Light Bringer

Prologue

           Helen Jenks gripped the steering wheel and squinted into the darkness beyond the beam of the Volkswagen’s headlights. Nothing looked familiar. Was she almost home? The snow had stopped falling, but up in these hills so far from town, the county didn’t bother to plow. She wasn’t sure she was on the right road or any road at all. There were no other cars, no tire tracks.
          Where was everyone?
          She sighed. Home in bed, probably, where she would be if she hadn’t pulled a double shift at the hospital.
          All at once the sky lit up. She leaned forward and caught sight of a brilliant star that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, growing brighter with each pulsation.
          She sat back and rotated her head around her stiff neck. Maybe it was Venus. Hadn’t she read that at certain times of the year, under certain conditions, Venus could be as big and as bright as the moon?
          Leaning forward again, she saw the star pulse one last time then wink out. As she was getting used to the darkness it left behind, it reappeared, darted toward the horizon, and vanished. So, not Venus. Perhaps a meteor or two.
          Ten minutes later she noticed a pin prick of light in the distance: her porch light.
          When at last she parked in front of her old frame house, she pried her fingers off the steering wheel and stumbled out of the car. Except for the dings and pops of the cooling engine, the world was silent, appearing so new and untouched she hesitated to mar the opalescent expanse. Then her eyebrows drew together. The snow wasn’t untrodden after all. Tracks led to the house where a small gray creature huddled against the door.
          She clapped her hands. “Shoo. Shoo.”
          The creature did not move.
          “Go on. Get,” she shouted.
          The creature still didn’t move. Was it dead? This wouldn’t be the first time a dying animal had been attracted to the warmth seeping out of the house.
          She approached gingerly, relaxing when she saw that it was only an old gray blanket that had somehow ended up on the stoop. She started to bend, thinking to pick it up, then she straightened. Bad idea. Who knew what vermin had taken refuge in the folds.
          Before she could figure out what to do, the blanket moved. She jumped back and stared at it. The blanket moved again, giving her a glimpse of a coppery curl.
          She lifted the bundle, cradled it in her arms, and drew back the blanket. Two dark eyes, shining with intelligence, gazed up at her.
          She sucked in a breath. An infant, no more than nine months old.
          As the infant continued to gaze at her, its eyes brightened to a gleaming amber. Then it smiled at her — a welcoming smile, both joyous and knowing, as if it had recognized a very dear friend.
          Helen’s smile was tight. “Who are you?”
          A chortle was the only response.
          “And who left you here?” She glanced at the tracks. They led in only one direction — toward the house.
          Feeling dizzy, she crouched down to examine the tracks more closely.
          They were footprints. Tiny footprints in the snow.
          She staggered to her feet and followed the footprints to see where they had originated, but there were no prints beyond her driveway. No tire tracks, either, other than her own. It was as though the baby had appeared out of nowhere and headed straight for her front door. All by itself.
          Shivering, she studied the baby. The amber eyes staring back at her gleamed with laughter as if inviting her to share a joke.
          A helpless feeling washed over her. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
          The baby’s eyes darkened, and Helen knew it was mulling over the question, but how she knew she couldn’t say.
          “I guess the first thing to do is get you out of the cold.”
          The eyes brightened.
          Once inside, Helen switched on a light, turned up the heat, then lay the baby down on the couch and unwrapped the blanket.
          It was a girl, and she was naked. There was nothing to show who she was or where she had come from. For the most part, she looked normal for her age, though her legs and feet seemed too well developed. They were also very cold and wet. Helen rummaged in her linen closet for a soft towel, then briskly rubbed the tiny limbs.
          The baby’s eyes gleamed amber.
          “Now what?” Helen asked. A nurse, she was used to caring for the young, but only in a hospital where everything she needed was readily available. Well, she would just have to make do.
          When she returned after fetching an old tee shirt that might suffice for a diaper, the baby was gone. She found her in the bathroom, trying to climb up on the toilet. Helen lifted her and held her on the seat. The baby looked at her with dark, dark eyes. Helen averted her gaze.
          Back in the living room, with the child settled on the couch again, Helen dangled the tee shirt from her fingers. She didn’t want to insult the girl by diapering her, but what else could she do? Her own underwear would be much too large.
          Seeing the baby’s eyes brighten, she looked behind her to see what had caught that amber gaze: her collection of dolls. The small dolls were arranged on shelves; the larger ones sat primly on a faded blue loveseat.
          “Good idea,” Helen said. “I think the clothes from one of the big dolls should fit you.”
          But the child wasn’t paying attention to her. She climbed down off the couch, toddled over to the loveseat, and picked up a rag doll that was almost as big as she was. Clutching it to her chest, she plopped down on the floor.
          Within seconds she was sound asleep.
          Helen put the baby on her bed, surrounded her with pillows, and covered her with a comforter. Then, yawning, she curled up on the couch and wrapped an afghan around herself. She knew she should call the sheriff’s office, but she was too tired to have to deal with all that bureaucratic nonsense. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
          It was still dark when the sound of singing woke her. Thinking the clock radio had clicked on, she hurried to the bedroom to silence it before it disturbed the child’s sleep.
          She paused in the doorway, and stared. The little girl was sitting in the middle of the bed, rocking the doll, and singing in the sweetest voice Helen had ever heard.
          Tears came to her eyes as she listened. Though she could not distinguish an individual words, the song spoke to her of loneliness, of loss, and perhaps of love found.
          Blinking rapidly, she stole away.
          In the morning, she fixed oatmeal. While watching the child eat, she picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff’s number but disconnected the line before the call went through. Still grasping the receiver, she called the hospital and told her supervisor she wouldn’t be able to come in that day.
          The baby grinned at her and banged the spoon on the table.
          “You never did tell me who you are,” Helen said. “What am I supposed to call you?”
          The little girl opened her mouth and made a soft sound as though trying to expel something from her throat. Her eyes darkened. She opened her mouth again, and this time a word floated out on a breath.
          “Rena.”
          “Rena?” Helen said. “Your name is Rena?”
          Rena smiled and gave her an amber look.

 

 

 

 

          Day after day, Helen picked up the phone to call the sheriff but instead called the hospital, claiming to be ill. And perhaps she really was ill, she thought. She certainly wasn’t her normal self. She had never particularly liked children, hadn’t seen the point of them, but she couldn’t bring herself to part with Rena. The child intrigued her. More than that, she made her feel alive.
          Not knowing how long she’d have with Rena, Helen begrudged every moment of sleep. She rose with the dawn and was greeted with a sunny smile.
          After straining to get out that first word, every hour, it seemed, Rena expanded her vocabulary. One day during their second week together, Rena climbed up on Helen’s lap and gave her a hug.
          “Thank you for taking care of me,” she said. “It is very kind of you.”
          “You’re welcome,” Helen said. Then she sighed. “I’ve been selfish keeping you the way I did. I really should have tried to find out who you belong to. Do you know who your mother is?”
          Rena laughed and clapped her hands. “Helen.”
          Helen swallowed a lump in her throat and kissed the top of the silken head. When she could speak again, she said, “Do you know where you came from?”
          Rena’s eyes darkened. “No.”
          “Do you know how you got here?”
          Rena’s eyes grew even darker. “I don’t remember. I was just a baby then.”
          Helen’s heart contracted. For all her grown-up ways, Rena was still a baby, and deserved a better life than she could give her. Tomorrow she would call the sheriff for sure.
          But she didn’t.

           A few days later, shortly after putting the child down for an afternoon nap, Helen heard Rena singing her strange and lovely song. She waited until the last aching note dissolved into silence, then entered the room.
          “Can’t you sleep?”
          Rena’s eyes blazed amber at the sight of her, but darkened almost immediately.”We have to leave,” she said in a low voice that was more compelling than any shout. “Urshu says it is no longer safe here.”
          “Who is Urshu?”
          Rena pointed to a corner of the room. “Him.”
          “I don’t see anyone.”
          Rena paused, cocking her head as if listening. “He says only I can see him.”
          Helen hid a smile. So, Rena had an invisible playmate.
          “Why do we have to leave?” she asked, playing along.
          Another head-tilting pause. “They’re coming for me. And when they do, they will kill you.”
          Any desire to smile instantly evaporated.
          Who is “they,” she wanted to ask, but Rena’s eyes were such deep pools of blackness she knew the answer would not be forthcoming.
          “How much time do we have?”
          “Urshu says no more than four hours.”
          Helen’s mind churned, thinking of all that needed to be done before they could leave. Packing the Volkswagen, of course. Closing out her account at the bank. Stopping by the hospital. Buying a few things at the store.
          “I need to run errands,” she said, “but I don’t think you should come in case somebody sees you. Will you be okay if I leave you here alone?”
          Rena’s eyes brightened. “I won’t be alone. Urshu will watch over me.” Chapter 1

 

           The two men standing outside Philip’s door were dressed like Mormons on a mission, but their faces were immobile, their eyes cold.
          Philip stepped back from the peephole, wishing he could run away, but with his ankles the way they were, he wouldn’t get very far before they caught him. Besides, what difference did it make? They already knew everything about him; they’d been watching him a long time.
          When he opened the door, one of the men, an African-American with thin lips, said, “Philip Hansen?”
          “Yes.”
          The man held out identification showing he was from the National Security Agency. “I am Agent Derrick. May we come in? We need to ask you some questions.”
          Philip glanced at the other man, a Caucasian with red lips like a girl’s, who narrowed his eyes and stared at him.
          Philip stepped aside to let them enter. “What’s this about?”
          Neither man responded. Agent Derrick’s gaze shifted from the faded blue couch to the twenty-inch television to the three-year-old computer sitting on a wooden desk. Red Lips continued to stare at Philip.
          When he could not stand the silence any longer, Philip blurted out, “I know why you’re here.”
          “So tell me.” Derrick focused his attention on him. “Why are we here?”
          “I think you’re concerned about the books I’ve been checking out of the library.”
          Derrick raised one eyebrow. “Oh?”
          “Ever since I first noticed it, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out what could possibly have brought me to your attention, and the only thing I can think of are the books about conspiracies and cover-ups I’ve been reading.”
          “What makes you think we care about the books you read?”
          “Someone does. After all, the government knew what books Oswald took out of the library, and that was before computers, even.”
          “What is ‘it’?” Red Lips asked.
          “It?”
          “You said ‘ever since I first noticed it.’ What is ‘it’?”
          Cold fingers of fear crawled up Philip’s spine. He glanced from one man to the other. “You mean it doesn’t belong to you people? Then someone else is having me watched. What have I been reading that’s so threatening?”
          “You don’t know?” Derrick asked.
          “No. I don’t.”
          Red Lips thrust his face close to Philip’s. “What is ‘it’?”
          Philip backed away. “Stay there. I’ll show you.”
          The two agents exchanged glances but remained where they were.
          Philip stood very still. Detecting a faint density in the air to his left, he turned toward it and spread out his arms until they were extended to their full span. He advanced slowly, weaving from side to side, keeping the dense air ahead of him. When he had herded it into a corner, he cast a brief look in the agents’ direction.
          They were looking at him with identical expressions of wariness, each with a hand resting on his weapon.
          Philip smiled to himself. If they really didn’t know what it was, the next few seconds should prove interesting. He reached behind him for the spray bottle he kept in his back pocket, and all at once both weapons were pointed at him.
          “It’s just lemon juice,” he said in a soothing voice, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to calm. Himself? The Agents? It?
          He sprayed the corner with the juice, and for just as long as the droplets hung in the air, it was visible.
          He inhaled sharply. Even after all this time, the sight of it spooked him. It was taller than he, at least six feet. Though it vaguely resembled a human with a hunched back, a huge head, and arms held close to its sides, there was nothing human about its features: a tiny slit of a mouth, round owlish eyes, and a long nose so flat it was barely perceptible. Two protuberances on the top of its head could be ears or horns or vestigial feelers. It looked iridescent, but that was only because of the mist of lemon juice that adhered to the body; the thing itself had no color.
          “Shee-it,” Red Lips breathed, wide-eyed.
          “What the hell is that?” Derrick demanded.
          Seeing Derrick’s trigger finger twitch, Philip yelped, “Don’t shoot! It’s already gone. See?” He sprayed the corner; the lemon juice stained the wall. “Besides, I’m not sure it can be killed. It might be a hologram or a virtual . . . a virtual whatever.”
          All at once Red Lips came up behind him and slammed him into the wall. The spray bottle fell to the floor. Red Lips jerked Philip’s arms behind his back and tightened handcuffs around his wrists. He propelled him to a hassock, pushed him into a sitting position, and stared at him.
          Philip tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a wordless croak. He summoned up some saliva and tried again. “You didn’t have to do that; I’m not going anywhere.” He kicked out his legs to show them the braces he wore. “I can’t run with these on.”
          Red Lips pressed his gun against Philip’s cheek hard enough to draw tears. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, pal, but I’m sure going to find out.”
          Derrick started opening and closing the desk drawers. He kept glancing behind him as if he thought the thing were looking over his shoulder.
          He turned around and glared at Philip. “If that thing so much as lays a hand on me, you’re a dead duck.”
          Philip started to get to his feet. Red Lips shoved him back down and pressed the gun to his cheek again.”Where do you think you’re going,” he growled.
          “I was going to see if I can find it.”
          Red Lips shifted from foot to foot and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Do you think that bug man is still here?”
          “I don’t know.” Despite the watery feel in his stomach, Philip was surprised to find that he was quite calm. Perhaps it was because the agents had also seen the thing and been frightened by it. At least now he knew he wasn’t delusional; the thing really did exist.
          Derrick finished giving the desk a cursory search, looked in the hall closet, then headed for the bedroom, feeling about him as though he were blindfolded.
          A few minutes later, he called out, “Hugh, can you come here a moment? I’ve found something.”
          Hugh cast a warning glance at Philip, then left to join his partner. Philip could hear them muttering to each other. He squirmed on the hassock, wondering what they had found.
          Becoming aware of the density in the air that signaled the presence of the thing, he stiffened. It moved behind him, then passed over his hands. The cuffs jangled as they fell to the floor.
          “You hear something?” he heard Derrick ask. There was a moment of silence, then, “Man, that thing is making me jumpy.”
          Philip stood up and stretched. He felt something at his back, pushing against him, and all of a sudden he wanted to laugh. The thing was herding him now!
          He moved to the door, which had swung open all on its own. He slipped through then hurried as fast as he could down the short corridor. He paused when he got outside, but then he felt the thing nudging him toward a dark, late model sedan. The car door opened.
          Philip looked from the car to his apartment, trying to decide which was worse: the thing or the NSA agents. Finally, after being given another push, he shrugged and climbed into the passenger seat. The door closed. The engine turned over.
          He braced himself, expecting the car to peel away from the curb, but it drove off at a sedate speed.
          Feeling ridiculous perched next to the invisible driver, he slid down in his seat until his head was beneath the window. By all the stop and go driving, he could tell the vehicle was keeping to side streets where traffic was minimal.
          When the car picked up speed, he raised his head. They were on Parker Road heading away from Denver.
He was just beginning to relax, having decided the creature didn’t mean him any immediate harm, when the car pulled over and the door opened. The next thing he knew, he was standing by the side of Arapahoe Road several yards from the vehicle, which was still on Parker Road.
          As he was glancing around, thoroughly bewildered, a silver Camaro convertible with a black top skidded to a stop. The passenger door opened.
          He hesitated, thinking of all the stories he’d ever heard about the misadventures of hitchhikers, but when he was given a nudge, he hunched his shoulders in resignation and climbed into the car.
          Half expecting another invisible driver, he was pleased to see a girl with curly blond hair smiling warily at him.
          “I’ve never done this before,” she said. “My mother’d kill me if she found out.” Sculpted eyebrows drew together over big hazel eyes as she studied him. “You’re not a serial killer or anything, are you?”
          “No.” Then he added before he could stop himself, “But if I were, I’d hardly admit it, would I?”
          “I guess not,” she said in a small voice.
          Hearing a car accelerate, Philip looked behind and saw the dark sedan proceeding south down Parker Road.
When he faced forward again, he noticed the girl staring after the vehicle.
          “That’s weird.” She gave a little laugh that sounded anything but amused. “I thought I didn’t see anyone driving that car.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “You must think I’m a real wacko.”
          “Not at all. I think you’re just nervous at having picked up a total stranger. Would you rather I tried to find another ride?”
          She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “No. That’s okay. What do we do now?”
          “We leave.”
          “Oh, yeah, right.” She pulled into the line of traffic surging west on Arapahoe Road. “I’m not going far this direction. Just to I-25.”
          “Where are you headed?”
          “Grand Junction. I was visiting my sister. She lives on Smoky Hill Road. She just had a new baby-it’s so tiny, and it has the cutest little fingers and toes. They look so real! But now I’m going home. I’m leaving for college soon-my first year-so I have to get ready. Shopping and stuff. Where are you going?”
          Philip closed his eyes for a moment. Where was he going? He thought of the towns they would be traveling through on the way to Grand Junction: Salida, Gunnison, Montrose, Delta.
          “Delta,” he said, remembering that Chalcedony, where his friend Emery Hill lived, was not far from there. Even though they’d been out of touch recently, Emery would probably let him spend the night.
          The girl bounced a little in her seat. “This is going to be fun. I’m glad I picked you up after all.”
          “If you were so worried, why did you stop?”
          A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “I don’t know. It was like my car pulled over all on its own. Chapter 2

 

 

          Gently at first, then steeply, the road began to ascend into the hills.
          Becka Johnson smiled to herself. Now this was more like it. What she had seen of Chalcedony County so far-a flat expanse of fields with only an occasional cluster of buildings to break the monotony-reminded her of western Kansas.
          Gazing at the forested slopes, she almost missed her turnoff. She slammed on her brakes, spun the steering wheel of her Ford Escort sharply to the right, and followed the blue pickup onto the narrow dirt road.
          They hadn’t gone far, perhaps a half mile, when they broke out of the woods into a flat, barren clearing of about ten acres. To the north and east, the forest was encroaching on the open space; young trees and seedlings blurred the harshness of the tree line. To the south, the hillside swept down toward the town of Chalcedony where three hundred of the county’s two thousand residents made their homes. To the west was a log cabin; behind it loomed Grand Mesa, one of the world’s largest flattop mountains.
          The pickup stopped in front of the cabin. Becka parked behind the truck, climbed out of her car, and gaped at the bush towering over the cabin. It was so immense it looked as if it would be at home in the dinosaur age.
          Luke Martin, the aging cowboy who’d been driving the pickup, came to stand beside her.
          She gestured toward the bush. “I’ve never seen anything like that. What is it?”
          “A cross breed.” He spoke in the unhurried way of men who measured time by the sun, not clocks. “There used to be an old cottonwood tree here. When Gertie, the woman who owned the property, had to have it cut down, she planted a blackberry bush in its place. Somehow the bush grafted itself onto what was left of the tree roots, and this hybrid was the result.”
          “I think it’s wonderful.” She spread out her arms. “In fact, I think the whole place is wonderful. Beautiful, quiet, private. I’ll take it.”
          “Shouldn’t you see the house first? As I told you, nobody’s lived in it for a long time; I’ve just been using it for storage.” He took a few steps toward the cabin, then stopped. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Are you sure there are no other houses for rent in the area?”
          ”Gil Bentham at the real estate agency told me there aren’t any. He’s the one who gave me your name; said you were the only one who might have something available.”
          There was no censure in Luke’s voice, just a faint curvature of his lips. “Well, Gil would know; he does tend to keep track of everyone else’s business.”
          Wondering whether Gil was someone she should seek out or stay as far away from as possible, Becka asked, “Has he lived in Chalcedony long?”
          “No. Twenty-five years is all.” Luke took a few more steps toward the house, then stopped again. “I did tell you the place is haunted, didn’t I?”
          She smiled. “Several times. But I don’t believe in ghosts.”
          “Neither did all the others who rented the house, but apparently the ghosts believed in them. No one’s been able to stay here for more than a few days except Gertie. She lived up here practically her whole life. For some reason, she felt comfortable with the ghosts.”
          “Who were they?”
          “Gertie said they’re the spirits of a white Indian tribe that lived here thousands of years ago.”
          She gave him a doubtful look. “White Indians?”
          “According to Emery Hill, who owns Western Ink, there are quite a few legends of white tribes. If you’re interested, you should go talk to him. All I know is that this particular tribe lived in small stone houses. When the settlers came, they used the ruins as a quarry for building their own homes. Sometimes when the moon is full, just before it sets, you can see the outlines of the houses that used to be here.”
          Becka’s eyes widened. “A ghost town?”
          He nodded.
          She felt a bubble of excitement well up inside her, but in deference to the worry she saw on his face, she kept her lips clamped shut to keep it from showing. A ghost town! Oh, how perfect! Now she knew she wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Kansas did boast a few ghost towns, but they were simply abandoned and rotting settlements, not spectral villages.
          Luke unlocked the door of the cabin and ushered Becka inside. Looking beyond the stacks of boxes and discarded furniture, she was pleased to spot a modern kitchen and bathroom; as much as she wanted the place, she could not see herself using an outhouse or pumping water for a bath. Though the rooms were small, particularly the two bedrooms, the abundance of windows made the house seem as big as the whole outdoors.
          “It’s worse than I remember.” Luke kicked a cardboard box, raising a cloud of dust. “It will be a while before I can haul any of this stuff away. There’s a nice motel in town; if I tell them the situation, they’ll give you a good rate on a room until another of my rental properties becomes available.”
          Becka sneezed. “I can stand the clutter for a week or two. And anyway, if you don’t mind, some of the furniture can stay since I don’t have any of my own.”
          He studied her for a moment. She held her breath, afraid he was going to refuse to rent to her.
          Finally, he gave a little shrug. “I have a rental agreement in the truck.”
          She released her pent-up breath and followed him outside.
          Using the hood of the pickup for a desk, he made a few notations on the lease, then looked at her.
          “Name?”
          “Johnson. Becka Johnson.”
          “Any relation to the Johnson’s on Basalt Road?”
          Becka’s heart seemed to skip a beat. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of running into that family or anyone who knew them.
          “Johnson’s a common name,” she said, keeping her voice level.
          “Of course, Aaron Johnson doesn’t live there anymore. Hasn’t since the seventies.” He shook his head. “That was a terrible thing. It’s hard enough to lose a wife without losing a child at the same time.”
          “What happened?”
          “Their propane tank exploded. Johnson was up in the hills with his herd; when he got home, the volunteer fire department was just bringing out the bodies. He buried his wife and baby girl, sold his spread, and moved to Arizona.”
          “How awful,” Becka said, but she couldn’t help feeling relieved that she wouldn’t run into the man.
          Luke pointed to the bottom of the lease. “If you’ll just sign here . . .”
          She scanned it, smiling. Under terms of agreement, he’d crossed off month-to-month and penned in day-by-day.
          “Just in case,” he said.
          “In case? Oh, right. The ghosts.”
          She dug in her purse for the security deposit and the first month’s rent, and held it out to him.
          He frowned at the cash. “I don’t have a receipt book with me.”
          She continued to hold out the money. “I can stop by for it later; I have to go to town and get some food and cleaning supplies.”
          He pocketed the money, hopped in his truck, and sped away.
          Becka bit back a smile. Spooked by his own ghost stories? No. Probably just anxious to get back to his store; he’d had to close up to come show her his cabin.
          Her cabin now.

 

          Emery Hill leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t have to go.”
          Turning to face the older man, Philip was struck by the odd notion that the forces of gravity seemed to exert a reverse pull on him. He looked younger now that he had fifteen years before when they’d met in the quiet, club-like atmosphere of the Western History Department at the Denver Public Library. A mutual interest in history had brought them together, and that interest was still the one thing they had in common.
          “You just want me to stay so you have someone to lecture,” Philip said, smiling.
          Emery drew himself upright. “I don’t lecture. I converse.”
          “Yeah, right. Last night while we were ‘conversing,’ ” he made quotation marks around the word with his fingers, “I dozed of for about ten minutes. When I awoke, you were still–”
          “You fell asleep? During one of my lectures?”
          Philip raised one eyebrow.
          Emery sighed. “Maybe I do tend to lecture. It’s just that I miss teaching. There is no feeling in the world quite like turning young minds on to the truth.”
          “It was the truth that got you fired,” Philip reminded him.
          “A sad commentary on our times, wouldn’t you say? Wait! Where are you going?”
          Philip didn’t answer. He had spied the young woman and was hobbling out the door.
          She was just as he remembered. The lithe body that moved as gracefully and effortlessly as a song wafting on a breeze. The shoulder-length brown hair that glimmered red and gold in the sunlight. The smile, big and bright and welcoming. Only her clothes-the pale green blouse and cotton shorts-struck a discordant note, as if he were used to seeing her in more exotic attire.
          “Hello,” she said when he neared. The single word was as musical as an entire symphony.
          “Hello,” he said, a goofy grin stretching his face. He felt a harmonic resonance and knew, once again, they belonged together.After several seconds, her smile began to fade. “Do I know you?”
          “Of course. We met . . .”
          He gazed at her. Where had they met? Though it seemed as if he had always known her, they must have met somewhere, sometime, but when, in his pathetic little life could he have met anyone so special? It slowly dawned on him he couldn’t have; not until this very moment.
          Ducking his head, he whispered, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. We don’t know . . . We’ve never . . .”
          He turned to leave, and suddenly there it was-the density in the air that announced the creature’s presence. It pushed him. He fell against the young woman. Her arms, strong and familiar, steadied him.
          “Are you all right?” she asked.
          He backed away from her, confused by the compassion he heard in her voice. She’d never spoken to him like that before.
          Becoming aware it was nudging him forward again, he managed to step sideways. A moment later, she lurched into his arms.
          “I am so sorry,” he said, disentangling himself.
          Her laugh had a hollow ring. “It wasn’t your fault.” Rubbing her arms, she glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t know how that happened.”
          He held out his hands, wanting to explain, but how could he explain something he himself didn’t understand? His hands dropped to his sides and hung there like lumps of moist clay.
          She let out a little sigh. “Well . . .”
          “Well . . .” he responded.
          Then they were walking away from each other, she to the New Age Coffee Shop, he back to Western Ink.

 

          “Who was that?” Emery asked.
          “Someone I thought I knew.” Philip held out a hand for Emery to shake. “I appreciate you letting me spend the night, but I really do need to get back to work. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
          “You work at home, don’t you? So how would anyone know you aren’t working?”
          “Believe me, they know. The computer keeps track of everything.”
          “I meant it when I said you don’t have to go. It’s been nice having you.”
          Taking one last look around at the neat rows of new and used books describing a world that was now only a fantasy, Philip wondered if he should stay. Maybe it was too soon to go back to Denver. What if the NSA agents were still watching for him? But he couldn’t just walk away from his life, could he? And anyway, the decision to return had already been made.
          Squaring his shoulders, he said good-bye and clumped out the door. As he headed for the road, he searched for the young woman and caught a glimpse of her in the coffee shop, smiling radiantly at an aging cowboy. Realizing he was veering in her direction, he corrected his course. It took a surprising amount of effort, as though he had to push through a thick wall of honey.
          He had barely crossed the road and began walking east with a thumb stuck out, when a bronze Lexus with Nevada plates pulled up next to him. The door opened.
          “How far are you going?” he asked, poking his head inside.He felt its presence even as he noticed that no one was behind the steering wheel. He jerked back, banging his head on the doorframe. A second later, without quite knowing how it happened, he found himself in the car, sitting next to the invisible driver.
          He rubbed his head. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”
          There was no response, just the barely perceptible hum of the engine as the car slipped into the trickle of traffic.
          Philip tried to open the door; it didn’t budge.
          “Let me out of here.” Although he was trying to remain calm, he heard a note of hysteria in his voice. Then, all at once, he was flinging himself against the door, screaming “Let me out! Let me out!” It had the same effect as a moth battering itself against a window, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Let me out of here!”
          He felt something icy touch the back of his neck, like a finger reaching out from the grave. Darkness instantly enveloped him, and he felt no more.

 

          I. Thwack.
          Don’t. Thwack.
          Believe. Thwack.
          In. Thwack.
          Ghosts. Thwack.
          Becka repeated her mantra, emphasizing each word with a swing of the baseball bat she was using to beat the dust out of the old rag rug she’d hung on the clothesline.
          She paused to scratch her back. Ever since the ghost had shoved her into the arms of the young man — Who was he anyway? She knew she knew him, knew they had once been very close, but when? Where? — she’d had the creepy sensation of ants crawling on the skin between her shoulder blades where it had touched her. The ghost was no more real than the ants, so who could have pushed her? The man in braces and she were the only two people in the parking lot.
          She swung the bat again.
          I.
          Don’t.
          Believe.
          In.
          Ghosts.

 

          The light flooding her bedroom wakened her.
          Morning? Already? Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Becka went to the window and pushed aside the thin white curtain.
          The full moon was hanging low in the sky, dimming the stars.
          No wonder she was tired-it was still night. She was about to climb back into bed when she remembered what Luke had said about the setting moon illuminating the outlines of the houses where the white tribe had lived. Afraid of missing the phenomenon, she didn’t even take the time to snatch up a robe to throw over the long tee shirt she wore for sleeping, but dashed to the front door, yanked it open, and stepped out onto the porch.
          Mouth hanging open, she stared at the town. By outlines, she’d thought Luke meant a faint tracing on the ground where the foundations had been, but this . . . this was a complete village, each exquisite stone house solidly visible. Though the stones weren’t uniform, they fit together snugly, like a miniature version of the megalithic ruins she’d seen in pictures of Cuzco. The roofs seemed to be made of rough wooden shingles, and the windows were covered with what appeared to be mats woven of dried grasses.
          Seeing the door of the nearest house open a crack, she froze.
          The door opened a little wider, and a sleek, hairless white cat with outsize ears and large slanted eyes sneaked outside. It looked around as though proud of its accomplishment, then sat back on its haunches and began to wash its face.
          A ghost cat?
          Becka felt a giggle percolate up to her throat. She tried to swallow it, but a tiny gurgle escaped.
          The cat swiveled its head in her direction and focused its luminescent eyes on her.
          She gazed at it, unable to look away. What is it they say about staring too long into the abyss? Make sure it isn’t staring back at you?
          She shivered, but still couldn’t avert her eyes.
          Suddenly, with one liquid motion, the cat was on its feet and streaking toward her.
          She stumbled into the cabin and slammed the door. She leaned against it for a moment, then tiptoed to the living room window and peeked outside.
          The town had vanished. In its place was what she had expected to see all along-the light of the moon reflecting off the bare ground, exposing the faint lines, like an architectural diagram, where the houses had once stood. As she watched, the diagram faded, and she knew, even though she couldn’t see it from this window, that the last sliver of moon had set.
          She continued to look out at the gray, pre-dawn world, thinking about what she had seen when she’d stepped onto the porch. Was it an optical illusion? A waking dream?A breath of cold air climbed up her back, giving her the skin-crawling feeling that a shadowy being was crouching in the dim recesses of the room . . .
          Watching . . .
          Waiting . . .
          She turned around slowly, and clutched at her chest.
          The ghost cat was inside the house.
          And so was something else.

 

Chapter 3

          A soft groan escaped Philip’s lips. He flailed his arms and legs, trying to outrun the nightmare, but it galloped onward, heedless of his efforts.
          He was very small. Other little boys, girls too, were ringed around him, their colors all blending together like a muddy rainbow. They were poking him to see him totter. Their laughter when they toppled him clashed and grated, its dissonance hurting his ears.
          Before he could struggle to his feet, he was a little older and sitting in the principal’s office, being reprimanded for fighting. He was trying to explain that he had just been defending himself, but the principal, enveloped in a fog of fluorescent purple anger, wouldn’t listen. Neither would his foster mother. He was shunted off to a group home that even in the brightest sunshine seemed shrouded in gunmetal gray.
          Still older. He was racing down an alley, trying to outrun the bigger boy who was chasing him. Without warning, his ankle gave way. He heard a crack as he fell and knew his ankle was broken . . . again. The boy caught up to him, kicked him once, twice, then ran off, screaming with laughter. He felt himself being carried, though he couldn’t see anyone; the next thing he knew, he was in the emergency room, his leg being encased in plaster.
          And older still. Lying on his bed in the darkness, weeping, the hated braces thrown in the corner. It wasn’t that they chafed and that he was having a hard time getting used to them, it was that they made him more a figure of fun than ever. As he sobbed, there was a soft touch of comfort on his forehead; a green feeling stole through him, and he fell into a peaceful sleep.          Philip awoke. Befuddled by dreams, aching from head to toe, he sat up, clenching his teeth against the pain, and looked around.
          Where am I? A new foster home?
          He supported his throbbing head in his hands and wondered if he’d live to grow up.
          Tamping down the pang of self-pity, he raised his head, and everything came clear. Or almost everything.
          He knew who he was: the grown-up, thirty-eight-year-old Philip, dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He knew where he was: the foldout bed in Emery Hill’s den. What he didn’t know was how he got there. All he remembered was being in the car with the creature, flinging himself against the door-no wonder he felt so bruised-and the icy touch on his neck. Had it brought him here?
          He stood up, rocking a little until he caught his balance, then staggered off in search of the coffee he could smell brewing.
          When he entered the kitchen, Emery started and dropped the mug he had been removing from a cabinet. It came to rest at Philip’s feet. Wincing, Philip bent to pick it up.
          “Jeeminy Christmas!” Emery exclaimed. “You just about scared the intellect out of me. What are you doing here? I thought you went back to Denver. See what you’ve done? I’m already turning into a blithering idiot.”
          Philip began to laugh then cut it off and clutched his head.
          “What’s wrong? Hangover?”
          “Feels like it, but I haven’t been drinking.” Getting a mug for himself and pouring a cup of coffee, he wondered if he’d been drugged. He took a sip of the brew, which was strong enough to soften a stone, and barely refrained from spitting it out. “Tomorrow I make the coffee.”
          “Fine,” Emery said absently, regarding Philip with narrowed eyes. “I always know when one of my students is in trouble. It’s time you told me what’s going on.”
          “I was never one of your students.”
          Emery waved away the remark. “Between the two of us we should be able to solve your predicament.”
          “I’m not sure there is a solution. Right before I came here, two NSA agents showed up at my apartment.”
          Emery shook his head as if to clear it. “I must have misunderstood. I thought I heard you say NSA agents.”
          “I did. That’s who they identified themselves as, anyway. They told me they were concerned about the books I’ve been checking out of the library.”
          Emery froze. “They said that?”
          “Yes.” Philip paused to reconsider, then heaved a sigh. “No. They told me they wanted to speak to me. I was the one who said they were there because of the books I was reading.”
          Emery scowled at him. “Have I taught you nothing? Never volunteer. If you don’t know what’s going on, keep your mouth shut until you find out.”
          “I didn’t think. I was scared of the agents and of-” Philip caught himself before he could mention the creature. Emery believed a lot of things most people would scoff at, but even he would find an invisible owl-like biped a little hard to take. “And of being investigated,” he finished.
          “What have you been reading lately? Assuming for the moment your first impression was correct and they’re interested in the books you’ve been checking out of the library.”
          “I’ve been studying a lot of history, specifically as it relates to money, and money as it relates to war, the things that are usually covered up, but nothing more recent that Vietnam.”
          Emery made balloons of his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Ancient history by today’s standards. What else have you been studying?”
          “Really ancient history, focusing on the Sumerian cosmology. The Sumerians believed there’s a tenth planet in our solar system and that it was inhabited. Those inhabitants came to Earth four hundred thousand years ago to mine the gold they needed for a shield to protect their dwindling atmosphere. When miners from the tenth planet rebelled, their scientists created a slave worker to take their place. By combining their genes with an early hominid, they created the Adamu-which means earthling. Interestingly, scientists today assert there is a tenth planet, which they call Planet X.”
          “I doubt the NSA is interested in Sumerian mythology. What else?”
          “UFOs. I was reading a book by George Keeler –” Seeing the smile on Emery’s face, he stopped. “What?”
          “Quite a character, that George. Did you know she’s here?”
          “George Keeler is here in Chalcedony?”
          Still smiling, Emery nodded. “Doing research for her next book.”
          “Oh, right. The UFO flap in the early 1970s. I read about that-there were all sorts of strange phenomena around here, and several people disappeared. I wonder if George found out what was going on back then. Do you think she’d be willing to talk to me?”
          Emery laughed, a dry brittle sound like the crumpling of paper. “I’m sure she’d be willing to do more than that. You’re a new face, you have all the right equipment, and she’s kinky enough to get turned on by your braces. I’ll introduce you the next time she comes in.”
          Remembering the photograph that appeared on the back cover of her books-the flyaway blonde hair, the determined chin, the brash look in her eyes that said she was game for anything-Philip felt a twinge of excitement. It was supplanted almost immediately by shame as he thought of the young woman in the parking lot. How could he have been disloyal to her for even that instant?
          But still . . . it would be interesting to talk to George Keeler.