Kage (11 page)

The main building was a big two-story adobe affair. The

door was unlocked, and we moved gratefully into the dark

coolness of the interior. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust

after the glare of the courtyard. The first floor featured a great

room with a cathedral ceiling and a stone fireplace big enough

to cook a bison . There were clerestory windows high up along

the walls, and shafts of indirect lighting cut through the space.

There were smaller rooms for conference groups and a kitchen

and dining area to the rear. The second floor was entirely

occupied by Eliot Westmann’s personal quarters, including his

library. It was where I’d spend most of my time.

We walked up the wide flight of stone steps that led to the

second level. I tried not to look down for stains.

Charlie read my mind. “This is where the old man took the

fall,” he confirmed. The staircase grew wider as it led down-

ward, a dramatic architectural sweep that must have been

designed to permit truly memorable entrances from above.

Unless, of course, you got totally smashed, lost your footing,

and tumbled down. The stairs had small risers and the steps

were made from gray flagstones, dense and hard-edged. I imag-

ine that falling down them would not be an esthetic experi-

ence—the only thing they offered was a series of punishing

blows on your bounce to the bottom.

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Kage

Westmann’s library had a wall of tinted windows that pro-

vided a vista of the dusty hills as they tumbled down into the

rough and broken desert terrain that stretched out to Mexico

and beyond. His desk was set at an angle to the wall of glass,

and I could imagine him sitting there, rubbing tired eyes and

turning to face the wide world, to escape for a time into the

expanse of tan and brown and faded ochre that waited out

there under a wide and uncaring sky.

The other walls were windowless and packed from floor

to ceiling with books and unbound papers stuffed in dark

brown file folders. There was a worktable in the center of the

room with a few hardback chairs around it. The desk itself was

devoid of clutter. A flat computer screen stood in isolation on

the polished expanse of cherry wood. I looked around the room

expectantly, as if something there would help give me a sense

of Eliot Westmann. I looked in vain. There were no posters or

paintings. No decorations of any type. None of the other typi-

cal junk you find in people’s offices, either: plaques, odd stat-

ues, paperweights, souvenirs. And no photographs. There was

nothing in the room to give me a sense of the former owner’s

personality, that he had been connected to places and things

other than those in his own mind. Eliot Westmann’s sparse

legacy was a steely-eyed daughter and the books and papers in

the sagging shelves all around me.

I looked at Charlie. Wiped my hand along a bookshelf.

“This place has been cleaned since he died, hasn’t it?” It looked

too tidy. Most writers I know have working spaces that look

like a tornado has recently blown through them.

He nodded. “Sure. The Criminal Investigations people

from the State DPS took a look, dusted for prints in various

rooms.”

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John Donohue

“Anything unusual?” I knew I wasn’t supposed to be

involved in this end of things, but hanging around with my

brother has had an effect on me.

Charlie smiled knowingly. “No identifiable prints other

than Westmann’s and the staff. Some smudges of indetermi-

nate origin. Mostly, the state guys were just going through the

motions to make Lori happy. Short of a message written in

blood on the wall that said ‘I did it,’ it was pretty clear that

Westmann got loaded and took a header down the stairs. End

of story.”

“And yet…” I started.

“… here we are,” Charlie finished.

“I hate spinning my wheels,” I told him.

“Easier to take when you’re on an expense account,” he

reminded me.
Cop wisdom.

We agreed that I had better get started, not that I was entirely

sure what that meant. Contrary to appearances, Charlie said

there were staff members around and they’d take care of me. I

walked him downstairs and out onto the porch. A big van with

the hotel logo on its side curved into the courtyard, kicking

up some dust. A bunch of people swathed in sunscreen, large

floppy hats, and sensible shoes emerged. The driver popped out

and began unloading daypacks and camelback water units out

of the rear of the van. He was dressed in hi-tech outerwear—

what looked like climbing pants, a white sleeveless shirt, and

well-worn hiking boots. His long jet-black hair was pulled back

into a ponytail. His skin was burnished a deep reddish brown

and his eyes were hidden behind wraparound sunglasses with

lenses that shimmered in a rainbow effect. The man with the

ponytail glanced at us, but gave no sign that our presence had

registered at all.

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Kage

I looked at Charlie and nodded at the van. “What’s this?”

“Desert hike. Part of the service from the hotel. This place

has lots of trails and Lori’s been encouraging their use.”

“Who’s the driver?”

Charlie snorted. “The Chief? His name is Rosario Contre-

ras. Outdoor freak. Hiking. Rock climbing. He works at the

hotel setting up desert excursions.”

“Chief?” I asked incredulously.

He grinned. “Nah, I just call him that to needle him. He’s

big into Native heritage on both sides of the border. Calls him-

self Xochi.”

“Showchee?” I asked, and Charlie spelled it for me.

“That’s not Spanish,” I observed.

“No. It’s something different. Aztec or something.” He jut-

ted his jaw out in mock seriousness. “Reflects pride in heritage.”

We watched the group get organized and head off down a

path that led out into the surrounding hills. I peered out at the

sky from the cover of the porch. “Call me crazy, but if I were

taking a walk around here, I’d do it really early or really late.”

Charlie nodded. “So you would think. But you’re a practical

guy. Not an entrepreneur.” I looked at him quizzical y. “He takes

them out for a hike,” he explained to me. “They stumble around

for twenty minutes, worried about rattlers. He tel s them about

rocks and stuff. By this time, they’re swimming in sweat. They

take a break for a while and drink most of their water. They gasp

their way back to the van. Then back to the hotel and into the

bar for something cold and frosty. They pay for the hotel room.

They pay for the guided trip. And they pay for their drinks.”

“Ecotourism,” I commented. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

“Lori says it’s a form of recreational synergy,” Charlie

commented.

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John Donohue

“What’s that mean?”

“That she’s found another way to squeeze money out of her

guests, I guess.”

“She’s an evil genius,” I laughed.

Charlie Fiorella made his way to the car and looked at me

over the open door. “Hey. That’s my employer you’re talking

about. I prefer to think of her as a fearsome yet creative pres-

ence.” He gave me a grin and drove away.

I spent most of that day getting organized and dreaming up

a strategy. I had some biographical stuff on Westmann and a

list of all his book publications. I’d also searched the Internet

for any related sites that could flesh out his profile. I got into

some on-line archives that had old reviews of each of his works.

I did a lot of cutting and pasting and saving stuff to disk.

But I knew that I was simply dodging the inevitable. Even-

tually, I was actually going to have to
read
all the stuff he wrote.

I had a vague recollection of looking at his books years ago

when I was young and impressionable. Even then, as naïve as

I was, I had put Westmann’s work down, convinced that the

guy was a fraud. And I had seen nothing in the literature from

the academic community that suggested anything different.

Yet it was a type of opinion that was widely held even though

the reasons were not particularly well documented. People had

suggested that Westmann had recycled excerpts from various

obscure tomes, fit them together into an outlandish fantasy of

his own making, and then tried to pass it off as scholarship.

In some ways it was a beautiful scheme. The world of aca-

demia is like most other worlds—filled with fine people, but

also with its share of freaks and phonies. Mainstream schol-

ars dismissed Westmann, but somewhere in the few thousand

obscure little colleges around the country you could always

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Kage

find some charlatan with a shaky Ph.D. who’d defend what one

book dust jacket described as “a groundbreaking exploration

of a secret world of mystic warriors, penned by a courageous

scholar.”

In the post-modern academic world, truth is often alleged

to be relative. Westmann’s stuff didn’t seem plausible? Who are

we to denigrate an individual’s unique perspective? Nobody

seemed to be able to substantiate his claims? Nobody could

locate the leader of the secret society who was his main infor-

mant? Easily explained. It’s a
secret
society.

It all made me roll my eyes. Serious readers with any famil-

iarity with the topic would simply dismiss Westmann’s stuff.

And few people would have the need or the time to do a very

thorough research job to prove or disprove his veracity. Only a

nut would devote any time to this.

Or someone in the pay of Westmann’s daughter.

I sighed and pulled his books off the shelf, lining up cop-

ies of reviews for each of them. Then I went back to the Web,

tried to track the book reviewers down, and e-mailed a message

outlining my purpose to the ones who were still alive, asking

whether they could point me in any direction. No sense rein-

venting the wheel.

The task was uninspiring and I grew antsy. I looked out

through the wall of glass at the shifting patterns on the des-

ert floor below me. I thought about the group from the hotel.

Maybe a little hike to end the day?

The van with the tourists was long gone. I headed over to

the gravel path that led out into the rough terrain around the

property. A finely-crafted wooden sign with a vaguely Indian

stick figure pointed the way onward. Who was I to argue?

The sun was dropping down and the wind, while hot,

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John Donohue

offered the illusion of relief. I wandered down the track, think-

ing of nothing in particular, just glad to be moving. I could see

boot prints from the tourist group in the dust on the path. It

wound up and down slight inclines. In a few places, it paralleled

the edge of the ridge to permit panoramic views of the desert

floor. The rocks around me were awash in the rose-orange glow

of a setting sun, silent watchers, stolid sentinels who would

never voice an alarm.

After a time, the path ended in a small, boulder-studded

cul-de-sac. This was obviously the limit of hotel adventure. I,

however, am made of sterner stuff. I noticed a very narrow trail

leading up through the boulder field and over a ridge. I fol-

lowed it up.

Here, the view was even better. I could look back and see the

buildings of the Kiva, lit up by the sunset, and an even wider

expanse of desert terrain, studded with lengthening shadows.

The pathway arced away around the hillside and out of sight.

In another ten minutes or so of walking, the ridgeline began

to soften and the incline leading to the lower elevation became

more gradual. I came across what looked like a four wheeler

track. It crossed the path I was on and sloped down the hill. I

looked at the setting sun, aware that I didn’t want to get stuck

out here after dark. But I figured that I still had time. Roads

always lead to something. Way out here, I wondered what that

was, so I took a left and began to follow it down.

In retrospect, I should have been more alert, more sensitive

to the subtle vibrations that could have warned me that this

was not a good idea. I could argue that I was in a strange place,

a very different environment and that the sensations, while

present, were not familiar enough yet for me to interpret. But

there’s no real excuse. My
sensei
admonishes us that there are

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Kage

two important things in a warrior’s life: intention and result.

And results matter more. Excuses are both meaningless and

potentially distracting. Which means they’re dangerous.

I was bounding along the track as it switch-backed down

the slope, loose limbed, and just enjoying the hike. So I pretty

much blundered into their midst before I or they knew what

was happening. The old battered Jeep Cherokee was covered in