Deadman

by Jon A. Jackson

  At least he didn't have to worry about Helen fussing with the panel. He'd tried to explain it to her once, but she'd only rolled her eyes and said, “You and your security. I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

  * * *

  “Joe,” Cateyo said as they reached Interstate 15 and turned south, the road clear and stars shining overhead, “what happened back there?”

  “Honey, I'm dead,” Joe said. “Why don't you drive until you get tired, then wake me up. I think I can drive this thing and I'll tell you all about it when I wake.”

  “No,” Cateyo said. She pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. It was clearing, no longer snowing. The car trembled from the buffeting gusts of wind. The stars were brilliant. They had stopped very high up in the valley and all about them lay vast sweeps of rising land. Only an occasional ranch light gleamed. “Joe,” she said, “I can't do this. I can't just drive away. You have to tell me. What happened and where are we going?”

  Joe liked that. He smiled. She couldn't do this, but she wanted to know where they were going. “Okay,” he said, “just keep driving and I'll tell you.” He looked out the window at the beautiful windswept snow, the mountain range beyond. It looked like wolf country to him.

  “We're going to a new life, babe. You and me. The new man and the new woman. Salt Lake City. The land of the dead . . . or where they keep the names of the dead, anyway. I'll tell you all about it.”

  “Will we get married?” Cateyo asked suddenly. It was a bold question. She didn't dare glance at him, but looked straight down the road.

  “Married? Hmmm. I hadn't thought about it. Do you want to get married?”

  “Oh, I don't know,” Cateyo said. “Maybe.”

  “What an idea. We'll have to think about it.”

  21

  Heat

  Helen was surprised to find tire tracks on the road to the cabin. Actually, not so much tracks as places where a car had broken through drifts, and fairly recently. The drifts were nearly filled in again, but it still made it easier for her to get up the hill. She couldn't imagine what would have driven Joe out of the cabin, but it occurred to her that the nurse might simply have decided to take her patient back to town. Perhaps he'd had a turn for the worse. Well, she would soon find out. Both the gates were open and the yard was empty when she arrived. She slipped the Dan Wesson into her pocket, along with some spare cartridges.

  Warily, she entered the cabin. Lights were on and it was quite warm, the electric heaters having adequately compensated for a fire that had dwindled to embers in the fireplace. No one was home, although the cabin was in some disorder. It was a mystery. They had left in a hurry.

  Helen didn't care. She was dog tired. She was just as glad that Joe had gone back to the hospital, taking his grouchy nurse with him. She needed rest. She built up the fire and poured herself a hefty shot of scotch whiskey. There were no messages on the machine, she noticed. She also noticed, with distaste, that Joe and his nurse had left without making the bed. And—she picked up one of her flannel nightgowns, left crumpled on the bed, holding it at arm's length on a fingertip—the bitch had worn her nightgown!

  Why, that lousy prick, she thought. He screwed that nurse. In her bed! No wonder they bolted. Joe must have figured out she was coming up here, and he couldn't face her. So he couldn't be wakened, eh? If she hadn't been so angry, she would have laughed. But there was also a little pang of jealousy.

  A flicker of light caught her eye. Headlights on the road. Humphrey! In a panic she grabbed her coat and gloves and raced into the bedroom. The sliding glass door that opened onto the back deck was frozen shut. She yanked and strained, almost in tears. There was no way she was going to be caught in this cabin by Humphrey and his goons. Just when she was about to give up, the door cracked free and slid open. She quickly slipped out and into the storm. She stumbled through the snow, up behind the house until she reached the trees. Then she stopped and looked back.

  A large four-wheel-drive vehicle entered the yard and parked directly behind her rented Mercury. Three men, none of whom she recognized, got out and cautiously approached the house. They had guns in their hands. One of them split away and started around the side, toward the back. With a sinking heart she realized that he would see her tracks and follow her up into the trees. She drew back farther into the trees, prepared to run. But where? It was so cold, the wind so cruel.

  The mine! Yes, she thought, she could hide in the cache, safe out of the bitter howling wind. She hurried up the path and had almost reached the mine when she stopped cold: a hovering thought had finally struck home. There was a dead man in there.

  Helen was not a superstitious woman, nor was she squeamish. She'd been through too much in the past months—hell, in the past hours—to be anything other than tough and determined, but the thought of sharing a cold crypt with a corpse was daunting.

  On the other hand, the cold was beginning to penetrate her boots, and her legs were chilled. She had to move. She considered that there were only three men; if she moved quickly she might elude them. And if not, well, she was armed. She could shoot, she was on her own turf, she could hide, she could pick them off, perhaps, one by one. For that matter, she thought, if I could take out just one of them the other two would probably bolt. She crept back down the path, clutching the Dan Wesson .357, in her pocket. She was at least momentarily, if grudgingly, grateful to Joe for teaching her to shoot.

  But when she reached a point where she could view the cabin and the yard, she was startled to see another vehicle suddenly pull into the yard and stop behind the first. Three men got out, these in overcoats, and she recognized Vetch and his friends. Apparently, the first party had withdrawn to the house; they certainly weren't visible. But one of them came back out to greet the newcomers. “Gone!” he yelled. The four men stood in the yard, hunched into their coats and looking about into the storm. Vetch gestured at her rental car and the man from the first party waved his arm up toward the trees where she huddled. Then they all went inside.

  What could this mean? But she soon understood. They were just regrouping. They weren't dressed for a hunt, they were cold. They would get warm, find some gear, flashlights, and plan their strategy. They'd either track her now, or wait until daybreak. But she doubted that they would take a chance that she might hike out to, say, the Garland ranch, where she could find comfort and safety. For one thing, the storm could well obliterate her tracks, and soon, which would make it difficult to track her.

  She took a moment to weigh her prospects. Run for the Garland ranch? Or hide in the mine, a dead man for company or no? It was a long cold way to Garland's, she decided, and tramped back up the path to the mine. When she got there she pawed about in the snow for the rock. She finally found it and turned it over. There was no key.

  She was stunned. What could have happened? Could someone have been here? Joe? Wasn't he too ill, too infirm to hike up here in a blizzard? Well, not too lame to screw his nurse, anyway, she thought bitterly. But there was no way of knowing, and she couldn't waste time pondering. She stood up and looked wistfully at the half-hidden entry. She stepped closer, through the tangles of brush, and to her relief saw that the key was still in the lock. So that was it. In her haste, weeks earlier, she must have left the key in the lock. It seemed to her that she had replaced it under the rock, but evidently not. She turned the key and opened the door.

  Out of the yawning blackness of the tomb a horrifying monster rushed upon her. Helen fell back, crashing through the brush, her fall broken by the drifted snow. The monster was on top of her, immediately, its fingers clawing at her face. It snarled and roared, enraged. It was the dead man, impossible as it was. The musty smell of the grave was on its flapping cloak.

  The two figures floundered and scrabbled on the rocky hillside, but Helen was the more lithe, more driven by horror and fear. She writhed away from the grasping hands of the hideous monster. She scurried up the slope on all fours, gasping and desperately clawing for safe
ty, her tears freezing in the bitter wind. She regained the path and turned to run, but the monster, now croaking and panting, was close behind her. A powerful hand clutched at her boot. Helen stumbled and fell against the open door to the mine. Above her the great beast loomed, for all the world like one's worst nightmare of hell. Helen snatched the gun from her pocket and fired. The blast was nearly swallowed in the howling gale, but the monster was hit. It spun sideways, slamming against the door jamb and then tumbling backward, into the black entry.

  Helen was up and running. She didn't look back to see the beast dragging itself into the shelter of the mine, back into the mouth of hell. She ran down the path until she saw men come out of the house and look up her way. No doubt they had heard the shot. She turned onto the path to the hot springs and sprinted up the hill.

  Here the trees had sheltered the path from the snow and wind, and not only was it easy going but obviously she would leave few tracks. It would be a different thing once she reached the meadow and headed down toward the ditch road and the ranch. Out there the wind and cold could well kill her. But she would consider that when she got to it.

  What she got to was the hot springs. Here it was surprisingly warm, the steam billowing invitingly. She circled the springs, desperately looking for a cave, any kind of hole in which she could hide. In a cave she could hold her own, even if they found her. If she could just last until daylight.

  But there was no cave. There really was nothing for it. She would have to leave the springs and set out across the meadow. But it was hard to leave this warm and sheltered place, this sacred place as she thought of it, for the exposed meadow. She had a momentary vision of herself floundering through arctic drifts, freezing as the killers closed in behind her.

  She stared at the steaming water regretfully. It was so warm here, so inviting. The billowing steam was as thick as a Detroit River fog, one moment swept away by a stray breeze that huffed down from the roaring and pitching tree tops, then just as quickly reforming into a dense fog. She glanced back up the path. She could see lights, bobbing and flickering through the trees up on the ridge.

  Without hesitation she took off only her coat, bundled it in her arms and waded into the steaming pool. Her boots filled with warm water and her pants soaked as she waded to the back wall of the pool, the wonderfully hot water rising to her waist. Best of all, the shifting, swirling steam shut out everything beyond arm's reach. She packed the coat into a crevice nearby and laid the gun next to it. She felt her spirits rise, even as she sank down to shoulder depth, leaning her back against the rugged, mossy face of the dripping rock wall.

  The heat penetrated her entirely and she tried to order her racing mind. The confusion and horror of the attack at the mine was inexplicable. There was no way she could approach it, not at this moment. Perhaps in some future time she could get a handle on it, but for now it was quite like a nightmare from which one has been saved by an alarm clock. It was vivid, shocking, but incomprehensible. And as with the nightmare that is soon swept from the waking mind by the pressing events of reality, she shunted it aside as she could hear the men approaching poolside, their flashlights flickering out before them. Here was a real and present danger, but at least one more familiar.

  She sank down until only her chin rose above the warm, embracing water. It was so lovely, so fine, and she was so tired, she almost felt drowsy.

  Now, she thought, come and find me. With her pitch-black hair, it would be very difficult to see her here, even if they thought to look. She arranged her hair so that it masked her pale face.

  She hadn't long to wait. She found that when she looked straight up she could see scattered stars. The wind still howled, tossing the tops of the ponderosas, but the only snow that fell was that blown off the boughs, sifting down into the fluctuating billows of steam. The night sky was clearing rapidly.

  Four men gathered at the foot of the pool, not sixty feet away. From moment to moment the mist would part, clearly revealing them, but except for occasionally flashing a light into the mist, they never looked her way. They were bundled into a variety of jackets, taken from the house, all of them much too small for these large men. They were obviously cold, stamping their feet—none of them wore boots. They tucked their hands into their armpits, guns poking out from underarms—Uzis, revolvers. They swore a lot. She could hear them quite clearly, despite the continued roar of the wind in the treetops. It occurred to her that she could probably shoot one or even two of them before they scattered. It wouldn't be enough.

  Two of them had powerful flashlights, which they played about the area incessantly. They were afraid, she was pleased to hear. One of them told the others, “You gotta watch out for this fucking bitch. She blew Carmine to rags, with a fucking sawed-off shotgun.” They all craned into the darkness.

  “What the fuck was she shooting at up there, anyway?” one asked, and another replied, “Probably a bear.” They laughed nervously.

  One of the lights played across the rock face and Helen lowered her head quickly into the water. When she could hold her breath no longer she raised her head again and took a cautious gulp of air. The light had moved on and they had seen nothing.

  “She must of gone down into the field, there,” one of them said. “There must be a ranch or something down there.” He pointed at one of the ubiquitous sodium-vapor lights that lit up nearly every ranch yard in the country; they came on automatically at nightfall.

  “Well.” Another one sighed and swore bitterly. “Let's get down there.” And they all set off.

  But, of course, Helen realized, they will soon see that there are no tracks in the snow. They'll be back.

  It didn't take long. The men returned, walking briskly, the lights bouncing. They were hunched against the cold, clearly having lost any taste for a prolonged search for a crazy armed woman in this bitter weather, a woman who had seemingly disappeared and who, anyway, had little chance of survival. They didn't even pause at the springs but hiked straight on by, breathing hoarsely, not talking, and disappeared up the trail. She had little urge to move. She lay back against the rocks, trying to find a relatively smooth spot to recline.

  Whooee, she thought, little girl, you've had a long, hard day.

  But she couldn't relax for long. It was one thing to lie luxuriously in one's sacred pool, emptying one's mind of troubles when there were not, in fact, any serious troubles; and another to crouch in a violated pool, conscious of the nearby presence of men who wanted to kill you. The simple fact was that she had to get moving, no doubt the sooner the better. With a sigh she stood but was immediately conscious of the incredible weight of her garments. The water poured off her, and even in the steamy heat just above the surface, she could feel the material stiffening as it began to freeze. This was no good. Even with a dry coat, by the time she was halfway to the meadow her clothes would turn to ice. The cowboys would find her come spring, standing frozen in half-stride. She almost laughed. Then she methodically began to strip. It was the only thing to do. She could wring out much of the moisture; the clothes wouldn't dry any time soon, but there was a chance that they wouldn't be quite so encumbering. It looked like it was clearing; perhaps there would be sun. She'd lie in the pool till the sun came out, letting her clothes dry at least a little on the rocks. The gunmen wouldn't be back, she told herself, wishfully. They'd be out of here before dawn. She might even be able to get back into the cabin, into warm clothes.

  She had almost finished wringing out her clothes and stashing them in crevices close to the water when yet another light flickered up the trail from below. “Oh, no,” she moaned and sank back into her place.

  A man dressed in what looked like an old air force parka, the hood closed up to just a slit, came trudging up the trail carrying a light in one mittened hand and an automatic shotgun in the other. He was followed by another man, similarly armed and also carrying a light. They cut their lights as they approached the springs and began to walk more slowly, more carefully. They paused just
above her, and she could hear the telltale “hush” of some kind of electronic transmitter.

  “Carrie?” the man whispered into the device. “We're at the springs now. We're going up to take a look. We saw some lights earlier, but I don't think they saw us. There are tracks here, so obviously they're out looking around. Don't broadcast unless you absolutely have to. You can hear this damned thing even in this wind. Out.” The two men trudged on.

  Helen felt weak with relief. Cops! What had brought them here she didn't know and didn't care. Obviously, they had the cabin surrounded. Now more than ever she had to get out of here and down the mountain. Suddenly the pool seemed even more deliciously warm, but there was no help for it: she had to get out of the water into subzero cold and dress. And there was the hike across the meadow, with more cops waiting, cops who would have to be eluded. Cops meant immediate safety, but ultimately they meant arrest and incarceration with a murder trial.

  She laid her frosted hair against the steaming rocks and wept. She would sit here in this damned hot springs until she turned into a prune, a bleached prune. And when spring came she would climb out and go back to the cabin. But at last she summoned the courage to rise up and collect her gear. It was better to take the chance. She might get off the mountain, and she might make it across the meadow, and she might elude the cops . . . No! She would get to the Garland place and, if need be, take a vehicle there and escape. Or die trying.