Cold on the Mountain

by Daniel Powell

  The sheriff collected his Stetson from the roof of the cruiser and set it atop of his head. He climbed inside and fired up the engine before rolling the window down.

  “Settle in, Phil. Make your family comfortable. Assimilate. There’s no telling how long you’ll be with us.” He made a three-point turn and headed down the street.

  The gawkers disbanded, but a few stayed behind. Phil noticed William among them. The bartender shook his head in reproach before tapping his watch.

  Phil glanced at his own timepiece. It was working again, and it read 8:45.

  William motioned toward the bar and Phil nodded. He climbed back into the van.

  “Phil, what on earth is going on here?” Wendy said. “What were all those people doing out there?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. He put the van in drive and started inching toward The Dark Earth Saloon. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Breakfast.”

  ~0~

  There were eight of them, counting the Benson family. They sat at a prep table in the rear of the kitchen; there were platters piled high with scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausage and whole wheat toast in the center.

  The twins had orange juice while everyone else sipped strong, hot coffee.

  “So Phil and I briefly met last night, but I need to introduce myself to the rest of you. I’m Will Denton,” he said, shaking Wendy’s hand before doing the same with each of the twins. He was sincere and engaging in the daylight—not the least bit as furtive as he’d been the previous evening. “This is Frankie Ryman. Shirley Cottsworth. And that’s Big Wren down there at the end.”

  A man with hands the size of baseball gloves smiled at them. He had thick gray hair and shoulders a yard wide. “Denny Wren blocked for the 49ers back in the early 1980s. He’s been here a while.”

  Wren nodded somberly and Phil recognized him instantly. He still had his trading cards somewhere back home in Oregon, tucked away in a shoebox in the attic.

  “We, uh,” Phil started, before swallowing his words. He took a sip of coffee, his hands shaking. “We were just on vacation,” he said, the exasperation clear in his voice.

  “It happens. Folks get waylaid all the time, heading for someplace else.” Denton speared a short stack of pancakes and started the platter toward the twins.

  They took a few moments to pile their plates with food, and the Bensons tucked in with relish. It was good—fresh off the flat-iron—and they were working on seconds when the conversation began in earnest.

  “I kind of think of this place as a cosmic lint catcher,” Big Wren said. He showed them his calloused hands as he spoke. “Maybe a Venus flytrap is a better metaphor, come to think of it. Anyway, we’re all technically alive, I suppose. But when I think about my life before, I had variety. I think about actual choice and I think about change—good or bad, it doesn’t matter. Those things don’t exist here in Adrienne. I’m the same age that I was when I stumbled into this place. Physically, I haven’t aged a second, at least as near as I can tell. None of us has.”

  “How long ago was that?” Wendy said.

  “Nine years, I think. Maybe more? Time is…shoot, it’s hard to keep things straight around here. Some days seem to stretch out longer than others.”

  Wendy’s mouth fell open. She grabbed her daughters’ hands as a tear tracked down her cheek.

  “O, others have been here longer,” Cottsworth said. She wore a wry smirk. “Some have been here for decades. They just…they just persist somehow, I suppose. As for me, I’ve been here about six months. Frankie?”

  “Maybe a year. I’ll be getting my first crack at the lottery this time around.”

  “Me too,” Cottsworth added.

  “How does it work?” Phil said. “I mean, what are our chances?”

  They all looked to Wren. He shrugged, took a sip of his coffee, and offered a deep sigh. “There must be a formula of some sort, but it’s beyond me. Some get to leave. Most of us stay.

  “Will said that he saw you talking to Goebbels last night, Phil. He, uh—he give you his theory on energy?”

  Phil nodded.

  “I think it’s a good theory, actually. Our world—the reality we all came here from, is far more fragile than we think. But it’s also pretty resilient in some ways, I suppose. By that I mean that there’s this complex system of checks and balances. People create all sorts of explanations for why things happen, but at the basest level, the fact is that good and evil run the show. There’s a lot of good out there, thank the Lord. And yes, I do believe in Him. But there’s some bad, too. And the bad—well, the worst of the bad ones come here when they die. They stay here, in forms that are familiar to us because that’s how we knew many of them when they were back there. But when the formula tips and it’s time to get more evil out there in the populace, the lottery ensures that it happens. These sons of bitches get born back into the world to wreak the same kind of havoc—or worse—that they did in their last go round. And the town here—they throw one hell of a party when it does. Pun intended, by the way.”

  “So what we’re talking about here,” Phil said, “is reincarnation?”

  “Something like that,” Will replied.

  “Goebbels had it right,” Wren said. “Energy doesn’t die—it just passes through. Those messed up kids that shot up the school? They’ll be back out there before too long, I reckon. I just feel it in my bones. There’s a premium on that kind of negativity out there right now. Who knows just what it was that they did before they took their current form, but I’m sure it was plenty bad too.”

  “So…so they’re all here?” Wendy said. It made her head hurt, considering the possibilities. “How many?”

  “The population fluctuates,” Cottsworth said. She was in her forties—attractive, but there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her lips turned naturally down in a frown. She had an air of exhaustion about her, and who could blame her? “I’d say there might be seven…maybe eight thousand of them in town right now. Population here is actually down right now, which doesn’t bode well for the people out there in the real world.”

  “And the rest?” Wendy said. It was little more than a whisper.

  “There’s maybe a thousand folks here like us,” Denton replied.

  “But why is that? Why are we here?” Phil said. “We aren’t anything like them.”

  “Balance,” Wren said with a shrug. “Karma, maybe? Hell, who knows? But I’ll tell you this—now I understand what the mice feel like when it’s time to feed the snakes at the zoo. We live here with them—right beneath their noses. We keep the town running. Do the lion’s share of the grunt work. And…and we satisfy their urges from time to time.

  “Getting stuck here is never voluntary, of course, but there you have it. We’re playthings and slaves. Simple as that.”

  Phil smirked. “What? They…they kill the people that get trapped here?”

  “Not often, but sometimes they can’t help themselves,” Frankie said. He showed them the palms of his hands. “It’s in their nature.”

  Denton nodded somberly. “We had an actual deputy here in town once that tried to stop a crime in progress. I mean, an honest-to-goodness deputy from Bishop—someone like us, who just got trapped here. It was in his nature too, you see? He came across…well, he stumbled on a pretty terrible crime and he tried to put a stop to it. Actually succeeded in stopping it, but when the rest of the town found out, they tore him apart. Him and the little girl he was trying to protect.”

  The room fell quiet. Wendy reached across the table to squeeze her daughters’ hands. What was going through their minds?

  Wren let the minute linger, then pressed forward. “For the most part, they leave us alone. In fact, I doubt the four of you will face anything like that at all. You got stuck here at just the right time, if there is such a thing. We’re too close to the lottery. You see, when one of these monsters commits a crime like that here—where
ver here is—he, or she, forfeits any chance at the lottery. For them, there’s no going back—at least not this time around. No going back means no chance to hurt people, and that’s all they really want. So they mostly mind their p’s and q’s, especially this time of the year.”

  Phil drank his coffee. It had gone cold and it tasted like acid and he winced, his head swimming by the enormity of the situation.

  “So let me see if I can get this straight. My family and I were on our way to the Grand Canyon for spring break when we stumbled into some cosmic limbo for all of the world’s worst human beings? And, and the people here—the bad ones, I mean—are just waiting for their turn to rejoin the populace and wreak even more havoc back there?”

  His words just sat there. His eyes darted from Denton to Cottsworth to Ryman. They settled on Wren.

  “That’s about it,” Wren said. “It would be damned unbelievable if you weren’t sitting right smack dab in the middle of it, eh Phil?”

  Phil closed his eyes, massaging his lids with his fingertips. Cammie began to whimper, and he reached over and pulled her onto his lap and hugged her close. “It’s okay, Cam. We’ll be okay,” he whispered.

  Carrie snuggled up to her mom, and the others looked away in discomfort.

  “So…so what do we do? I mean—where do we go from here?” Phil said. He was trying to shift gears.

  “Well, the first thing you do is avoid that motel,” Cottsworth said. “Especially with the girls. Now that you know the truth, you probably see what I mean.”

  “But where should we stay?” Wendy said.

  “You can spend the night at my place tonight,” Big Wren said. “There’s room for the four of you, though it’ll be tight.”

  Cottsworth, Denton, and Ryman regarded the big man with surprise, and he waved a dismissive hand. “Least I could do,” he mumbled, before standing and beginning to collect the dirty dishes. “Let’s shake a leg, Will. We don’t want Mr. White mad at you again this morning.”

  Denton nodded. He stood and the others followed suit. He reached over and squeezed Wendy’s hand. “I’m so sorry you’re all here. It’s…we’ll try to figure something out. In the meantime, go with Big Wren. Maybe he can get you and Phil on together at the factory.”

  Wendy nodded. She took her girls’ hands and led them toward the back door.

  “The factory?” Phil said.

  “C’mon,” Wren said. “Walk with me, Phil. I’ll explain the rest on the way.”

  NINE

  Anna Wells was true to her word. Bo had wondered if she would actually show—if maybe the previous evening’s discussion had been some kind of elaborate prank. But when they arrived at the tavern, she was waiting outside.

  She wore dark glasses and a wool cap, and Bo couldn’t help but once again think of Shelly Duval.

  “Here we go,” he said as they parked the Porsche. “This should be interesting.”

  “Agreed, but what else do we have?” Kelli said. “Sheriff Tasket hasn’t returned any of my calls yet today.” She fished her phone out of her purse and checked it yet again before stowing it with a sigh.

  They stepped onto the sidewalk, and Wells waved. “Thanks for coming,” she said. Her smile was wan, the glasses masking any clue to her emotional state. “My friend—she’s really excited to meet you, Bo. She’s a big fan.”

  “Glad to hear it. Are we riding with you?”

  “If that’s okay. C’mon—I’m parked around back.”

  She led them to a mud-splashed Highlander. Kelli took the front seat and Bo stretched out in back. Wells keyed the ignition and a man’s resonant voice filled the interior of the Toyota.

  “…places beyond our mortal reckoning, hiding in plain sight. In fact, there are fissures in the very fabric of what we call reality. That’s right! We’re talking about places where the barriers between worlds is exceedingly thin, friends. These are places where…”

  Wells switched the stereo off, a touch of high color in her cheeks. Whether it was excitement or embarrassment, there was no telling.

  “Sorry. That’s Art Bell. Do you—do either of you ever listen to him?”

  Kelli shook her head. “What’s his story?”

  “Well, he hosts a talk show. Mainly paranormal investigations. I…I still listen to his archived shows. He’s retired now, but you can learn a lot by listening to his stuff. He used to host a program called Coast to Coast AM. It’s…well, it’s definitely food for thought.”

  “Huh,” Bo said. “Maybe we’ll give it a shot on the way back down to L.A. That’s a lonely road without something to keep your mind occupied.”

  Wells pensively studied the actor in the rearview. When she was certain that he wasn’t teasing her, she smiled. “Sure thing, Bo. I’ll give you a couple of the discs. You two—I get the sense that you’re taking all of this seriously. Am I right?”

  Kelli nodded. “Our minds are open, Anna. We just want to find out what happened to Bo’s brother and his family. What should we expect? This woman…is she some kind of a…what, a psychic?”

  “She prefers the term ‘sensitive,’ but you have it right. And yet, Miriam is…well, she’s a little more than that. I’ll have to let her explain it to you. You won’t be disappointed—I promise.”

  Bo smiled. Wells’s cryptic response was just what he had come to expect from her. There was a delicious thrill in his belly—a twinge of excitement that had eluded him in the last year or so as he slogged through memorizing and then forgetting the weekly scripts while putting in twelve-hour days at the studio. His life had stalled, somehow. Now…now, something real was actually happening here in Bishop, and he was willing to do whatever it took to see Phil and his family made it home safely.

  Even if it required a tremendous leap of faith.

  “Music?” Wells said.

  “That would be nice,” Kelli replied.

  Wells ejected the Bell disc and replaced it with another. Soft music—Sarah McLachlan—filled the cabin and they passed the journey largely in silence.

  After about forty minutes, she nosed the Highlander down a nondescript dirt road carved from a stand of enormous spruce. The forest crowded the road, and Bo winced as needles swiped against the windows.

  “I take it your friend values her privacy?” he said.

  “Oh, she’s more accessible than you think. The people that need to visit her—they know the way.”

  The road dipped into a little meadow, where an aging farmhouse stood at the edge of a gravel lot. A few sheep meandered behind the house, and there was a scattering of sheds and other outbuildings. A couple of old swaybacks grazed at the base of a granite bluff.

  “Miriam is a wonderful, generous person,” Anna said as she switched off the SUV, “but things can get pretty exciting when she’s in one of her trances. She calls them ‘spells.’ So please, just—just know that if she slips into her Adrienne mode, she might behave a little differently. Don’t be offended. Sometimes, she’s just not herself,” Anna said, smiling weakly.

  They climbed the steps, Bo standing behind the women. He smelled wood smoke on the air and felt the cold in his lungs and teeth. It was mid-afternoon and clear, but the days were short and the sun was already descending. He shivered and rubbed his arms, then reached out and squeezed Kelli’s shoulder.

  She flashed a smile and then the door opened and a tall, beaming woman stood in the doorway. She had captured her gray hair in a ponytail, and a little network of wrinkles was setting up shop around her eyes and mouth. Bo placed her in her middle fifties—maybe a bit older.

  “There he is!” she said, peering over Kelli to where Bo sported a sheepish grin. “Bo Benson—in the flesh! My word! Come, come. It’s so great to have you all here!”

  She stepped aside and they entered. Her home smelled of pine and sandalwood. It was warm and inviting.

  She took their coats. “I’m Miriam Gladstone. Like I said, it’s a pleasure to have you here. I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, of co
urse. Unfortunately, I have to say that more often than seems fair.” She frowned. “Please, join me in the parlor. Can I get you folks some tea?”

  “That would be nice,” Kelli said. They followed her into the parlor and sat on a couple of couches. The shelves on the walls were lined with books of all shapes and sizes. A fire blazed in the hearth, a fat gray tomcat stretched out on a rug before it. He cocked an eye at them for an instant and then returned to his slumber.

  “Give me just a few minutes,” she said. “I’ll be right back. If you’d like a tour, Anna can show you around.”

  “Care to look?” Wells said.

  “Sure,” Bo said. “Seems like a nice place.”

  Over one hundred years old, the house had withstood the worst that the Sierra Nevada could throw at it. The maple floors were sturdy, the stairways solid—everything buffed to keen shine. They stepped outside for a quick trip down to the pastures. In the distance, a tiny apple orchard lay dormant. It seemed like the temperature fell a degree or two even while they were outside, and they lingered for ten minutes before the cold chased them back inside.

  Gladstone was ready for them; she poured four cups of steaming black tea, and they sat at a large oak table.

  “So,” Gladstone said, a coy smile on her lips, “what’s up with Amber? She’s more than just your boss, am I right? C’mon, Bo—I won’t tell!”

  He grinned. “You’ll just have to keep watching, Miriam. The penalty for leaking a script is death—at least as far as the show is concerned. And I don’t want to give up the gig just yet.”

  “Awwww, Bo! You’re no fun! At any rate, it’s a pretty good show. And I think it’s amazing that you’re here. It really proves that there’s some soul down there in Hollywood. It’s nice to see the real people that exist outside of those tabloids at the supermarket. Anna…well, Anna told me all about your brother and his family. I’m just so very sorry.”

  Bo nodded.

  “What can we do, Miriam?” Kelli said. “We’re at a loss here.”

  Gladstone sighed. “Honestly, honey? I don’t know if we can do anything. I just got lucky, I guess. I won the damned lottery. But that can’t be the only way out.”