“Did the man who shot your father ever go out there to look at the lights?” Page asked.
“He tried several times. He finally decided that the people who told him about the lights were trying to make a fool of him.”
“And you were worried that if I didn’t see the lights, I’d get angry- as angry as the man who shot your father.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You wouldn’t have understood what I was talking about. How could I possibly have explained it? I told you on the phone-you needed to see for yourself.”
“Or not see,” Page added.
Costigan made a gesture of futility. “There’s no way to predict who’ll see the lights and who won’t, or how they’ll react. Even those who don’t see the lights…” The chief rubbed his bandaged forehead. “Do you suppose it’s possible to feel the lights without actually seeing them?”
“Yesterday you told us they were only a mirage caused by a temperature inversion,” Tori reminded him.
“That I did.”
“But now you seem to think they’re a lot more.”
“A temperature inversion. Sure. That’s the rational explanation. But one thing I’ve learned in more than twenty years as a police officer is that human beings aren’t rational.”
45
Harriett Ward’s antiques store was crammed with browsers. After the glare of the afternoon sun, Page found the interior shadows soothing. He noted that a man had taken down one of the antique rifles Page had seen on the wall the evening before. The man worked the vintage firearm’s lever and aimed the gun toward the ceiling.
“Just like the rifle James Stewart used in that Western,” he told his female companion. “Winchester ’73. Hard to imagine this was made just after the Civil War. What are they charging for it? Twenty-eight hundred dollars? My God, that’s a steal!”
“But I don’t think we can afford it,” the woman said. “Gas and food cost so much. Next week Bobby’s nursery school bill is due, and-”
“Hey, you don’t see bargains like this every day. We’ll put it on one of our credit cards.”
Page looked toward the opposite side of the store and saw an older woman with short white hair and a leather vest: Harriett Ward. As he and Tori went over, she was talking to a couple about a wooden cabinet that had large iron handles on the doors.
“I found it in a village in Mexico. It’s made of mesquite, which is about as hard as wood can get and not be like these metal handles.”
She noticed Page and Tori and nodded. Five minutes later, she made her way over to them.
“I’ve never had so many people in the store at one time,” she said.
“Well, at least there’s an upside to what’s been happening,” Tori said.
“Everybody wants a twenty percent discount and free shipping. Someone tried to buy the antique light fixtures and got upset when I said I needed them. Someone else got upset when I told her I didn’t have a public restroom. She made a fuss when I wouldn’t let her into my apartment so she could use my private bathroom. I’m glad for the business, but I’d forgotten how difficult people can be.”
A woman approached them. She had big blond hair and wore an ornate costume that made her look like a country singer.
“Janice, thanks for coming in to help,” Harriett said.
“No problem.” The woman laughed and spread her sequined green skirt. “I figured I’d wear something the out-of-state customers will re- member. They’ll go home and say we all dress like we’re in one of those old Westerns where everybody sang when they weren’t shooting bad guys.”
“Do you think you and Viv can handle the store for a while?”
“Of course. We know what to do.”
“Just don’t sell the light fixtures.”
Laughing at what she thought was a joke, Janice went to greet a customer.
Harriett led Page and Tori through the door in back, entered her sparsely furnished living room, locked the door, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. When she finally opened her eyes, she said, “You’re here to talk about what happened last night?”
“If you’re too busy, we can come back later,” Tori said.
“No. Come with me-I want to show you something.”
46
Harriett’s pickup truck headed along the now familiar route.
“You’re taking us back to the viewing area?” Page asked. He sat against the passenger door, with Tori next to him.
“Past it,” Harriett answered.
Ahead, more cars were parked along both shoulders of the road. Flatbed trucks had concrete barriers on them. A crane was lifting the barriers and placing them in a line along the entrance to the viewing area, forming a high wall. Two men in suits supervised the work. Their hard hats contrasted with the cowboy hats of Medrano and an- other Highway Patrol officer.
“Looks like they’re shutting the place off,” Harriett said. “If they’re smart, they’ll take down the shelter altogether, along with the historical marker, and load the portable toilets onto those trucks. I never approved of what the county did here. The lights shouldn’t be a tourist stop. I don’t care about the business outsiders bring to town. Keep the lights a secret. Let people discover them if they’re meant to.”
“If they’re meant to?” Tori asked.
“Do you think these people deserve to see the lights? Most can’t. The others aren’t capable of appreciating what they’re lucky enough to see.” There was a tone in her voice that Page hadn’t heard before.
People filled the road, complaining about the tall barricade. Harriett was forced to stop the truck.
“Quit blocking traffic!” Page heard Medrano yell.
Reluctantly the crowd parted.
Harriett drove on, passing the parked cars. Beyond barbed-wire fences, scrub grass stretched in both directions. Five miles later, she steered toward a gate on the left. Page got out, opened the gate, waited for the truck to drive through, then resecured the gate.
They drove along a dirt road. The heat of the day had dried the puddles from the previous night’s storm. Dust rose in small clouds to mark their passing. The rugged grassland extended toward the distant mountains, the vast area so flat and treeless that only the grazing cattle provided variation in the landscape.
Wait, Page thought, peering into the distance. Something’s out there.
He saw a speck at the end of the road. Leaning forward, he tried to identify what it was. As the truck drove nearer, the speck became larger.
“It’s a building,” Tori said, curious.
“Why do I feel like I’ve been here before?” Page frowned, recalling his sense of déjà vu when he’d flown over the cattle and the windmill on his approach to Rostov. He’d also felt it when he’d first driven along the town’s main street.
The building became more identifiable-and more puzzling. It was an impressive three-story ranch house. A covered porch stretched along its wide front. Several chimneys projected from its roofline. A square tower rose on the right corner, ending in a cupola that made the house look like a castle. But as majestic as the place appeared, it had a brooding, gothic quality.
“I’ve seen this house before,” Tori told Page. Abruptly she made the connection. “Birthright.”
“Of course!” Page said. “That’s why everything looked familiar when I flew here. This is the house Captain Medrano was talking about, the one Mullen took the tour to see.”
Page remembered when a restored version of Birthright had been shown in theaters to celebrate its fiftieth anniversary. He and Tori had heard so much about the classic film-which had seldom appeared on television-that they’d made a point of seeing it.