The Adam Enigma (3 page)

M
YRIAM SAT AT
the table, watching Ramsey get out of his car.
He hasn't changed much in all this time
, she thought.
How long's it been . . . ten . . . no, twelve years.

Rosa came by and switched the coffee carafe for a fresh one. She followed Myriam's gaze. “Is that your guest?”

“Yes. His name's Jonathan.”

“A friend?”

Myriam nodded. She kneaded her leg; the pain had begun to occur without warning over the past few months. She concentrated on Jonathan.
This has to work. I have to make it happen
.

“Will you show him here, please?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

Rosa nodded and headed for the entrance. She eyed the rugged-looking middle-aged man as Ramsey searched his pocket for change for the parking meter. Every few seconds he glanced at the café with a look both bemused and apprehensive. Rosa looked back at Myriam, who was studying the tabletop with great care.
What's between those two?
she wondered.

“Good morning, Jonathan,” Rosa said.

Ramsey looked up, startled. He stuffed two more quarters in the meter, walked the few feet from the curb and then up the steps, grasping the Hispanic woman's hand when she extended it. It was soft and smelled slightly of peanut oil.

“Welcome to Café Rio,” she added, her English lightly accented. There was a purr beneath it, as though she were inviting him to more than just the restaurant. “I'm Rosa Cisneros. Señora Eves is waiting for you. Right this way.”

“Do you meet all your customers like this?” Ramsey asked, warming to her.

“Just interesting men like yourself.”

Myriam was rearranging the salt and pepper shakers on different squares, trying to figure out how to deal with what happened between her and Jonathan twelve years earlier. His troubles in Peru had eventually brought about a loss of funding for her research project. Looking up, she saw him at the entrance, talking to Rosa.
Let the past go
, she commanded herself.

Rosa motioned to the table where Myriam sat. The few townsfolk eating breakfast in the café watched him with suspicion as he crossed the atrium. The room smelled of pico de gallo, cilantro, and mole sauce. He counted twelve four-tops and sixteen doubles, totaling the number in his head. He had worked as a busboy when he was an
undergraduate at Grinnell College. He had received his master's and PhD at UCLA while studying under the famous American geographer Jared Diamond before working on his postdoc at the University of Oregon with Myriam. He noted there was no wait staff on duty and surmised that Rosa was the owner.
An owner in distress.

He'd seen all the telltale signs of a boom-and-bust cycle when he drove into Rio Chama. There'd been few cars on the street and all the businesses were closed, except for the restaurant, in spite of it being Tuesday. His mind quickly put two and two together.
It has to be the shrine. It's lost its mojo, impacting the town's population, causing an economic decline. Is that what Myriam's interested in—what's happening to the town geographically?

And then he was in front of the table. Myriam waved him to the chair opposite hers without smiling.

Ramsey sat down and studied her, trying to gauge her mood. They hadn't talked in twelve years, and yet she had demanded he fly down here and speak with her.

“Your trip here was fine?”

He nodded. “I flew into Albuquerque, drove up. Signs of a bad drought everywhere.”

She nodded. “I have a place down here now. I've watched the area go from a piñon pine forest to a short-grass-and-scrub ecosystem. I'm on the county water board.”

Myriam is one of those people who don't seem to age
, Ramsey thought. She had the same dark hair, her skin smooth except for a few wrinkles around her eyes. He remembered she had inexhaustible energy. She knew everybody who could make things happen in her field. Myriam was the ultimate facilitator, the kind of person every academic department needed. During their two-year association Ramsey was never sure if she was manipulating him for her own gain or if she really cared about him. But she had gotten him his postdoc appointment in the country's most prestigious human geography department. The contacts he made there served him very well after his recovery. In spite of what had happened in Peru, he owed her and they both knew it.

Myriam began speaking in her rapid-fire style that was characteristic when she wanted something. “I know we've never properly resolved what happened in Peru and your departure from Oregon. We can set that aside, as far as I'm concerned.” She studied him for a second and then went on before he could respond. “I've followed your career. I'm impressed. What you accomplished in the Middle East was not only innovative but provided big kudos for human geography. . . . Tell me, what do you think of the shrine?”

For a moment Ramsey felt like the prodigal son returning home. He still relished her acceptance and praise.
All right, so it's still there
, he thought. “What do you want—my professional analysis?”

With a sort of quizzical smile, she answered, “Of course, you were always brilliant when it came to—”

“Sacred places?”

“That's right.”

Ramsey took in a deep breath and gave her the thumbnail sketch he'd been working on since he left the shrine. “It's similar in its characteristics to every other Southwestern Catholic shrine and grotto. Larger than most. The landscape features are not special. The ‘Bodhi Tree effect' is cool, but in general it's quite ordinary.”

She nodded knowingly.

“But it was once a big deal.” He gestured around the restaurant, indicating his understanding of its economic impact on the area.

“Right again.”

“And last, in all the stories I read about the shrine your name doesn't show up. I'll bet you work behind the scenes, as you always have.”

“Three for three,” Myriam said.

Ramsey eyed her over the rim of his coffee cup. Something didn't seem right. She was a classically trained administrator, better suited to large institutional operations than to a once-thriving healing shrine. ”So why would Myriam St. Eves spend her efforts here?”

Myriam shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

Ramsey smiled. As a human geographer, he knew people loved to tell stories. He just had to ask Myriam the right question to get her
to speak. “Why would you put all of your well-known talents in to making this place work?”

Myriam could feel the story being tugged out of her by Ramsey's easygoing manner. She couldn't stop herself from answering. “It began with a trip to the shrine with my friend Nancy Bloomberg. You remember her?”

Ramsey nodded.

Myriam told him everything that had happened during the visit and about the miraculous healing a month later. “I saw that this place had great potential and I wanted to help it thrive. The shrine had a need for a good administrator and I knew I could fill that role. Besides I wanted to get away from Eugene. Things had gone sour at the University of Oregon. As you know, after your misappropriation of funds, I lost the postdoc research money. Officials weren't too keen to keep me around after that.”

Ramsey bristled at the taunt. “Well, at least you didn't have to worry about money, what with your husband's wealth,” he mocked. “It would have been nice if you'd used some of that money to visit me in Peru while I was convalescing.”

Myriam felt her cheeks heat up. “We went through a divorce at the time. Money wasn't exactly available.”

They paused, studied each other. As if arriving at the same conclusion, they both spoke at the same time. “Let's start over.”

Myriam smiled. “Agreed.”

Ramsey answered her smile with his own. “Did you ever experience the shrine's healing powers?”

“Not like Nancy did, but it had a miraculous effect on me in its own way. It gave me my life back after all that had happened.”

Ramsey nodded. “So what's next?”

“I want to hire you. That's what you do now, isn't it? Work for hire.”

Caught off guard, Ramsey leaned back in his chair. “Hire me to do what?”

“If you've done your research, as I suspect you have, then you already know.”

“Find out what was behind the shrine's remarkable healing powers and its sudden loss of those powers.”

He sat silently, trying to figure out what she really wanted. His sense was that she wasn't telling him everything. Memories of mistrust flooded back. Their awful row over his unapproved trip to Peru overwhelmed his mind for a moment. She was still watching him, waiting for his answer. He hardened his voice to see how she would respond. “Why me? There are a dozen others who could set up an investigation without any of our personal baggage.”

Myriam didn't flinch and said evenly if not convincingly, “You're the one for the job. You have that rare combination of geographical understanding and spiritual background.”

In spite of a strong voice telling him to walk away, he felt himself back at the cottonwood tree, slowly being reeled in by the mystery.
What did the strange man at the shrine say? “You're a flower ready to bloom.” Is that why I'm here?
He decided to test her. “Will you pay whatever it takes?”

“We will,” she answered without hesitation.

Ramsey thought for a moment. “Who's ‘we'?”

Myriam didn't answer and instead motioned to Rosa. “We're ready to order.” She was pleased that their breakfast passed pleasantly over small talk: what happened to this or that person . . . the state of University of Oregon's geography department . . . the emergence of human geography as a force in economics, political policy, and climate change . . .

The rhythm of the conversation felt good to Ramsey. It was like old times, but underlying it was that nagging uncertainty and anxiety that had characterized their relationship from the beginning. Ramsey was flattered by her claim that he was the only one who could figure out the great mystery of the shrine, but decided he wasn't coming back.

“Ill think about it, Myriam, and let you know.”

She paid the check and left a 25 percent tip. Ramsey got up to leave and was quite surprised when she didn't persist.
Does she know me better than I know myself?

Rosa had overheard the whole conversation and watched as Ramsey got up, shook Myriam's hand, and left. She noticed that the
tension in the room when the two first met had subtly shifted. It was as if he had found what he came for, a kind of closure. And yet, there was something unfinished in the way the two Anglos parted. Myriam was tapping her fingers on the table, eyes glancing at Ramsey and back to her smartphone as if undecided about what to do next. Ramsey's shoulders were set, his back ramrod straight. He was done, through; yet his steps hesitated at the door as if expecting Myriam to come after him.
He knows something about what happened to the shrine's healing power
, Rosa thought.
Something he didn't tell Myriam
. Rosa smiled to herself.
Maybe this gringo can help bring it back
. She rushed after him.

Outside the café Ramsey fished for his car keys. He heard the soft patter of shoes on the steps behind him, followed by the hand on his sleeve. He turned, ready with his excuse.
I'm sorry Myriam, but it's not for me. Peru was enough. I don't need or want that again
.

The words died on his lips. “Rosa,” he said, taking a step back. He studied her, and the eyes that looked back appraised him equally. They were dark brown with russet lights. Short dark hair framed an oval face. Her olive skin was perfect, and the corners of her generous mouth had no wrinkles. He judged her to be somewhat younger than himself.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “You tell
me
.”

Ramsey took another step back and found himself pressed against the rental car. She hadn't moved forward, and yet he had the unmistakable feeling of being held not against his will but by her design. “I'm not sure what you mean.

She handed him a card. “Call this number. This woman was there that very first night nearly fifteen years ago.”

“Call her?”

Rosa nodded. “Go with the Lord.” She hurried back into the restaurant.

That was strange
. Ramsey held the card between his middle and forefinger. A city garbage can stood against the side of the building ten feet away. With a simple flick he could make it without touching the rim. It was an old magician's trick he had learned as a kid. He stopped midthrow. Taking a deep breath he turned the card to read it. The
name written on the back was “Carlotta Moore” and beneath it was her number.

He looked across the street to the old hotel where he had booked a room for the night. The sun was almost at the meridian. It had been a long day and the need for sleep gripped him. Still, Rosa's entreaty hung in the air like a gentle breeze pushing him to take the next step. It seemed to him as if all day there had been pushes and nudges bringing him to a decision point. He shivered thinking of Peru and his mistaken belief at the time that he was supposed to be there. Still . . . he shot a look at the Rio Café. Rosa was bussing the table, speaking with Myriam. It wouldn't hurt to call. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he dialed the number.