Esperanza (29 page)

“You look really pale. My office is right here.” She gestured toward her open office. “Why don’t you sit inside and I’ll get you some water.”

“Thanks very much.”

Ian shuffled inside, his bag bumping against his hip, trying to play the part of a man who moments ago had been on the verge of passing out. He sank into the nearest chair, set his bag on the floor. He felt the burning across the pit of his stomach and suddenly
knew
she was puzzled by how easily and readily she had invited him into her office and that on some level she sensed he was familiar to her.

While she filled a paper cup with water from the cooler, he noticed how she had decorated the office. Hanging on the wall across from him were framed posters from a Joan Baez concert and the Monterey Festival. Her framed degrees filled space in the middle of them, as though they were of secondary importance. A tall bookcase occupied the east wall, books neatly arranged. To his right were photographs of Ecuador—the shaded, labyrinthine mystery of Quito’s streets, a Quechuan woman wrapped up in colorful blankets, cooking outdoors, and the volcano that overshadowed Esperanza. His heart seized up just looking at them.

“Were you up here looking for someone?” Sara handed him the cup of water.

Nodding, he emptied the cup. “For Professor Wells. I’m doing a travel article on Ecuador and I understand that she’s one of the foremost experts on Ecuadorian mythology.”

“I’m, uh, Professor Wells.”

He acted surprised. “Fantastic. What a stroke of luck. I’m Ian Ritter.”

Despite his certainty that he was familiar to her, her expression revealed nothing. “I’m only an expert in one small piece of Ecuadorian mythology, Mr. Ritter. But the entire culture and country fascinate me.”

“What can you tell me about the widespread belief in mysterious
brujos
that travel in fog? Some people refer to them as
mala sangres
. During my travels there, I heard locals talking about them, about how they can possess people, but no one would discuss them with me. What can you tell me?”

Something shifted in her expression. “The
brujos
you’re talking about, at least to my understanding, seem to be the Ecuadorian version of the
bogeyman.” She frowned and shook her index finger. “You’ve been a bad boy and the
brujos
are going to hear about it. Like that.”

“Do you think there’s any truth to the myth? That they might actually exist?”

“I don’t know. In Esperanza, where the myth is most pervasive, the locals profess to believe in them. So I think it’s fair to say the myth is alive for them. But I never saw any hard evidence that these creatures exist. As a cultural anthropologist, I’m more interested in the mythology.”

“Suppose the myth is real? Suppose these
brujos
really
do
exist?”

She sort of smiled and cocked her head, eyes narrowing as if she were really seeing him for the first time. “It sounds as if you had an experience of some sort while you were there, Mr. Ritter.”

He didn’t know how much he should say, what he should admit. “Tell me. In your research, did you find any information about the mythology of the town itself?”

She sat behind her desk now, elbows propped on the surface, chin resting against her clasped fingers. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Centuries ago, according to the myths I heard, Esperanza was a nonphysical place where transitional souls went to discover that death wasn’t the annihilation of consciousness. The
brujos
loved it, because it meant they had a huge pool of souls they could seize. There was a great battle between a group of evolved souls and the
brujos,
who lost. That was when Esperanza became a physical place.”

“What was this group of evolved souls who won the battle?”

“I heard them called
cazadores de luz
.”

“Light hunters. Or light chasers.” Her smile softened her mouth. “Forgive me, Mr. Ritter. But it all sounds like the Ecuadorian version of
Paradise Lost.
” Her eyes searched his face for a moment, then she frowned. “You seem so familiar to me. Where do I know you from? I have this . . . this kind of half memory, of being in a room, crouched in front of you and telling you to
remember
. And there was a tall, blond woman with you.” She laughed quickly, softly, as if with embarrassment. “And yet, I know I’ve never seen either of you before. Does any of that make sense to you?”

How could she remember events that lay forty years in their future? Einstein had stated that time was an illusion, that man perceived it as past, present, and future because it was the only way human beings could function. But Einstein hadn’t addressed soul, that part of man that survived
death, that seemed to be eternal. Suppose that soul consciousness, once it had experienced an event, was able to transcend the boundaries of time? To recall snippets of what, on a mundane level, hadn’t happened yet?

“Do you have some free time?” he asked. “For brunch?”

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Three hours until my next class. I know just the place.”

“By the way, if you apply for a Fulbright, to study the
brujo
myth, you’ll get it.”

She was on her feet then, purse in one hand, keys in the other, and her eyes widened. “How . . . I mean, yes, I, uh,
have
applied. But I won’t hear for months.”

“In May of next year, you call your sister from Quito. It’s the last time anyone hears from you. Because you won the Fulbright, left for Ecuador, and took up residence permanently in Esperanza.”

Her eyes held his for a long, uncomfortable moment. “How do you know I have a sister?”

“I read about you on the Internet, in the Incan Café in Esperanza, in 2008, when I was in a coma in 1968.”

Her expression was as inscrutable as a fortune cookie. It wouldn’t surprise him if she suddenly picked up the phone and called security. Instead, she threw her head back and laughed. “You know what’s weird? I believe you, Mr. Ritter.”

Over lunch at a waterside café in a beautiful and scenic spot on the bay, he told her everything, A to Z. He even showed her copies of his medical records that Luke had obtained before he’d left Minnesota, records from the hospital, the nuthouse. She combed through them, mostly silent, occasionally commenting or asking a question.

“Do you know the way to Esperanza?” she asked finally.

“Take a plane to Quito. Beyond that, I don’t have a clue. What about you?”

“I’ve been there only once, two years ago. And I don’t know how I got there. I had taken what I thought was a bus headed to Otavalo. But the bus ended up at—”

“The Bodega del Cielo?”

Stunned, she stammered, “This is . . . beyond weird.”

“Were you alive? Conscious?”

“Alive and kicking.”

“Who drove your bus?” he asked.

She stared out over the sunlit water of the bay, Alcatraz a vague shape in the distance. “A tall man with thick black hair. His name was odd. Wayra, I think that was it.”

He recalled the name, but no face or person was connected to it. Still, it smacked of deliberate design. But whose design?

“Tell me about this Ed Granger,” she said. “He was an Aussie?”

“Who ran the posada.” Ian described what he recalled about the place and the people, naming names that included the animals. Nomad, Kali, Whiskers.

For the longest time, she didn’t say anything. She stabbed at the bits of salad on her plate, dipped her spoon into her soup. Finally, she said, “I think you and I should head to Esperanza as soon as possible, Ian.”

Where was Charlie when Ian needed him? “No. It has to remain like it would have been if we’d never met.”

Her mouth went as flat as a dash. “I can’t wait that long.”

“Look, two weeks ago, I told my son that Martin Luther King would be assassinated on April 6, at the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis. He knows a guy who interviewed King and told him to make sure King wasn’t anywhere near the Lorraine on that date. I think that as a result of that warning, King moved his operation to the Artisan Hotel. That warning changed some small part of history. It’d be a mistake for us to change the timelines of events. Neither of us can risk it.”

She leaned across the table, eyes darkening with some powerful emotion. “I’m the captain of my own ship, Ian. If I choose to go now, then I will. If I choose to go later, then I’ll do that. I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me when or how.”

“You’re right.” He dropped a five on the table to cover lunch, then picked up his bag and pushed to his feet. “I had no right to say any of this. I appreciate your time, Sara. I’ll grab a cab back to my hotel.”

“Wait, where’re you staying?” she asked.

“In San Francisco.” He moved quickly past her and was getting into one of the waiting cabs outside the restaurant when she barreled through the front door, shouting his name.

“Step on it,” he said to the driver.

“Where to?”

“Hotel Drisco.”

Half an hour later, the driver let him out in front of a two-story hotel
high on a hill at the corner of Pacific Avenue and Broderick Street. He had gotten the name from a magazine article on one of his flights. Breathtaking views of the bay fell away on either side of him, sky and water melting seamlessly together on his right, Alcatraz Island visible on his left, but not for long. A fog moved toward the island. He suddenly wondered if
brujos
could travel in
this
fog. A cold tongue licked its way up his spine. Ian shivered and hurried into the hotel.

His room faced the bay and he threw open the windows to the glorious view. He could see Alcatraz from here, the fog rising, rolling, starting to wrap around the base of the island. It probably was regular fog, not
brujo
fog, but it spooked him nonetheless.

Ian backed away from the window and sat down at the edge of the bed. He rummaged through his suitcase, appalled that he had fled with such a small bag and only two changes of clothes. He would have to shop before he left here. But first . . . He got out his BankAmericard, dialed for an outside line, then 0 for operator, and got the numbers he needed. His first call was to Pan Am to book the next available flight from San Francisco to Quito. There was a flight at nine this evening, which would get him into Quito at eight tomorrow morning. Two stops, Houston and Caracas. He booked it and could pick up the ticket at the airport.

His next calls were to the
Miami Herald, Fort Lauderdale Sun Sentinel,
and the
Palm Beach Post
, where he placed ads in large bold type, in the classified personals, that were to run daily for the next two weeks.
Slim, it’s real. Am leaving 4/8/1968, Frisco—Quito. Love, Ian Ritter from Minneapolis.

The ads cost him a small fortune, but he’d left money in his account at home for Luke to pay off any outstanding bills. Ian would call him later and let him know. For now, he needed to buy a larger bag, more clothes, good hiking shoes, and then settle his bill here.

As he got up, he took another look out the window. The advancing fog had completely obscured Alcatraz and seemed to be moving toward the mainland now.
Doesn’t mean anything.
But he quickly shut and locked the windows, his mouth bone-dry.

Dominica loved San Francisco in any era, any time. Aside from the obvious beauty of the city, it was the fog that spoke to her most deeply.

The fog here was the loveliest and most complex she’d ever encountered outside of Ecuador. It was easily manipulated, sculpted and molded, and could be used in the same way they used it at home. Since it was so common
in San Francisco and not associated with anything dangerous or evil, as it was in Esperanza, people wouldn’t think to take shelter from it until it was too late.

She knew that Ian Ritter was here, but couldn’t get a precise fix on him, so she thrust her arms upward, like Moses parting the Red Sea, and summoned a legion of her kind.
Come and feast! Ben, you’re needed. Lead them here.

She didn’t know if the restrictions she’d encountered about seizing people violently would hold for a mass of
brujos
descending on the city, but suspected she was about to find out. Who or what had imposed these rules? In the years she’d commanded this tribe, the only time she had summoned them like this was when she and Ben had returned to the Esperanza area twenty years ago to erect their home base in the twin peaks. Within minutes, the dark fog began to gather well off the mainland, growing larger and thicker as the
brujos
congregated, as if they had been waiting to be summoned.

Then the fog tumbled across the surface of the water, gathering speed and mass, and quickly enveloped Alcatraz Island. The place was closed, it wasn’t a tourist site yet, but there were many bodies to choose from—National Park employees, construction workers, the crew of a boat that ferried employees back and forth between the island and the mainland. The
brujos
seized and feasted, proving that en masse, her kind could negate the stupid restrictions. Others, like Dominica and Ben, didn’t take bodies. They fed on the stark terror and horror of those who were seized.

I like it here,
Ben thought.
But we’re powerless outside Esperanza.

No. Even if we can’t assume forms, we can certainly create terror. And maybe find and kill Ian Ritter in the process. Any news yet?