“Haven’t seen any sign of the lights since everything happened,” Costigan told them. “Captain Medrano and I drove Harriett Ward out there. If anybody can be depended upon to see the lights, it’s her. She says they’re gone. What’s the phrase she used? ‘In remission.’”
“Yes,” Tori said. “In remission.”
Page took her home to Santa Fe-but it didn’t seem like home any longer. She said she kept thinking of Rostov, dreaming about the lights, and Page was dreaming about them now, too.
The insurance payment for the crashed Cessna helped him buy a thirty-year-old replacement. A year later, Page and Tori flew back to Rostov. They rented a car and drove to Costigan’s office, where the police chief was coughing from what he said was a bad summer cold, although Page had a strong idea about the true source of this ex- smoker’s cough.
“We’re thinking about moving here,” Page said. “Any chance you have a job open?”
“A deputy’s pay isn’t much.”
“But the cost of living here isn’t much, either, and I can earn some extra cash as a mechanic at the airport.”
Costigan cleared his throat. “Truth is, there might be an opening for my job.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Tori said, looking closely at him.
“Don’t be,” he said with a smile. “I learned a long time ago, nothing lasts forever. But I’m not ready to go yet, so for the time being, the deputy’s job is yours if you want it.”
“I do,” Page said.
“And we’ve got so many artists moving here from Austin, Santa Fe, and Sedona, the real estate market’s picking up,” Costigan told Tori. “I don’t suppose it’ll surprise you that there’s something about the colors here that attracts them. I think you could earn a living.”
“I’d like to try,” she responded. “One thing I know-we won’t be lonely here. We made some good friends.”
“You did indeed.” Six months later, Page became the police chief. After Costigan’s funeral, he and Tori drove out to where they guessed the viewing area had been. Medrano had meant what he’d said-once everything was removed, the place looked like just another section of a field.
They arrived at sunset, got out of the car, and watched the horizon. As the darkness settled, they saw the headlights from cars approaching from Mexico. They saw a shooting star. They saw a hint of a shimmer beyond the Badlands.
“You think that’s the start of the lights coming back?” Page asked.
“It might be,” Tori answered. “Harriet says they have cycles, weak and strong. Maybe she’s right. But I guess I really don’t need to see them. Even back in town, I canfeel them. That’s enough.”
“More than enough,” Page agreed. “They match what people bring to them. If you need something to believe in, they’ll inspire you, but if you built a wall around yourself, you won’t be able to see them. If you’re angry, they’ll make you angrier. If you want to turn them into a weapon, they’ll use that weapon against you and make you realize just how terrifying a weapon can be.”
“Plus, if you hope hard enough for a miracle,” Tori said, “they can make one happen.”
The headlights of a car approached. It pulled up next to their car, and a man rolled down a window.
“Hey, isn’t this where those weird lights used to show up?”
“Lights? Don’t know anything about them,” Page said. “We’re just admiring the stars.”
“Probably a lot of bunk anyhow.”
“So we hear,” Tori said.
The car drove on, its taillights fading into the darkness.
“Want to head back?” Page asked.
“I’m ready. If that shimmer out there is in fact the lights, we’ve probably seen enough.”
In the car, Page hesitated before turning the ignition key.
“What’s wrong?” Tori asked.
“Just remembering what this place used to look like, what I felt when I saw you on the bench, staring toward the horizon. I almost lost you. But because of the lights, that didn’t happen. What they are to you, that’s what you are to me. I love you.” Page made a point of saying that every day.
Emotion filled him. “Did you ever read the plaque that was at the side of the road?”
“No. I figured it would be touristy, like it was written by somebody in the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Not quite,” Page told her. “As near as I can recall, it said, ‘Welcome to the Rostov lights. Many people have claimed to see them, but no one has ever been able to explain them. If you’re lucky enough to experience them, decide for yourself what they are.’ Well, I know what they are to me.”
Page kissed her.
AFTERWORD: SPECTERS IN THE DARK
On November 7, 2004, I paged through the Sunday edition of my local newspaper, the Santa Fe New Mexican. Although I don’t normally read the travel section, the headline for one of its articles caught my attention.
LIGHT UP YOUR LIFE
TINY MARFA, TEXAS, BOASTS WEIRD NATURAL PHENOMENA
The caption for a ghostly photograph referred to “mystery lights.”
I couldn’t resist.
Reprinted from the Washington Post, the article described how its author, Zofia Smardz, had taken her family to Marfa, a small town in west Texas, searching for strange lights that are visible there on many nights throughout the year. It’s difficult to tell how far away the lights are. Magical, they bob and weave, float and waver, blink and glow, appear and vanish.
As the article pointed out, no one can say for sure what causes them. Perhaps quartz crystals absorb the heat of the day and give off static electricity when the rocks cool at night. Perhaps the lights are formed by radioactive gases. Or perhaps temperature inversions in the atmosphere refract lights from faraway vehicles. Whatever the explanation, the lights have been in west Texas for quite a while. As far back as the 1880s, a rancher noticed them and assumed they came from Indian campfires, except that when he searched in the morning, he didn’t find evidence of any campfires.
The article’s author described her visit to the area’s viewing station. Along with her husband and two boys, she stood at the side of a country road and stared toward the dark horizon, pointing excitedly when the lights made their dramatic appearance. On occasion, how- ever, she saw the lights when her family didn’t, or else her family saw the lights when she saw nothing. A similar contrast happened when other tourists joined them. Some people were transported by the lights, while others couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
I finished my coffee, tore out the page, and went to my office, where I put the article among others on a shelf of research materials. I’ve been doing this for decades, stacking items that intrigue me, waiting to discover which of them calls to my subconscious.
It didn’t take long for the Marfa lights to do exactly that. During many nights in the final months of 2004, just before I went to sleep, a persistent image kept appearing in my imagination. A woman stood at a viewing platform at the side of a road, staring spellbound toward alluring lights on a dark horizon. Unlike the author of the Marfa- lights article, this woman was not accompanied by her husband and children. Although married, she was alone. Having stopped while driving to visit her mother, she was so obsessed by the lights that nothing else mattered to her, including the husband who came looking for her.
That was all I had, and as 2005 began, I didn’t even have that-the image stopped appearing in my imagination. I’m used to ideas not being ready to reveal themselves completely, so I worked on other projects: Creepers, Scavenger, and The Spy Who Came for Christmas. Periodically, though, I removed the article from the stack on my office shelf. Rereading it, I felt compelled to do increasing research until I had a thick binder crammed with notes.