“When you cross over,” he asked, “is there any physical reaction? I mean, does it affect your body? Or your mind?”
“A little. Sometimes the head spins. What is it you say—’dizzy’? I think so. And”—she put her hand on her stomach—”one is sickish, feeling bad down there. Some never get over. Sometimes it is hours, sometimes days.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Raglan? There is somebody out there. I know it. I feel it.”
He stopped the car again. It was not very hot now, but there seemed to be heat waves dancing. Slowly, he let his eyes search out the terrain before him.
Nothing … Nothing he could see, but he knew what she meant. He could feel it, too.
“Over there”—she pointed—”is where Erik leaves his car. You can get no closer.”
He let the car roll forward. The place was too open, too exposed. There were low hills around, much growth such as would be found in any semidesert area. Here and there were boulders, rocks, and a few ridges.
She touched his arm again. “Mr. Raglan? I fear.”
“Call me Mike,” he said.
For an instant after he switched off the ignition he felt a wave of almost panic. The sound of the motor had been somehow reassuring, and now in the utter silence he felt cut off, isolated. The car was security; it was escape, a way back to the normal, the usual, the everyday.
What was he doing here, anyway? Why was he not back at Tamarron, going down to the San Juan Room for breakfast in a normal, sensible, attractive world? What was he doing out here at the end of everything?
Shadows were appearing now, shadows among the rocks, among the scattered juniper and the brush. A faint wind stirred. He swallowed, checked his gun again, and took a flashlight from the glove compartment. “We won’t be long,” he said, and hoped he was right. “We will just walk over and see if Erik is around.”
He stepped down from the car and closed the door The sound was loud in the stillness. She sat very quietly, staring ahead. He walked around the car and opened her door. She took his hand and stepped down.
She looked at him. “I fear,” she said. “Something is wrong. There is something—”
“We won’t be long,” he said again, wondering why he had been such a fool as to bring her. Yet she knew the way and he did not. “Let’s go,” he said, and she started off, looking quickly around. He felt in his pocket to be sure he had taken the keys from the ignition. He had them. Turning, he checked the position of the car. He was a fool. He should have turned it around for a quick getaway. He had always done that when in wild country. Why had he not done so now?
Was it because he was not coming back? That was absurd. Of course he was coming back, and within the hour.
Kawasi walked quickly, surely. He followed, keeping his eyes busy, straining his ears for the slightest sound. What was wrong with him? He had been in the desert before. He had been in many deserts—the Sahara, the Takla Makan, the Kalahari—and all of them had their mysteries. His thoughts returned to the Takla Makan and the smoky fires of camel dung and movements in the night.
He had been close to something there, not only in the desert but in the Kunlun Mountains, which bordered that desert on the south. He had been close to something disturbing, something with which he had been unwilling to cope. Was not this the same sort of situation?
There was no more than a suggestion of a path. When they neared the end of the mesa on which they walked, he could see that other one ahead of him, and beyond, a small box canyon. He turned left, weaving his way among rocks and wild shrubs. Pausing to catch his breath he found Kawasi close behind him. The car was now far away, barely discernible among the rocks. For a moment he had an overwhelming urge to turn back. What was he getting into, anyway?
“If Erik is not there …”he began.
“He will not be,” Kawasi said. “He is on the Other Side. They have him.”
Something within him cringed. He did not like to think of that “Other Side,” nor to believe in it. He knew now that he did not wish to cope with unreality, and that was how he thought of it. Of course, he reminded himself, if it did exist it was simply another phase of reality. He had dealt most of his life with the eerie, the impossible, the strange. These had been his daily fare, but they had been, for the greater part, simply illusion, fraud, and legerdemain. People were gullible because they wished to believe. His role had been to see the reality, to expose the chicanery.
So far, all he had encountered except for some experiences in Sinkiang and Tibet, had been easily exposed by someone skilled in illusion.
Pausing, she pointed. “It is right over there, beyond the rocks.”
She indicated a low mound of red rock. “Erik planned to build there, using the standing rock for walls.”
“And the kiva?”
“It is close by.”
They started on and his hand touched his pistol butt. It was a comforting feeling, but would a bullet work against these … what? These creatures?
What was he thinking? Kawasi was one of them, or said she was.
What if it was some kind of an elaborate swindle? After all, Erik was a wealthy man. He had money, lots of it. Suppose all this was some kind of a plan to get money from him?
If so, Kawasi must be a part of it, and this he did not wish to believe. Yet better men had been deceived by seemingly nice women before this. But if it was not a fraud, was Kawasi normal? Was she human?
What were they like, those creatures from the Other Side? Did Kawasi truly exist? Or was she merely a phantom, something from beyond the veil, from that world of evil the old Indians had fled?
What was the Other Side? That question shadowed Mike’s every thought, every decision. He had heard of parallel worlds, of other dimensions. Strange disappearances had been a part of his life. And there had been many such. The case of the Iron Mountain, for example, a riverboat with a crew and fifty-five passengers that steamed around a bend in the Mississippi into oblivion. Or at least that was the story.
Its barges were found adrift, but there had been no wreckage, no sound of an explosion. The story had been well known along the river in 1872 and since, but of course, the Mississippi had given birth to many legends.
There was no path, no trail as such, yet Kawasi walked quickly among the rocks until suddenly they were there. He stopped, struck by the strange appearance of the mesa top. It gave the appearance of having been a field, badly leached, but nonetheless a field.
Mesas with any amount of soil on top were few. More often than not, in this part of the country, mesas were almost flat rock with occasional patches of earth supporting a meager growth of brush and occasional small trees, usually juniper.
The ruined walls were close by, covered by a sheet of plywood weighted down with rocks to make a temporary shelter. Inside he found Erik’s sleeping bag, an air cushion, a small gas stove, and a few dishes. There was also a small portable ice chest and a food box, closed tight.
He glanced around the workroom where, on a wide and long table, were spread the plans for the house Erik had projected. Glancing out the window he could see the space between the rocks Erik planned to utilize. If the natural rock floor were smoothed just a little, it would be quite level. Two major walls would be solid rock, both flat on the inner side. Actually, he would have only two walls to build, unless he decided to add more rooms—something easily done. The view was magnificent.
Across the river, and downriver just a little, was the great mesa where he had seen the flare of light. He paused, frowning. With all that had happened since, he had forgotten the incident. Was there a connection? Might that have been the instant that Erik vanished?
Looking around for Kawasi, he saw her standing, staring off at the mesa.
“What is it?” He spoke softly, moving toward her.
She did not turn toward him, but said, “That place! It looks like …”
“Like what?”
She shook her head. “It cannot be.” She looked toward the west. “If it was … over there …” She shook her head again. “It cannot be.”