The Adam Enigma (7 page)

A major pilgrimage site for spiritual seekers in the twenty-first century, Glastonbury at one time had been touted as home to the fabled Isle of Avalon. Arthurian legend stated it was here that Arthur Pendragon had received the legendary sword of Excalibur. Later he came back here with Morgan le Fey to recover from wounds he suffered after defeating his mortal enemy Mordred at the Battle of Camlaan. Glastonbury was also reputed to be the final resting place of the Jesus Christ's Holy Grail, brought to the sacred isle by Joseph of Arimathea, who later became the first Christian bishop of Britain. Archaeologists generally downplayed these claims as being a publicity stunt by the monks to raise money for a new abbey after the original Glastonbury Abbey burned down in 1184. The town, itself, located 20 miles south of Bristol, had been an Iron Age village and was over 3,000 years old. The fact that early agriculturalists had created a town on this spot was more than enough to pique his interest. The later tales of Arthur and the Holy Grail were little more than icing on the cake. Ramsey had gotten some unusual low-frequency electromagnetic readings near the ruins of the old abbey.

One day while walking through the town square carrying his equipment and gauging the sky that was roiling with thick with dark clouds, a breeze whipped up, screaming of a downpour in just a few minutes. He had just decided to go to a pub, where he could wait out the storm, when an old man reached out a claw of a hand and snagged his windbreaker. “You need a guide,” he said flatly.

Ramsey turned and started in surprise. The man was bent and twisted like a goblin, with a sharp nose stuck out from a gaunt face. Hair sprouted from his ears in tufts and his bushy eyebrows shadowed deep sockets that gleamed with a dark inner light. A long beard flowed down his chest. When he looked closer, Ramsey saw one of the man's eyes had been plucked out, as if offered in a sacrifice like Odin at the well of Mimir. The other was slate gray and burned with the intensity of an exploding star.

Ramsey set his equipment down. “Why do I need a guide?” he asked, amused at the man's boldness. He thought he was just an old drunk who needed money and like the twelfth century monks of Glastonbury Abbey was concocting a need where there wasn't one.

“You'll never find what's important here unless someone points you in the right direction.”

Ramsey scratched the beard he'd been growing since the field research started three months ago. The old man looked harmless, so why not wait out the storm inside with him. “What's your name?”

“Loki.”

Ramsey hid his surprise. Loki was a shape shifter and the trickster of the
Aesyr
, the Norse gods.

The old man said, “My family has lived in these parts since Glastonbury was a muddy jumble of thatch-roofed huts. We came here during the Iron Age. Not many can recall that far back.”

For a sharp breath Ramsey thought the old man might be crazy, but there was something interesting—not just about the town—but about the man himself. His senses honed in on the old man. He stood on the sidewalk by the short wooden bench, as though he owned this spot on the town square. Others seemed to walk around him, not out of fear but respect. Some even nodded. “Mr. Loki, let's go inside to the brew pub before we get drenched by the storm and you can tell me what's special about this place.”

The ancient man leaned back against the bench. He looked up and his good eye narrowed as though it were some kind of laser piercing the thunderclouds forming overhead. After a minute they roiled away and sunshine came through. The ever-curious aspect of Ramsey's character sparked his interest in the old man. And what the old man said next rewarded his curiosity.

“What you're trying to detect, that equipment can't find,” the old man said. He smiled and his teeth were all white and solid, not like the old yellowed and broken teeth of a man who was supposed to be ancient and wizened. Ramsey realized also his voice was not raspy and shattered like so many old people who drank or smoked too much. It held a touch of lyricism, like a wandering minstrel, and seemed to match the man's tattered clothes, a motley of leather jerkin, a ruffled shirt, and coarse wool pants. The name “Loki” nagged at something in his memory but he couldn't place it.

“Some say they can feel it in their bones,” Loki added. “Right now, you're poking at the edges, trying to see if there are any hornets in the nest. You have to go inside the nest, boy.”

“Where can I do that here?”

“Not here. The place for that is Peru. That's where you'll find the meaning of what you experienced many years ago in Iowa.” Ramsey started in surprise. How could the old man know about his experience during his college days at Grinnell? Before he could ask him about it the old man stood up and Ramsey realized he was as tall as himself. Loki looked back at the sky. The clouds were gathering again. “Time to go . . . and time for you to return to the States and journey south to Peru. There is a shamanistic practitioner in Santa Fe . . . José Luis . . . who can get you there. You should look him up and tell them the old trickster sent you. He'll understand.”

Loki crossed the square. He felt the young man's eyes on his back watching him. He could sense the rising certainty in the man's desire to make the journey. He laughed gleefully to himself, danced a jig and spun around. The young man was gathering up his equipment, his eyes darting in Loki's direction.
It is time for you to cross over
, Loki giggled in his mind.

Ramsey had watched Loki cross the plaza. The old man seemed to get bigger and darker with each step, like the gathering thundercloud. Ramsey grabbed his equipment and set off after him. Rain suddenly rushed down like Noah's flood. Instead of following the old man, he hightailed it to the nearest pub. Inside by a roaring fire, he ordered a black and tan. He waited an hour for the rain to stop. When he went outside, he saw no trace of the old man. It was then that Loki's boldest deed as a member of the Norse pantheon clicked in his memory. He was the Norse god who brought the gift of fire to mankind.

Ramsey hadn't thought about that day in a long time. He heard another deep rumble of thunder and looked out the café window. Gray clouds now enveloped the sky above Grinnell. Yet another rumble seemed to go on forever and when it ended, the clouds opened up and a cold slushy rain fell. He looked at his bike leaning against the rack outside the café. On the sidewalks, people scurried to get under
cover. He ordered another cup of coffee and waited.
The power of synchroncity
, he thought.
Events are bringing me back to my starting point twenty years ago
.
Only this time I'm more prepared
. He sipped coffee and came to a decision. It was time to call Malcolm Grossinger, the man he had overheard in the airport.

Surprisingly, when Ramsey explained his rather unusual story about needing to speak with Malcolm to the woman who answered the phone, he was immediately connected. It was almost as if Malcolm had been waiting for the call. After Ramsey mentioned that he had overheard him in the airport conversing on the phone about Adam Gwillt, to Ramsey's surprise once again, Grossinger said he remembered the conversation he was having in the airport with his wife about Adam's belongings. He was not only happy to meet with Ramsey but seemed eager to talk about his longtime best friend Adam Gwillt. They arranged to meet outside of one of his condo complexes the next day.

March 27, 2016
Des Moines, Iowa

D
es Moines, the capital of Iowa, was one of those Midwestern towns that had gone through radical ups and downs over its life. Many would say its primary business is the presidential primary, as it is the first stop of every presidential campaign. Founded in 1851 as “Fort Des Moines,” it had undergone a revival the 21
^st
century. Part of that revival was the transformation of the old Simpson Chair factory into the Malcolm Grossinger Lofts—sixty-one loft apartments located in the heart of the Court Avenue cultural district. The charm of the exterior of this historic building has been a model for the gentrification of downtown Des Moines.

Malcolm Grossinger, the owner of the lofts, was an upper-middle-class only son of a Sioux City physician. He had graduated from Drake with honors and went into business, eventually marrying the daughter of a small upstart cable company executive. The cable enterprise was just the beginning. As the company grew, Malcolm's personal wealth climbed into the upper one percent of the country as he acquired many landholdings across Iowa. He was one of the rich and powerful in Des Moines and board president of Des Moines's mega-church, the Evangelical Covenant.

Now in the gray mist of a cold March morning, Grossinger, with Ramsey by his side, buzzed himself into the Malcolm Grossinger Lofts.

Ramsey immediately liked the man while at the same time recognizing there was some agenda in play that he wasn't being told.
Almost immediately Grossinger began talking about his friendship with Adam.

Grossinger and Adam had developed one of those lifelong relationships that to most people would seem a mystery.

Adam and Malcolm were roommates as freshmen at Des Moines' Drake University. An immediate and deep bond formed between the two young men. Adam had a scholarship from a private fund that supported foster children. He was a self-driven, self-taught philosophy major. But as Grossinger would quickly find out, he was a person incapable of dealing with the social milieu of university life and dropped out after only one semester.

Grossinger gave Ramsey a snapshot of Adam's life. Adam could've done anything he set his mind to, even play football at the pro level. During his adult life he worked mostly in a bookstore, and as a stock boy in a grocery store. When Malcolm needed something fixed on his house or his apartments Adam could do it all. They hunted together. They were passionate University of Iowa football and basketball fans, attending hundreds of games together.

Grossinger turned to Ramsey. “As you might have guessed by the name on the building, my family trust owns these apartments. When the restoration was complete, I let Adam stay here for free. Why not? He was my best friend. It's hard to believe he just disappeared. I've kept his place just as it was the day of his accident. I always thought he would come back.”

“Did he?” Ramsey asked.

“No, instead I visited him three times down in New Mexico. The first time he was just beginning his convalescence. Still bedridden. His memory was really foggy and he asked me to tell him stories about his life. Which I did for three days.”

“Second time?”

“He had changed dramatically. He was anxious that I come down because he wanted to take a trip with me to Albuquerque. Said he wanted to see the ancient rock art. But when we got there he asked me to drop him off on the edge of the poorest Hispanic neighborhood in the city. Told me he would be fine and to pick him up in six hours. Which I did.”

“What do you think he was doing? Did you ask him?”

“He said something about needing to be among the poor and the sick.”

“That was it?”

“That was it.”

“You said there was a third time. What did you guys do?”

“Nothing special.”

Ramsey's highly practiced intuition again told him Grossinger was hiding something, but he didn't press it since they had now reached room 356, Adam's apartment. Grossinger pulled out a key and unlocked the door. It was a small loft. Books were everywhere. Every philosophical book that was ever written seemed to be here in one grand collection. Taking in the room, Ramsey grasped the organizing principle. Logical positivism in one place, transcendentalists in another, existentialist and moral philosophers—all were brilliantly grouped and alphabetized.
Adam must have been a stickler for order.

“As I said, I kept the room for him just as he left it. I always assumed he was coming back. But now?” He shrugged.

Grossinger walked over to a large metal filing cabinet. He opened the upper drawer and inside were reams of handwritten notes, yellow pads filled with mathematical symbols and file folders stuffed with papers.

“Adam wrote constantly all his life. Said he hoped someday to write the quintessential philosophical treatise. Somebody should go through these and see what's here.”

“You?”

“Of course not. Maybe you know somebody who might like to be paid to organize this stuff?”

“I might.” Ramsey thought of a bright young graduate from the nearby University of Wisconsin who he just interviewed for an internship.

Grossinger's mood shifted. He was no longer the jovial storyteller. “Tell me again what you're up to?”

Ramsey wondered how Grossinger would respond to the story of his paranormal experience but he decided to risk the truth. “Do you believe in apparitions or visits from spirits, angels, or even the
dead?” Ramsey waited for a reaction but Grossinger's steely gaze never shifted. “When I was at the shrine three days ago I had what could be called a visitation from Adam. He gave me a riddle about how it was time for me to sow the seeds of a life. I'm trying to make sense of this experience and the riddle. Can you help?”

The smile returned. “I believe I already have. I have an appointment I must get to in ten minutes.” He then disarmed Ramsey when he said, “Stay as long as you like, lock up when you leave. And when you get back to the Milagro Shrine, tell Carlotta I love her.”

Ramsey knew Grossinger was playing with him and enjoying it. “A last question. When did you take Adam to Albuquerque?”

“I believe it was in June of 2011. By the way, no one could ever figure out why Adam was driving Sam's motorcycle that day. Adam always said he had no recollection of what happened.”

Ramsey spent another hour carefully studying the room. Eventually he was drawn to the book on the table alongside Adam's bed. It was William James's
Varieties of Religious Experiences
, and it was open to the page with a quote underlined: “There are two lives, the natural and the spiritual, and we must lose the one before we can participate in the other.” The idea of him trying to commit suicide immediately popped into Ramsey's mind.
Is that what he was doing on the motorcycle?

Ramsey tried to make sense of some of Adam's writings.
He's either a genius or self-deluded.
The last thing he noticed on Adam's desk were books on Scotland and travel logs and maps of Edinburgh. What was it Carlotta had said? His father was Scots and he'd been born in Edinburgh practically on the steps of Holyrood Palace.

He sat in the wingback chair by the window. The leather was shiny from use and it was obvious Adam had spent many hours reading here. As often happened at a time when he was sifting through clues to puzzles, his thoughts drifted to his old girlfriend, Paige Ripperton, and he wondered what she would think.