The Cabin on Souder Hill

by Lonnie Busch

  The dogs were getting closer. Pink had run another couple of miles, but was out of gas, partly from not having eaten much since he’d left Claire, but mostly from being out of shape. He had to sit down against a tree. His breathing was strained and shallow. His chest pounded. Why Michelle Stage entered his mind he didn’t know. “I guess that’s why she acted like she hardly knew me,” Pink said to himself. Things were adding up but only if he could accept the premise of some alternate reality that Lulu had gone on about. “Alternate reality,” Pink said, smiling to himself. “Where’s that alternate reality where I live at the Playboy Mansion?”

  The dogs howled louder, clearly on his tracks. Pink hunted enough coon to know the high-pitched wail of a hound on a hot lead. He couldn’t go on. He’d probably covered ten miles this morning alone, but it was barely noon and he was already on empty. He pushed himself up to his feet using the butt of the shotgun. He’d gone by Clarence’s trailer early in the morning while it was still dark. He knew Clarence kept a shotgun in his pickup truck and a nice stash of peanut butter crackers in his glove box to curb his hypoglycemia. But Pink hadn’t bothered to check if Clarence’s shotgun was even loaded. Pink shook his head. He cracked it open—two dark, empty chambers—then clapped it shut.

  “Hell, Clarence. You’re just a damn pumpkin roller after all.” Didn’t matter, Pink wasn’t planning to shoot anyone, but a loaded gun might be nice to give them hounds a scare, he thought. “Hate to get all bit up before I die.”

  A squirrel ran down the tree and stopped ten feet away from Pink.

  “Come to watch the show?” Pink said to the animal. Its tail twitched. “Well, it ought to be one hell of an event. I’m too fat to keep running and too wore out for prison. I got me an empty shotgun and no prospects for the future. Don’t that beat all.” Pink laughed a little, his head drooping. “Them folks chasing me think I killed Isabelle. No sense disappointing them.” Pink wiped his eye, picturing how beautiful she’d been before she took ill. “You ever killed anyone, Mr. Squirrel? Of course not. I could never have killed Isabelle either, even though that ill-conditioned woman had grown to hate me. And her sister, Claire. That girl made me crazier than a peach-orchard pig. I loved them both. Those girls were the most precious things I ever laid eyes on.”

  Pink looked at the ground, wondering what it would have been like to grow up in the same house with Isabelle and Claire as his sisters. But his mind lacked the nimbleness to embrace that thought for long. It was too hard to erase how Claire felt in his arms, how her hair smelled of honey, how she cried when they watched sappy movies, her warm breath in his ear when they made love. And Isabelle’s smile, her laugh when Pink said stupid things, her patience when he did stupid things. Pink had always been clever, but Isabelle was smart. And the first time they made love. She was fifteen, and he had never been with a girl before.

  All Pink had now were memories. The world he knew was gone.

  The dogs were running full-out, snapping twigs beneath their paws, leaves crackling under their speed. Pink could almost see their tongues flapping, teeth flashing white, ropes of saliva swinging from their mouths.

  “Been one hell of a week, Mr. Squirrel,” Pink said, thinking about Isabelle, Lulu, Claire and her baby, Mrs. Stage. His mother. He wished he could have seen her one more time. He wiped his cheek.

  The dogs were closer now. Sounded like five or six of them, Pink reckoned.

  “Well, Mr. Squirrel, seems like this is the last button on Gabe’s coat. Wish I had a little corn squeeze for the occasion.” The squirrel ran up the tree and disappeared into the canopy above.

  Pink shook his head. The dogs were within fifty feet.

  “Louden, call ’em off!” Pink shouted from behind the tree. “I don’t want to shoot them mongrels.”

  Someone yelled, calling the hounds back. One of the dogs rounded the tree, snarling at Pink, barking. Saliva hung from its black lips as it growled at Pink, lunging at his leg. Pink butted the dog firmly in the head with the shotgun. Not enough to kill it, but to stave it off. The dog whimpered, backing up, then ran in circles. Someone whistled the dog back, and it scampered away.

  “Pink, I know you have Clarence’s shotgun. He called me this morning. You need to throw it out. Then you need to come out, hands on your head.”

  Pink knew Fisk’s voice and felt the woods start to spin and tilt, the earth beneath his feet begin to loosen. Pink figured he probably should have stolen Clarence’s truck instead of the damn gun. Maybe he’d be halfway to Kentucky by now.

  “Hey, Louden, I know why you don’t remember that Stage fella with his head blown half off,” Pink shouted. “Lulu told me one hell of a story the other day.” Pink was sweating through his shirt, yet he was chilled and shivering. “You didn’t even flinch when Mr. Stage walked into that cabin the other day live as a stripper at the Katty Klub Room. Now I know why.” Pink laughed and swayed, leaning against the tree for support.

  “Pink, I need you to throw out that weapon. You hear me?”

  A helicopter cut across the trees above Pink. Men moved in the bushes and trees around him, partially hidden, but Pink still saw them; he could spot a deer in a thicket from a hundred yards. Pink knew he was surrounded. How did this happen? How did everything go to shit overnight? What a strange world, he thought.

  Pink stepped out from the tree. He heard the unmistakable clatter of rifles and pistols being cocked and readied to fire.

  “Pink, drop the shotgun!”

  “Louden, it’s too bad you don’t remember breaking that feller’s fingers to get that pistol out of his frozen hand.” Pink chuckled. “Hell, I’ll never forget that. You called it a ‘death grip’ if memory serves.”

  “Pink, you gotta drop that gun! Now!”

  Pink shook his head, laughing. “That was some crazy shit, wasn’t it, Louden? I’ll never forget that . . .” Pink brought the shotgun up. “. . . for as long as I—”

  “Pink! Don’t . . .”

  Gunfire rang from every direction, ripping leaves and brush and bark. Pink’s body took the bullets, his limbs flailing in a strange rhythm to the explosions around him. He kept his feet for almost a full ten seconds before slowly sinking to his knees, his torso and arms jerking under the constant barrage of lead and brass. When he finally settled to the ground, steam rose from his body, like a spirit too-long trapped. The gunfire stopped. An errant breeze stirred the leaves around him for just a moment, and the woods fell silent and still.

  Chapter 48

  Michelle stepped from the pool and dried herself with the towel then grabbed her cell phone from the glass table. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Stage. Sheriff Fisk . . . from Ardenwood.”

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Michelle said.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. Not sure if you heard, but . . . we verified that the skeleton we found in your septic was indeed Isabelle Souder, Pink’s wife.

  “I heard it on the news,” she said.

  “Also . . . Pink’s dead.”

  “Yes, I know,” Michelle said. She tried to imagine the level of Pink’s rage, enough to kill Isabelle, to dispose of her body in such a horrible and demeaning way.

  “Yeah, sad deal, Pink and Isabelle,” Fisk said. “Not sure how much you knew about them two, but it was . . . uh . . . well, just a sad deal from the beginning.”

  “No, I didn’t really know Pink. I had just met . . . you know . . . very briefly . . .”

  Cassie had come outside and was standing next to Michelle, listening. Michelle smiled at her.

  Fisk was quiet for a moment then cleared his throat before he spoke. “You remember that day you called me to your cabin, Mrs. Stage?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I really appreciate all your help. I should have just waited for you to return . . . it was stupid . . .”

  “I’m just glad you and your husband are both safe,” he sai
d. “But there are still some questions I have . . . you know. Some things that still confound me.”

  “Like what?” Michelle asked.

  “Well, that night we drove down the road and Dell said he could see that house from his chopper . . . until he turned his light on, and then the house disappeared. Well that has been weighing on my mind. And Dell stands by his story. Then Pink told me some crazy stuff about the night he showed back up in Ardenwood. With you.”

  Michelle sat down on one of the chairs. Cassie stood next to her, touching her shoulder.

  “Pink had all kinds of wild ramblings about faceless creatures and noises and beings and a woman in a nightgown and feeling sick, and snow melting, and I pretty much discounted everything he said, ’cause Pink’s no stranger to corn liquor, but then he mentioned something that gave me pause.”

  Michelle listened.

  “He said you had been at his mama’s house the night before,” Fisk said. “And Mattie told him you had psychological problems. That you had experienced a terrible trauma with the death of your daughter. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Well, sure. I mean clearly my daughter is fine . . .” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” Fisk said. “But that’s not what bothered me.”

  Michelle waited for him to speak.

  “How could Pink know you had a daughter?” Fisk finally said. “Supposedly he had just driven you back to your cabin and left? It’s vexing. How could he know that?”

  Michelle was rewinding the story she’d told Fisk, trying to stack the lies together into a believable pile. “I . . . I don’t know . . . I think maybe I might have mentioned it on the drive up.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that too. But how could Pink’s mother, Mattie Souder, know you had a daughter? When could you have possibly met Mattie? She’s been gone from Ardenwood for years. Do you know Mattie? Where did you two have this conversation about your daughter?”

  “I don’t know why Pink would say that . . . you know . . . about his mother.”

  “Well, let’s talk about that ride Pink gave you. You said you happened upon his office in Ardenwood. And he gave you a ride up to the cabin. Is that about right?”

  “Yes, but it’s all kind of vague now . . .”

  “I’m talking about the ride he gave you from his office . . . the office that no longer exists. You see, Pink hadn’t been in Ardenwood for a long spell. There’s no office anymore, Mrs. Stage. It’s an ice cream shop now and has been for three years.”

  Michelle fell silent. Cassie must have sensed her discomfort and held her.

  “There was no ride, was there, Mrs. Stage?”

  Michelle wiped her eyes. Cassie leaned in close and put her head on Michelle’s shoulder.

  “Mrs. Stage?”

  Would this ever be completely over? “I don’t know what to say, Sheriff Fisk. I wish I could give you more answers, but . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Well, I don’t mean to upset you,” Sheriff Fisk said. “I would love to get a hold of Mattie. Have any thoughts on that . . . how I might get in touch with her?”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “I’d like to contact her, tell her about Pink,” Fisk said. “That boy was everything to her.”

  Michelle imagined Mattie sitting at her table alone, sipping tea, no one left in her life.

  “Did you hear how Pink died?” Fisk asked.

  “No . . . no I never got the details.”

  “Me and about ten law enforcement officials tracked him down near Miller Ridge. The dogs was howling, and Pink just walked out from behind a tree with a gun . . . we shot him to death. It was horrendous. His shotgun wasn’t even loaded. It was almost like he wanted to die. That wasn’t Pink’s way.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Michelle said, picturing Pink, smiling, laughing at the Hilltop.

  “Me too,” Sheriff Fisk said. “Pink was a friend of mine. Vexing at times, but a friend nonetheless. So was Isabelle. Shame how both those kids died.”

  Michelle reached out and brought Cassie to her lap. She was glad Cassie knew everything that had happened. Cassie was the only person she had no secrets from.

  “I’m very sorry, Sheriff. I really am,” Michelle said.

  “I suppose you don’t know Lulu Martin either, do you?”

  “No, sorry.” Michelle pictured Lulu being wheeled out on the gurney the day Pink and she’d driven to Lulu’s house.

  “Hmm. That’s curious, because somehow she knew you. She told me the most outrageous yarn about Mattie and her, and some kind of black magic . . . gateways to alternate universes—which I don’t even know what them’s supposed to be—and Pink not even knowing he killed Isabelle in this reality, and you taking Pink back through some portal in the dark woods down the mountain from your cabin into another reality with a pentagram or something, and hell, it near give me a headache listening to her rattle on about such ridiculous things. Where on God’s green earth would that woman get such a notion, do you figure?”

  Michelle couldn’t respond. What did Fisk want? Why was he so willing to share all of this with her, seemingly unconcerned what she might think?

  “Yeah,” the sheriff continued. “A downright bewildering story, isn’t it, Mrs. Stage. You’re still there, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Michelle said, wiping her eyes again.

  “Lulu died this morning. A heart attack. Ain’t that a coincidence, dying the day after Pink? She was Pink’s godmother. Of course, I didn’t believe her story at all. How could I, but it would have been nice to learn more, don’t you think? About them gateways and alternative universes? Guess we’ll never know now, will we? Unless Mattie shows up next.”

  Michelle gently moved Cassie from her lap and stood, anxious, weighing the consequences of what she was about to share. She walked to the edge of the pool, glancing back at Cassie.

  “Sheriff . . .” Michelle said, “maybe we can’t always understand everything about our world. Maybe there are things we just don’t comprehend, and that Lulu . . . well . . . maybe she and Pink’s mother had insights into things that most of us can’t fathom. You know? Like . . . I mean, all those things Lulu told you . . . they may be very foreign to you and me and most people . . . but maybe there’s something to what she said . . .” Michelle paused, unsure if it was wise to share with Fisk what she was about to tell him. “Sheriff, I didn’t know how to tell you before, but . . . that day we met, when you came to look for my husband, and I went down the mountainside . . .”

  “Well, Mrs. Stage, I can tell you’re tired, and your family’s been through some trying events these past few weeks. I don’t want to take any more of your time. Give my best to your husband and daughter,” Fisk said. “And you take care of yourself, ma’am.”

  Fisk hung up before she could say goodbye. Michelle clicked the phone off and set it on the table. She hugged Cassie to her, trying to hold back tears, still trapped in the strange conversation. Was Fisk looking for some kind of closure? Did he want Michelle to give him an alternative story that was more palatable to his beliefs? Or did he just need to talk, so perplexed by the events of the past few weeks, just as Michelle was? But maybe it was something more, a kind of search for a vague validation of Lulu’s narrative, one that would explain the unexplainable, yet remain just ambiguous enough to allow his mind to deny the possibility.

  “Mom, you okay?” Cassie asked, when Michelle came back to the table.

  “Sure, I’m fine,” Michelle said, pulling Cassie to her chest. “I love you so much, baby.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Is your father taking you to the music festival this weekend?” Michelle said.

  “No, this weekend is . . . ugh . . . the car auction. You want to come with? It would be more fun if you came. We always go for pizza after,” Cassie said.

  Michelle chuckled,
“No, I’ve been to enough of those.”

  “Yeah, pretty boring,” Cassie said. “Well . . . how about a swim, then?”

  “How about three laps,” Michelle said. “Loser cooks dinner.”

  “You’re on,“ Cassie said. “What are you making?”

  Acknowledgments

  A special thanks to Nancy Reeder, Lianna Costantino, Jubal Tiner, Susan Snowden, Louise Fury, and Peggy Hageman.