Best Friends Page 3

  “On my way to Salt Lake. But listen, remember that dream you had about an oasis in the desert? You won’t believe it, but I’ve just stumbled on a three thousand-acre oasis.”

  “Three thousand acres?”

  “Along with all the federal land we can lease with it. It’s the size of Manhattan; that’s how big it is.”

  Michael tried to visualize the immensity of a piece of land the size of Manhattan.

  “And it’s filled with junipers and willows, and there’s this tributary of the Colorado that runs through it, and these incredible red cliffs that embrace the whole place. . . .” Francis paused. “And they have over three hundred and twenty days of sunshine a year.”

  Francis definitely had Michael’s attention. For a man who had endured, as he liked to complain, twenty long years of terminally gray British winters, the promise of sunshine was like manna from heaven for Michael.

  But Francis wasn’t finished. “Are you ready for this? There’s an ancient legend that when the Aztec King Montezuma was executed, his followers fled with his treasure and buried it right here in an underground lake. Are you hearing me? Red rocks! Treasure! The old man’s prediction!”

  Michael felt a chill. He knew exactly what Francis was referring to. He’d spent some time on the Yucatan Peninsula in the late sixties with a dozen friends, sleeping on the beach because the boarding house in the fishing village at which they’d stopped refused to rent them rooms. The landlady wouldn’t allow their dogs, and, as far as they were concerned, if their dogs weren’t welcome neither were they.

  A brown-skinned man, bent with age and leaning on a stick, a yellow dog by his side, had appeared out of nowhere and directed them to a Mayan ruin on the seashore where they might stay. Michael had looked for the señor the next week to say thank you and invite him to eat with them. But nobody in the village knew of the old man.

  This seemed strange given the close-knit nature of a place of less than fifty souls. But at the time, Michael shrugged it off. Mexico, after all, was the land of the mystic writer, Carlos Casta-ñeda. Three months later, as Michael was about to leave, the old man appeared again.

  “You will be back,” he said.

  “I don’t really plan on that.”

  “Not here.” He raised a withered arm and pointed his stick toward the United States. “You will go where our people went with Montezuma’s treasure, a place of big, red rocks.” He smiled. “There is where you’ll find what your heart is looking for.”

  The memory washed over Michael like a vivid dream. “I’ll meet you tomorrow,” he told Francis. “We need to call Faith.”

  “She’s next on my list.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Coming Home

  Michael Mountain and Faith Maloney flew into Las Vegas—the closest airport to Kanab—the next afternoon. Francis was waiting for them, a bundle of nervous energy.

  “You’ve gotta see it. You’ve gotta see it,” he repeated as he sped down Interstate 15.

  Francis hadn’t been idle while waiting for his friends. For the next three and a half hours, he regaled them with what he’d found out around town. It seemed that about half of Kanab had chipped in to buy shares of an outfit called Golden Circle Tours. Collectively, the locals owned much of Kanab Canyon, as well as the Parry Lodge and several other motels. But the stockholders weren’t averse to selling the canyon property. “I got the feeling they think the land’s a bit of a white elephant. But it’s ideal for what we want,” Francis finished.

  Michael had a question. “You haven’t told us how much this is all going to cost.”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned.” Francis paused.

  “You mean there’s something you’ve left out of this perfect picture?” Michael inquired mildly.

  Francis was too intent on not missing the turnoff to catch Michael’s wry humor. “There’s one guy, Norm Cram, lives in a house not too far in once you get off the highway. We’ll see it soon. He might not be too keen to sell.”

  “Why?” Faith asked, bracing against the backseat as the Toyota bumped onto the dirt road of the canyon.

  “For one thing he’s got a nice little deal peddling tour maps of old movie locations and Indian ruins. This used to be the land of the ancient Anasazi people.” Francis paused as they approached a crude wooden gate that blocked their way. “Then he’s got four cabins he rents out when he can, and he’s lived here for twenty years. But I think the others will override him and . . .”

  Michael spoke softly. “Can we sit for a moment?”

  Francis turned off the engine. “Be my guest.”

  Michael closed his eyes. He’d only half heard what his friend had been saying. Almost from the moment they entered the canyon, a powerful feeling of peace had settled over him. As he listened to the wondrous silence surrounding them, a pervasive tranquility, the kind that clears your head and heals your heart, seeped into every pore of his being.

  A voice suddenly intruded on the moment. “You planning on going anywhere?”

  A slender young woman in a blue cotton shirtwaist reminiscent of the fifties sauntered toward them from a trailer parked beyond the gate. She leaned in the driver’s window. “Don’t I know you?” she asked saucily.

  “Hello, Bonnie. I was here yesterday,” Francis reminded.

  The girl lifted her granny glasses. “Oh, yes. You wanted to speak to Norm.” She pointed ahead of them. “He’s up the road past his house a ways. I told him someone’s been asking for him.”

  “Thank you,” Francis pulled a five-dollar bill from his shorts.

  Bonnie grinned. “This one’s on us.” She strolled back to open the gate. “It’s all yours,” she called as she waved them through.

  No one spoke as Francis steered them past meadows lush and green with summer’s clover, past Norm Cram’s dwelling. Soon they were leaving the canyon floor behind and climbing the narrow spiraling road to the mesas.

  Before they’d gone too far, a John Deere tractor trundled around a curve toward them. A gaunt cowboy-looking fella, complete with spurs on his boots, ground the machine to a halt as they drew abreast. Slowly, deliberately, he tipped the brim of his Stetson and took their measure.

  “Hi, there,” Francis greeted him.

  “Howdy,” Norm Cram answered.

  Michael climbed out of the car and walked to the tractor. Francis and Faith followed. Norm Cram didn’t move.

  Francis broke the impasse. “I was in town this morning. Your partner Dale said this place was for sale.”

  “Anything’s for sale at a price,” Norm Cram said carefully. “But this property ain’t much good for anything. Not enough water for ranching. Certainly can’t put a subdivision on it, if that’s what you got in mind.”

  “That’s not what we’ve got in mind,” Faith said.

  Norm Cram considered her with the gaze of an inquisitor. “So what do you want it for?”

  Michael had the distinct impression that the man was not too pleased about their interest. Maybe “suspicious of strangers” would better describe his attitude. “This is a special place,” he said, trying to diffuse the tension.

  “Special don’t pay the rent. And you won’t find nothing here except some falling-down barn from an old Ronald Reagan movie. But even the Hollywood folks don’t come any more. I’d look elsewhere if I was you.” With that, Norm Cram grumbled his John Deere to life, tipped his Stetson to Faith and went on his way.

  “The dragon at the mouth of the canyon,” Michael murmured.

  “What?” Francis said.

  “In the old legends, hidden treasure is always guarded by a dragon at the mouth of a canyon.”

  “Oh, Michael,” Faith said with affection. “You do love your legends, don’t you?”

  The three friends were quiet as they explored, awed by the spectacular beauty surrounding them. As the afternoon shadows lengthened into dusk, Francis brought them to the foot of a red-rock cliff. “I’ve saved the most i
ncredible till last—but it’s a bit of a hike.”

  The day before, Francis had scoped out deer paths that traversed hidden landings to make the climb easier. Still, they struggled through an underbrush high with horsetail, mullein, squaw bush, and nettles.

  Michael was concerned for Faith. She’d forgotten to bring a hat, and her face was taking on a pinkish tinge without protection from the sun. Besides, he could see she was tiring. “How much farther?” he called.

  Francis stopped and clasped Faith’s hand. “We’re almost there. Trust me and close your eyes. I’ll lead the way. You too, Michael.” Carefully he filed them around a massive boulder. “Now.”

  They opened their eyes to a green sweep of land. Arched above the grassy carpet like a great domed amphitheater was a striated pink rock overhang, ribboned with brown desert varnish. “Turn around,” Francis said, guiding their gaze to the east.

  They looked out to a vista that old Western painters must have known. High desert mesas stretched into infinity. Imperious red-rock cliffs, sculpted by the hands of the gods, thrust skyward into clean, calm air. Below them, the muffled rush of a river swollen with seasonal rains pulsed through a broad expanse of emerald meadow.

  Michael stood silent beside two people he considered his true family. He was not unaware of what they were about to undertake if they bought this land. The men and women who shared their passionate love of animals were city folks, every one. Few of them had any practical building skills. He himself couldn’t even replace a fuse. Yet they were contemplating acquiring this utterly impractical piece of acreage with no water, sewer, or electricity, not one livable building.

  It didn’t matter. Walking the property this day, he’d experienced a sense of timelessness—of returning to something very basic, very real. A transforming perception of something “so right” overwhelmed him from a deeper consciousness, and Michael knew in that instant that at last he’d “come home.” This was a place of sanctuary for both people and animals. This was the land for which they had all been searching.

  Michael was so absorbed in his own vision, he was unaware that Faith had slipped her hand into his. She squeezed gently when she felt him return to them.

  “Yes,” she said, and the word was enough.

  They were quiet on the hike back to the car.

  “We need to get everybody together,” Faith said as they drove out of the canyon.

  “To see who wants in,” Michael affirmed.

  “Yes,” Faith acknowledged.

  “The Arizona ranch is the logical place to meet,” Francis said. Michael and Faith nodded agreement. “Back at the ranch it shall be, then.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Commitment

  It took a month to coordinate everybody’s schedules, but on a weekend in July, twenty-seven men and women came to Arizona to hear about the land in Utah. It was rare for all of them to gather in any one place at the same time, but Michael wasn’t surprised.

  These were people who had drifted in and out of each other’s lives, supported each other for over fifteen years. Any place they settled became a refuge for an eccentric assortment of wonderful and lovable creatures that were, for the most part, unadoptable. These were people who got inordinate pleasure from nursing four-legged or feathered friends back to health, training them, or spending time to make them “person friendly,” because the greatest joy was placing a rescued little one in a happy home.

  The Arizona ranch had been good for this dedicated group of animal lovers. In the four years they had owned the land, they’d managed to save so many more animals whose luck was about to run out, all the while pursuing the “no-kill” philosophy in which they all fervently believed. Now they had a chance for a piece of property on which they could truly create an animal Eden.

  Michael stood a little apart as he listened to Francis describe the canyon, and tried to guess who would be part of the new venture, and who would demur.

  Steven Hirano would come.

  Michael had met the Japanese-American poet/physicist in Los Angeles when they were both in their early twenties. Traveling in Europe, they’d been sickened by the spectacle of bullfighting in Spain. They had gone on to Sicily, but couldn’t get the senseless slaughter out of their minds. In their naiveté, they determined to protest to the Pope, but by then they were woefully short of money.

  Michael would never forget that day in the railway station at Palermo: He and Steven stranded, broke, with only empty pockets to fuel their quest. A small man in a faded navy stationmaster’s uniform patrolled his platform with somber vigilance. In a confusion of broken Italian and Spanish, Michael explained their predicament.

  The conductor was not young, not old, with skin that looked as if it had been pockmarked by insects. He studied the bell-bottomed, long-haired youths before him. His eyes held the Sicilian weariness of having seen it all, yet there was a curious belief in their depths. “Wait here,” he said.

  The stationmaster took off his conductor’s cap and accosted a knot of passengers waiting for their train. He talked volubly, gestured, and pointed at Michael and Steven. The travelers stared. The conductor shook his cap impatiently under their noses. They quickly rummaged in their pockets, producing notes and coins.

  It took but a few minutes before the stationmaster returned. He scooped the money from his cap and pushed it into their hands. “Go with blessings from all of us,” he said. “Tell His Holiness that we, too, want no more slaughter of the bulls.”

  Steven Hirano would come.

  Maia Astor-Drayton would come, too. Michael smiled as he watched the petite, dark-haired woman hang on Francis’s every word. Maia had a sense of the absurd that Michael loved. She’d earnestly joined the Beatles entourage when they visited Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in India. When the “Fab Four” bought the guru a Lear jet, the English tabloids had a field day screaming about movie stars and heiresses conned into giving money to dubious causes. As a joke, Michael put a one-line advertisement in The London Times: “Wanted—heiress to back worthy cause.”

  Maia Astor answered.

  “The whole Maharishi trip was such a hype,” the granddaughter of old John Jacob sniffed. “My cats have more spirituality.”

  “The ad was just a gag, you know,” Michael said.

  Maia Astor scrutinized the men and women assembled in Faith’s flat. “Didn’t you say you wanted to publish an antivivisection book?” She spread slim, pale fingers in question. “So what’s stopping us?”

  Maia Astor-Drayton would come.

  Diana Asher would also be with them. She already lived at the ranch, taking care of all things cat. Michael looked across the room at the attractive blond woman who had once been his wife. She caught his eye, nodded toward Francis, and gave a thumbs up. Momentarily he was back in a Safeway parking lot three years earlier.

  He had accompanied Diana to pick up twelve mangy cats from the Prescott Humane Society. The unhappy creatures were feline leukemia positive, and the rattiest, dirtiest, most miserable bundles of fur that he’d seen in a long time.

  On the way back to the ranch, they’d stopped to pick up some food at the supermarket. To Michael’s surprise Diana insisted he stay in the car. “Somebody might steal the cats,” she said as if he should know better.

  Diana Asher would come.

  Tall, taciturn Paul Eckhoff sat beside her. Everyone always teased the architect that the pièce de résistance of his career was the prison he’d conceived for the London County Council. Yet they all knew what a fine designer he was. Paul had made their Arizona ranch animal-friendly.

  Paul Eckhoff would come.

  Michael’s glance shifted to the open, interested face of Virgil Barstad. The violinist/composer from Alabama could bring forth tears with his playing, yet he loved nothing better than to be working the land, riding up high on a backhoe or bulldozer. And the bigger the machine, the better he liked it.

  Virgil Barstad would come.

  Jana and Raphael de Peyer sat studying the picture
s Francis had taken, their heads touching, Jana’s waist-length hair a dark cascade to the floor. The endearing photos that the husband-and-wife photographers snapped of the animals brought to the ranch had been invaluable in placing so many in good homes. Michael hoped they would be part of the dream in Utah.

  His reverie was disturbed in that moment by the sensation of being watched. He looked at Anne and Cyrus Mejia, snuggled close on the sofa, with her head on his shoulder; he, the artist in his signature head-to-toe black, absently winding a strand of her long, brown hair around his finger.

  Anne was staring intently at Michael as if she wanted to talk to him. When she caught his attention she turned and whispered in her husband’s ear. Cyrus nodded. Anne extricated herself from under his arm and came to Michael’s side. “Do you remember my family bible?” Anne’s blue eyes held Michael’s, forcing the memory of her story.

  She had come home from high school in Toronto one day, and an inner voice directed her to open to the back of the family bible, where she would find an appendix listing all the saints. She was to write down the names to which she was drawn. It wasn’t Anne’s habit to hear voices, yet this was an oddly persistent message. She did as she heard. Since no more instructions were forthcoming, she put her list in a safe place and forgot about it.

  Six years later, in 1972, Anne was volunteering after work at an animal shelter when Cyrus walked in. Her heart skipped a beat at the dark, handsome man who’d come to help. They were married a year later.

  “You might find this hard to believe, Michael, but I was clearing out my mementos chest a few weeks ago, and found the list I made in nineteen sixty-six. I counted twenty-one names.” Anne looked around the room. “All of them are here tonight. And I didn’t tell you before, but I wrote Cyrus’s name down in the corner as the person who would be the most important in my life.”

  For the second time in less than a month Michael felt a chill. He was a practical man, a thinker who’d studied political science. He was more comfortable planning and implementing than he was in the metaphysical realm. And yet . . .