The Adam Enigma (26 page)

April 4, 2016
Rio Chama, New Mexico

A
fter a glorious night, Hiram and Myriam found themselves relaxing around her breakfast table.

Myriam said, “I had a revelation last night. Something came to me in my sleep. It was like a dream, only more intense—as though it were really happening.”

She took a deep breath, ready for Beecher to laugh at her, but the big man put down his coffee and leaned across the table taking her hand in his broad fingers. “Tell me about it.”

“A coyote came to me and began speaking. He asked me, ‘Why are you crying, little one?' I told him, ‘Because I was leaving New Mexico in the morning.' He laughed gently and shook his head. ‘The shrine needs a new caretaker.' He gave me a catkin like ones from the cottonwood tree.” Myriam opened up her left hand. In it was a dried spike from the cottonwood. “I found this on the dresser this morning.”

She paused, then said shyly, “I want to keep the shrine going.” She waited for Beecher to say something.

The big man nodded his head slowly and said, “Agreed.

“You're so agreeable.”

“It's my penance.”

Myriam reached over and placed her other hand in his. “I love you so much.”

April 4, 2016
Des Moines, Iowa

R
amsey parked on the capital grounds and studied the new urban architecture that seemed to float along the Des Moines River. He shook his head at the nearness of the development to the river. Heavy spring rains coupled with snowmelt had brought the river up and out of its banks. A surprising warm front had extended from the Rockies into Minnesota and was going to increase the flood danger. These buildings would be flooded unless city crews sandbagged the entire area. That was a stopgap measure at best. Next year if the city accepted his firm's watershed recommendations for the capital, they would build retaining walls to keep back the floodwaters. But the new design would spoil views and playgrounds. It was a win/lose situation unless he could find a way to make the new area special for everyone.

Every bridge needs to be crossed in its time
, he thought. He started the car and pulled into the street heading for the Grossinger Lofts. For a moment he thought about calling Grossinger and saying he couldn't make the meeting. Ever since he decided to confront Adam's friend, he had been indecisive about what approach to take. That indecision had led to hesitation and waiting. He looked at his watch. He was almost late. Then it came to him.

As Ramsey walked down the hall he could see that the door to Adam's condo was slightly ajar. Carefully he pushed it open. “Hello,” he called out.

“Come in,” Grossinger said quietly.

Sitting in the large leather chair, Grossinger gestured for Ramsey to sit in the chair next to the computer table. To Ramsey, the older man seemed to have aged. His countenance was almost grandfatherly.

“What have you found out about Adam?” he asked.

Ramsey's plan was to go right to the heart of the matter. “You lied to me last week.”

“What do you mean?” Grossinger seemed genuinely surprised.

“You knew all along Adam was alive. You and Pieter Haas cooked up this convoluted scheme to involve me in a search for his whereabouts.”

Grossinger stood up. “I don't know any Pieter Haas. Are you crazy?” he said with a tinge of anger.

“You're denying you're a Gnostic?”

Grossinger turned away from Ramsey and walked over to the window. Tapping his finger on the sill, he turned abruptly back towards Ramsey. His anger had subsided “Okay, calm down and tell me what this is about.”

Taking Grossinger's cue, Ramsey said calmly, “I was told you are a high level member of the New Gnostics, a global group of people who have been affected by the Rio Chama Shrine and Adam's healing powers.”

“I can tell you truthfully I'm not a member of any such group.” Moving ever closer to Ramsey, he added, “What did you say about Adam's healing power just now?”

Ramsey was confused. “Don't you know Adam was the source of the shrine's healing power?”

Grossinger appeared to Ramsey to be struggling with how to answer. Finally he nodded. “Adam figured it out eventually. Before I say more I need you to tell me what's going on.”

Ramsey decided he had nothing to lose and told him about the strange sequence of events. Grossinger listened intently without asking any questions and when it was over said, “That's quite a story. But the part about my involvement is not true. The conversation in the airport was just a coincidence. I was talking with my wife about Adam.”

As Ramsey was about to reply, Grossinger's phone buzzed. “I need to take this,” he said, and walked into the bedroom, closing the door.

The call seemed to be taking forever. Eventually Ramsey noticed a photo album just to the right of the computer. He started thumbing through it. It was all pictures of Adam playing chess with different people. Above each opponent was a large black “W” or “L.” Halfway through the album he was stopped cold. There was a picture of himself across from Adam. Above Ramsey's head was an “L.” Later he would recall that the album wasn't there the last time he was in the condo and vaguely remembered during his college days playing an amateur chess competition at Des Moines' Drake University.

April 6, 2016
Grinnell, Iowa

F
our days after returning from New Mexico, Ramsey's experiences and revelations about Adam Gwillt being the source of the healing power of the shrine were becoming more unreal and even improbable. Rather than clarifying his long search to understand the geographical power behind sacred places, the New Mexico adventure—as he was coming to think of it—had only muddied the water.

Rather than confronting his old mentor Roger Orensen, as he had planned to do right after returning from his confrontation with Grossinger, Ramsey decided to concentrate on his work. A project his company had been working on for over a year was coming to a critical point. It involved a trip to Blue Island, Illinois, a nearly all-black suburb of South Chicago. It was described in geographical literature as a social and food desert.

For months Ramsey's partner, Ron Grange, had worked to convince the Philip Thornton Foundation to partner with some Blue Island community members to create a pilot project for rehabilitating the beleaguered town. Grange had convinced Illinois' junior U.S. Senator that his company's geographical perspective would bring remedies to the problems where others had failed. Success would be a feather in the Senator's cap if he got behind it. The result was that state troopers would accompany Ramsey and Grange on a tour of the beleaguered city.

Over the last few days Ramsey had worked feverishly to bring himself up to speed on Blue Island. He only traveled from his house to his office, sometimes sleeping overnight there. New Mexico and Adam Gwillt receded from his mind.

The day before the planned visit, Ramsey met his partner at the Marriott Inn's four-star restaurant for dinner and to go over their plans for the visit.

At dinner Ramsey asked, “Who's meeting us?”

Grange replied, “Janet Furlong from the Philip Thornton Foundation. She worked with us on the low-income co-op deal in East Lansing three years ago. The Illinois Highway Patrol has assigned two state troopers to drive us around. We'll be met on site by Reverend Small from the city's largest Baptist church. He's the most highly respected man in town.”

“Will we get to speak to the residents?”

Grange paused, a piece of apple pie teetering precariously on his fork. “I am told it might not be safe.”

Ramsey pursed his lips. “We need to learn how the people of Blue Island see the world.”

“You're right,” Grange agreed. He washed down the pie with a swallow of coffee. “I'll have the reverend set up a meeting at his church. That should be safe.”

Ramsey looked at his partner in a renewed sense of how brilliant Grange was at establishing a baseline of community-shared values that form the nexus for understanding family structure, neighborhoods, law enforcement, and social services—and their relation to the state and federal governments.

“Ron, I don't think I've told you enough how much I appreciate your genius for understanding and bringing sensitivity to how geographically isolated groups are trapped by their mental boundaries.”

Grange gave a thumbs up in appreciation. “It only works because of your capacity to see how a place restricts opportunity or empowers people to escape those mental boundaries.”

“We're a good team.”

“Indeed.” Grange set his fork down. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I see by our bank account that you completed the New Mexico project. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Ramsey thought to himself that Beecher had paid up just like he said he would. “It's a long weird story I'm still digesting. On the bright side I got to spend time with Pete Miami.”

Grange chuckled. “Bet that was weirdly interesting.”

“Lately that seems to be the way everything's going.” Ramsey took the first bite of his dessert—New York cheesecake drizzled with an apricot brandy sauce. It was exceptionally good.

April 7, 2016
Blue Island, Illinois

A
gunshot rang out. Everyone in the lead state patrol car was startled. A second shot. The officer driving slammed on the brakes. The state highway patrol car skidded on the damp pavement and came to a halt in front of an old factory, its windows blown out and its faded red brick crumbling.

Through the patrol car's rain-spotted front windshield Ramsey and Grange watched a teenage black male stumble in front of an abandoned van and fall to his knees. The driver flipped on the cruiser's lights. “Welcome to Blue Island, murder capitol of Illinois, gentlemen,” the driver said drily.

Ramsey jerked in surprise. He'd seen this building before. It took a moment for his memory to clear and then he remembered the dream at Pete's home in Taos. It was more than a coincidence. “Aren't you going to help him?” asked Ramsey.

“Not our jurisdiction. Besides it's a prime place for an ambush.” The driver scanned the surrounding buildings warily. He keyed his vest mic and said, “Unknown black male, possibly armed, at the old brick factory on Kedzie Avenue. Advise caution.”

As if overhearing his warning, the officers of the second patrol car, which had taken point, did not get out.

In less than two minutes two Blue Island police cars arrived at the scene, sirens blaring. Four officers, guns drawn, stepped out of
their vehicles. They were aimed at the teen who had one hand wedged inside his coat.

“What're they doing? Can't they see the boy's hurt?” Ramsey asked the driver.

“They're protecting themselves. Stay in the car and let the police handle it,” the State Patrol officer said.

Ramsey saw the policemen advance on the youth. Something didn't look right. His hand went to the door.

Grange put a hand on his arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ramsey shook him off. “They're reading this all wrong. The kid's not a danger . . . he's in danger.”

Ramsey leapt out of the patrol car and ran toward the slumping teen. One of the Blue Island officers yelled, “Get out of the way! He has a gun.”

Ignoring the officer's command, Ramsey leaned down and steadied the teen. The boy looked up into his face. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his mouth was twisted in abject terror like Ramsey had never seen before. The teen's hand slowly began moving out from inside his jacket. The police sighted their guns. Ramsey shielded the boy.

When the hand came free the boy looked at bloody fingers and said, “I've been shot.” He passed out and slumped against Ramsey's chest.

Reverend Small left the second state patrol car and knelt down beside Ramsey. “The ambulance has been called. I'll wait with him,” he said with compassion and concern. Ramsey stood up. The rain had stopped and a light mist covered the ground. The shooting of the young black must have affected Ramsey's senses because everything around him seemed intense. He turned slowly, seeing the street scene more clearly than before—broken beer and whiskey bottles, dilapidated buildings, sidewalks strewn with filth, homeless sleeping in doorways. The van wasn't just abandoned, it had been jacked, it's tires gone, engine removed, windows smashed. He took a deep breath and the rancid odor of rotting garbage forced him to blink back tears.

It was eerily quiet now that the sirens had been turned off.. Ramsey broke the silence. “He must be somebody's son. Why isn't anybody coming?”

“There is no trust . . . no trust in God . . . no trust at all,” the Reverend said.

A new siren was heard approaching in the distance. Ramsey waited until the ambulance arrived and then walked over to Grange. People from the neighborhood now ringed the crime scene. They watched. Several had their phones out, videoing the action. No one approached. As the ambulance sped off, Grange shook his head. “This isn't good.”

Nodding, Ramsey said, “The boy couldn't have been older than thirteen or fourteen. He was terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Me.”

Grange pivoted on his heels. Yellow police crime-scene tape had just gone up. Beyond that a sea of black faces peered at them. He scratched his beard. “I don't know Jonathan. None of these folks look afraid to me. Angry maybe.”

Ramsey wiped the blood on his hands across his jacket. ”Obviously the police reaction to the shooting must be the norm here.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

Ramsey pointed his chin at a group of black kids hanging apart from the crowd. “See those kids there by the canal? I'm going to go talk to them.”

“Probably a gang. Might run. Might shoot you.”

Curiously, Ramsey didn't have any fear. Not because he thought they couldn't be dangerous but because he sensed a wary curiosity coming from them as if they were waiting to see what was going down. He shrugged. “Let's see what happens.” He started toward what he estimated to be a group of about ten black teens. The closer he got, the stronger the stench from the nearby canal. This waterway, known as the Calumet Sag Channel, had been constructed about one-hundred years ago to carry sewage and industrial waste away from Lake Michigan. Today the man-made canal was one of the country's most polluted bodies of water.

The boys did not run. As Ramsey came up to them, the tallest one stepped forward and demanded, “Who the fuck are you, dog?”

Ramsey looked at him. The way the rest of the gang held back in a kind of triangle formation, he surmised the teenager was the leader. “I'm Jonathan Ramsey. Do any of you know the MLK Baptist Church on State Street?” No answer. “Can you take me there?”

“Why?” asked the leader.

“I want to walk there and I need to be safe.”

“Just go with your white killer cops,” one of the younger members shouted.

Most of the others mumbled in agreement, but one them stood on tiptoe beside the leader and whispered something in his ear. Ramsey started in surprise as he realized the gang member was a girl. An older teen to be more accurate. She had close-cropped red dyed hair, strange blue eyes, a straight Roman nose and a generous mouth.

When she finished talking, the leader looked at her and said, “For real?”

She nodded.

“You stopped those po-pos from shooting Leonardo?” asked the leader, his voice less defiant than before.

Ramsey nodded.

The young black teen smiled. “Will you pay us?”

“I'll give you a hundred bucks now and another hundred when we get there.”

“You're one fucked up white boy,” chimed in a voice from the back.

Murmurs of assent rolled through the group.

Ramsey pulled out two $50 bills, handed them to the leader. “I'd like to talk along the way.” He started walking, the black teens filled in around him. Pointing to the canal he said, “Does it always smell this bad?”

“This isn't bad. You should be here when it's hot.” Gang members made choking and coughing sounds, amusing themselves.

Ramsey said “So, which way?”

They walked in silence for three blocks. Finally the leader stopped and pointed back at the crime scene. “Don't you want to know about Leonardo?

“Was he one of yours?”

“Is he gonna die? ”

“I don't think so.”

“It was a mistake.”

“It could have been you.”

“The dog's right,” said a member of the gang. “We all gonna to die here.”

“Maybe not. How many of you would like to get out of here?” Ramsey asked.

The smallest member snorted. “Nobody ever gets out.”

Another added, “Except the dead.”

Suddenly Ramsey shouted, “Man, what's wrong with you? You're the ones that are fucked up. Don't trust anybody.”

The small teen pulled out a gun and waved it around. “Man, here you trust one thing . . . Beretta.”

Ramsey glanced at the state patrol cars that had been tracking him and the gang as they walked. One look at the pistol, and the lead car veered suddenly toward the group. Ramsey watched Grange vigorously telling the driver to back off. When the car pulled away, he started walking again.

“You believe you have a flaw, like something went wrong. Is that right?” said Ramsey.

The tall gang leader, satisfied there was no immediate danger, said in an angry voice, I've always known that I'm wrong, I shouldn't be here. But I am . . . wrong wrong wrong. I'm always wrong . . . just wrong.”

Others nodded angrily in agreement. “Everyone says we're no good.”

“There's something wrong with us when we were born and nobody can fix it.”

Ramsey gestured at the police cars. “Do you think those men believe that?”

The leader answered immediately. “They know it. We're no good. Don't count.”

“Like we're born no good,” added the other one.

“That's what I mean.”

“What do you believe, whitey?” asked the young woman. So far she had stayed out of the conversation and now was saying something important. The others quieted down when she spoke.

“You're speaking crap,” said Ramsey. He jerked a thumb dismissively at the patrol cars. “Those cops, the other whiteys, they also believe they were born no good.”

“Bullshit!” said the leader.

“It's true,” Ramsey said, now softening his voice.

The young men eyed him. The whipsaw tones of his voice had captured their attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young woman's eyes size him up shrewdly before nodding and he knew she was the real brains behind this gang. Part of him wondered why a young black woman with her acumen would be caught up with a bunch of street thugs like these guys. She obviously wasn't a gangbanger. But he had to stay focused on the unfolding situation and the plan that had blossomed in his mind when the shot teen was taken away.

“We all think it down deep in places we don't let others see.” His gaze swept the group and judged now was the moment to strike. “Whitey is just as much a slave as you.”

“I ain't no slave!” yelled the leader.

“Quiet, Slim,” said the young girl. “Tell us what you mean by that.”

“Anyone's a slave as long they are too frightened to change themselves and the world around them.”

“I'm not afraid of anyone!” cried the small teen and waved the gun around.

The girl swatted his hand down. “Put that gun away or I'll take it from you.”

The kid glared at her but did as he was told. “Go on,” she said to Ramsey.

“You think that by being
wrong
you're different. Those whitey are the same. The only difference is they, me, trust more people, trust a system to protect them, and maybe trust a higher power.”

Ramsey saw something shift in the group's mindset. Pointing to the gun, he said, “If you're going to shoot me, let's go to the church first.”

The young woman put her hand on the black teen's arm. Gently, she took the gun, tucked it in the back of her jeans, and walked up to Ramsey. She said in an almost mocking angelic voice, ”My name's Magdiel King. People around here call me Maggie. What's yours?”