Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) (11 page)

Erik Hokart was gone, and Erik was depending on him for help.

Apparently Erik was a prisoner, but was he actually in what they had been thinking of as the Other Side, or was he held somewhere here? The idea of a kidnapping still seemed reasonable. It was all very well to talk of a parallel world, whatever that meant, but he was a rational human being who believed in dealing with the here and the now. He had trouble enough dealing with one world without thinking of another.

Whoever they were who had Erik had shown themselves willing and capable of using force. The ruins of the burned-out café were proof enough of that, and the man who had gotten into his condo was another.

He poked sticks into the coals of the fire, which was dying down. Suppose it was a simple kidnapping? Their next step would be a note demanding ransom, but who would receive such a note? Erik had no relatives, or none Mike had ever heard of. Not many people knew that he, Mike Raglan, was a friend of Erik's. If he knew of no one to whom a ransom note might be sent, how could the kidnappers know?

A foreign government could be ruled out. Erik had not done any government work for some time and it was doubtful if anyone had known of that. With the speed of change in such areas, whatever Erik had done would now be out of date and no longer important.

Revenge? But for what? Erik was not a man who made enemies. Always a gentleman, a quiet, hardworking man who never paraded his skills or his wealth, he was a man who did not attract animosity.

Nonetheless, he was gone. He was not here on the mesa. His car had been abandoned in town. His possessions were here, even his shaving kit.

Mike poked at the fire, shying from the problem he must face. Fantastic as the story seemed to be, Erik was missing, and wherever he was he was depending on Mike Raglan to help him, to save
them
. He had written in the plural, so there had to be somebody with him.

Kawasi might have the answer. She might be able to tell him who the other person was, if it was not Kawasi herself.

He looked away from his fire, listening. Had he heard something? Chief was sleeping, or seeming to sleep. Earlier he had growled, so there had been something out there.

A coyote? A mountain lion? Or some other person? Or
thing
?

Mike was glad he had talked to Gallagher. There was no nonsense about the man but he did have imagination. How much of the story he accepted was open to question, but at least he had listened.

The burned-out café was very much his business, and he had seen the white van. Whatever base they had might have been established for years, and those who lived there might be known in the community. Gallagher was working on the case, and he would keep hunting for an answer, no matter where it came from.

The night was very still. The stars were bright. A soft wind moved across the mesa, stirring the stiff leaves, rustling them. Mike listened for any unnatural sound, any whisper that did not belong to the usual night.

Old stories of haunted houses and mysterious happenings came to mind. Suppose there was truth to some of them? Suppose some of the stories of witches and ghosts had derived from visits across the veil?

Some of his Indian friends accepted things as true that a white man would doubt, but the white man judged from limited knowledge and might be too quick to scoff.

He hunched his shoulders under Erik's parka. The night was cold, as desert nights are apt to be. He stared into the outer darkness but could see nothing.

The world over there was evil. In what way?
Evil
was a word with many meanings. Evil was to some a sin against God. To others it was a sin against society. What had been the evil from which the Anasazi fled into this Fourth World? A social evil? He doubted it. Men did not flee from a social evil. They passed laws, or they ignored such evils; yet this evil had caused them to flee, to abandon the world in which they lived, leaving all behind.

What was the evil from which they fled? What was so fearsome, so terrible, that they would leave all behind?

What was the evil some had been willing to accept by returning?

That was a question he must ask Kawasi.

Mike Raglan got to his feet. He added fuel to the fire. He peered into the darkness.

Why could he not sleep? What was it out there that lurked, waiting? Why did it not close in, attack him? Was the evil that lay over on the Other Side a physical thing? Was it something that might attack, that could attack? Or was it some more subtle evil?

He glanced toward Kawasi. She slept, soundly. He walked toward her, looking all around. The ancient wall was close behind her, solid as the day it was built.

He sank down beside her and looked at his watch. It was scarcely midnight and he had been believing it was almost morning.

The flames danced weirdly; shadows shifted and changed. The butt of the gun under his hand was cool. He eased it in the holster for quicker use.

Chief's head was up. Mike looked where the dog was peering into the night. He started to rise.

A hand touched his.

“Don't!” It was Kawasi. “Do not go out there! Not now, no matter what happens!”

Chapter 12

H
E HESITATED, A little irritated. What was there to fear?

“They come to the fire,” Kawasi whispered. “They watch the fire.”

For several minutes, neither spoke. Raglan listened, touching his tongue to dry lips. What “they” were he had no idea, but he remembered the creatures who responded to the flash of light or fire from the top of the mesa. Were these the same?

He heard a vague rustling, a stirring, then silence. Should he put out the fire? It would not be easy to do without exposing himself more than he wished and he did not like the idea of being left in the dark.

He started to move and her hand touched his arm. “They must not see you,” she whispered. “Be still, and they will go away as the fire dies down.”

He wished it were morning, still hours away. He liked to deal with trouble in the clear light. The creatures he had seen seemed manlike, and he did not want to kill anything. In any event, a killing could lead to many questions and much trouble. If there was an investigation, and there certainly would be, how could he explain his situation? Who would believe such a story?

Hunched in the shadows beyond the fire, they waited. Kawasi sat very close, her arm warm against his. She, at least, was real. Or was she? What
was
real?

The fire died to red coals and a few thin tendrils of flame. His leg was cramped and he changed position carefully, trying to peer beyond the fire and into the night. He could see the dark rim of the rocks, and beyond it the sky where the night told its beads with stars.

No shadows, no movement. “I think they've gone,” he whispered.

“Wait!” She put a restraining hand on his arm.

He relaxed slowly. Tired of the long waiting, he felt his eyes close. He opened them, shaking his head to clear it of sleep. He must get some rest. He'd had very little since leaving the East, as his first night's rest at the condo had been interrupted.

He was leaning against the cot, his head against the edge of the bedroll. His eyes closed.

Footsteps awakened him, and it was broad daylight. He started to get up, then stopped.

Kawasi was gone!

Gone where? He got up hurriedly, then stopped abruptly. Gallagher was standing outside the door, looking in at him.

Mike Raglan looked quickly around. Kawasi was gone—gone as though she had never been. At least she was not here. He looked around again, then stepped outside.

Gallagher was staring at him. “What's the matter? What's wrong?”

“She's gone. Kawasi is gone.”

He looked down the length of the mesa. Sunlight was touching the rocks in the distance and Navajo Mountain was aglow with a reflection of the rising sun. The rocks over toward where Rainbow Bridge stood were a brilliant rust-red.

“What d'you mean, gone?”

“She was here, right beside me when I fell asleep. We were waiting for the fire to die down.” He paused, realizing how foolish his words must sound. “There was something out there, some
things
. She said they were attracted by the fire.”

Gallagher's hands were on his hips. “You say she's gone. Gone where?” Gallagher's eyes were cool. “I drove out here to ask her some questions, a lot of questions. Now you say she's gone.”

He made a sweeping gesture. “Gone
where
? Where is there to go? Your car is over there, just where you left it. I didn't see anybody when I drove over, and I started before daylight. I am going to ask you again, Raglan. Where is she?”

“I'm telling the truth. She was right here beside me. We were both listening to whatever was out there, and I was dead tired. I caught myself nodding a couple of times and tried to stay awake. I guess I fell asleep.”

Gallagher looked around. “You say something was out here?”

“Just beyond where you're standing, I'd guess. We heard a rustling, a sound of movement. I saw nothing and I don't believe she did. Whatever it was, she said they were drawn by the fire and would go away when it died down.”

“She's a witness, Raglan. An important witness. I need to talk to her. She was last seen with you, heading out this way. She couldn't just vanish.”

“No?”

“Don't start that again. I don't buy it.” He paused a moment. “I found your white van, or at least
a
white van.”

Raglan waited, his eyes sweeping the mesa. There had to be footprints in that dust. If there had been movement, there had to be signs of movement. “And…?”

“Paiutes. Been here for years. Nothing unusual about them at all—just folks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not much of a place. Been standing there for years. They run a few sheep, keep a pony or two. Lots of Indians don't feel right unless they have some horses. Even if they don't ride them, they want them.”

“You found the van?”

“Sure. Right there in the garage alongside the house.”

“Garage?”

“Sheet-metal building. Kind of a workshop or something. I guess they make their own repairs.”

“You talked to them?”

“Sure. There were three of them there. Old man and woman and a young buck, maybe twenty-five or so.”

Mike Raglan felt let down. He had thought if they found the van there might be a lead. “You know these people?”

“No, I don't know them. I talked to Weston about them—he's their nearest neighbor. He's known the old folks for years. Seems their people used to live close around here but they pulled out and went away, years back. Weston says the old folks never bother anybody. He picks up junk, stuff along the highway. Old tires, anything thrown out or abandoned. The old man does. Sells stuff occasionally.”

Gallagher walked past him into the ruin. He glanced at the blueprints, then into the next room at the cot, the bedroll.

Raglan walked out on the mesa. There was a confusion of tracks, blurred, nothing definite. Somebody had been here. He said as much.

“You could have made those tracks,” Gallagher said, “just gathering wood. Or Hokart could have. There hasn't been any rain or high winds to wipe them out. They might have been there for weeks.”

“There'd be dust sifted over them.” Raglan walked away several steps. “Gallagher? Take a look at this. Do you think I have feet like that?”

“This” was a large, distinct print of a bare foot, a very large foot.

Gallagher looked at it and was silent. Suddenly he squatted down on his haunches. “I'll be damned!” he whispered. Then he pointed. “Will you look at that?”

At the end of each toe—and they were well-defined—there was the mark of a claw. Or of a long untrimmed toenail. But sharper, like a claw.

Gallagher stood up and looked around. For a long moment he looked all about and then he said, “She's gone. Do you reckon those things got her?”

Mike Raglan had been shying away from the idea. “No,” he said, “I don't know how they could have gotten her without a struggle. She was deathly afraid of them and would never have gone into the dark where they were, and they would have had to go over me to get her.”

“Then where is she?”

Reluctantly, he said. “I think she went away, after they had gone. I think she went because she wanted to, or had to, but of her own volition.”

Gallagher looked at him. “Went where? I told you I was on the road, and I saw nobody. She wouldn't just wander off into the desert and fall into a canyon, would she?”

“Maybe she went back where she came from. To the Other Side.”

Gallagher stuck his thumbs in his belt. “You on that kick again? I've been thinking about that. It's nonsense. Pure unadulterated nonsense! I don't buy it.” He paused. “You're in trouble, Raglan. Maybe what you should do is get on the wire and get yourself a good lawyer. We've got two disappearances here, one of them a wealthy man, another a beautiful girl. The only connecting link is you.”

“And the kiva.”

“There's a lot of kivas.” He glanced around, then said, “Let's have a look.”

Erik had staked out his rooms, indicating the projected floor plan of the house. Two of the rooms—the large living room and the study—were to have walls of native rock which needed only a little smoothing and shaping. The floor as well would be of natural rock.

Gallagher paused, studying the strings and stakes that marked the layout of the rooms. “Quite a place. You say he was going to build this himself?”

“That was the idea. I suspect he might have called somebody in to do the plumbing and the wiring.”

“Away out here,” Gallagher commented, “he wasn't going to have many visitors.”

“He didn't want them. Erik had an apartment in New York, beautiful place, but he wasn't social. He had a few friends, mostly people he met in a business way. He wanted time to think, to be away from the telephone.”