Esperanza (28 page)

The same way you were sure about Louise.

He made it back to the cabin by dusk, ran inside and gathered up his belongings—clothes, toiletries, Polaroid camera, extra film, the pages he’d written. He had made a carbon copy of his recollections and left that on the kitchen table. He put the typewriter into its carrying case, but the damn thing was so heavy he decided to leave it here, in the cabin. He wouldn’t need it in Esperanza.

Ian left the lights on, so the spill of illumination through the windows would enable him to see the driveway and porch. He grabbed his pack and the shotgun, and raced back outside to the Renault. He tossed everything into the passenger seat and drove the Renault as deeply into the trees as he could take it. Headlights off. The engine ticked like an alien heart straining against the heavy tug of gravity.

Have to be sure.
He got out and moved swiftly to the edge of the thicket, where he had an unobstructed view of the cabin.

Darkness settled in, the night came alive with the hum of animal life. Something large thrashed through the underbrush nearby, an alarming sound. Black bear? He stretched out on his stomach, shotgun tight in his hand, and seriously considered retreating to the Renault and fleeing. But the thrashing noises moved away from him. Pretty soon, he heard a car, moving toward him. Luke? Or someone else? Until he knew the truth about Luke, neither choice was good.

His son’s Chevy roared into view, kicking up clouds of dust that drifted in the wash of the headlights, and behind it came Casey’s VW Bug. Both cars screeched to a stop in front of the cabin. Luke leaped out of his car, shouting, “Dad, Dad, turn on the news! You were
right,
they offed King. But he was at the Artisan Hotel, not the Lorraine!”

Luke burst into the cabin, still shouting, and Casey scrambled out of her VW, racing after Luke.

Luke and Casey: possessed by
brujos
?

Ian remained motionless, clutching the shotgun, his mouth desert dry. And then it hit him. The Artisan Hotel, not the Lorraine. Had history been changed because Luke had warned the journalist who knew King? He might never know for sure, but it seemed to be a reasonable assumption. Did that mean Robert Kennedy’s assassination couldn’t be prevented, either?

“Dad?” Luke and Casey ran back outside and stood in the circle of light streaming through the windows, holding hands. Ian studied them, didn’t feel anything unusual, and finally called, “Yeah, I’m here.” He emerged from the trees, the shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.

“Thank God,” Casey burst out, but it was Luke who rushed over. “We thought . . . we didn’t know what to think.”

Ian held him tightly. “They got your mother, Luke. We need to leave. Immediately.”

“
They
? Who?” The eerie light cast part of his face in shadow. “The
brujos
?”

“One
bruja.
Dominica.”

“Jesus. How do you know?”

“I was in town. I saw Louise and sensed the thing inside of her. Louise arrived with that lawyer prick.”

“Garthe, that makes sense. But how . . . how did she know you were near Hibbing?”

“I think that when a
brujo
seizes someone, it has access to that person’s knowledge. Your mother must know you have a friend who owns a cabin near town.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter
how
she knows, Luke,” Casey said. “It’s enough that the
bruja
is six miles from here.”

Casey got it, Ian thought. “Can you drive me to Duluth, Luke?”

“Now? Tonight?”

“We need to get out of here. I’m booked on a flight to San Francisco tomorrow.”

“Okay, sure, Dad. Of course. Let me just grab my stuff.” Then he frowned and gestured toward the shotgun. “Why’re you clutching the shotgun?”

“Because . . . I thought they may have gotten to you, too.” He looked at Casey. “And you.”

Luke came over to them, slung one arm around Ian, the other around Casey, hugging them both fiercely, tightly. “Never,” he whispered.

“Let’s get a move on, guys,” Casey said.

And only then did Ian truly believe that neither of them had been taken, and he wondered just what the hell he would have done if the opposite had been true. Would he have shot them? Luke pressed the Chevy’s keys into Ian’s hand. “Five minutes, Dad. Get the car going. Casey, you can leave your wheels here.”

“Grab the carbon of the manuscript,” Ian called after him, and tossed the shotgun into the front seat of the Chevy.

He backed up to the side of the car, the heels of his hands pressed over his eyes.

“Hey, Ritter.” Casey ran her hand across the back of his neck. “It’s okay. We’ll get you to where you need to be. But don’t be surprised if Luke and I follow you at some point.”

Ian wrapped his arms around her, familiar Casey, his redemption and his salvation these last few years, both as a peer and a lover. “Casey, you and Luke, take care of each other.”

Casey rocked back, nodding, tears glistening in her eyes. “We will.” The lights in the cabin went off one by one, then Luke ran back outside. “Let’s hit it.”

Ian gave Casey’s hand a final squeeze.

Dominica saw the crowd down the street, clustered outside one of the shops. She figured they were watching the coverage of King’s assassination, which she’d heard about on the radio on her way up here. That meant today was April 6, 1968. Where had King gone? He definitely wasn’t among the
brujos
. Anytime someone famous was headed their way, they knew about it. So where, then? The fact that she didn’t have any definitive answer to that troubled her. She’d been asking the same question for centuries.

So where were the chasers? Why weren’t they here, screwing up her plans, pushing against her like a force of nature? Maybe some higher power had seized the chasers. Ha. Wouldn’t that be ironic? In the event she ever ran into a chaser, she had plenty of questions to ask and foremost among them was,
Who’s pulling the strings? If not you guys, then who or what? And is this liberation group part of the chaser army?

More to the point, though, was that she had overlooked the importance of today’s date. But living the life of Louise Ritter Bell qualified as a major distraction. The woman had more dramas than Shakespeare, her appetites required full attention. Yet, when Dominica commanded her to shut up and crawl into her cave, she did. She understood the rules. And when Dominica had narrowed her information down to three towns, Louise had recommended that she go to Hibbing first. The family of Luke’s best friend owned a cabin outside of town.

She checked out a restaurant and a bar, asking if anyone knew where the Trebelle family cabin was located. But if anyone did, they weren’t saying.
Her third stop was a travel agency where two women, mother and daughter by the looks of them, appeared to have been arguing before she came in. As soon as the mother opened her mouth, Dominica knew Ian had been here, that he’d bought a ticket to somewhere. It was as if he had left an imprint in the air, like an odor, triggered by this woman’s brief association with him.

She moved in close to the older woman, the mom. “I’d like to know if an Ian Ritter bought a ticket from you today.”

“What?” The woman slipped off the desk where she had been sitting.

“Ian Ritter,” Dominica repeated.

“I had an Ian, but not a Ritter. I think he was . . . wait a minute. Who’re you?”

“His wife.”

“Ian Ritter’s wife?”

“Yes. But he may be traveling under another last name.”

The teenage girl looked warily at Louise, perhaps sensing that she wasn’t what she appeared to be, and whispered something to her mother. The mother nodded and said, “I’m not permitted to give out that kind of information.”

“I would rather not bring my attorney or the police in on this, ma’am. Mr. Ritter is a fugitive.” She gestured outside at the cop. “All I need is his destination.”

“I’d like you to leave,” the woman said.

“You give me no choice,” Dominica said, and turned to open the door and call to Ray.

“Duluth to San Francisco,” the woman said quickly. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Dominica leaped out of Louise, back into the grayness of her own world. Louise stumbled, her hands flew to her face, and she started clawing at her skin and screaming,
“Help me, someone help me.”

She thought that Louise should be grateful that she hadn’t been left bleeding out. But maybe gratitude was what Louise was here to figure out.

Dominica wished she knew what
she
was here to figure out. She took one last glance at Louise and drifted away.

The bus dropped Ian off at the south side of the Berkeley campus. He slung the strap of his small bag over his shoulder and stood in the bright, cool air, orienting himself to the map Luke had given him. Then he started walking up Telegraph Avenue, headed for the administration building six blocks north. If Sara Wells existed and was teaching here this semester, then he would find her.

After twenty-four hours of traveling, it felt wonderful to walk, to know that he was about to prove conclusively one way or another whether he was demented or sane. He needed just this final piece of evidence, to actually see someone from Esperanza. He didn’t even have to talk to her. In fact, it probably was best if he didn’t. If he meddled, if he introduced himself and tried to explain who he was, it might change something up the line. He couldn’t risk that. Look what had changed just because Luke had spoken to the journalist who knew King—the location of the assassination had been changed. There might be some events so intrinsic to the unfolding history of the world that they couldn’t be altered.

As he worked his way deeper onto campus, he passed throngs of students—those holding vigils for King, others who were war protesters, members of SDS posting signs about demonstrations this weekend against the war, Black Panthers with raised fists, shouting, “Black power.” King’s assassination might not have made any significant impact on life in Hibbing, Minnesota, he thought, but here in Berkeley it was part of the battle cry for ending the war.

He passed the student union building, music blasting from the open doors. The Beatles, a cut from their
Sergeant Pepper
album. Numerous posters were plastered to the windows, announcing events—an antiwar demonstration, a Janis Joplin concert, a poetry reading by James Dickey, an SDS rally. One poster featured Robert F. Kennedy and read:
KEEP THE LEGACY ALIVE
.

Have they assassinated Bobby yet? Bobby Kennedy? He leaves the planet on June 5, 1968, the Ambassador Hotel, L.A.
Tess’s words now haunted him.
Since she’d been right about King, she undoubtedly was right about RFK, too.

The lobby of the administration building was dominated by a round information booth manned by four students. No waiting lines. He went over and a pretty young woman asked what he needed.

“I’ve got an appointment with Professor Sara Wells. But she forgot to tell me her office number. She teaches cultural anthropology.”

The woman flipped through pages on a clipboard, ran her finger down lists of names, shook her head. “I can’t seem to find her, sir.”

It stunned him. Deep down, he’d been convinced she was real, that she would be here. “Can you check again? W-e-l-l-s.”

“She’s social sciences,” said a young man behind the desk. “But they’ve got some of those profs in the humanities building while they’re renovating.”

More flipping of pages, more lists, then: “Here she is.” The young woman made a red
X
on a campus map, slipped it toward him. “Second floor, office thirteen.”

Thirteen.
He nearly laughed out loud. “Thanks very much.”

Ian flew out of the building. He convinced himself that he would just knock on her door and ask if he could speak to her about the
brujos
of Ecuador. He would say he was a freelance journalist doing a travel piece on that country, and while he had been down there, he had heard about the legends of the
brujos
, had talked to locals who believed they were ghosts—hungry ghosts. Something along those lines.

But when he finally climbed the stairs to the second floor of the humanities building and was within seconds of knocking at her door, he suffered a crisis of confidence that nearly sent him screaming for the nearest exit. He flopped forward at the waist, so that blood flowed into his head, and just hung there, eyes squeezed shut, fingertips brushing the floor.

“Hey, are you all right?”

“Uh, yes, I just felt a little dizzy.”

He rose up—and astonishment ripped through him.
Real, all of it real, it happened
. Sara Wells looked exactly as she would look forty years from now, a tall blonde, slender, pale and lovely, certainly not a day over thirty-five. So what Paco Faraday had told him was true—people in Esperanza didn’t age. Her thick blond hair was cut shorter, in an attractive style that showed off the bold line of her jaw. She wore a touch of makeup, earrings
and a matching necklace made of some lovely dark stone flecked with amber. Gone were the jeans and black turtleneck sweater he recalled; her blue print spring dress matched her eyes.