But then thoughts intruded, bringing his astral journey back down to earth with a jolt. Lynn. They had been in love, married, then divorced — and now he would never see her again until he, too, ascended into the spirit world.
It was in the Badlands National Park where they had first met, and Adams took another swig from the cup and smiled as he remembered.
He was just twenty at the time, nearly two decades before, and had been hunting a male pronghorn across the grassy plain, a lone animal that must have become separated from its herd. He didn’t intend to kill it; his aim was to get as close as he could to it without it realizing. He wanted to be able to be so close that he could touch it. That was skill.
And so he had lain in wait for hours, tracked the beast for miles, and stealthily moved closer, ever closer. He had been within just ten feet of the magnificent animal when he had sensed them.
Two people. Travelling on foot. Just over one mile away, to the north-east.
He listened harder, ear close to the ground, senses acutely tuned. He prayed the big pronghorn wouldn’t sense them too.
He edged closer — eight feet, six feet, four, two. The sounds of the unknown pair were louder now, but Adams was sure he could reach out and touch the animal before it heard them.
‘Look at that!’ he heard a young female voice cry out.
‘Get your camera!’ he heard another, and that was enough — just as he was reaching, the animal startled, head turning to the high-pitched cries, and then it was in motion, accelerating away across the plain.
Adams sighed and looked up. There was no use getting angry. What did tourists know? Maybe they should know better but they never did, and Adams had long ago learnt that fact of life.
He knew the two girls were close now, he could hear them chattering to one another.
‘Aw, you were too slow!’
‘He got away!’
‘Maybe we’ll see him again…’
He decided to have some fun and try and recoup something from the day.
Perfectly invisible in the long grass, he waited until they were almost on top of him, and then sat bolt upright in front of them.
He was going to give a comical ‘Boo!’ but his breath caught in his throat as he saw the girl on the left.
She was the most beautiful girl Matt Adams had ever seen.
It turned out that the two girls were on spring break from Harvard, and instead of catching a flight to Florida or Cancun and spending the week in drunken debauchery, they had decided to travel the Great Plains and gain some physical insight into their country’s history.
The beautiful girl was called Evelyn Edwards, and was majoring in astronomy and physics, subjects Adams didn’t immediately see her being interested in. She looked more like a model than a physicist.
The other girl was her roommate, and was certainly plainer than Lynn — Adams had quickly found out what she liked to be called — and was more the type Adams would associate with astrophysics.
After apologizing for scaring them and explaining who he was and what he had been doing, Adams had then invited both ladies back to his hometown of Pine Ridge for dinner.
Lynn’s friend had baulked at the idea but Lynn, clearly interested, had agreed for both of them.
What followed in the days after was a whirlwind romance, as Adams exposed Lynn to the wonders of the American Great Plains, providing a light-hearted release from the pressure of her studies. It was a sad fact that her friend was soon forgotten, and travelled back on her own after the first two days indicated that she was something of a third wheel.
On the last day before Lynn was due to go back to Harvard, Adams had taken her out into the Badlands again, and they had sat under the very tree he was now lying under. They had talked long into the night, and then he had reached forward, touching her cheek gently with his fingers.
And when they had finally kissed, Adams had instinctively known that they were destined to be together.
The tour came to a merciful end and Adams returned to the cabin that served as base of operations for the tour. He took care of the horses, then showered and changed.
After receiving his cash payment from the tour manager, he decided to get on his bike and head straight for the nearest bar.
He wasn’t a drinker, but occasionally — if the nightmares persisted — he tried to see if the alcohol would help him sleep. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t; and sometimes when it did, the dreams came back worse than ever. Fearful of having the nightmares in front of the tourists, he had not slept at all on the tour and was now at the stage where his body was demanding sleep of any kind, even the kind filled with nightmares.
After just one hour, Adams had had enough. He was already on the verge of being drunk, and feared what would happen if he had any more. He could already tell that the drink wasn’t going to help him sleep this time, and so he paid his tab and left for home.
Cycling down the streets in the cool night, Adams picked the wrong road twice, which caused him to laugh out loud. You used to be the best tracker there was! Ha! Look at you now, can’t even find your damned house!
But he eventually did find it, a dilapidated one-storey squat-house — bedroom, bathroom, lounge-diner and kitchenette, small yard outside surrounded by a chain-link fence.
It wasn’t much but it was home.
Home sweet home. Adams giggled as he left the bike in the yard and staggered up towards the porch, pulling open the outside screen door.
Leaning against the door frame, he fumbled for his keys, then fumbled again as he tried to get the key in the lock. He wasn’t quite drunk, but the alcohol was cetainly not aiding his co-ordination.
Finally, after much cursing, he managed, and stepped through the door into his lounge.
And then he sensed it for the first time, something he should have picked up long ago.
There were other people in his house.
He started to move but stopped in his tracks as he felt the cold steel of a large calibre handgun press hard into the back of his head.
In an instant, Adams was stone cold sober.
2
The lights came on, blinding in their intensity after the pitch dark, and a sharp pain shot through Adams’ eyes, directly into his brain.
He got his bearings moments later, and saw there were four men in the room with him, including the one behind him with the gun. They were all dressed in identical dark blue suits, white shirts, dark blue ties. Adams was in no doubt that the other three men also carried guns.
Two men were out to the flanks, whilst one stood straight in front of him, just two feet away. This man — short crew cut, sharp eyes hidden behind rimless spectacles, his movement fluid, relaxed — approached Adams, staring into his face with barely concealed disdain.
‘Where is she?’ he asked in a cold monotone.
‘Who?’ Adams asked, genuinely confused, and not just by the alcohol he had consumed that night.
The man opposite didn’t reply but merely punched Adams straight in the face with a leather-gloved fist.
Adams’ head rocked back, blood flying from his nose out across the thin carpet. He fell to one knee, momentarily dazed. The pain was sharp, causing his eyes to water reflexively, but he knew that this was the least of his worries.
‘Let’s not play games here, Mr Adams,’ the man said calmly, the violence not affecting him in the slightest. ‘You know who we mean. Where is she?’