Season of the Wolf

by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  “But that wasn’t your fault, was it? That switch?”

  “I wasn’t the one who had closed it, no. But I was the person in charge down there. I should have checked it, should have seen that. I didn’t. For those six days—and weeks after that—I hardly slept. I was at the site nonstop, and when we finally were able to tunnel in to get the bodies out, I was the first one down. I learned everything I ever wanted to know about carrying bodies that day. So when I say I’ve got a passing familiarity with devastated corpses, I’m not kidding.”

  She moved then, off her chair and into his, putting her arms around him, drawing him into a hug. She was soft in places and firm in others, and when she spoke he could feel her voice as well as hear it. “What about that one miner? Jared?”

  “He was the closest to the ignition,” Alex said. “They told me he would have died instantly. A flash, a superheated blast, and he was gone. When I got to him, there wasn’t much left but a blackened husk. His eyeballs had exploded and most of his flesh had burned off, and he was curled in on himself as if he had laid down to take a nap.”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” she said again.

  “It’s okay.” It wasn’t, not really, but she couldn’t have known, and given what he had already told her she couldn’t have not asked. “Anyway, that was the end of me being underground. I never wanted to go down again, and nobody asked me to.” He cast about for some safe ground, because otherwise he would be moving into treacherous waters, and he wasn’t sure he was up for that. Maybe it would be easier with her sitting next to him, squeezed into the big chair, arms around him. But then again maybe it would not be. It would never be easy.

  “That was the end of my grandfather’s time at the helm,” he said. “The public blamed him, not me. He was old, anyway, and close to retirement. My father was already running the company, but people still looked to the old man for direction. But it rained all that week, and we were out in it a lot, and he caught pneumonia and died thirteen days later. So that’s another victim on my conscience.”

  “That wasn’t your fault, Alex. You can’t blame yourself for the weather.”

  “I can blame myself for him being outside, not sleeping. That’s on me.”

  “I think you’re too hard on yourself.”

  “You’re not the first to tell me that. And thanks. It never really helps, but I don’t mind hearing it.”

  “You’re welcome. And I mean it.”

  “Anyway,” Alex continued, “there were only three people who knew that the error was mine. My grandfather, my father, and the foreman I was apprenticing under, Mickey O’Bierne.”

  “Wasn’t it really his fault? If he was the real foreman?”

  “He had sent me down to do his job. He might have caught the seal that I’d missed. It’s on me. They knew it. My grandfather died, like I said. Seven years ago—after the company went public, and we lost our majority share—my father died. Then six months ago, after I took the money I’d inherited from my father and started the foundation—really, just as I was conceiving this project, the documentary—Mickey died.” He laughed, a guttural sound, without humor. “I guess the documentary will never get made now. At the time, I thought it was some kind of sign, an omen. The only three people who knew I was at fault were gone. I thought that would be liberating, somehow, but it wasn’t. Instead, knowing that I’m the only one living with the secret makes it worse somehow.”

  “Well, you’ve shared it with me, now. You’re not the only one. Not anymore.”

  “Thanks for that. And for, you know, everything else. You don’t know how much it helps.”

  “Not a lot, I’d guess. I’m just some small-town chick who hunts things.”

  “Yeah,” he said, chuckling a little and feeling it this time. “Just some chick, that’s right.”

  He had to tell the rest of it, even though he was afraid. If he didn’t spill it now, he might never say it. And the only thing worse than carrying a secret, he had learned, was carrying it alone. “I started having nightmares, after my father died. Bad ones.”

  “That sucks.”

  “More than you know. At first it was mine dreams, and it mostly still is. But it’s not just that. And—look, Robbie, I know I’ve been kind of a basket case tonight, and you might wish you had never met me. I hope not. But after what I’m going to tell you, you might really wish that. In a big way.”

  Her hand was resting on his thigh. He liked it there. “I don’t see that happening.”

  “Okay, well…the dreams were…I don’t know, precognitive? Predictive? Something like that. Maybe that’s what clairvoyant means, I don’t know.”

  “How?”

  “At first I wrote them off. They were just bad dreams. Sometimes I saw Jared in the dreams, and he tried to warn me about things happening, but I didn’t connect them to anything in the real world. And look, I know this is impossible to believe, but I swear to you, it’s all true. Every word I’ve told you is true.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Just keep thinking that. Anyway, then I had this dream where I was trying to get on the 405 freeway, only the freeway sign was in the shafts and Jared kept getting in my way so I couldn’t see it. That day, I had a meeting in Burbank, and I was going to take the 405. But that dream kept coming back to me. The urgency with which Jared was getting between me and the sign. So instead of taking the 405 I took Coldwater, through the hills. It was pretty up there. Trees and birds and nature, instead of the grind of the freeway. I was listening to a CD. It wasn’t until I got to the meeting that I learned that a sniper had opened fire on the 405, just when I would have been going over it. He caused a massive accident that killed six people. Finally a cop killed him.”

  He had felt Robbie stiffen up as he told the story. He didn’t blame her, wouldn’t blame her if she pushed him out of the chair, if she ran away.

  But she did neither. Instead, she pressed herself against him and squeezed his thigh and wiped sweat from his forehead. A lock of her hair brushed his cheek, and it felt like a caress. “That is…you must have been freaked out.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I was…I can’t even say. I still can’t quite believe it. But then, after that, I tried to remember details of some of the other nightmares. I went back and did some research, and learned that I’d been lucky, that some of the other things he had warned me about had also come to pass. They weren’t as disastrous, not as fatal, but they were bad and he had warned me.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “I told you. Impossible to believe.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t believe you.”

  “Is this where you say, you believe that I believe it?”

  “That would be patronizing. I hope you know me better than that.”

  “I think so. Think I’d like to know you better, too.”

  “So go on.”

  “Okay.” Another deep breath. In and out. He felt like he was exposing himself, tearing off his clothing and his skin, showing her everything he was on the inside, and he kept being afraid at every moment that she would be repelled by what he offered. “I had another dream. Just a few weeks ago, maybe a month. I was deep into the planning then, for the film. Trying to figure out where to go first, where the effects of climate change could be demonstrated in a real, visceral, visual way. And I had another nightmare. I was in the shafts, and there was coal dust everywhere, so thick I couldn’t breathe. I was lost, it was dark—this is essentially the same dream I’ve had almost every night since I’ve been here, by the way, with minor but significant differences. I was completely blind, choking, dying, but then Jared came and his eyes, those green eyes, illuminated the shaft, cut through the darkness, and he led me toward…toward something. I was never quite convinced it was toward salvation, or anything like that. But it was a direction, and that was better than stumbling around until I fell down and died. And in this one a few weeks back, at one point in the shaft we passed a sign, and the sign said ‘Silver Gap.’ After
I woke up I did some research, found Silver Gap, Colorado, and learned that the trees, the pines, in the area were suffering from an intense bark beetle infestation. It was like he was telling me to come here. So I did.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “You think so now. Listen, Robbie, that thing when I was seventeen? Going into the shaft, hauling out those burned, destroyed bodies? That was the worst thing I had ever experienced. Worst thing I thought I would ever experience. I thought I was home free, after that. Nothing could top it, and anyway, I was rich, and the rich can inoculate themselves against many ills. But now, here—this is worse. Far more bodies, far worse injuries. And it was done by wolves, by animals that everybody says just don’t act that way.”

  “They don’t.”

  “See? But they did. I can’t help thinking it’s because I’m here.”

  “You didn’t bring them. You didn’t set them off. The first attack was before you even got here.”

  “I don’t mean that directly. But still, somehow, my presence is…connected to it.”

  “Because you saw a sign for Silver Gap in a dream?”

  “I still haven’t told you all of it,” he said. “I’m still having the dreams. Like I said, almost every night since I got here. They’re just as bad as ever. The other night I had one, and in it I saw these three women with silver mouths.”

  “Silver mouths? How?”

  “I don’t know. That was just the impression I had at the time. They were afraid, and they had silver mouths. And—”

  He shivered. She held him. “Go on, Alex.”

  “And one of the women was Clara Durbin.”

  “Clara, who disappeared today.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did you have this dream, Alex?”

  “Last night. Before she disappeared. And there’s one more thing.”

  “I don’t know, Alex, this is pretty creepy already.”

  “I know. But I have to say it now. You can kick me out when I’m done. Point one of your guns at me and send me packing.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Before Clara disappeared, I was in the apartment she and Charles have. There in the lodge. And I saw a photograph there, that showed Clara and her brother, years ago. She was just a kid, really.”

  “And?”

  “And her brother was Jared Flannery.”

  “He looked like Jared?”

  “He was Jared. Charles confirmed it. Clara’s maiden name is Flannery. She came from Kentucky, where the mine was. Where I knew Jared.”

  Robbie had gone white, and it was his turn to soothe her. He held her tight and pressed his cheek against hers and fought off the urge to do more, and after she had stopped trembling she swallowed and said, “That is strange, Alex. That’s…I don’t even know. I just don’t.”

  “I don’t either. I know it’s impossible. You probably think I saw the picture and then had the dreams or something, but I knew Jared. And I’ve been having the same basic dreams for years, long before I ever met Clara. It means something, Robbie. It has to. But I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if I can figure it out. And if it has to do with Clara’s disappearance, then I have to, and fast. She’s been nothing but kind to me and if there’s something I can do, I have to do it.”

  “Because you’re a good man,” she said.

  “I don’t know about that. Maybe. I have my moments, I guess. Right now, though, I feel like a failure. Like if I can’t find out what this is all about, and something happens to her, that’ll…well, it’ll be the last straw. I don’t know what it all has to do with me, but it has something, and I have to find that answer. I just have to.”

  28

  She had a house less than a block from the shop, out the back door and through the alley and then through a gate in her fence and up three stairs and they went in the kitchen door. The house was small but it was neat, surprisingly so considering the shop, but she said that was because she spent most of her time in the shop or in the field and mostly went home to shower, eat, and sleep.

  They didn’t eat, and it was a while before they slept. When his lips met hers for the first time, it was like coming home after a long absence. They tore off their clothes, and he was enthralled by her muscular arms and shoulders and the lush, heavy terrain of her breasts and the blond patch of her pubis. He didn’t think he was much of a specimen, comparatively, but she seemed to like him and he was glad that she did. They held each other on the bed and then moved closer, grasping and clawing with ferocious urgency, and their lovemaking was frenzied, as if by moving together in a fevered heat they could burn away the terror that gripped him when he thought about what had happened, and what would have to happen tomorrow. After a while, they dozed, and then they showered and then returned to bed and this time the sex was slower, almost stately in its pace, as he explored her body with hands and mouth and then plumbed its moist depths until he exploded in her, and after some rest she explored him, with ultimately the same result. Then they slept, really slept, and his sleep was largely dreamless. One time, the nightmare started; he found himself in the dark tunnel, but he moaned and shifted a little in the bed and Robbie turned against him and nuzzled into his cheek and the dream vanished like a soap bubble popped on a fingertip.

  * * *

  Reverend Calderon was alone in his office. The church was closed, the front door locked because of the strong winds and snow, and his office door was locked. A space heater buzzed near his desk, blowing warm air across him. He had a small glass of brandy on the desk, just a small one because Dr. Steinhilber said alcohol was probably not a good idea, not just that it might make his vision worse, but even under optimal circumstances, excessive use could affect the vision, and he couldn’t afford that. He needed clarity on this night. He needed to be able to see, and he needed to be able to think.

  What he had done with Christy Deeds—what he would, apparently, continue to do, as long as she lived and he lived and they were in any kind of proximity at all—was wrong. That much was easy to discern. It went against the teachings of the Bible and of Jesus Christ and of everything he understood about God the Father. She was married to another. Even if she had not been, she was not married to him. Honestly, he was pretty sure that Jesus wouldn’t have cared whether two people who loved each other were married, but all the teachings of his faith told him that marriage was a covenant in the eyes of the Lord and that covenant was what made the rest of it, the things he and Christy did when they were together, okay. Without that sacred bond, it was sinful, and they had performed what he believed was a truly impressive catalog of sinful acts in any number of imaginative, erotic positions and places. The woman had a delightfully creative imagination, one that she claimed her husband had never appreciated.

  It had to end, but he was a weak man, not worthy of his position, and he knew he would not end it. Christy needed to be strong, she needed to call quits to it. For a while she had, but then she had backslidden, as they said at seminary, and he had been happy to see the backside that appeared before him as a result of that backslide.

  But he loved her. He wanted her. He wanted her to vanish, to never step into his church again, to remove the temptation he could not resist. And he wanted Chief Deeds to vanish so there would no longer be that obstruction coming between them. He sat down at his desk and started to write a letter to Christy, to tell her the things he couldn’t say in person, that he loved her but that he could never be with her again, and if she didn’t keep her distance he would have to leave town. But then he changed his mind and tore the letter up and threw the scraps in his wastebasket, and then he decided that he should burn them instead.

  He was reaching for them when he saw headlights outside. A vehicle—a police department SUV, he realized—came to a stop in the parking lot, but the headlights stayed on, burning through his window like the eyes of the Lord.

  So he didn’t need to write a letter at all. Chief Deeds had found out, had come to confront him. There wo
uld be words, there might even be physical violence. Then he would have to leave town. Morris would give him no choice.

  He went to the door, shaking with fear of the coming confrontation but feeling his heart lightened at the same time. It was over, temptation was gone. He would leave Silver Gap, at Morris’s insistence. He would never be alone with Christy again, or any of the other women in his congregation who had made themselves available to him. He would start over in some other place, and he would get a better handle on his urges there. He would seek the counsel of someone older and wiser, another priest, to help him be strong.

  He unlocked the door, threw it open. “Morris,” he said. “Come in.”

  “It isn’t Morris, Reverend Fuckbuggy,” someone said.

  Calderon was confused. He was sure the vehicle belonged to the police department, and though he couldn’t see the man clearly, he appeared to be in uniform. He definitely had a belt with a holster and other equipment hanging from it.

  “Who—?”

  “I know what you’ve been doing. I know where you’ve been dipping that fuckstick of yours, that holy rolling fuckstick, and I’m here to tell you that it’s got to stop!”

  “I know,” Calderon said. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about all night. But I’m sorry, you are—”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know me, Fuckbuggy. You’ve been busy with the chief’s wife, and he’s ten times the man you’ll ever be.”

  “Honeycutt?”

  “Don’t say my name! You don’t deserve to have it in your mouth. Don’t say the chief’s name, either, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  “Honeycutt, this is absurd, why are you—”

  And then he stopped, because he couldn’t see well but he could see that Honeycutt had drawn his pistol, and he assumed, though it had vanished from sight, that it was pointed at him.