by Rex Burns
A yellow dog sniffed at my cuffs as I stepped across the wooden landing and creaked open the screen door. Some light came through the small windows at the front. A woman with long, straight hair and a flowered dress reminiscent of the sixties stood reading behind a modern cash register. When I didn’t wander down the narrow aisle of snacks and canned food, she finally looked up. “Hi, help you out?”
I told her the road I was looking for and Pettes’s name.
“Don’t know him. But Gold Lake Road’s just about a quarter mile north on Seventy-two. Right turn. Just have to look for the mailbox and then sort of drive around till you get the right cabin. Do you know the fire-fighting number?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Every cabin’s got a fire-fighting number on it now. That’s the only address for a lot of them.”
I showed the woman the picture of Dorcas. “Can you tell me if this girl’s come in the store?”
She looked at me and then at the picture, tipping her head back to use the lower half of her glasses. “Pretty girl.” She handed it back. “You a policeman or a federal agent?”
“Me? Neither—I’m just trying to help her folks find her. She’s missing.”
“Another runaway? Well, this might be the one came into the store two, three weeks ago. I think it’s her but she wasn’t wearing glasses. I haven’t seen her since.” The woman added, “Doesn’t mean she might not still be around. You know much about Ward?”
“First time here.”
A nod. “You’ll want to look less like a cop. We got a few folks around don’t like cops—holdouts from the Vietnam War, ex-bikers and maybe not ex. And some who moved up here because they just don’t like nobody. Got a topo?”
“A topographic map?”
She poked a thumb at a shelf holding a selection of local Geological Survey maps. “Yeah. They got the logging roads and buildings marked. Can’t hardly find cabins without one.” She smiled.
“How much?”
She told me and I bought a sheet as well as some bottled water and sandwich makings. Then I followed her directions up the steeply climbing road and past some more houses clinging to the side of the mountain. The state highway ran down a ridge above town toward Gold Lake road.
The turnoff was gouged between banks of yellow sand and shattered quartz. I bounced past occasional clusters of mailboxes and pine trees with arrow shaped signs bearing last names and pointing down two-rut trails. None of the names was Pettes. About three miles in, the road dead-ended at a private-property sign and a peek at the oval of Gold Lake. It was a pretty scene, but I wasn’t in the mood for postcard landscapes. Frustrated, I started back, driving in low gear and studying the mailboxes in case I missed the name coming in. A slow mile down the road still dusty from my passage, I saw a row of ten or so mailboxes. On one, stenciled in fresh white paint, was a name that had caught my eye coming in: “Shining Spirit Lodge.”
Maybe. I remembered that book mailer with the religious symbol for a return address. And this was the only mailbox without a proper name. Tracks curved off among dark pines on each side of the road. Flipping a mental coin, I took the north side.
It wound through trunks and occasional deep puddles that jolted the steering and creaked the car’s springs. Fortunately, most of the cabins had their owners’ names on the drive or porch. None were marked “Shining Spirit Lodge.” Most were closed and silent. Once in a while, the sun sparked off a parked car, but none were white Mustangs with California plates. Signs warned “Posted—Keep Out” and “No Trespassing.” The track led from lot to lot and finally curved in a long, irregular loop back to the main road. I pulled across to the south track.
It took another forty-five minutes of creaking, rocking travel to follow this rutted trail to its end. There were fewer cabins along this route, but the names I found weren’t the ones I looked for. Those without names were empty and waiting for the weekend or the week or two that their owners would come from wherever—Texas, maybe, or Kansas. Finally, a chain flagged by a couple of bright ribbons closed the road. On an aspen that held one end of the chain, a fresh sign said “Shining Spirit Lodge—No Trespassing.”
A faint circle among thick aspen trunks showed where other cars had turned around to head out again. I swung into the loop and killed the engine. Standing beside the car, I drew in the thin, pine-scented air that still held a reminder of last night’s chill. Somewhere in the stillness, a crow called; above, an airliner made a brief, hollow whisper as it headed to San Francisco or Seattle. To the west, barely showing above the green fringe of forest, tips of snowy peaks sawed at the horizon. Through a thinning of trees, I could look east, downslope, along a valley that led to a glimpse of level, yellow prairie. If someone wanted privacy, she could certainly find it here.
A squirrel chattered angrily at me from high up a pine. The only other sound was the tick of the cooling engine. I walked around the chain and followed the road as it curved down a slope to make its rocky way across a shallow stream. Then it angled up a steep hill. I found myself laboring against the altitude, and where the sun lay heavy on the road, a film of sweat covered my face. In shady stretches, the moisture quickly evaporated to leave a gritty crust on my skin. It may have been a mile, possibly less—a new road always seems longer—before I reached a level meadow filled with mountain flowers. The road cut through the bright green grass toward a large lodge that sat at the edge of the clearing. It was another postcard scene. The first level and the chimney were fieldstone; the second level, topped by a steeply pitched roof of wooden shingles, was log. A few small outbuildings were scattered about, including a barn and a corral holding a pair of sleepy, drooping horses. A pickup truck sat near the stair leading up to a wide porch that shaded three sides. Gleaming in the sun stood a new metal swing set with a slide that led down into a large tub of water. No one showed.
I waited in the shade beside the road, studying the buildings and grounds. From somewhere behind the barn a hammer began knocking. I headed toward the building as the sound built in final crescendo, driving a nail home. Then it started again with a couple of taps. I called a loud hello and the hammering stopped.
I called again. From around the barn came a stocky man wearing jeans and a stained T-shirt. His pale hair was covered by a hunter’s orange cap. When he saw me, he stopped for a moment and then came slowly forward without speaking.
“Are you Mr. Pettes?”
“No. Who’re you?”
I introduced myself. “Will Mr. Pettes be back soon?”
A thoughtful pause. “He comes and goes.” The man, somewhere in his forties and deeply tanned from the high-altitude sun, scratched at his chest with a stubby hand, three middle fingers curled under, thumb and little finger spread. “What you want with him?”
I showed him the picture of Dorcas. “I’m looking for a missing girl. Have you seen her?”
The hand took the photograph and the man’s brown eyes studied it, then me. “Ain’t seen her.”
From the lodge came a brief clatter of crockery. I glanced that way. “Can I ask the person inside?”
“She ain’t seen her neither.” The man stepped between me and the lodge.
“How do you know?”
“Because ain’t nobody like that been around.” He bobbed the brim of his cap at the road. “You walk in here? Leave your car at the gate?”
“Yes.”
“Get in the truck—I’ll give you a ride back.” He handed me the photograph.
“When will Mr. Pettes be here?”
“That’s up to him. We just look after the place.”
“So he doesn’t live here.”
The man said nothing.
“Can you tell me where he does live?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged. “Denver. At the Temple.”
“Can you give me the address?”
He did. I wrote my home telephone number on the back of Dori’s photograph and handed it back to the man. “If you see this girl,
will you give me a call? Collect.”
The man turned the picture and read. “ ‘Mr. Steele.’ I reckon.”
The truck fired up with a clatter of loose valves and swung around in the grit parking area. Looking back at the lodge, I saw a curtain over a window drop quickly.
At the chain, I thanked the caretaker for the ride. He grunted something and watched as I pulled away.
I reached Denver by mid-afternoon and spent another hour locating the address the caretaker had given me. The Temple of the Shining Spirit was a cluster of painted brick row houses on a busy street in Aurora, the sprawling city that abutted Denver on the east. Primarily residential, the area’s corners had changed to commerce—7-Elevens, neighborhood restaurants, used-book stores, beauty shops. And the Temple of the Shining Spirit.
A small arrow said “Parking” and led up an alley to the back of the pale gray buildings. Half a dozen cars sat nose in against a mesh fence bearing a sign that said “Parking for Temple Visitors Only—Violators Will Be Towed.” I was a visitor; I parked. The high fence surrounded a sandy playground behind the converted row houses. Clusters of children ran or sat or swung in the sun-glared space. Another sign said “Shining Spirit Day Care,” and a woman in a long dress sat on a concrete bench and watched the kids, her leg swinging idly. I asked her which of the several back doors led to Mr. Pettes.
“Pastor Pettes,” she corrected me. “The last one on the left.” And with a smile, “Welcome to the Temple.”
“Thank you.”
The door opened to a back porch converted to a vestibule that held a scattering of chairs. Another door opened to a desk where the kitchen used to be. I rapped on the door frame and called “Hello?” A few moments later the slap of loose slippers echoed in the silence. A young woman, many months pregnant and also wearing a long, loose dress, waddled into the room from a hallway. “Hi.” She panted slightly with the weight of her stomach. “Welcome to the Temple. What can we do for you?”
I told her.
“He’s in conference right now. If you’d like to have a seat?” A gesture toward one of the chairs in the vestibule. I nodded.
From there I had a view of the desk and part of the wall. A banner using intertwined flowers for letters spelled “Shining Spirit.” A batik hanging showed a figure seated in the lotus position. The aura of its spirit formed a surrounding flame in the shape of an aspen leaf. A small table in the waiting room held pamphlets with a variety of titles. I helped myself to a sample: “Life Is Worth Living,” “The Way to True Happiness,” “What the Shining Spirit Is.” I had questions about all three topics. The building was quiet and I could hear an occasional squeal from the playground.
For no apparent reason, the pregnant woman heaved to her feet. “Pastor Pettes can see you now. You’re Mr.—?”
“Steele.”
“This way, Mr. Steele.”
I followed her slightly rolling walk. Her hair, a long braid down her spine, made a thick rope. It swayed between shoulder blades and pressed the thin fabric of the print dress. We passed through a short hallway under stairs leading to the second floor. She knocked at the double doors of what used to be the living room. Then she opened one and stood aside.
The room was Spartan. The wooden floor gleamed with wax and ran almost empty to the blank white plaster of the walls. A narrow scarlet runner led from the door to a blond oak desk. Behind it sat a heavyset man whose neck was clamped between two massive, sloping shoulders. He wore a loose white robe with wide sleeves, faintly Japanese, and a pair of rimless glasses whose thick lenses magnified his eyes so that the blue irises seemed to fill the upper half of his large head.
“Mr. Steele.” His voice was almost a whisper, lips scarcely moving. Yet it carried clearly. “Sister Rhona, a chair please.”
I heard the pregnant woman stifle a puff as she carried in a rattan chair. I quickly offered to take it from her but she smiled and shook her head and placed it on the runner squarely in front of the desk. Then she bowed and backed out.
“She wanted to demonstrate the strength of her faith over the weakness of her flesh, Mr. Steele.”
“Looks like walking does that. She must be due any minute.”
“Four weeks.” The florid face smiled. “Welcome to the Temple and what may I do for you?”
I took a copy of Dorcas’s picture from my vest pocket. “I’m looking for this girl. Dorcas Wilcox. Do you know where she is?”
The magnified eyes glanced at the photograph as if confirming something. Then he turned back to me. “Why do you think I would know?”
“She was receiving mail from the Temple of the Shining Spirit.” That was a guess. But the Buddha and his aura could have been what the mail person saw on the book mailer. “And I’ve traced her as far as Colorado.”
Pettes studied me. The weight of meaty lips pulled his mouth into a pout. It wasn’t the face of an ascetic. “And why are you looking for her?”
“Her parents are worried about her. She disappeared without telling anyone where she was going, and they asked me to find out if she was all right.”
The head sagged further down between its shoulders to rest on a bed of chins. The oversized eyes blinked shut and for a moment I wondered if the man had dropped asleep. Then they opened. “She is here in the Temple.”
I hadn’t expected that. Outright denial, perhaps. Evasion or feigned ignorance, more likely. But honesty was a nice policy to run across now and then. “Can I talk with her?”
“She is over twenty-one. It’s her right to go wherever she wishes.”
“I’m aware of that. And her parents told me to tell her that they won’t press for her return. They only want to know that she’s in good health and needs no help.”
A slight lift at the corner of those lips. “And you won’t take my word for that?”
I shrugged. “I’ve come this far. Why not the final step?”
“Why not, indeed.” The man’s heavy arm moved surprisingly fast to pinch a small silver bell between thick fingers. It tinkled shrilly and the door opened behind me. “Ask Sister Dori to come to me, please.”
CHAPTER 19
WE WAITED IN silence. Pettes apparently didn’t believe in small talk, and my mind was on Dorcas. The hum and swish of passing traffic was muffled by thick walls and heavy drapes half-closing the shut windows. A faint creak from overhead marked someone’s passage. Every now and then another squeal came from the playground. Finally there was a quiet rap on the door and it opened.
Wearing the loose dress and with her hair pulled back into a short braid, Dorcas entered and bowed to Pettes. She kept her hands in a prayer position and eyes properly downcast in front of the heavyset man. “May the Shining Spirit be with you.”
“And with you, Sister Dori. We’re sorry to interrupt your meditation, but Mr. Steele has been sent by your parents to make certain you are happy and healthy.” His voice made a slight joke out of it. Dorcas turned to me for the first time.
There was a lot of her mother in her face. I saw the older woman’s lost beauty especially in the girl’s eyes and cheekbones. Henry’s contribution was a stronger jaw that made her face longer and more balanced. The puzzled, aching hope that the camera had captured in her gaze had been replaced by serenity.
“I met you a long time ago, Dori—you were ten, maybe twelve years old.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t remember.”
“I’m not surprised. How are you?”
“I am at peace.”
A heave of flesh and robe from behind the desk. “I’m sure you’d rather talk in private, Mr. Steele. And I have other things to see to. Please use the room as long as you like.”
Dori bowed deeply as the large man stood. I nodded my head. I long ago decided, as the saying goes, to bow to no one but God. Pettes, despite his voice and manner, hadn’t worked any miracles I’d seen. The Pastor, eyes large and bright behind their lenses, nodded back and disappeared through a door behind the desk. I offered my chair to Dori. She s
hook her head. “It’s our custom to stand in his presence.”
“He’s not here.”
“But his presence is. It’s everywhere his thoughts have been.”
“You must spend a lot of time on your feet.” I guessed the presence was enhanced by a tape recorder and microphone hidden in the filigreed bud vase on the desk. “Your father and mother are worried, Dori. They were afraid something had happened to you.”
The smile of serenity she kept on her full lips tightened a bit. “I am in charge of my own destiny, Mr. Steele. They don’t have any right, moral or legal, to make me do what I don’t want to do.”
“Of course not—you’re legally emancipated. But when they hadn’t heard from you and they didn’t know where you were, they got worried. I’d worry about my own daughters.”
Her head tilted a degree or two. “I was planning to write. But I haven’t had time—the days go by so fast. But I was planning to write.”
Shoes squeaking on the polished wood, I went over to the curtained window. Folding back the heavy maroon cloth, I looked out at the automobiles flickering past. “I can tell them you’re happy here?”