THE LARGE METAL shed in the small backyard was securely locked with a big-ass, case-hardened padlock, but Poppy had already discovered its key in a kitchen drawer. Inside the shed he found the real jackpot: tools of all kinds and purpose: mechanic’s wrenches and sockets, carpenter’s planes and gouges, saws, screwdrivers, portable generators. A newish four-wheeler. Car batteries and 12-volt shop lights. Canning supplies including an extra-large pressure cooker. Batts of pink fiberglass insulation, fasteners, nails, rolls of tarpaper and visqueen. Window glass.
There were six 55-gallon drums — all full — three of them marked No. 2 diesel.
This bonanza was a prayer answered. It would go a long way in replenishing some of the goods they’d lost to Beezus. And it was more than Poppy could handle on his own, especially with the unreliable sno-go. He’d have to get the boys in here before the losers of McHardy figured out there’d be no more supply runs to Anchorage.
Poppy dragged four batts of insulation out to the sled, stacked them on top of the spoils from the house, and strapped it all down with bungee cords. He was mindful of how long Pastor Bunyan’s worship service was likely to last. Old Dell was a willing preacher but not a compelling one, and he tended to break down in tears during his own sermons. If Poppy took the back trail home, there’d be no risk of crossing paths with churchgoers. Then he noticed, to his dismay, that the house directly across the street from Beehymer’s was occupied. Someone had cleared the walkway of snow, and there was smoke coming out of the stack. Only a few of the houses on Main Street (or indeed any street in McHardy) were occupied, especially in winter, yet try as he might, Poppy was unable to conjure up a resident to go with this particular house.
As he was pondering the house, its door opened, and the middle-aged hippie, Barbara Jean de Saul, came out to her porch, wrapped in a parka.
“Well, hello there, Pastor Prophecy,” she called across to him. “How nice to see you.” She was all smiles. “How are the kids? How’s Mama P?”
“Everyone’s covered in grace,” he replied, “and Mother has returned from Heaven.”
“Come again?”
“I said Mother has returned to us. A couple of nights ago during Worship Time, Mother sits up all of a sudden and proclaims, ‘Praise Him!’” Poppy raised his arms as if in surprise.
“Praise Him, indeed,” Barbara Jean said. “Is she all right? Does she know what happened to her?”
Poppy continued packing as they talked, belatedly covering his load with a tarp. “She was weak at first, as you would expect, but she’s already up and pitching in around the house. The children are beside themselves.”
“I’ll bet they are.”
“As far as knowing what happened to her, she came back with loads of stories about Heaven.”
“I am so happy for her, for all of you. Give her my regards and tell her everyone in town would love to see her at Mail Day as soon as she can make it. Everyone will be so thrilled.”
Poppy finished with his load and pulled the sno-go starter cord.“I’ll tell her.”
“By the way,” Barbara Jean continued as she came to stand at the end of her walk, “I’m curious about all that stuff you’re removing from Orion’s house.”
Pulling the cord again and again, Poppy said, “What about it?”
“Well, what all is it, for starts, and do you have permission to take it?”
Poppy stifled his annoyance and said evenly, “No offense, but what business is it of yours what deals Beehymer and I strike?”
Barbara Jean laughed. “Didn’t you know? I’m the Neighborhood Watch. No, really, Orion asked me to keep an eye on the place while he’s away.”
Upon hearing this, Poppy changed his tune. “All right, then,” he said. “Fair enough. Beehymer sold me some stuff last summer and told me to come get it whenever I wanted. He even loaned me a key.”
“Is that a fact?”
How dare she question him? Poppy began to stomp across the street to show her the blamed house key as proof. But he put on the brakes halfway there. “Yes, it is a fact,” he said mildly. “Is there a problem with that?”
Barbara Jean shook her head. “No, no problem at all.”
Poppy went back to the sno-go, but it still wouldn’t start.
“I’m sure Orion will be glad to hear about Mama P,” Barbara Jean said. “I’ll text him about it tonight, and I’ll be sure to mention that you picked up the stuff he sold you.”
Poppy gritted his teeth. “You do that, neighbor, and give him our regards.”
“Will do.” Barbara Jean went back to her busybody house. Poppy yanked the cord again and again. With each pull, the engine huffed, Listen. Listen. Listen.
POPPY SLOUCHED AT the foot of his bed where he could monitor the flames in the barrel stove. If cupboard doors and two-stroke engines could talk, it appeared someone was trying to summon him. But who and for what purpose?
In the past, Poppy had always been able to distinguish between the faint promptings of the Holy Spirit and the fawning gambits of Satan.
The Dove of Heaven whispered to him in actual words he could hear inside his head, not through squeaky hinges. And its messages were accompanied by a rush of wonder and grace. That was the supernatural imprimatur he had come to trust.
These recent signs and wonders elicited nothing like grace. They felt like intrusions into his mind. They were creepy and unwelcome. He shut the barrel stove door. Damn your eyes. Good night!
PE2 1.0
DAY AND NIGHT Crissy Lou howled in the tunnels. An eerie, piercing, canine lament that reverberated down the corridors of stone and set everyone’s teeth on edge. The German shepherd had stopped sleeping in the cottage since Uzzie’s drowning. Now she refused even to eat there. The children would stand on the porch with her dinner bowl and call and call and beg her to come home, but she kept her distance. In the end, Hosea began feeding her in the storeroom chamber where she slept. But nothing anyone did was successful in curbing the endless howling.
In Poppy’s absence, Mama P had taken over the evening worship service, and one evening she told her little congregation, “I think Crissy Lou needs to spend more time outside the keep. Clearly she needs to howl at the moon or something, and being cooped up here all the time with us is making her sick.”
The children were appalled. “But where will she sleep?” they asked.
“She can sleep in the prayer cabin with your father.”
“But Poppy hates Crissy Lou!”
“That’s true, but he won’t let her freeze. Besides, it’ll only be for a few days until she passes all this bile from her system.”
POPPY DID NOT let the dog into the cabin last night, though she stood on the porch and yipped plaintively for an hour. In the end, he came out with an angry voice and a stick to drive her away. Fortunately, there were a few derelict doghouses on the property. Once upon a time, Uzzie had improved one of them with a new roof and fresh straw for her use. Uzzie, her long-lost love. If a dog can experience self-pity, Crissy Lou had her fill of it through that long winter night.
Poppy didn’t let her in the next morning either, or feed her, before he left on a smelly machine. She climbed the slide to the gate of the keep, but they didn’t let her in either, not that she was especially eager to be inside. After a while, Ithy did come out to offer her a sandwich. He petted her and talked to her as she devoured it, but when he returned to the keep, he blocked her from joining him.
Crissy Lou went back to the big yard where she soon spotted a raven parked high in a tree. The bird was too far away for her to know if it was one of those ravens, but she barked at it anyway, out of frustration as much as anything. While she was barking, a second raven dive-bombed her from behind. It stabbed the back of her head with its beak. She yelped and sprang away just as a third raven swooped and missed. She tried to fight back but the birds kept coming from all directions, stabbing her shoulders and neck, one after another. She ran, but they pursued her. They drove her away from the Prophecy compound. She st
ayed on the packed trail because she was an easy target in deep snow, but they kept diving and pecking at her until her golden coat was bloody. Several miles up the Stubborn Mine trail she found a rabbit’s lair under willow brush and broken branches, and she pressed herself into its shelter. At last she was safe from diving attack. Her wounds made the snow around her pink. Two ravens took up watch in adjoining trees and cawed mockingly at her.
Night fell and she shivered. She ate snow to slake her thirst. She heard one bird launch itself from the tree and depart, but she remained hidden. Only when she heard the second one leave did she emerge. She was cold and hungry, but she had no home to return to.
The Guest Room
GR1 1.0
THE MAN CLAD in a light jacket and mechanic’s overalls slowed down as he approached Curve Canaveral and came to a stop where, a few days and several inches of snow earlier, the skis of a snowmobile had left the trail and veered toward the ledge. There was little sign of its passage now. Or of the striver birds responsible for the ambush.
The man cocked his head to listen up and down the trail for any distant sound of engines or intruders.
Satisfied, he dismounted and trudged through the snow to the edge of the cliff. Below him lay a miniature canyon carved by the restless waters of the Mizina. Beyond that was the Chitina Valley, and on the horizon the snowy peaks of the Chugach Range. Though he leaned over the edge, he could not quite make out the rockfall directly beneath his feet.
He listened again with closed eyes and picked out the scuttling passage of voles or mice under the snow cover, the passage of the wind in the valley, the plop and thud of trees shedding their snow load. In this natural cacophony of sound he picked out no living girl’s breathing. Instead he detected a sort of low wheeze, which was the signature sound of a freezing corpse.
Masterson returned to his snowmobile to fetch the climbing rope and body bag. He tied off to a tree trunk and listened to the trail again while playing the line over the edge. Before he could rappel down the cliff face, the northern skyline lit up with the most bizarre show of northern lights anyone had ever seen. Outstanding.
GR2 1.0
IT WAS THE pain that surfaced first. Pain in both legs and knees. More pain in her right shoulder and arm. Her whole right side was on fire. Painful to breathe, painful to swallow, painful to roll over in bed.
Rolling over was what woke Ginger up. Her shoulder and ribs exploded in agony and took her breath away.
Sweet Jesus, make it stop!
Her eyes flew open. She was in a small, dark space lit only by a flickering candle. She wasn’t in a bed at all but on a pad, like a camping ground pad, and she was naked under the covers.
Where was she, and how did she get here? Why was she naked? Was she alone, or was there someone else in the room?
She kept still and listened. She could hear the pings of a stove cooling off, but nothing else. No appliance motors or traffic sounds or aircraft. No music, TV programs, ticking clocks. No heavy breathing.
She couldn’t make out the far end of the room in the darkness, and someone could be lurking there, but it felt like she was alone. Silently, gently, she passed her hands all over her body to assess her condition. It felt like she’d been in a car crash, but this was no ER bay. She tried to remember where she had been driving — down some remote road? Was she the driver or a passenger? Was she going somewhere with her mother? With Rory? Her brother was a good winter driver. So why was she in a strange room with no clothes on feeling like she’d been stomped to death?
Had she been raped?
Ginger felt her crotch. She wasn’t completely naked; she was wearing panties, thank God. And compared to all of her other painful spots, namely everywhere, things felt okay down there.
Carefully, she sat up and looked around. The bedclothes fell away, exposing her bare chest, which was crisscrossed with scrapes and bruises. Even at floor level, the room felt warm. The candle stood on a bench near her feet. A stack of folded clothes lay next to it, and propped against the bench was her rucksack. It was hers, she recognized it. She grabbed and pulled it to herself. Inside were hats and gloves, not hers, spark plugs, a flashlight — none of it hers. A Bible with a blue cover — hers! And at the bottom of the rucksack, something heavy. A gun, a revolver — not hers but a welcome surprise nevertheless.
The first thing Ginger did was make sure the gun was loaded. She found the cylinder release and swung it out. Six fat .38-caliber shells smiled at her. Not for nothing had Ginger Lawther taken those firearms courses at the club when she was fourteen. She snapped it shut and let out her breath.
“All right, who’s there?” she said evenly. She turned on the flashlight and shined it all around the room. It looked like a one-room cabin. Wood stove, a little kitchen area, water jugs, peeled log walls, a ladder to a sleeping loft. “Show yourself. I know you’re here.” The room wasn’t large, maybe sixteen by twenty feet (5 x 6 m) She was across from the door and under the sleeping loft. “Don’t be stupid; I’m armed, and I know how to shoot.”
Satisfied that she was probably alone, Ginger got up and hobbled over to the the bench where she sat heavily. Her blood was too thin or sluggish and she nearly passed out. But she didn’t and she rifled through the pile of clothes. Cotton long johns, an ankle-length, cotton-print dress, wool stockings, a bra. Her bra! Nothing else was hers, not even the panties she was wearing. The clothes looked like a costume for the Golden Days Parade up in Fairbanks. What’s more, they were destroyed, shredded in places, stained with blood. Weirder, they were crudely mended with needle and thread, and they smelled of laundry detergent. Like even to get to this state of ruin, much effort was spent.
With no other options in sight, she put on the clothes and, weirdest of all, the most-damaged places in the clothes matched the locations of her most-painful bruises.
Her entire right side was one big, painful, purple bruise.
What the frack had happened to her? And where the frack was she?
In any case, she was still alive, and none of her bones seemed broken, thank you, Jesus, for that.
While she was pulling on the socks, there were bumps and footfalls outside the door, across the room from her. She snapped up the .38 Special and aimed it and the flashlight at the door. Someone outside fumbled with the latch, swung the door open with a booted foot, and entered carrying a load of firewood so huge that Ginger could see only the top of his head.
“Freeze!” she shouted.
He froze. After a long moment he said, “Oh, good. You’re awake and everything,” and began moving again, toward the big wood box next to the stove.
“I said freeze!”
He froze again.
“Who are you? Where am I? What happened to me? And why was I naked?”
“My name is Tim Hash,” the man replied calmly. “I’m the one who left your loaded gun near you so you could feel safe in case I wasn’t here when you woke up. You’re in my home on April Creek, outside McHardy, Alaska, USA. I’m glad you speak English because I don’t know any foreign languages. I don’t know what happened to you, where you’re from, or what your whole deal is. You just showed up at my door.
“Now, I know I look like a big, strong man and all, but this load of wood is still heavy, and I’d like to set it down in the hopper, if you don’t mind. Please don’t shoot me.”
Before he could move, Ginger fired the gun, aiming it at the log wall next to him. The muzzle flash lit up the tiny space like a photo flash, and the loud report startled her.
“I didn’t say you could move. I asked you why I was naked.”
The man, Tim Hash, grunted and rebalanced his load of wood.
“You should know,” she said with more confidence than she felt, “that I’m an excellent marksman. I’ve been around firearms since I was in grade school.”
“If I was ever blessed to have a daughter of my own,” Tim said mildly, “I’d teach her to shoot too. So, good on your father. The reason you were naked is because w
hen you showed up here your clothes were soaked in blood and I had to remove them to see where you were bleeding from so I could staunch it and try to save your life. Isn’t that what anyone would do? I had to cut them off you, but they were mostly shredded anyway by whatever happened to you.
“But I couldn’t find any fresh wounds on you to account for all that blood, only lots of bruises.
“Since your clothes were torn and bloody, I couldn’t see no sense in putting them back on you just out of a sense of modesty. So I washed them and mended them as best I could. Sorry they’re not better and everything. I wasn’t sure if you would ever wake up or if I should leave you here alone while I went to fetch help.”
With that he leaned over the wood box and released a clattering avalanche of split spruce firewood. Then he dusted his large hands on his pants and turned to face her directly. He was easily the largest, most hulking man she’d ever met.
“I noticed your dress looks like them folks over at the old copper mine. Are you one of the Prophecys then? Did you run away? Did they kick you out?”
Prophecys?
Sarai’s dress, Deut’s socks and underwear. A clattering avalanche of memories crashed in her brain. Adam, Hosea, Frankie and Myrrh, Cora, Sue. Proverbs! Poppy!
“No, I’m NOT a Prophecy!” she declared. Her gun began to wobble, and she lowered it. Tim slumped in visible relief.
“You must be hungry,” he said. “I have a pot of stew in the wannigan. Want I should fetch it?”
“But I did run away from them.” She must have run away. How else would she be here? “Did you tell them I’m here?” Without intending to, Ginger raised the gun again. She quickly lowered it and repeated her question. “Did you tell them?”
“Not a chance,” Tim said. “I considered the situation over very carefully and decided it was better to wait until you had a say in the matter. If you ever woke up, that is. If you didn’t, I was going to take your body into town and let them deal with the Prophecys.”
Glassing the Orgachine Page 23