The Man from Forever (3 page)

“Yeah, there's enough of them, all right. You're here alone?”

Wary in the way of a woman who has learned to navigate the world on her own, she simply shrugged. She should grab
a map, ask a couple of questions and get out of here, but after what she'd experienced this morning, a roof felt inordinately comforting.

“So am I,” Fenton was saying. He introduced himself as Fenton James and she felt obliged to introduce herself in turn. When he stuck out his hand, she did the same. “I've been here about three weeks now,” he said. “I thought everyone came as part of a group, mostly families on vacation, sometimes college students or history buffs. Couldn't you find anyone who wanted to stare at nothing with you?”

Something about Fenton's tone didn't sit right with her, but she didn't have time to analyze what that was. “I'm on my way to a job,” she said, dismissing the understatement. “I just have time for a day or two of poking around.”

“Two days. Most people are in and out in an afternoon, unless they take in the caves, which I can't understand why. Where's this job of yours? I can't imagine anyone having to go through here to get to a job.”

Why Fenton cared what she was up to remained beyond her. However, talking to the man had already taken her thoughts miles away from what she'd seen, or thought she'd seen, earlier. Even if he was trying to hit on her, setting him straight gave her something to do. Besides, he said he'd been at the lava beds for three weeks. If he'd noticed something unexplainable, maybe they could compare reactions. But she doubted that he'd been left feeling as if a huge chunk of what she thought of as her civilized nature had been sucked from him. Keeping the telling as brief as possible, she let him know she was part of the team selected to study some Native American ruins on the Oregon coast.

“How did you accomplish that?” he exclaimed. “My God, that's the find of the century! The opportunity for—what are you? An archaeologist?”

“Anthropologist.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “I never understood the difference.”

She could have told him that an archaeologist dealt with
the physical world while anthropologists concerned themselves with things social and spiritual, but what was the point? “You've heard of the Alsea discovery, I take it,” she said instead.

“Who hasn't? I'd give anything to be part of it. The chance for making one's mark, well—say, maybe you can explain something for me.” He rested his arm on the counter, the gesture bringing him a little closer to her. Although the air still held a high desert morning chill, she thought she caught a whiff of perspiration. “The site was discovered over a year ago. What's the holdup? I mean, I'd think everyone would be hot to trot getting their discoveries written up in the press and all. There's Pulitzer Prize potential there, you know.”

Maybe. Maybe not. At the moment that was a moot point.

“What's going on?” he persisted. “Why isn't everyone up to their eye teeth in pottery and weapons?”

“It isn't that easy.” The sun had reached the window to her left, inviting her to come outside and experience the morning. If she did, would she find only other visitors, or would a look at the horizon reveal someone who couldn't possibly exist? “There's an incredible amount of red tape.”

“I suppose so. What is it, the government wanting a piece of the pie?”

There'd been concern about impact on the environment expressed by both state and federal agencies, as well as more than one politician trying to make a name for himself. And the Oregon Indian Council had insisted that they, not university staff, should be responsible for safeguarding artifacts, only they weren't interested in the artifacts so much as protecting what they insisted was sacred ground. Once, the strip of land between ocean and mountains had been sacred to the Alsea Indians, but the culture that had lived there no longer existed. That was what she'd argued alongside Dr. Grossnickle during three trips to Washington, D.C. Finally, after more legal maneuvering than she wanted to think about, the Indians' claim had been dismissed.

Things were now clear for work to begin. That's what she told Fenton, the explanation as brief as she could make it.

“At least we don't get much of that around here.” He gave her what he must think was a conspiratorial smile. “There's an Indian council, but they don't care what we do here. At least if they don't like something, I haven't heard about it. Not that I'd have time to deal with any opposition. I've got my hands full trying to put this park on solid financial footing.”

She listened with half an ear while Fenton explained that because of governmental cutbacks, the park was hard-pressed to match last year's budget, let alone plan for the future. He'd left a “choice position”—his words—with a San Francisco bank to spearhead a budget drive here, but so far all he'd met with was opposition. “Casewell calls my plan manipulation. Deception. I call it a stroke of genius. You tell me, what's wrong with capitalizing on a few ghost sightings?”

She'd been glancing at the window, both eager to be outside and grateful for the room and its proof of normalcy. Now Felton's comment captured her full attention. “Ghost sightings?”

He shrugged, his gesture casual when she was on edge. “Spirits. Ghosts. Whatever you want to call them.” Although they were alone, he leaned closer and would have whispered in her ear if she hadn't pulled back. “I'll tell you because you're in the same business, so to speak. Most people, they come here, take a look around and say how amazing it is that the Indians held out so long, then go on their way. But some of them, particularly those who walk around Captain Jack's Stronghold, say they feel something there.”

“Something?”

Again he shrugged his maddening shrug. “You tell me. I've never felt anything, but I'd have to be fourteen kinds of a fool not to realize there's a potential in this. The way I look at it, people with overactive imaginations stand where the Indians stood and they convince themselves that the Modocs left something of themselves behind when they were
hauled off to the reservation. I think folks want to believe that. That way they don't have to feel guilty about what was done to the Indians.”

“Maybe.” She hedged. “But you're not talking about something that actually exists.”
Or does he?
“How can you capitalize on that?”

He gave her what she thought might be a sly wink. “The power of suggestion. A few well-placed leaks to the press and we'll have people swarming here, either because they want to believe, or because they're determined to disprove the rumors.”

“But when they don't see anything, it won't take long for them to decide they've been duped.”

“You're assuming they'll come away disappointed. But if they don't—”

“What are you saying?”

For such a brief period of time that she might have imagined it, Fenton lost his self-confident air; she could almost swear he'd started to glance out the window. Then, smiling deliberately, he briefly touched his hand to her shoulder. “I'm telling you this because, like I said, we're in the same business. We're both looking to make a name for ourselves, you through what you can gain from an extinct culture, me from what it'll do to my career if I turn this park around. Anything and everything is open to different interpretations. For example, those who have been working here for years either count themselves tuned into something—shall we call it otherworldly?—or they don't. Whatever it is, none of them quite know what to make of what's been happening lately.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You've got me. I'm not the one going around admitting I've been seeing things, but there have been sightings.”

When he stood there staring at her, she nearly screamed at him to tell her what he was talking about. But there was no way she was going to let him think she believed in this ghost or spirit or whatever he was rattling on about; neither would she do anything to discourage him from talking. Fi
nally he shrugged and moved to the window and looked out as if assuring himself that their conversation would remain private. “What gave me the idea of capitalizing on things is that all of these sightings, or whatever you want to call them, are the same.”

“Are they?”

“Yep. A warrior, brave, whatever you want to call him.”

“A warrior?” She thought her voice squeaked a little at the end, hoped it didn't.

“Good-looking stud, at least that's what some say. Damn imposing, too. He's always way off in the distance so no one can ask him what the heck he's up to, but those who do see him are convinced he's real.”

Convinced he's real.
“You say he's always a long way away.”

“A real shy fellow. Not that I mind, because that keeps the mystery going.” He ended that with another of his winks, this one lasting longer and punctuated by a slight upward turn of his mouth. “That's what I'm trying to get the director to understand. We don't have to come up with anything folks can either prove or disprove. In fact, that's the
last
thing we want. But if every once in a while people see something or someone they can't explain, that'll keep them coming.”

Could Fenton have already put his plan into operation? Was that what she'd seen, nothing more than some actor Fenton James had hired to perpetrate this elaborate hoax of his? If that's what it was—and she wanted the explanation to be that simple—she could tell Fenton that the actor was very, very good.

“It's certainly different from anything I've heard,” she said and moved away as if to leave.

“It's more than that. It's a stroke of genius, if it works.”

“If it works? It sounds as if you've done more than just presented the idea to the director.”

“Maybe I have. Maybe I have.”

F
ive minutes later, Tory had finally extricated herself from the talkative Fenton and had started toward her cabin. By now people were beginning to arrive at park headquarters, their voices following her until she'd traveled a good quarter of the way. If the heat kept increasing, she'd have to change to shorts before going out again. She should have brought her camera this morning; she wouldn't make that same mistake again because—

Biting the inside of her mouth, she stopped the errant thought. She'd been about to tell herself that a camera was absolutely necessary if she was going to prove the existence of a ghostly warrior for all concerned when there was no such thing.

By effort of will, she forced her thoughts on nothing more complicated than the best place to search for ground squirrels and other scurrying creatures. Looking around, she became aware of her isolation in a way she hadn't been last night. True, she could see the faint jet trail left behind by a plane, and it was a simple matter to get in touch with someone via
the walkie-talkie at the cabin, but she doubted that anyone would hear if she screamed.

Scream? Why would she do that? Hadn't she asked for the remote cabin because she wanted a little time with her own company, a welcome change of pace from the hectic meetings and yet more meetings?

After unlocking her door, she stepped inside the single room. She'd left her small duffel bag on the couch because there didn't seem to be much purpose in settling in if she was only going to be here two nights. Thinking to change into shorts, she started rummaging through her belongings. She stopped when she came across the folder filled with newspaper clippings. Although her own role in the Alsea project was essentially a supportive one, she'd been quoted numerous times and had had her picture taken on more than one occasion. Dr. Grossnickle teased her that she was robbing him of top billing, but that wasn't true and they both knew it. Still—

Frowning, she opened the folder and studied the most recent articles. Not only was she photographed alongside Dr. Grossnickle, but two paragraphs of the accompanying article were about her successful effort to discredit the Oregon Indian Council's claim that they alone had the right to excavate and record. Not only was the article one of the most accurate ones that had been written about the project, it had appeared on the front page of a recent Oregonian newspaper. If Fenton James had read the article and seen her name on the guest register and decided—

Decided what? To convince a high-profile anthropologist that something unexplained lurked around the lava beds? Taking the argument as far as it would go, he
had
struck up a conversation with her and immediately introduced the subject of ghosts or spirits or whatever he wanted to call them.

But he'd also told her straight out that he was trying to come up with a way to capitalize on people's overactive imaginations and mine them for the park's financial benefit. There'd been nothing veiled about his intentions.

Warned by the threat of a headache, she turned her thoughts to the less weighty question of whether to stay with boots or change into more comfortable shoes for her next trek into the wilderness. When she started unlacing her boots, she told herself it was
not
because she could run faster in tennis shoes.

 

It was dark by the time Tory returned to her cabin, and she needed to use a flashlight to find her way home. Throughout a long and eventful day, she'd gone through three rolls of film while documenting the park's wildlife and had eaten both lunch and dinner with vacationers who'd insisted she share burgers and hot dogs with them. True, she hadn't put up much of an argument when the invitations were offered. It wasn't that she was a great fan of stale buns and wilted lettuce, but being around people kept her from thinking about that morning. And if there'd been times, like when she was trying to get close enough to capture a small herd of antelope in her telephoto lens, when she felt as if she were being watched, she'd chalked it up to that overactive imagination of hers.

At least she tried to; only now, surrounded by night and alone with her thoughts, she couldn't shake the suspicion—all right, the conviction—that something, or someone, had had his eye on her.

Warrior.
Although she barely whispered the word, it took on a life of its own, existed beside her in the small, kerosene-lit cabin, floated just beyond the two windows.

Warrior—a man willing to give up his life for freedom.

Unexpected emotion touched her, but she didn't try to argue it away with twentieth-century logic. Once, men who answered to no name except “warrior” had roamed this land; that evocative word had spoken of what lived in their hearts.

She'd seen their land today, at least what had once been theirs. The past year of her life had been taken up with one legal and political maneuver after another, all of it aimed at unlocking the key to a way of life that no longer existed.
Consumed by those documents and studies and strategies and jockeying for position, she'd forgotten to take the time to focus on the actual people who had once lived the life she was so determined to record.

But here at The Land Of Burned Out Fires not enough had changed. Although the wolves and grizzlies were gone, the deer and antelope that once sustained the Modocs still roamed free. The eagles they had turned to for guidance continued to soar through an unspoiled sky. And because ancient volcanoes had rendered it inhospitable to so-called progress, most of the land remained as it had always been. Only the Modocs had left.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, she turned on the battery-controlled radio and chose an all-news station. While she did what cleaning up she could, she caught up on the outside world. By the time she changed to an easy-listening station, she'd gotten back in touch with what she'd long believed herself to be—an up-and-coming cultural anthropologist with more than thirty years of productivity ahead of her. Sentiment didn't get the job done.

She'd intended to do a little reading, fiction for a change of pace, but had read no more than five pages before hours of walking and fresh air caught up with her. She turned off the radio and climbed into the double bed with its sagging mattress. An owl kept hooting. She heard what seemed like a thousand crickets, and if she listened carefully, she caught what must be a few frogs somewhere in the sound. Just before she fell asleep, she asked herself when she'd last heard nothing except the sounds of nature. She couldn't remember.

 

He
came into her dream, a whispering presence, heat and weight. She was standing in the middle of a ring of rocks, but this time there were no weeds obscuring the dance area. A sound that was part crickets and owls and frogs and part something else spread over the night breeze like music from an ageless source. Bare toes digging into the sparse soil, she lifted her head so she could pull the incredibly clean air deep
into her lungs. She felt her hair sliding over her shoulders and realized with no sense of shock that she was naked.

He
walked toward her. This man, this warrior, wore no more than she did, and yet there was nothing vulnerable about his body. He strode out of the desert as if pride were as vital a part of him as the blood coursing through his veins. His mouth, firm and yet strangely gentle, briefly held her attention and kept her from losing her sanity in the rest of what he was. If he hated her for intruding on his land and his ancestors' land, his mouth gave nothing of that away. Although her need to take in his entire body and commit it to memory was all but overpowering, she deliberately turned her attention to his eyes.

His fathomless eyes.

She felt herself begin to shake, knew her reaction had nothing to do with cold. The moon emerged in the space of a heartbeat. It bathed the warrior with white-silver rays, feathers of light that slowly and sensually revealed muscle and bone, strength and power. Still, she couldn't stop staring into his eyes.

They were black. More than black, they seemed to have been alive forever and born at the earth's core. She wondered if he had his grandfather's eyes, maybe the eyes of the first Modoc to walk this land. In them she saw generations of a proud and resourceful people who understood the seasons and land and sky in a way that had been lost. His mind held the knowledge to gather and hunt throughout the summer so there would be enough to sustain the tribe through the harshest winter. His eyes knew to scan the horizon for the first glimpse of the winter birds that came to the vast waterways.

This warrior with his war-hardened body had hands made for hunting and fighting, for wrestling what he needed for life from land that offered nothing to more civilized people. Although they now hung along his naked thighs, the fingers curving in slightly, tendons standing out in stark relief beneath deeply tanned flesh, she imagined them cradling a child.

What would those hands feel like on her?

Made breathless by the question, she tried to step outside the dance ring, but the rocks expanded until she was trapped within the walls they'd become. Despite that, she could still see him and shrank a little from a gaze that told her he had the power to control these hard stones. She gaped in amazement and yet acceptance when he used his powerful hands to push one boulder aside so he could step inside.

She couldn't take her eyes off his thighs; a dusting of black hair draped flesh that had known years of heat and cold and physical life. Beneath the sheltering skin lived muscle and bone. His calves and ankles and feet were like the rocks that held her, made for eternity. She saw in them the runner he must be, the tireless hunter, protector of women and children.

He hadn't said a word. Still, she knew what had brought him here. The answer lay in the way he used his body, the arrogant strength of him, the blatant sexuality. Although she shrank from him, at the center of her being she wanted what he was. She faced the challenge and danger, the volcano. Their coupling would be as rough and wild as the land he called home. There'd be no gentle whispers, no lengthy foreplay. Instead, he would take what he needed from her, and she would do the same to him. Again and again until her strength gave out.

 

He lay on his back on his bear-pelt bed. Since awakening—he could think of nothing else to call it—he'd cleared the brush from the slit of an opening above him. Although it was too narrow for him to get his body through or give the enemy access, it allowed enough sunlight to enter during the day that he could easily study the countless etchings that were his people's history. At night, especially when the moon was full, the cave took on a silver cast.

Staring at the opening, he tried to imagine how the land his people called The Smiles Of God had looked when it was painted in the colors the creator had used to bless the moon. But although he gave thanks to Kumookumts for his generous
gift to the Maklaks, he couldn't keep his thoughts on what the world must have been like when Kumookumts was creating it.

The woman filled him. He'd watched her today. Often her car—how he hated the harsh word—took her far from where he was, but she seemed to have no purpose to her wanderings, and several times came close enough that he could truly study her. Like so many of her kind, she carried that thing they called a camera. He would like to know what they did with their cameras once they were done pointing them. At least they didn't make a noise like a gun, and he guessed they weren't weapons because they often pointed them at each other.

She'd come here alone. He'd seen loners before, but there was something about her that made her stand out from the others. He'd tried to tell himself it was because he held her responsible for his awakening, but tonight, with Owl foretelling of death and his body restless with his man-need, he knew it was more than that.

He wanted her. He'd been awake for six moons and looked at women with lust and then acknowledged that he couldn't have them. He'd spent his lust-need by running until his lungs screamed. But what he felt for her was different. Like the power of a volcano, it held him in its fiery grasp and warned him that if he didn't run until his legs gave out, he might take her. If he did, she would alert the army men and they would kill him.

Was that Owl's warning? That his need for this woman would mean the end to him?

A growl of anguish rolled up from deep inside him and pushed its way past his lips. Shaking his head, he tried to deny the depth of his craving, but it was no good. He'd had a wife, a woman chosen by his family because of her social standing in the clan. Although she'd been older than him with interest in little more than digging camas bulbs and drying and storing them for winter, she'd let him climb atop her and
he'd spent his energy inside her. She'd given him his son. For that he would always be grateful to her.

But she was dead and energy fed upon him the way lightning-born fire feeds upon trees and brush.

When another cry threatened to find freedom, he shoved himself into a sitting position. The moonlight now slid over his head and shoulders, carved his legs in shadowy relief. Gripping a calf, he thought about the great distance he'd walked today, not hunting as he should have, but searching for the woman again.

She carried herself as few of the enemy did. Instead of lumbering like a grass-fattened cow, she walked with an ease that drew reluctant admiration from him. She must spend much of her life, not in a small, cramped house, but where her legs could find exercise. She was tall, slender. Her hair flowed long and straight and dark down her back; the wind loved to play with it. He wondered where she'd come from, where she would go when her time here was done. He wondered what had brought her here. Most of all he asked himself what she'd thought when he showed himself to her.

She'd known he was watching her today. He'd seen the truth in the way she looked around, the wariness in her bear-brown eyes. After spending the morning pointing her camera at anything that moved, she'd joined some of the enemy. Even when she was surrounded by them, there were times when she scanned the horizon, and although he was so far away that he couldn't read the truth in her gaze, he'd sensed it in what her body said to him.