The Adam Enigma (20 page)

Ramsey glanced at Myriam. She slumped in the front seat, her dark eyes quiet. It was like a great burden had been lifted from her—and, exhausted from carrying it—she needed peace. He realized for the
first time since Peru that he could see her simply as a human being, an ordinary person in pain. “Thanks, Myriam,” he said quietly.

Snow started coming down hard. Large fat flakes stuck to windshield. The wipers could barely keep up, making it difficult for Ramsey to see the highway. The road was narrow and winding in spots. He had to slow way down. The darkness in the car was punctuated by the blue glow of Ramsey's phone as Pete searched the web. Occasionally he grunted an approval. Ramsey hoped he was finding what he was looking for.

The Mercedes fishtailed through a turn, the backend sliding toward the guardrail. The front tires caught dry pavement and everything shot forward. Then the snow stopped as if someone had drawn a curtain. They drove on in silence for several minutes. Overhead stars started to peek through the overcast.

“That was tough. Some of those curves were a bitch,” Ramsey said, relieved they had gotten through it.

Pete said, “I've been here for five years and I'm still not used to New Mexico's springs. One day it's sunny and clear . . . five hours later it's raining . . . three hours after that it's snowing and then it's clear again. It should just rain like everywhere else. Hopefully those South African bastards will freeze to death.” Realizing what he had just said, Pete touched Myriam's shoulder. “That was stupid of me. Look, they'll find them in the morning, this sort of thing happens all the time around here.”

Myriam nodded.

Ramsey asked, “Do you have any idea how those Mexicans knew what your discovery party was up to? Did you tell anyone?”

Pete groaned and slumped back in the seat. “Julio.”

“What?”

“Julio the ring leader. Remember, I said he works for Rosa Cisneros.” Pete slammed his hands against the seat. “I called Rosa the night before. She's been so excited about the possibility of a diamond mine in the area I couldn't help telling her.”

Myriam mumbled, “That explains it.”

“What?” Ramsey asked.

“The other day she said there was something she didn't want to jinx.”

“Damn, you know what's really crazy? The Mexicans that jumped us. They swooped down on us when I jokingly said to the merc leader Goren, ‘Damn this'll make for a 10 carat diamond.' They must've thought they were robbing a jewelry store. There were diamonds in the kimberlite but most were teeny-weeny. Not worth the effort to dig them out. Those Mexican dudes were filling bags full of the stuff.” He snorted derisively. “What fools.”

Ramsey tapped the steering wheel. “You think Rosa set you up?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you find the pipe?”

“No. I have an idea about that.”

Ramsey replied. “Not now. When we get to your place. Driving through that snowstorm was exhausting.”

A few minutes later they reached the turnoff to Pete's home. Myriam's phone buzzed. She fished it from her purse. She recognized the Texas area code but not the number. Her hands started to shake. She handed it to Pete. “I can't . . . what if it's someone calling to tell me Hiram's dead?” Tears welled up in the corner of her eyes and she clenched her hands so tightly her knuckles popped.

Pete swiped the screen. “Myriam St. Eves' phone.” He listened for a pair of breaths. “She's right here,” he said. He handed her the phone but Myriam shied away, shaking her head. He smiled broadly. “Good news.” He pressed the loudspeaker icon.

“Myriam. It's Hiram.”

April 1, 2016
Indianapolis, Indiana

S
itting in his office at his mega-church, the Reverend Billy Paul looked at the video Greta Van Horn had placed in his Dropbox. He watched the local Taos, New Mexico TV reporter sign off with the hopeful words that everyone was praying for the lost hunting party's well-being. He felt the knot in his stomach. He was facing total disaster.

The Reverend Billy Paul had brought a new, simple message to his parishioners. It was the message of the one truth, the truth of the Bible—Jesus is Lord and only through taking Him into your heart as your personal savior could one enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Billy Paul's charismatic style of preaching and his simple practice of faith had found a large audience among those searching for a conservative religious message. His ministry extended beyond national boundaries. Billy Paul became a larger-than-life global preacher, loved and admired by millions worldwide.

But in addition to his general church, he had set up a secret society—the Brothers of the Lord. Rich people funded this clandestine group, mostly believers from the South but also from everywhere there was discontent with the lax morals and beliefs of ecumenical Christianity. The Brothers of the Lord had been modeled after the
Shuilkerken
, the clandestine churches of the sixteenth-century Reformation that exercised what was known as
exercitium religionis privatum
, private religious services. Working in small groups, the Brothers of the Lord
had created a secret ministry to battle against those who taught false doctrine and watered down of the Scriptures. But now their super-secret mission to find and stop Adam from becoming the central figure of a new kind of false religion had gone grievously awry.

Billy Paul watched the video again. His heart began to pound at the thought of his evangelical empire collapsing when news of the attempt to kill Adam Gwillt got out.
It will all come back to me. My fingerprints are all over this effort to kill someone
. A sharp pain lanced through his chest. Billy Paul buried his head in his open hands and began to weep.

April 1, 2016
Taos, New Mexico

B
eecher bit back a curse. Pain shot from his knee shoot through his entire body.
The fall down the granite slab must have actually wrenched something
. He tried to ease to a more comfortable position without giving away that he was injured but Conklin was watching him with concern all over his face. “We can rest.”

Beecher shook his head, eager to get back to civilization. “I'll be all right. How much farther to the van?”

“Half mile maybe.”

Once again Beecher thanked his foresight in bringing the younger man into the situation.
Otherwise you'd be freezing your ass off with the South Africans
. Earlier the sudden temperature drop had drained much of the desperate energy that propelled his escape from the South Africans. Conklin had met him on the trail with energy bars and water. It occurred to Beecher he knew little about the youngest member of the Brothers of the Lord, yet the man was helping him, and had, in fact, saved his life. “Thanks, Sam,” Beecher said.

“No problem, Hiram. So what happened back there?”

He told Conklin about the attack by the Mexicans.

Conklin whistled tunelessly. “You're lucky to be alive.”

“Don't I know it? But you know what was really weird; that the scientist I hired to investigate the Milagro Shrine, Jonathan Ramsey, showed up with the guy working for DeVere—Pete Miami. It was part of a bigger plan all along. How strange is that?”

Conklin nodded. “Very”

They hadn't gone more than a dozen steps when Beecher staggered against a tree. Conklin grabbed him by the arm. “You okay?”

Beecher nodded, but his heart was racing. “It just came to me. I knew I had seen the leader of the Mexicans before, the one who went after Dr. Miami. He works at the Rio Chama Café where Myriam and I always eat.”

“And that means what?”

Beecher shivered and not from the cold mountain air. “What if the Mexicans are supposed to get rid of everyone connected to the shrine?”

“That's a lot of people and doesn't seem probable,” Conklin cautioned. “It more likely has something to do with the South Africans.”

Beecher nodded and resumed walking up the steep slope. “It's just that I don't want to take any chances with Myriam.”

“Makes sense. When we get back to the chalet you can sort it all out.”

“Sure.”

Beecher wasn't convinced. He worried about Myriam and whether he needed to move her out of Rio Chama to somewhere safe from the Reverend Billy Paul and the South Africans. He moved faster and the rest of the trip to the van was uneventful.

Beecher tried to ease his leg so the knee wouldn't hurt. No position worked. The van's bucket seats were just too cramped. He finally settled himself as comfortably as he could. He stared at the dark shadows flashing by. Here and there flakes of snow started to fall, the van's headlights turning them into miniature shooting stars. They still had several miles to go before they reached the chalet, and with the snow it would take them longer.

Once more Beecher scrutinized Conklin.
Does he have a bigger role in all this?
Then his attention turned to what to do next. There was no clear course of action. He knew he no longer was working with the Reverend Billy Paul or the South Africans. But where did he go from here? Deep down he felt himself siding with Adam. It was all so confusing.

When they arrived at the chalet, Beecher discovered Conklin had called ahead. The caretaker had a warm meal waiting for them in the large dining room. As they were eating, Beecher was drawn to a breaking news bulletin interrupting the basketball game the caretaker was watching. Beecher watched for a few minutes and then leaned over to Conklin. “That's Greta Van horn. She works for DeVere and most certainly isn't anybody's wife.”

Conklin thought for a moment. “Obviously they haven't made it out yet.” He saw consternation spread across Beecher's face. “What are you thinking?”

“Should I tell somebody? They could all die. I can't be responsible for their deaths no matter what assholes they might be.”

“If they are as tough as you say, they'll make it through the night.” Conklin's words seem to placate Beecher. Once again he wondered why Conklin was doing this.
Why is he helping me? What does he want?
Then a nagging urge that had been with him since Conklin found him exploded. “Can I use your phone?” Conklin handed it to him as Beecher got up and walked to the far end of the large dining hall.

He called Myriam. To his surprise she knew about what happened. Even more surprising was that she was with Jonathan Ramsey and Pete Miami. Nothing made sense to him.

April 1, 2016
Taos, New Mexico

P
ete was still full of energy and dashed off to his lab, leaving Ramsey in the living room of his cabin. He was alone. Earlier a handsome, middle-aged man had showed up at Pete's front door, saying his name was Sam Conklin and that he had come to take Myriam to Beecher. But the day's revelations had caught up with Ramsey and all he wanted to do was lay back and relax, going over what had happened. He settled on the couch with another glass of Courvoisier Cognac.

It had been a madhouse just a half an hour earlier before Pete had left. Myriam had spoken to Hiram, and though her anguish had vanished, it was now replaced by a somber confusion. Turning to Ramsey, she had said, “Hiram told me to tell you your job is done. You'll be paid in full. He said Adam has been found. I don't understand what he means by that, but if you're interested I'll tell you once I know more.”

Pete's brow furrowed and he ran his fingers through his red hair. “Just like that . . . we're done,
finito
, over and out.”

Myriam had said. “Hiram has a different message for you. He's greatly relieved you got out safely and says for you to be very careful how you proceed with the South Africans, even if Haas and his men don't make it out.”

The lines in Pete's forehead deepened. Then his eyes flashed with understanding, “I have to go work on some stuff. Make yourselves
comfortable.” He dashed for the lab and Ramsey heard the click of the lock being thrown.

Myriam said, “Actually I won't be staying. Hiram said somebody's on the way to get me. Turns out he's nearby.”

“Are you sure you want to see Hiram?” Ramsey asked.

Myriam nodded. “He has a lot of explaining to do but needs to do it face to face alone with just me. Do you suppose Pete has anything to drink here?”

Ramsey was going to say, “Of course . . . it's Pete.” Then he recalled his old friend had stopped drinking. “I'll look.” He found the Courvoisier Cognac kept for guests and poured them stiff shots in a pair of coffee mugs.

Myriam smiled and tipped her glass to Ramsey. “Pete always had class.”

“I have a lot of questions,” Ramsey said.

“I supposed you would.”

“First, I don't think I'm done with this.”

“I don't think you are either. It might just be the beginning.”

“There's something I've been wanting to ask you. You never mentioned any healing experience of your own.”

“I never had one, unless you count this odd dream I had a few months ago where a man I thought could have been Adam appeared as Christ.”

“Why do you think that is? That you never had an experience of healing energy?”

“I really don't know, but I saw all the good it did for other people, and that was enough.”

“You know this Adam shrine thing is really about a big change occurring in the world.” He twirled the Cognac in the glass, smelled the fragrant bouquet. “Are you a Gnostic?”

Myriam's eyebrows knitted together. “What are you talking about? That Christian sect was wiped out by the Catholics 1800 years ago.”

Ramsey smiled. “There's a twenty-first century group of people, calling themselves the New Gnostics. They've been influenced by the Milagro Shrine and are building something global in nature. I believe
they are creating a new religion. I think it all revolves around Adam and his healing capabilities.”

Ramsey pulled out his phone and punched the link to the New Gnostic website. He handed it to Myriam.

“I know nothing about this.”

“That's hard to believe, you being so involved in the management of the shrine.”

“Considering our history, I don't see any reason you should trust me, but it's true.”

Before Ramsey could reply, Conklin had knocked. She was out the door moments later. The last thing she had said was, “I'll get back to you.”

Ramsey settled back in his chair. Pete's living room was eerily quiet as though someone had gone to great lengths to give Ramsey all the privacy he needed. He couldn't help but notice the exaggerated limp in Myriam's step as she rushed out the door. It reminded him of the early stages of Parkinson's. He took a sip of the cognac. He hoped Myriam did not have the disease that had devastated his mother.

He took another sip of the cognac. The warmth filling his body demanded that he sleep. For the moment he was relieved to think he could be done with the shrine and Adam Gwillt. But he knew this was just his fatigue speaking. The whole question of Adam and his relationship to the New Gnostics gnawed at him.
There's more happening here than Beecher or Myriam or the South Africans suspect
, Ramsey told himself.
It's like the proverbial tip of the iceberg
. But he was too tired to go any deeper at this point.

“I need a good night's sleep,” he said aloud with a yawn.

Then the smart phone in his pocket buzzed. It was a text message. The header read, “Unavailable.” He opened it. “Adam awaits you.”