by Brandt Legg
“When was this?”
“1847.”
“1847? So how on earth did Gaines have anything to do with this?” Barbeau asked, incredulous.
“My grandfather believes that Conway has come back as Gaines.”
“Reincarnation,” Hall said.
“Oh. Kay. Fantasyland, Looney-tunes time,” Barbeau said, standing.
“Wait,” Hall said. “Why did Conway attack the church?”
“He was hunting him,” the shopkeeper said, impatiently.
“Hunting who?” Hall asked.
“Clastier!” the shopkeeper said the name as if it should have been obvious.
Hall looked at Barbeau. Supernatural elements aside, he could see the coincidence was too much for a seasoned investigator to ignore. Coincidences almost never are. He’d heard Barbeau once say, “Find enough coincidences and you’ll solve any mystery.”
Hall was about to say it, but Barbeau got it out first. “Gaines came to Taos for Clastier.”
Hall nodded, wide-eyed. “Now that we know why he came here, maybe we can figure out where he went.”
“Why is Gaines so obsessed with an ex-communicated priest from the nineteenth century?” Barbeau asked.
“The bigger question might be, why is the Vatican so obsessed with a priest that every Pope for a hundred and seventy years has denied even existed? The questions may start with Gaines, but the answers all end at the Vatican.”
They wrapped things up at the Pueblo, leaving with more questions than answers.
“We can’t ignore the facts of this case, even if we don’t agree with them,” Hall said as they drove south.
“What facts am I ignoring?”
“That Clastier and Conway are involved.”
“They’re dead men! For more than a century!”
“But the fact is, they have come up. And if we don’t chase them, we’re making a mistake, because Gaines is risking his life to find them.”
Barbeau studied a map where he had carefully marked the locations of the Pueblo, San Francisco de Asís, and Chimayó with blue crosses, and a red circle at Grinley’s house. He watched the paper as if waiting for something to jump out, a pattern among the lines, sense from the nonsense.
“So, do you know anything about this reincarnation woo-woo garbage?”
“I don’t, but my girlfriend is into that stuff. I’ve also got a niece who wrote a book; she claims was channeled from the other side.”
“Yeah, great. But do you know any grown-ups who can help us?”
“They are grown-ups.”
“I mean college professors, scientists, qualified people.”
“Like the one we’re chasing?”
“Gaines? Yeah, he’d be great. Why don’t you call Gaines and ask him if he is really a reincarnated mass murderer and, while you two are chatting, invite him to surrender.”
They pulled into the shady drive next to Teresa’s house. “Now go easy, here,” Hall told Barbeau. “This is a sweet little old lady who hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Don’t worry, I can be a teddy bear when I need to,” Barbeau said.
Hall grunted.
Barbeau knocked on the door, “Watch and learn.”
The door swung open in an awkward stutter, banging against a wheelchair. Barbeau squinted to see the old woman in the dim light; she appeared frail, wrapped in a worn afghan, head trembling slightly.
“Teresa Mondragon?”
“Who are you?” she shouted, without answering his question. “You can’t take my daisies, they’re mine!”
“Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Dixon Barbeau and this is Agent Hall. We’re with the Federal Bureau of –”
“Turnips, all of ya!”
“Excuse me?” Barbeau turned to Hall, hoping it made sense to him. He shrugged, failing to suppress a smile. Barbeau tried again. “Ma’am, we just have a few questions, do you –”
“The garbage gets picked up on Sundays.” She shook a gnarled finger at him. “But, if it rains, leave it there, understand? Dry or wet, smells the same.” Teresa spun her wheelchair and slammed the door in one swift motion.
Barbeau pulled his head back to avoid getting hit and then turned to Hall, who couldn’t help but laugh. “She’s a few gallons short of a full tank.”
“Maybe,” Barbeau said. “It could also be an act.” He pounded on the door. “We could get a warrant,” he said to Hall between knocks.
“Why?” Hall asked. “If Gaines was even here, he’s long gone.”
“But he came for a reason.”
“To talk to her? That might not have gone so well.”
“My bet is she was lucid then,” Barbeau said, just as the door flew open. Suddenly, a hot, red liquid splattered all over him. Teresa flung a now empty pot at him; then slammed the door.
“What the hell!” Barbeau shouted, trying to determine if he’d been hurt. “I’m drenched, what is this?”
“I think it’s cherry Jell-O,” Hall said, rubbing some on his hands and smelling it.
“She just assaulted a federal agent. I’m going in.” Barbeau tried the knob.
“An old lady threw Jell-O at you, hardly an assault.”
“No? Next, it may be steak knives or a pistol. I’ll bet she’s got a house full of guns.” The door was locked. Barbeau jogged around back and found a screen door. He peeked inside before pulling it open and drawing his gun. The squeak of antique hinges announced his presence, as he stepped inside the kitchen. A heavy silver tray sailed into his chest from the next room.
By the time the police arrived, Barbeau was bruised and bleeding, and Hall had survived a wild attack from three large, angry cats. Teresa had called the state police to handle the intruders, and for a few tense minutes, Barbeau and Hall were held at gunpoint. Teresa was unharmed, and although she would not be subjected to any questions from Barbeau, she would have to endure a visit from social services to be certain that it was safe for her to continue living alone.
Chapter 41
Sean and Rip stared at each other tensely. “Show us Josh Stadler’s death,” Rip finally said, doubting his words could conjure up what Sean so desperately needed to see.
“Someone’s coming,” Gale said. “A woman on a horse.”
Rip looked up alarmed. “It’s Mai,” he said, relieved and suddenly smiling.
Sean never took his eyes off the Eysen. It continued to show them from above. In it he could see the woman riding up on horseback. The amazing technology could not be as old as Rip had claimed. Sean wished he were smart enough to figure it out, not just the Eysen, but whatever else was going on. The images changed to a swirl and for a moment he hoped, even believed, it might show him Josh’s final minutes, but instead it went dark.
“We’re going to have to put it away,” Gale said.
“No, it’s okay. We can trust her,” Rip assured.
Both Sean and Gale, for different reasons, were offended at his ease at trusting someone they hadn’t met. Neither said anything.
Gale thought Mai looked elegant on the magnificent painted horse, as if she’d ridden out of a dream. When she dismounted and hugged Rip, a little too long, Gale fought against jealousy.
“So, you’ve returned,” Mai said, as the embrace ended.
“This time, I’m the one who needs a favor,” he said.
Rip made introductions and Gale thanked Mai for the delicious food.
“You’re our guests,” Mai said. “It’s my pleasure.”
“You and Tahoma are saving my life,” Rip said.
“That makes me very happy.” Mai smiled. “And would you do something for me?” she asked sweetly.
“Name it,” Rip said.
“I’d like you to meet someone that I think can help you even more. It’s a short walk.”
Rip looked to Gale; she shrugged.
“You all are more than welcome to come,” Mai said, motioning to Gale and Sean.
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at an ancient stone
dwelling carved out of the cliff in such a way that until one was directly in front of it; it could not be discerned from the natural canyon wall surrounding it. An old Native American man with wrinkled leathery skin, his scraggly gray hair extending half-way down his back, emerged from the structure. His worn denim jeans and thin cotton shirt were the sandy color of the earth. He held two feathers in one hand, and a pouch in the other.
Mai introduced them to Sani-Niyol, which meant “old man of the wind,” adding that, in his entire long life, he had never left the canyon. He was like a medicine man or shaman; no one knew how old he was.
“You come from above,” Sani-Niyol said to Rip, “to ask questions.”
“No. We are,” he looked at Mai, “hiding.”
“Hiding from answers.”
“No, from people,” Rip said, unimpressed.
Sani-Niyol stared at Rip for several moments. “They are after you for the answers to the questions you have.”
Gale had been fascinated by shamans since doing a story in South America, where she learned that trying to recall later what a shaman had said was not always easy; as if they convey information directly into your subconscious, like a dream. She pulled out a small digital recorder.
Sani-Niyol gently placed an etched hand on the recorder. “This is not needed; it will prevent you from hearing.” He moved his fist to his heart. “Listen here; know what is said to you in this way, and all the knowledge of what I say can stay with you.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Rip said, impatient to return to deciphering the Eysen. “I’m sorry, but we need to get back to work.”
Sani-Niyol smiled, brown teeth. “This is part of your work.”
“He’s right,” Gale said. “They’re after us for the answers to what the Eysen contains and the meaning of the Sequence.”
“Okay,” Rip said, turning back to a still-smiling Sani-Niyol. “What should we do?”
Sani-Niyol let his expression go blank and moved his hands slowly in front of Rip’s face, as if clearing smoke. “You are lost in fog. It is not clear.”
“Why?” Gale asked.
“There is not enough truth around you,” he said. “But it will, one day, find you.”
Sean remained silent and avoided eye contact with Sani-Niyol.
“What do you mean?” Rip asked.
“If not enough truth is present, then that space fills with deceit, confusion and false signs.” Sani-Niyol pulled a stone from his pouch and placed it in Rip’s palm. He recognized it as amethyst. “Hold it tightly. It will help with clarity,” Sani-Niyol said, brushing feathers down either side of Rip’s body. Then he stopped and looked into Rip’s eyes. “Conway?”
Gale gasped.
Rip shook his head, and pushed the amethyst back at Sani-Niyol.
“What’s wrong?” Mai asked, stopping Rip from leaving.
“Last time a Native American called me Conway, I was beaten, and I wound up running from the cops.”
“Rip,” Gale said, sternly, “you cannot walk away from this.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Rip asked Mai.
“I don’t want you to die. Sani-Niyol can help,” Mai said. “Is Conway the man after you?”
Rip sighed. “No.” He turned back to the old shaman who had stood trance-like since saying the century-and-a-half-old name. “What do you see?”
Sani-Niyol began chanting in an unknown ancient language. Rip looked to Mai. She shook her head, slowly. Two minutes later, the chanting stopped and the old Indian knelt on the ground and began drawing in the dirt.
“This is karma for you,” Sani-Niyol said, making a wide figure eight with his finger.
Rip looked puzzled.
“I know you don’t believe in past lives,” Gale said. “But you’re a scientist. Don’t deny evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“How can you ask that?” Gale asked.
Sani-Niyol stared, glassy-eyed, at Rip. “Remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Conway.”
“I can’t.”
“Everything is already known. You can.”
Rip shook his head, looked to Mai and shrugged.
“It’s not what happened,” Sani-Niyol whispered. “It’s what you choose to remember. So much is forgotten, that you could say that everything is forgotten. All you must do is remember.”
“Clastier talks about reincarnation. How can you not consider it?” Gale asked.
“Because there is no proof. In all of human existence, there is no documented proof of reincarnation.”
“How do you document such a thing?” Gale asked. “And what about Clastier?”
“No one is right about everything. Not even Clastier.”
“What about the Divinations? They’ve all come true. And you found the Eysen.”
“I’ve already told you; parts of Clastier’s papers never made sense to me.”
“Yet, you blindly followed the other parts, why?”
“I don’t know,” Rip said, quietly.
“There had once been a door,” Sani-Niyol interrupted.
“What?” Rip asked.
“Sani-Niyol has traveled between the worlds,” Mai said.
“What door? Where?” Rip asked.
“It is lost,” Sani-Niyol said, sadness filling his face.
“I’m sorry, Mai,” Rip said, “but this is all too much of a distraction. We’ve got some very nasty people after us. I’ve got to figure out these artifacts and keep moving.”
“Conway. You must remember, Conway,” Sani-Niyol said, grabbing Rip’s arm. “You knew.”
“Knew what?” Rip asked, trying but unable to pull his arm away.
“You knew it was wrong.” The old man stared deeply into his eyes. “You must remember, Conway,” he repeated. “It was wrong.”
Rip couldn’t shake his grip or his gaze. The same dizzy sense of déjà vu he’d experienced at the churches swirled in his head. He felt drunk and fell to his knees. Suddenly, he was overtaken by the emotions of a scared and angry man named Conway.
“I did know it was wrong,” Rip said weakly. “I knew, but I chased him anyway.”
Sani-Niyol closed his eyes causing Rip to fall flat on the ground.
Gale and Mai went to help him up, but Sani-Niyol held out his hand to stop them. He chanted more incomprehensible words.
Rip staggered to his feet, sand clenched in his fists.
“What happened?” Gale asked.
“I was Conway. I knew the Church was wrong, but I wanted to kill Clastier and destroy his papers.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said, turning back to Sani-Niyol.
“Trust the deepest part of yourself . . . the part that knows everything.”
“How?”
Sani-Niyol bore his eyes back into Rip’s, answering silently. Rip understood. His eyes welled with tears. The old man turned, resumed chanting, and walked away.
Chapter 42
Mai did not return to their camp. None of them was very talkative, and dutifully resumed their studies. As the Eysen woke up, Gale gasped.
“That’s me in Peru!”
“When?” Rip asked.
“About five years ago, I was there on a story for National Geographic.”
“Machu Picchu?”
“No, the Nazca Lines. But that trip was a turning point in my life. I had just turned thirty and had really begun to question my own spirituality, past lives, my purpose, the universe, all that.”
“Peru will do that to people, but generally, they get home and return to their senses,” Rip said.
“How does it know this stuff?” Sean asked. “My birth, you as a teenager, and now Gale in Peru? What does it mean?”
“It’s like it knows who we are.” Gale said.
“I know,” Rip said. “How advanced was the society that created these things?”
“Things? There’s more than one?” Sean asked.
Gal
e and Rip exchanged a glance. “The casing, the Eysen, and this.” Rip pulled out the small stone Odeon with the matching gold inlaid bands.
“What’s that?” Sean asked.
“It was found with the Eysen. We have no idea what it is or if it does anything.” Rip wasn’t comfortable with anyone else knowing that there was another Eysen. Gale’s expression told him she didn’t agree with keeping information from Sean, but she kept quiet.
“If these artifacts are as important as you say, why did you waste all that time going to Catholic churches?” It was a question Busman had wanted him to ask. “I mean you claim the Vatican killed Josh; wouldn’t you want to avoid them? Shouldn’t you have been hiding?” Busman didn’t want him to keep bringing up Josh, but knew he would; it was the reason for his cooperation.
This time Gale got words out first. “The churches, the Eysen, and Josh’s death are all connected. The first time we were able to work with the Eysen for more than an hour, it showed us a priest named Clastier.”
“Gale,” Rip said, in a sharp tone and hard eyes.
She ignored him. “Clastier lived in northern New Mexico two hundred years ago,” Gale said, making sure not to look at Rip. “The leaders of the Catholic Church ordered him killed.”
“Why?”
“In part because he predicted the Eysen would be found. It was his papers that led Rip to make the discovery.”
“So you’re telling me that the Vatican has been killing people in order to suppress this thing for centuries?” Sean asked.
Gale nodded.
“Why? What are they afraid of?”
“The same thing people are always afraid of,” Rip said.
Sean stared at him, waiting.
“People are really only afraid of two things . . . the unknown and the truth.”
“I thought it was death,” Sean said.
“Death is the great unknown,” Rip said.
“I’m not going to debate this with you; I get enough of that with my philosophy professor. I’m just curious as to why you think the most powerful religion in the world has spent centuries trying to stop this.”
“My guess is for both reasons: they don’t want the truth to come out, because it will invalidate their version of the world; and they’re terrified of the unknown. They’re afraid to find out who created such a thing . . . and why?”