The Northern Arizona US 89 Closure and the Strange Lights, Great Basin State Park, Nevada

Trouble called when the phone beeped. It was Embry Hamilton. A chill ran down my spine when Embry asked me to meet him at the Happy Valley Hilton in Arizona. I was back in Boise and had delivered my Colorado trip report to Louise Hamilton, an accounting of my Boulder journey to look for her husband who had disappeared seven years ago. Before Louise officially declared Embry dead, she had hired me for a last search.

          Three months before, I had started my investigation with a trip to Las Vegas.  Louise then directed me to a former girl friend in Boulder, Colorado. When I met Becky Sue in Boulder, she admitted that Embry had come to see her that summer. He was depressed and fearful, so Becky arranged for an isolated retreat by a stream in the Flatiron foothills northwest of the college town.

According to Becky, Embry had been caught in the September 100-year Colorado rains and swept away, his body not yet found. I visited the site of the ranch house and a local told me he had seen a man struggling in the flood waters, and the man managed to emerge downstream, vanishing into the forest.

I called Louise after Embry’s strange phone call and she urged me to visit Arizona. As I had friends in Scottsdale, I planned a trip in late January with mixed emotions. Perhaps the phone call was a hoax.

It was a day and half drive from Boise to Happy Valley, a sprawling mall on I-17 at the northern edge of Phoenix. I checked in at the Hilton and tried Embry’s number, but no one picked up so I left a voice mail and my room number.

          After a restless afternoon walking the vast complex, I returned to the Hilton and found a note under my door. I opened it, seeing a crude, hand-drawn map that ran north on I-17, turned east on I-40, and then exited to US 89 north through Northern Arizona and Utah. To the west of Delta, Utah there was a square marked, “Wauneta Inn”. There was a notation for a 5PM meeting the next day. The paper was signed EH, Embry Hamilton?

          Studying the map, I concluded Embry wanted a meeting at the Wauneta Inn. I did a quick Google search and saw the trip was about 550 miles north. The inn appeared to be a solitary spot in the Great Basin Desert close to the Nevada border.

          I left the next morning and soon was in Hopi land, which melded into the sprawling Navajo Reservation. I was about 30 miles south of Page, Arizona when I ran into a roadblock, a crude sign saying 89 was closed due to a landslide, so I took the winding 89A which runs through the colorful Vermillion Cliffs.

          Stopping for snacks, I entered an Indian trading post and noted an attractive, sharp featured woman in a leather dress at the cash register. She eyed me suspiciously as I asked about the US 89 landslides, replying it was a geologic event.

I inquired if the handicrafts were Navajo and she frowned, saying they were Paiute. And then added: “We are Aztecan and before the Spanish came, the Paiute Nation included Arizona, California, parts of Nevada, Idaho, and Oregon. The west coast was Paiute.”

          I nodded, impressed.

          “If only…” she started, and then let her thought float.

          I bought a Paiute braided belt, a drink and a sandwich as I did not want to stop for lunch. I followed the old Mormon Wagon Trail, passing through Jacob Lake into Kanab, Utah where I found 89 once again, which skirts between Zion to the west and Bryce to the east. The scenery in Southern Utah is dramatic as on my right were the Vermillion pink and white cliffs, and then the Escalante Petrified Forest.  

          Linking up with US 50 I headed west through the small town of Delta, Utah for the Nevada border. It was dark now and after an hour, I saw in my headlights a small, red structure which announced itself as the Wauneta Inn, eerily alone in the high desert. There was a light on in the last room on the right of the inn, but otherwise the place seemed deserted.

          The room door was open, so I settled myself in the Spartan setting, using the small bathroom, splashing my face and wondering what to expect next. I was jolted when suddenly I heard a roar and banging outside where I saw bright lights. Exiting cautiously, I turned the corner of my room and was blinded by what I thought must be a diesel pickup truck with spotlights.

          As I stood shielding my eyes, a silhouetted figure appeared in the glaring lights. I started to back away, but he spoke.

          “Tell them Embry is gone,” the man said in a deep voice. “They should forget him. Embry Hamilton is with us now.”

          Before I could reply there was a strange “whoosh” and I was catapulted backward, my head hitting the ground, then blackness.

          It was early morning light when I groggily awoke to find myself in the bed and under the blanket. It was bitterly cold and I shivered as I looked around warily, finding the room empty. I cautiously went to the door and peeked out, but all was quiet. I went outside and around the corner, but there was nothing, no tire tracks. I rubbed my head, feeling a bump. A few feet from where I had been standing there was a large stone. Apparently I had fallen backwards and hit my head. But who had taken me into the room and put me to bed?

          I was unnerved and jumpy so I got in my SUV and headed west. Once I got to Ely, Nevada it was a straight shot north to Boise. I drove for an hour and found a sign announcing the Great Basin National Park. Ahead near the park entrance was a lone Conoco Station and I pulled in, needing a coffee.

          Inside I found a tallish man with a blond mustache and a wispy goatee flashing a friendly smile. He bid me good morning and asked where I was coming from.

          I told him the Wauneta Inn and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

          “You must have seen the lights last night.”

          I hesitated and he continued.

          “There were strange lights in the sky. My girl lives near the Wauneta and saw them. We think it must have been one of those experimental planes from Area-51. Of course the old timers around here think …” and he put a finger in the air, circling it while making a “whoo-whoo” sound.

We laughed and then a voice sounded from the back: “Strange lights can be from here or from the night sky.”

We turned to see a young man in cargo pants and a khaki shirt with a backpack over his shoulder emerging from the rest room. He struck me as a Wanderer, one of those that can pass seamlessly between the parallel universes theorized by quantum mechanics.

“But maybe it was something else, he added with a smile.

 The attendant leaned forward and asked. “Like what else.”

“Magic”, the young man responded.

 I got a large coffee with a doughnut, and then I was back on US 50 heading to Ely, thinking about the service station encounter. Had I really seen a pickup truck at the Wauneta?

 The central question was why? And who or what had taken Embry Hamilton?
          

The 100-Year Boulder Flood, Boulder County, Colorado

 I arrived mid-afternoon at the Boulder Residence Inn, home of the University of Colorado. Sitting in the breakfast room with a cup of coffee, I went through the Hamilton file. Embry had vanished seven years ago and Louse Hamilton had hired me to take one last look before officially declaring her wealthy husband dead.

          The search had taken me to Las Vegas where Embry had gone to visit a friend, then vanished. Now the search had brought me to Boulder where years ago, Embry had a dalliance with Becky Sue, a southern transplant who had started a herbal drink shop, now a thriving health enterprise. Louise asked me to visit Becky and ask if she knew the whereabouts of Embry. It was a stretch, but I agreed as Boulder is an interesting college town.

          I called the herbal office and arranged a visit with Becky Sue who was the enterprise’s CEO. She agreed to meet me at four. I returned to my room and studied the painted tin that a hitchhiking girl on I-80 in Wyoming had given me, a gift in exchange for the lift to Laramie. I opened the metal box and poked at the speckled beans inside. Ariel, the hitchhiker, had intimated the beans were magical, telling me to “use them sparingly”.

          It was past three, so I concealed the tin in my overnight bag and then departed, driving over to Pearl Street where the herbal company had its flagship store. I parked and found the store and upon entering was immediately hit with an enticing array of aromas, which included teas and spices, the appealing scent of clove and cinnamon. Apparently, the staff had been alerted for my arrival, as a young man dressed in khakis and a white shirt asked me if I had an appointment with Sister Becky. I gave him my card and he nodded. We wound our way to the back and I noticed all the men were dressed like my escort, while the women were modestly attired in long, prairie dresses, an eccentric, missionary touch.

          We went upstairs and I was shown into a large, office with a wooden desk set diagonally in one corner. My guide closed the door and I was startled when a slender woman in the uniform long dress glided to me. She introduced herself as Becky Sue, motioning me to a leather couch that faced the windows. The day was darkening as the sun slipped to the mountains in the west.

          Becky Sue was angelic, a heart-shaped face with startling blue eyes, a cupid mouth and long, blond hair that cascaded down her shoulders. Before I could explain myself she gave me a beatific smile. “Ask, and it will be given to you. Seek, and you shall find.

Mathew 7”, Becky added softly, as if reading my mind.

          I introduced myself and explained my brief, then summarized my efforts to date, the trip to Las Vegas where Embry had gone seven years ago and vanished. I noted that I had no idea what happened to Embry, that I had intended to submit my report, ending my search, but Louise Hamilton asked me to visit Boulder as a final effort.

          Becky stared at me with steady sky-blue, no expression, not curiosity nor disapproval. Finally, she sighed and nodded, accepting my explanation of what had brought me to Boulder.

          “Embry came to see me in August seeking redemption, as he had done a terrible thing.” Becky said. She went on to explain she had counseled Embry to seek forgiveness and redemption, supplying him a soothing potion, then arranged seclusion for him in a foothills canyon.

          We looked at each other, and then she added: “Repent therefore, and turn again, that your sins may be blotted out”, the Sister intoned.

          “What had Embry done?” I asked. “Why was he seeking redemption?”

Sighing Becky sat back, “The darkness”, she said simply.

I pressed her for Embry’s transgressions, and then asked where in the foothills Embry was, but she shook her head, saying I was too late, that in September the 100-year rains had come and a raging flood swept through the canyon. Embry was gone, swept away.

          Nodding silently, I changed course and chatted with her about the company, but flattery got me nowhere and Becky looked at her watch.

 Somehow the young man got the message and he opened the door, looking at me with a bland smile. I thanked Sister for her time and information, then left. As my guide led me downstairs, he looked back at me, holding out his hand passing me a folded note, which I slipped into my pocket.

          We came down to the main floor and I noticed a back room that was softly lit; over the arched doorway was the inscription, “Inequities”. I broke away from my guide and went in, seeing immediately that it was a presentation of various plants such as tobacco, marijuana, hemp, and others. At the back was a pedestal which held a small plate and a glass cover. To my surprise, it was a plate of speckled beans, exactly like the ones that Ariel, my hitchhiker, had given me with her warning.

          “Inequities and woes.” The young man whispered, waving his hand at the assorted presentations, implying the botanical plants were evil. He took my arm and steered me back to the main room.

          I waited until I got into my car and was heading back to the Inn before I took out the paper and unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn map starting at North Boulder and winding up into the foothills. Half way up was a large X to the left of the road. Was this Embry’s retreat? And why was the young man helping me? Or had Sister Becky directed him to pass me the map?

          When I got back to the Inn I paused at my door with my no service sign. I went in and a chill ran down my spine, the hairs standing on the back of my neck. On the coffee table my ornate, blue tin was sitting open and empty. My speckled beans were gone.

The next morning I took the crude map to the lady at the desk. She was a Boulder native and confirmed the starting area as fashionable North Boulder. The narrow road wound into the foothills towards Jamestown, a small settlement devastated by the flood. The site with the X appeared to be a lone house beside the stream that had flooded. She nodded; saying said she had heard a house had miraculously survived when the water raged down the canyon. There had been deaths, but she was not sure if it was the occupant of the house, or from other parts of Jamestown.

          I left and followed her directions, driving the steep, winding road into the mountains until I came to a pull off on the left where I parked. About 30 feet below I saw the small house on the bank of the stream. There was noticeable flood damage to the house, but it was remarkable the house was still standing.

          Suddenly, a tall, thin man in ragged clothes and broad-brimmed hat came down the hill road and eyed me sourly. He leaned on a carved staff and gazed at the house. I smiled pleasantly at him, thinking he was a local and might know about the occupant.

          “I had a friend renting that house. Any idea what happened to him?” I asked the itinerant stranger.

          The man’s horse face softened and he shrugged, and then shook his head. “The water came at night and swept down the stream and around the house, isolating it. Most folks say the occupant was swept away as he tried to escape. His body is lodged under a rock downstream somewhere. They’ll find him this summer in the low water.”

          I nodded, thinking I had closure. Embry was dead, having come to this lone house for solitude to seek atonement and salvation. What had Embry done? Becky had cryptically said the darkness. What did that mean…the Devil?

          “But the recluse” says different,” the man continued, interrupting my thoughts. He pointed his staff at the dense evergreen forest on the other side of the stream. “The recluse who lives yonder swears he saw someone try to cross the raging stream and tumble in the water. A few seconds later that person emerged downstream among the rocks and managed to crawl out. The recluse says the man vanished among the trees on the other side.”

          I followed the point of the man’s staff where there was a line of rocks which could catch Embry if he were tumbling in the flood, then possibly allow him to crawl out of the white water. As I turned back, the wanderer nodded at me and moved down the road. “Of course, everyone knows the recluse is crazy.” He called.

 I studied the deserted house. Was this Embry’s last stop before getting caught in the 100-year flood? Or had, as the recluse reported, Embry managed to struggle to the other side and vanish among the evergreens.

          If so, where was Embry Hamilton?

  

The Magic Beans, Albany County, Laramie, Wyoming

 The ghost appeared out of the dark and stood in my headlights, her right thumb extended… a hitchhiker. I stopped and peered at the young woman dressed in a white, high-collar prairie dress. She had short blond hair that cupped her heart-shaped face, big cupid lips and wide brown eyes.

          I was leaving the truck parking area where I had paused to gather myself after Tasha spooked me at the Little America Motel. Slowly pulling forward, I rolled the passenger window down and leaned over as the girl came to the window.

          “I need a ride.” She said with a smile.

          Explaining I was going as far as Laramie for the night, she nodded and without pause clutched the door handle. I clicked the doors open and was startled when a young man dressed in an army field jacket appeared, opened the rear door, threw in two back packs and then climbed in. He was medium height and thin, with a long face and a stringy van dyke beard. The young man stared straight ahead mechanically, not speaking or moving.

          “My keeper.” The girl said motioning toward the back as she climbed in, putting her arms to her chest and shivering. I paused, were they dangerous? Could they be connected to Tasha and my search for Embry Hamilton? Or was the conspiracy just my imagination?

          “You’ll be fine.” She laughed, as if reading my mind. “We’re just on the road.”

          We exchanged names and she told me her name was Ariel, no last name, just Ariel. We chatted about the cold weather, upcoming Thanksgiving, and I subtlety tried to find out more about them, but she avoided direct answers. It was another two hundred miles to Laramie and I planned to find an economy motel on the north side of town. My two hitchhikers looked tired, so I offered to get them a room at the motel, but Ariel demurred, saying they would get out on the Laramie outskirts.

          After a quick two hours Ariel pointed at a looming Pilot truck stop, so I exited the interstate and pulled into the sprawling complex. At 3 in the morning, the place was still functioning, a haven for the night truckers. I stopped and watched as Ariel’s companion unloaded their back packs and stood waiting rigidly. Ariel looked at me, touched my cheek, and handed me a small, rectangular tin.

          “Use them sparingly.” She said and then got out, joining her friend. I pulled ahead to the exit and took a left turn, then looked over, expecting to see them trudging toward the main building. But they were gone.

Later I settled into an economy motel room, away from the interstate. I sipped a bottle of Deschutes River Ale, thinking about the hitchhikers, and then I recalled my trip to Vegas and the girl I dropped off a few days ago on the Nevada extraterrestrial highway. She had told me about parallel universes and travelers. Were Ariel and her keeper travelers?

          I remembered the tin she had given me and took it from my shirt pocket. It was quite elaborate, painted a midnight blue and festooned with stars. An unpainted line divided the top in halves, a similar night sky on the right side, but different. Did the cover represent similar, but different universes?

          I opened the tin and gawked in surprise. I gently spilled the contents out on a kitchenette plate and poked them with my finger. They were kidney shaped, an odd brown and white speckle, perhaps a quarter of an inch in length.

          “Use them sparingly.” Ariel had ominously directed

          Were they magic beans?

                                                                                                          

The Little America Encounter, Sweetwater County, Interstate 80, Wyoming

The riddle nagged me. Where was Embry Hamilton? Two psychics had “seen” Embry, one said he was killed and buried in the Humboldt-Toynbee Wilderness, the other that he was abducted near Area 51. After my visit to the Bellagio in Vegas, I had visited the Alamo Inn in Nevada where Embry had stayed and sent an email.

          Dennis, the current Alamo Inn manager, said the previous owners were dead. The husband killed his wife when she crashed his beloved Mustang, then shot himself. There was no record or memory of Embry staying at the Alamo.

          When I got back to Boise I typed up my report, reluctantly concluding I did not know what had happened to Embry who had vanished seven years ago

          I made an appointment to see Louise Hamilton, deliver my report, and receive my final check for services and expenses. I arrived at the Warm Springs Victorian and the Latina maid informed me Madam, Louise Hamilton, was unavailable. The maid took my report, handing me a manila envelope and motioned for me to open it.

          Inside I found a hefty check, plus a neat handwritten note directing me to go to Boulder, Colorado and check on the owner of the Boulder Herbal Company. Apparently years ago Embry had a dalliance with the young entrepreneur who had started the now successful health beverage operation.

          I had friends in Boulder so I agreed to drive over, an 800 mile trip through southern Idaho, into Utah, then across Wyoming and down through northern Colorado to Boulder. 

          Leaving early the next morning, I got as far as Little America in western Wyoming. The hotel-truck stop complex on I-80 was an oasis on the cold November afternoon, a welcome break in the bleak, undulating prairie hills. After checking in and showering, I headed for the main-building restaurant. As I entered, a woman appeared out of the gift shop. Studying a road map, she collided with me.

          Fashionably dressed in jeans, a white sweater and boots, she was medium height.  I pulled back and she looked angrily at me, her brow furrowed. Then she composed herself and gave me a weak smile, apologizing.

          We stood appraising each other. She had a heart-shaped face, wide spaced, hazel eyes and strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Waving the map, she explained she was on the way to Boulder Colorado and was looking for back roads. We introduced ourselves and she told me her name was Tasha. I suggested we eat together, promising to study her map.  Noting I was on the way to Boulder for business, I offered to show her a less traveled route south from Laramie, through Fort Collins and on to Boulder.

We took a table by the stone fireplace and ordered glasses of Merlot; Tasha went for a salad, while I ordered the featured prime rib. I spread the map and pointed to Laramie and US 287, which snaked south into northern Colorado, explaining the road was a byway through interesting topography, especially the badlands border area between Wyoming and Colorado.

Tasha nodded, saying she would follow me. I agreed, pleased at the convoy idea. Our food came and we ate engaging in small talk, touching the economy, the Washington mess, and then settling on college football as Tasha was a rabid Oregon Duck fan.

I offered to pay for the meal, but Tasha insisted of picking up the tab, her gratitude for my travel assistance. We left the dining room and paused at the motel, a line of single story rooms that stretched along the large parking lot. We agreed to meet at 7 the next morning. To my surprise she gave me a hug and a curious smile, then headed off to her room which was two doors down from mine.

I went in my room, and then hesitated. I thought about the Little America waffles, deciding to suggest to Tasha that we meet at 6:30 and have a quick breakfast. I went outside and heard a voice. Tasha was standing at her room door with her back to me talking on her phone.

“…it’s him.” I heard her say. I slipped into the shadows of the next room doorway, the hairs on my neck tingling, a cold chill down my spine.

“…yes, we’ll take 287 south. Just over the Colorado line, there is a scenic pull off; it’s a lonely place, a perfect site.”

A perfect site?

I shrank back to my room and went inside, closing the door softly. Without hesitation, I gathered my belongings and grabbed my overnight bag. I opened my door and peeked out, but Tasha had gone inside. I stood there until her light went off, then stole outside to my car which was parked a few spaces away.

Getting in, I waited until a truck rumbled by going west and then started my engine and slowly pulled away from the motel. I got on I-80 and sped east. I gripped the steering wheel and peered into the night. When Tasha realized I had vanished she would know I suspected them. Would they look for me on the I-25 or the US 287 back road?

I sipped the coffee I’d made in my room. Tasha had bumped into me by design, but why? Because of my search for Embry Hamilton? Or was it my planned visit to Boulder Herbal? Suddenly, I shuddered and felt my stomach churn.

I pulled into a darkened truck parking area and got out. Above me the Wyoming sky was resplendent with twinkling stars. I drew a breath suspecting a conspiracy, a plot against me. Did they plan to kill me?

But then the cold, night wind hit me and I hesitated, trying to clear my head, to recollect. Had Tasha really been on the phone or fumbling for her key card? Had she been talking to someone, or was it the prairie wind?  Was Tasha even there, or was this like my prior encounters?

Other voices, other rooms?

          

The Alamo Inn, Great Basin Highway, Alamo, Nevada

I left Vegas late morning under a cloudless, pale-blue sky and planned to retrace my route back to Boise, Idaho. To my surprise, the Bellagio concierge had been helpful. Cande, a bouncy Latina new on the job and eager to impress, listened intently as I outlined my search for Embry Hamilton who had vanished seven years ago on a road trip to Vegas from Boise. Embry had reservations at the Bellagio, but had never shown up. Cande informed me she had a degree in hospitality with a minor in computer sciences and would do some research in her records.

The next morning while eating breakfast in a booth at the fountain in the hanger-like lobby, Cande slid in across from me with a broad smile. She informed me she had found an email sent to the concierge desk seven years ago with a request to pass to Embry’s friend.

In the email, Embry noted he was tired and stopping for the night at the Alamo Inn on US 93 in Nevada. He said he was in room 30 and gave the Inn’s phone number. I sat back recalling there was no record of any email to the Bellagio. Embry’s friend claimed he never showed. Perhaps the email was not passed. Cande shrugged when I asked her if the email had been forwarded. She informed me seven years ago the management information system was not so well developed.

“Back then it was hit or miss.” She said, looking at me.

Cande commented that at least the email showed that Embry had made it as far as the Alamo Inn, about 150 hundred miles from Vegas. We looked at each other and I could tell that Cande was intrigued with the mystery.  What happened to Embry Hamilton?

By early afternoon, I was turning into the Alamo Inn, an L-shaped collection of 50’s-style cinder block rooms. There were a few vehicles in the parking lot, but no one about. I parked and followed the numbers down the inverted L, turning right at the extension and stopped at room 29. There was no room 30.

Instead I found a concrete foundation for a room next to 29, indicating that room 30 might have been torn down. As I pondered the situation under a gray sky and stiff breeze, I heard the gravel crunch and looked to see a large man coming toward me. He had a round, red face, was dressed in a white sweat shirt and baggy khakis, a large stomach sagged over his belt.

He gave me a friendly smile and asked if I wanted a room, introducing himself as Dennis. We shook hands and I quickly filled him in on my search. “Seven years ago Embry claimed to have stayed here in room 30, but there is no room 30.” I concluded.

 Dennis informed me he had owned the Alamo for six years. That the former owners, Bob and Bess Bradford, had a problem and room 30 suffered as a result.

          “What happened?”

          “It’s complicated.” Dennis replied.

          He then went on to explain that the former owner Bob had yearned to drive in the September Nevada Silver Classic, the 90 mile road race on State Route 318, which closes for the occasion. On an impulse, Bob took the couple’s life savings of $75,000 and bought a Ford Shelby Mustang GT 500 to participate in the race.

“When Bess found out what he had done she was irate and went crazy.”  Dennis said with a laugh. He explained that Bess grabbed the car keys, ran out into the parking lot and jumped in the Mustang intending to drive it into the Pahranagat Wildlife Refuge behind the motel.

Dennis paused and stared at the spot where room 30 had stood. He looked at me, saying that Bess lost control of the muscle car as it smoked across the parking lot and ran it into number 30, demolishing the room completely.

We stood in silence, huddling in the chill. It occurred to me the race was run at the time Embry was in the area. Possibly Embry had been in the room when Bess went berserk. I suggested my thought to Dennis who shook his head, dismissing the idea.

“Bob and Bess said room 30 was empty at the time.” The heavy man replied and then shrugged. “On the other hand…”

Dennis let the unfinished sentence hang and I asked what he thought the couple would do if Embry had been in the room. The current owner gave a sigh, saying the couple would have taken the remains into the refuge and buried Embry in the Pahranagat Foothills.

Was it possible that this bizarre incident at the Alamo was the answer to the riddle of Embry Hamilton’s 7-year disappearance? Was it that simple?

Or was there something else?

The Girl on the Extraterrestrial Highway

I left Boise early on a Monday morning, taking I-84 to Twin Falls, then headed south on US-93 which bisects Nevada’s Great Basin. The two-lane blacktop snakes through the desolate scrub brush and wild rye, rising deceptively to the cold high desert.

          There was little traffic and the isolation was eerie. To the west were the mountains of the Jarbridge Wilderness, Shoshone land in the Humboldt National Forest with its Wild Horse Park. That was the area where Embry Hamilton supposedly had been killed and buried.

          After three hours I stopped at Wells, Nevada pulling into a Love’s truck stop that hosted a McDonald's.  According to the psychic this was where two men and a woman had abducted Embry. I got a cup of steaming coffee and huddled outside in the late September chill as gray clouds scudded across the sky.

          I sensed the young woman before I saw her. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her studying me. She was slender, tallish with shoulder-length blond hair, and high cheekbones, possibly Scandinavian. But her hard, dark eyes gave me pause. Perhaps she was something else.

          “I need a ride.” She said with a thin smile.

          We chatted and she told me her name was Vika, that she was on her way to Highway 375, the extraterrestrial highway, almost three hundred miles south. Letting down my guard, I agreed to take her. I knew the map and could take Nevada 318 south from Ely and drop her where the road intersected 375. She assured me she was to meet friends coming north from Vegas.

          Vika asked about my trip and I told her about my case, that seven years ago a man had driven from Boise, Idaho to Las Vegas for a weekend with friends. He never arrived. Before the family declared him legally dead, they wanted me to retrace his steps for their peace of mind. Take a last look.

          “Do you think you’ll find him?” She asked.

          I shrugged and then to my surprise Vika launched into a lecture on missing persons, noting that last year 700,000 persons were lost in the States. Eventually most of those were found, either dead or alive. But a cumulative 85,158 persons were unaccounted for and she said the person I was looking for was one of those.

          We chatted about the missing, how some folks vanished to start a new life. Others were killed and their bodies secreted away. Then there were those untoward accidents yet to be found: a car down an embankment, or in a lake. Many would eventually be located. Others would go undiscovered.

          “Of course, there are those who pass over, the travelers.” Vika commented.

          I looked at her and she explained that some people find a portal and slip into a parallel universe.     “Do you know there is a fissure on 375, just beyond the extraterrestrial highway sign? Perhaps your missing man found a portal.”

          I glanced over, but she wasn’t joking. Before I could comment Vika treated me to a summary of the quantum mechanics theory of parallel universes.  I nodded as we pulled into Ely, Nevada, once a thriving silver mining town now down at the heel. She asked me to stop and I pulled into a Shell station and fueled the car as she went to freshen up.

          I filled my SUV and was tempted to get in and drive away. As I hesitated, Vika reappeared with a smile and some snacks she had purchased in the station store. We left Ely munching and drinking sodas, taking Route 6 to Nevada 318, which then would take us down to Nevada 375 and Area 51.

          Two hours later we reached the intersection and Vika motioned for me to pull over as she pointed at a highway sign identifying Route 375 as the extraterrestrial highway.  It was a small area set with picnic tables. Vika got out and looked at me through the open window. I started to protest that I did not want to leave her alone in the high desert. Before she could reply we heard the screech of brakes and a crunch. To the left two cars turning off of US 93 had collided at the 375 intersection. The drivers got out and the collision looked like a fender bender with no one injured.

          I turned back but could not see Vika. Getting out, I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun that was touching the faraway White Mountains to the west, casting a golden haze. I was worried about leaving her alone and I wanted to offer to sit awhile. I walked past the highway sign and scanned the desolate area. I then went slowly down 375, but the two-lane blacktop running west was empty. My hitchhiker was gone.

          Vika was a traveler.

   

I 

The Strange Disappearance of Embry Hamilton in the Nevada High-Desert Basin, Alamo, Nevada

Embry Hamilton vanished while on a late September trip through Nevada’s High Desert from Boise to Las Vegas. Embry had been missing for seven years and the family hired me to take one last look before they declared him legally dead.

          On a rainy fall afternoon, I visited the Hamilton home, a white Victorian replete with gables and a turret which was set on tony Warm Springs Avenue in Boise. I knocked on the door and a demure Latina greeted me, leading me into a dark living room. A mature woman in black sat stoically in an overstuffed chair, beckoning me forward. After introductions and labored talk, Louise Hamilton suddenly waved her hand dismissing me, saying in a low voice: “Embry’s gone.”

          As I left, the Latina passed me a large, manila envelope containing the state police summary. When I got home I scanned the file, learning that Embry and driven to Vegas to meet an old friend. He had planned to take a two-day drive via US-93 through Nevada’s great basin desert to Vegas.

          Curiously, there were two separate reports by mystics that the family had hired. There were also pictures of the supposed seers. The first was an older man with a white pony tail. He claimed two men and a woman who had attended the Burning Man Festival in Black Rock had kidnapped Embry at Wells, where I-80 crosses 93 in Nevada. The trio, high on drugs, had taken Embry into the Humboldt-Toiyabe, National Forest and killed him, burying him deep in the Santa Rosa-Paradise Peak Wilderness. Authorities organized a massive search with law enforcement, volunteers, and corpse dogs, but no trace of Embry was found in the Nevada rough country.

          The second mystic, a slender woman in her 30s, claimed she saw Embry further south at the intersection of US-93 and Route 375, the extraterrestrial highway which skirts Area 51. The gifted woman claimed to see a large silver sphere hovering over Embry’s car and his vehicle slowly levitated up into the belly of the orb. The mystic described a blinding light, a sharp bang and then the object was gone, taking Embry with it. There was a memo attached noting that Ms Freeman, the noted psychic, had committed suicide by hanging a month after describing Embry’s abduction to the Hamilton family.

          After reading the file and talking to a friend who was a retired Idaho State Trooper, I decided to retrace Embry’s steps. Supposedly, his first day would have taken him as far as Crystal Springs, Nevada where the extraterrestrial highway ends at US 93. I was on my patio by the river and felt a sudden chill as a gust of wind swept down from the north. I thought of Mrs. Hamilton sitting in her darkened living room. Once Embry was formally pronounced dead, Louise would inherit the bulk of the 100 million dollar estate.

          What had happened to Embry Hamilton?

To be continued.