone, Kawasi looked at Mike. “Who he is?”
“The law. He’s an officer. Investigates crimes, things like the fire. Don’t underrate him. I think he’s a very smart, very cagey young man.”
“He is good?”
“I think so. And capable.”
“He did not believe me.”
Raglan waved his hand around. “None of them would, not entirely. Don’t tell anybody anything. They would think you lied. Just tell them your folks used to live around here, that you are part Indian.”
“I am all what you call ‘Indian,’ I think.”
They were silent, and Mike Raglan watched the street. If “they” had gone so far as to come into his condo in the night and to set fire to the café to destroy Erik and Kawasi, they would not hesitate to eliminate him. Dared he take her with him? But where could he leave her? The police had other duties, but this was a small town and they would not miss very much, if anything.
“I must go back to the mesa. I must be sure Erik is not there.”
“I go with you.”
“This cowboy you know? The old man?”
“Johnny?”
“How did he get over to…to the ‘Other Side’? The kiva was not open then?”
“There are sometime ways. It is a thing…I do not understand. Sometimes open, sometimes closed. It has no what you call…pattern? He tell me he chasing wild cow. What he speaks is ‘maverick.’ It run away, he chase it, go ver’ fast down hillside with his rope swinging. The cow disappear, and then he charge after.…He is on Other Side. It just happen, and he cannot find the way back. Maybe it is closed. I do not know. He does not know. He never find way back.”
“What happened then?”
“They know someone come. They come look. He hide. They no find.” She raised her eyes to Raglan’s. “The land much wild where he is. Wild cow, sometime wild horse. He was young cowboy then. He old cowboy now. They never find him to live.”
“He killed some of them?”
“I think maybe. He does not say, but I hear talk that men look for him, men die. Now nobody look. He has been there long time and nothing happen bad for them, so they no longer care. I think.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Oh, yes! He friendly to us. He is friendly to us.”
They were silent again and he considered the situation. He had an idea that Gallagher was doing the logical thing. He would be looking for the white van. It was the one bit of hard evidence he had, and it was something tangible that Gallagher himself had seen.
Certainly, if “they” were to operate on this side they must have a base, a place to sleep, to keep the van when it was not in use—a place not too far from their way back, if they had to go back.
He was dealing with something of which he knew nothing at all, nor did he know with whom he was dealing. For all he knew, some of them had been living under cover on this side for years. There might even be one of them in this very restaurant. It would be a logical listening post. If they had a base on this side it might have been established many years ago. He would have to be very, very careful.
Where did they get the van, for example? And it must have a license. The driver must have a driver’s license. That implied a connection.
Did they have more than one vehicle?
“Kawasi? Would you recognize one of the people from the Other Side if you saw one? I mean, there may be many over here.”
“I think…maybe. I do not be sure. I think sometimes I know.”
He got up. “Let’s go.” At the cash register he paid his check, and she watched carefully.
Outside the restaurant he stopped, looking around. The street was empty. A pickup drove by, with two Navajos in front. He crossed the street to his car, glancing back as he opened the door. Nobody seemed to pay any attention.
Most of these people were Mormons and they knew each other. That might help Gallagher.
He drove to the nearest gas station and filled his tank. Thoughtfully, he watched the filling-station attendant. Another good place for a listening post; but the boy was paying no attention.
As they turned into the road, Raglan saw a car parked alongside the highway a good mile ahead. It was Gallagher’s car. As he neared it a hand reached out, flagging him down.
Gallagher was alone. “You got a gun?”
Raglan hesitated briefly. “Yes. I always carry one when I go into the mountains.”
“Keep it handy.”
Raglan mentioned his speculation about the possibilities of a longstanding base, and Gallagher nodded. “I been thinking the same thing. Been running people through my mind, wondering who and where.”
He sat silent, staring down the road. Then he glanced over at Raglan. “Kinda spooky,” he said. “I can’t deal with it. Not yet, anyway.” He paused again. “I’ve been reading an article about you.” He held up the magazine. “You’re used to this sort of thing.”
“You never get used to it,” Raglan said. “The frauds are easy. Almost any halfway decent magician can beat them at their own game. Most of the tricks they use were old-hat fifty years ago. People believe because they wish to believe and they don’t want the frauds exposed.
“If someone expects miracles they will see miracles.”
“I got some ideas.” Gallagher looked at Raglan. “Better keep this under your hat. No use to get a lot of talk started.”
Raglan started his car and moved down the road. The turnoff was miles ahead and very easily missed. He would have to watch closely.
Kawasi was quiet, resting her eyes, almost asleep. Mike did not feel like talking nor did she, it seemed. He was trying to remember the map Erik had sent him. It was a far different route from the one he had taken down the Canyon road, which was far away to the south. He was well over an hour from town when he turned off the highway and took the dim desert trail. When he had driven a short distance the road dipped into a hollow and he stopped the car.
Kawasi’s eyes opened. “What is it?”
He was getting out of the car. “I want to look at the road. See if there are tracks.”
He walked to the road ahead, pausing by the front bumper to study the trail. After a moment he walked on ahead, keeping alongside the trail, not wishing to smudge the tracks.
There were tire-prints from two different vehicles. The tracks were several days old, with the paw-prints of a porcupine and several ground squirrels and some snake tracks crossing them. He walked several hundred feet, studying the tracks. The first car had been driven very fast by someone who obviously knew the road—probably Erik Hokart. He had been followed by another car, certainly not the white van. Yet there were no returning tracks, so where was Erik now? Where had they taken him?
Kawasi was sitting up, watching him. “
They did not come back this way,” he told her.
She shrugged. “They have other ways, not sure ways, but they exist.”
Where was Erik? If they had a hideout, a base on this side, had they taken him there? He suggested it to Kawasi.
“I think maybe,” she said, “but not long. The Hand would wish to have him to be questioned.”
“And then killed?”
“Perhaps, but I do not think so. He is scientist? I think The Hand keep him, work him. He has…how do you say? He has things for listening. Big ears.”
She paused. “He listen to what people speak to each other. All the time listen.”
From where Mike stood he could see the highway, if such it could be called. It was a lonely road along which maybe two or three cars an hour traveled. He saw nothing now. He turned, sweeping the country with his eyes. Of course there were many places a watcher could be and remain hidden.
He got into the car and started down the road. He should have a rifle or, better still, a shotgun, a sawed-off shotgun for easy handling.
After a few miles the trail branched and he took the easternmost branch. The desert growth increased as they drew nearer to some rugged ridges of bare rock. He glanced at Kawasi. “Are you frigntened?”
“Yes. They bad people. They want me very much. They very much afraid of people over here. No discipline, they say.”
“Have many been over here?”
“Oh, no! It is impossible! Almost impossible. For a long time, nobody. Sometimes an accident. If someone come from here he is tracked down and killed. At once.”
“And Johnny? The cowboy?”
“They try. He too wise. He leave no tracks. He hide very well. Several places for hide. Finally they decide he not important.”
“And you?”
“I am rebel. I think too much. I ask questions. I am threat, so I escape to hills where others wait.” She paused while Raglan negotiated a sharp turn and a dip through a wash. “There is bad dry time. Nothing grow. The plants make no seeds. Some die, many sick. They send a man for seeds, but some will not grow.” She looked at Raglan. “Is not same as here—some plants grow, some not. We do not know why. It is decide there must be a permanent way. You say permanent? It is always way we need. Much seed.”
She paused again, looking out over the desert. “What you call broccoli? It will not grow over there. It is try often. Tried often.
“Your corn is different, much bigger. But your seed does not grow well over there. It is puzzle.”
Raglan drew up behind a juniper to study the road ahead and the country around. Something was bothering him, and he had known such feelings before. Something was wrong, and he was feeling increasingly uneasy, yet he could see nothing out of the ordinary.
He had been listening with only half his attention. Some seeds that would not grow? Broccoli, among others. But wasn’t broccoli a developed plant? He knew too little about such things.
He was foolish to have come out here so late in the day. He should have waited, as he had planned to do, until morning, when he would have a full day of sunshine in which to look about.
But he had to find Erik, and if Erik was lying injured on the mesa, he must be found and helped. Above all, the key to this must be at its point of origin. At least, that was where he must begin.
Nothing moved on the desert. He started on, tooling the car around a bend in the trail and down a steep incline. Momentarily he took his right hand from the wheel to touch his .357 magnum. It was reassuring.
“When you cross over,” he asked, “is there any physical reaction? I mean, does it affect your body? Or your mind?”
“A little. Sometimes the head spins. What is it you say—‘dizzy’? I think so. And”—she put her hand on her stomach—“one is sickish, feeling bad down there. Some never get over. Sometimes it is hours, sometimes days.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Raglan? There is somebody out there. I know it. I feel it.”
He stopped the car again. It was not very hot now, but there seemed to be heat waves dancing. Slowly, he let his eyes search out the terrain before him.
Nothing…? Nothing he could see, but he knew what she meant. He could feel it, too.
“Over there”—she pointed—“is where Erik leaves his car. You can get no closer.”
He let the car roll forward. The place was too open, too exposed. There were low hills around, much growth such as would be found in any semidesert area. Here and there were boulders, rocks, and a few ridges.
She touched his arm again. “Mr. Raglan? I fear.”
“Call me Mike,” he said.
Chapter 10
*
FOR AN INSTANT after he switched off the ignition he felt a wave of almost panic. The sound of the motor had been somehow reassuring, and now in the utter silence he felt cut off, isolated.
The car was security; it was escape, a way back to the normal, the usual, the everyday.
What was he doing here, anyway? Why was he not back at Tamarron, going down to the San Juan Room for breakfast in a normal, sensible, attractive world? What was he doing out here at the end of everything?
Shadows were appearing now, shadows among the rocks, among the scattered juniper and the brush. A faint wind stirred. He swallowed, checked his gun again, and took a flashlight from the glove compartment. “We won’t be long,” he said, and hoped he was right. “We will just walk over and see if Erik is around.”
He stepped down from the car and closed the door. The sound was loud in the stillness. She sat very quietly, staring ahead. He walked around the car and opened her door. She took his hand and stepped down.
She looked at him. “I fear,” she said. “Something is wrong. There is something—”
“We won’t be long,” he said again, wondering why he had been such a fool as to bring her.
Yet she knew the way and he did not. “Let’s go,” he said, and she started off, looking quickly around. He felt in his pocket to be sure he had taken the keys from the ignition. He had them. Turning, he checked the position of the car. He was a fool. He should have turned it around for a quick getaway. He had always done that when in wild country. Why had he not done so now?
Was it because he was not coming back? That was absurd. Of course he was coming back, and within the hour.
Kawasi walked quickly, surely. He followed, keeping his eyes busy, straining his ears for the slightest sound.
What was wrong with him? He had been in the desert before. He had been in many deserts—the Sahara, the Takla Makan, the Kalahari—and all of them had their mysteries. His thoughts returned to the Takla Makan and the smoky fires of camel dung and movements in the night.
He had been close to something there, not only in the desert but in the Kunlun Mountains, which bordered that desert on the south. He had been close to something disturbing, something with which he had been unwilling to cope. Was not this the same sort of situation?
There was no more than a suggestion of a path. When they neared the end of the mesa on which they walked, he could see that other one ahead of him, and beyond, a small box canyon. He turned left, weaving his way among rocks and wild shrubs. Pausing to catch his breath he found Kawasi close behind him. The car was now far away, barely discernible among the rocks. For a moment he had an overwhelming urge to turn back. What was he getting into, anyway?
“If Erik is not there…” he began.
“He will not be,” Kawasi said. “He is on the Other Side. They have him.”
Something within him cringed. He did not like to think of that “Other Side,” nor to believe in it. He knew now that he did not wish to cope with unreality, and that was how he thought of it. Of course, he reminded himself, if it did exist it was simply another phase of reality. He had dealt most of his life with the eerie, the impossible, the strange. These had been his daily fare, but they had been, for the greater part, simply illusion, fraud, and legerdemain. People were gullible because they wished to believe. His role had b
een to see the reality, to expose the chicanery.
So far, all he had encountered except for some experiences in Sinkiang and Tibet, had been easily exposed by someone skilled in illusion.
Pausing, she pointed. “It is right over there, beyond the rocks.”
She indicated a low mound of red rock. “Erik planned to build there, using the standing rock for walls.”
“And the kiva?”
“It is close by.”
They started on and his hand touched his pistol butt. It was a comforting feeling, but would a bullet work against these…what? These creatures?
What was he thinking? Kawasi was one of them, or said she was.
What if it was some kind of an elaborate swindle? After all, Erik was a wealthy man. He had money, lots of it. Suppose all this was some kind of a plan to get money from him?
If so, Kawasi must be a part of it, and this he did not wish to believe. Yet better men had been deceived by seemingly nice women before this. But if it was not a fraud, was Kawasi normal? Was she human?
What were they like, those creatures from the Other Side? Did Kawasi truly exist? Or was she merely a phantom, something from beyond the veil, from that world of evil the old Indians had fled?
What was the Other Side? That question shadowed Mike’s every thought, every decision. He had heard of parallel worlds, of other dimensions. Strange disappearances had been a part of his life. And there had been many such. The case of the Iron Mountain, for example, a riverboat with a crew and fifty-five passengers that steamed around a bend in the Mississippi into oblivion. Or at least that was the story.
Its barges were found adrift, but there had been no wreckage, no sound of an explosion. The story had been well known along the river in 1872 and since, but of course, the Mississippi had given birth to many legends.
There was no path, no trail as such, yet Kawasi walked quickly among the rocks until suddenly they were there. He stopped, struck by the strange appearance of the mesa top. It gave the appearance of having been a field, badly leached, but nonetheless a field.
Mesas with any amount of soil on top were few. More often than not, in this part of the country, mesas were almost flat rock with occasional patches of earth supporting a meager growth of brush and occasional small trees, usually juniper.
Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) Page 7