Demon Shadows

by Mike Sirota

  Thea glanced at the next table. “Oh, look, Allan’s d.u.i. again.”

  “D.u.i.?”

  “Dining under the influence. How disgusting. It’s hard to believe, Paul, but that creature has produced some of the most significant concert music of the twentieth century. That was years ago, of course.”

  Paul assumed she was talking about Allan Kroll, whom Sherri had mentioned. He was a smallish, middle-aged man, dressed in an out-of-style tan suit with no tie. Leaning precariously on one elbow, he was bent halfway over the table. He tried to lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth, unsuccessfully. Those around him ignored the scene, probably because they’d gotten used to it.

  Thea shrugged. “He tries, give him credit. But sometimes he doesn’t even make it through dinner. He’s a good drunk, though—if there’s such a thing. He’s not loud; you hardly know he’s around.”

  “Can’t someone help him?” Paul asked.

  “The staff takes care of Allan. They even drive him here from his cabin in a golf cart. He’s a project of Harriet Thorburn’s—a losing one, if you ask me. She always liked his music. Allan’s up here so much that he’s practically a permanent resident.”

  As Thea continued to talk, Paul again glanced at the end of the table. The woman there ate but did not communicate with anyone or even look around. It appeared as if she were being punished, like an unruly child. Thea Douglas might know her story, he thought, but he decided against asking her.

  There were some unusual people at Thorburn, he mused, and he’d met only a handful so far. Was that how he seemed to others? Was that why the Hey Vern guy kin always tell, easy, who were on their way to the artists’ and writers’ colony?

  As the servers brought out the main course—an excellent pot roast—Walter McClain came over and sat down in the empty chair next to Paul. “Well, how’s everything going?” he asked.

  “Fine, thanks,” Paul replied.

  “Walter,” Thea said, “you really ought to do something about Allan. The poor man’s going to hurt himself.”

  “Everything’s under control, Thea,” McClain said in his peevish voice, then added to Paul, “Harriet Thorburn would like to meet you after dinner. Please be sure you stop over.”

  “I will.”

  McClain left. Thea Douglas fell quiet as she concentrated on her meal. David Van Ness remained engrossed in Robert Kingsley. Please, let it stay that way, Paul thought.

  Then, Harriet Thorburn began to speak. The low murmur from the tables subsided.

  “I was telling you last night what it was like in the forties, when Elliot Waterman and Maxwell Fryar and Anya Trowbridge and others used to stay at the colony. Oh, it was different then, especially at dinner, when the women would come in their finest dresses, the men in suits and ties, tuxedos!” She looked around. “Not like now, not like now.”

  “She tells some good stories,” Thea whispered to Paul, “but you have to wade through a lot of crap. Myself, I think she’s senile.”

  “Maxwell Fryar hated women, thought they were insufferable,” the old woman continued. “Hardly anyone outside of the colony knew that, though. So he had this reputation as one of the world’s great womanizers, for which he was both revered and despised. He never contradicted it, and it preceded him wherever he went and helped him sell a lot more novels than he would have otherwise.”

  The residents laughed. Harriet Thorburn smiled with her reminiscences, was silent for a few moments then went on. “Elliot Waterman had a memory like a steel trap. He saw something once and it became a watercolor in his mind, every detail! His Haitian period? Two of those were painted right here, at Thorburn, in the middle of winter! And his Sinai sketches? And those wonderful Brazilian works? Yes, at the colony!

  “Anya Trowbridge was considered the greatest historian of her time. Her books on World War I, the Depression, and pre-Hitler Europe are still among the definitive works on those subjects. As a great scholar she was considered a stern, self-effacing individual, and actually she was—everywhere but at the colony. Here, Anya let her hair down and was like a small child released from captivity. Other guests loved her, and the staff did also, although we couldn’t let on and risk a total breakdown of authority. She was one of my favorites.

  “You all know the statue of the Egyptian goddess in the central hall? Once, Anya dressed it in a diaper. She even managed to stain the diaper brown! I was the one who found it first. Another time she brought up a store mannequin’s arm hidden in a suitcase.”

  “Oh, don’t tell that story!” Walter McClain pleaded.

  “No one saw her carry it down to the lake late one afternoon. She had fixed it so that it stuck straight up from a flat piece of wood. After throwing it into the lake she stood at the edge and screamed for help, saying that someone was drowning. Young Walter McClain, a teenager at the time, ran down to the lake and jumped in. Everyone laughed when he saved that wooden arm. Anya Trowbridge was laughing the hardest of all!”

  The dining room broke up. McClain shook his head but smiled. He would probably not hear the end of it for days, Paul thought, and he agreed that Harriet Thorburn told a good story.

  The reminiscences continued as dessert was brought out. Thea Douglas had been right: every so often the old woman would digress into something totally unrelated, the trouble with the trash pickup in Stillwell or the shameful advent of gambling along Lake Tahoe, among other ramblings. But even so, the stories of the Thorburn colony, from the perspective of one who had been part of its past, proved fascinating.

  “She’s been writing this stuff down forever,” Thea told Paul. “You’d think she would have it published already. There must be ten thousand pages!”

  Paul was savoring a piece of German chocolate cake and had only taken a couple of forkfuls when he again glanced at the woman in the gray warm-up suit. She was nearly finished with hers, eating so quickly that her face was near the plate as she shoveled the pieces in. He didn’t remember her doing that with dinner. He watched, curious, as she ate the last of it, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, and got up. Apparently she was going to leave. But Harriet Thorburn continued to talk as the colony’s nightly ritual continued. A confrontation seemed imminent.

  The woman walked soundlessly in her L.A. Gear, passing behind Paul’s chair but not looking at him, or anyone. Without question, McClain saw her. Still, nothing was said, and she reached the door, opened it, and slipped out. Everyone’s attention returned to the first table.

  Harriet Thorburn went on for ten more minutes, rambling often. Finally she was done. Paul sensed relief around him.

  “Well, I’ve said quite enough for one night,” she announced. “I hope the dinner was satisfactory. If it was, please make certain you let Arthur know, won’t you?”

  Sherri caught Paul’s eye. She grinned. He shook his head and worked hard at hiding a smile.

  “Yay, Arthur,” one resident muttered.

  People began to leave. Thea Douglas said to Paul, “You don’t want to be late for your appointment. She may fall asleep before you get there. See you later.”

  “Okay.”

  Sherri waited for Paul by the second table. “You have to see the biddy, right?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. But I’d like to talk to you after.”

  “I’ll wait in the day room. Or would you rather meet me at my place?”

  He grinned. “See you in the day room.”

  Walter McClain, the dutiful servant, stood next to Harriet Thorburn’s chair. “Ah, Paul, come here!” he exclaimed. “Ms. Thorburn, I’d like you to meet Paul Fleming.”

  The woman extended a thin hand. “Mr. Fleming, your reputation precedes you. When we knew you were coming, Walter went out and found copies of your books. I’ve even read Summit of Fear…a little of it, anyway. It’s very good.”

  Paul nodded graciously. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Thorburn.”

  “But the book of yours that will hold a special place in our library,” she continued, “will be the o
ne that you begin here, at the colony!”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Mr. Fleming, I know I’m right! These wonderful mountains are therapeutic. If you can’t find the muse here, then you are no writer!” Her voice had risen shrilly in excitement but now softened. “What happened, Mr. Fleming, to make you stop?”

  He shrugged. “The divorce, I suppose. My wife and I split up earlier this year. It just became final, and—”

  “There are children?”

  “A boy and a girl. I see them once or twice a month, holidays, that sort of thing.”

  “Good luck to you, Mr. Fleming,” she said, practically interrupting him. “Don’t hesitate to tell Walter if there’s anything you need.” She looked at McClain. “I’ll go upstairs now.”

  McClain helped the old woman up, nodded at Paul, and led her out. Paul walked behind them, thinking it would be rude to pass. Aside from them, the dining room was empty.

  Before they exited, the kitchen door swung open. A man in a chef’s hat and apron emerged, an immense figure, barrel-chested, six and a half feet tall. Something appeared wrong with his moon face: one eye drooped low and was nearly closed. His lips were thick, the lower one protruding in a fixed pout. Paul felt sure that, to some degree, the man was retarded.

  “That’s Arthur Tyler, our cook,” McClain said.

  Paul nodded, then circled around the table and approached the man. “That was a fantastic dinner tonight, Arthur,” he said, offering his hand.

  Arthur Tyler grinned a crooked grin of widely spaced teeth. “Tha-a-nks,” he said in a deep, slow voice, engulfing Paul’s hand as if it were that of a child. He then turned and went back into his domain.

  Eight o’clock. Paul suddenly realized how tired he was. He’d been on the road since before dawn. No. 11 sounded like a haven to him. The last thing he needed was another roomful of people. But he’d asked Sherri Jordan to meet him because he was still curious about the woman in the warm-up suit.

  By the time Paul crossed the central hall to the day room Walter McClain and Harriet Thorburn were part of the way up the stairs. It seemed like the rest might take forever. Wasn’t there an elevator, he wondered, or some other means of getting the woman to her rooms? But she’d been doing this all her life and probably wouldn’t have it any other way.

  After the stillness that had prevailed at dinner, the noise level in the day room was deafening. One large group congregated around the bar. Others watched a Warriors-Sonics basketball game or played pool or billiards. Some were paired off in what might have been more intimate conversations.

  Paul expected to find Sherri Jordan surrounded by people. But she sat alone, waiting for him on a worn but comfortable settee near the fireplace. She saw him, stood, and waved. He made his way through the crowd, some of whom offered a few complimentary words about his success. It took him a minute to get there.

  “Hey, you’re a popular guy,” she said. “Come and sit. How did it go with Harriet Thorburn?”

  “Fine. We didn’t speak long.”

  “Really? God, not with me. She practically pumped me for my whole life story! Anyway, you said you wanted to talk.”

  “You’d started to tell me about that woman at our table, the one sitting by herself. I was curious.”

  “That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

  He grinned. “We can talk about other things.”

  “I hope so,” she said in mock indignation. “Actually, there’s not a lot to tell. Her name is Gail Farringer. Of all the weirdos up here, she’s at the head of the class. She paints—I think. No one’s ever seen her work, except maybe Walter. She doesn’t talk to anyone; eats alone. You saw. At breakfast, which is buffet, she takes what she wants and goes off somewhere with it. You talk to her, you’re asking for trouble. I know. I tried it once.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Can’t imagine how she got here. She must be good at something or they wouldn’t have let her in. We all got our problems, right, Paul? But that girl’s got a few more.”

  He shook his head. “Sad. Okay, tell me about Sherri Jordan. Walter McClain praises your talents.”

  She smiled. “That’s the only thing about me Walter praises. Yeah, but I guess he’s the closest thing to a friend I got up here. Talks to me whenever I need it.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I work in clay. Animals. Wildlife, not poodles or parakeets. People like it, I guess. I make money.”

  “Where is it shown?”

  “San Francisco, mostly. But there are a few pieces here and there.”

  “Is San Francisco home?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “I’ve got a place there. But I…travel a lot. It’s just something I do.”

  “No man in your life?”

  She shrugged and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Lots of men in my life—one night at a time. Maybe two. Can’t even remember names after a while.”

  She turned and they looked into each other’s eyes. Behind the façade of wild hair and garish jewelry, Paul saw a different woman from the one he had first met in downtown Stillwell. A vulnerable person, hiding past, maybe present hurts behind an outrageous lifestyle. She seemed to sense his perceptiveness and wanted to talk.

  “What about family?” he asked.

  There, that was the question! She looked away. For a moment Paul thought she might cry. She gazed at him again then lifted her eyes.

  Another resident stood over them: a young man, still with acne, dressed in patched jeans and a Dickies shirt.

  “Sherri baby, voilà!” he exclaimed. “Or up here maybe I should say, ‘Eureka, I found it!’”

  He held up a small blue square of foil. Paul knew what it was.

  “Hey, all right!” Sherri was punkish hair and jewelry once again. “But Richard, I’m sort of busy—”

  “It’s okay,” Paul said. “I still have to unpack.”

  Reality seemed too much, he thought. She needed this escape. He wasn’t going to stop her.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Will you come over and look at my work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Paul. See ya.”

  They hurried off. She glanced back at Paul. Her smile had left her. Richard took her hand and led her through the maze of the day room. Paul watched them leave.

  He couldn’t stay by the fire any longer; its warmth would put him to sleep. He started for the door, thankful not to be accosted, and spotted a message in his mail slot. One of the staff had printed it in thick letters:

  Hi, remember me? Hope your trip was wonderful. Did you find inspiration already? Looking forward to hearing from you REAL SOON. Gary

  Paul smiled as he tucked the note into his shirt pocket. Sooner or later he’d have an outline for his agent—assuming everything went well. That would make him happy.

  Retrieving his coat, Paul left Big House. As he crossed the parking area, he realized it had grown colder. His thin southern California blood wasn’t ready for this. A wind blew from the northeast, which made it worse. The moon, a thin crescent, drifted in and out of passing clouds. Turning up his collar, he walked briskly to the footpath.

  He remembered the spot where earlier he had heard the sound. The light worked now. He stopped there, listened, but heard nothing.

  He also paused in front of No. 13 for a moment. It was too cold to stand in one place for long. Gail Farringer, whatever her problems, had one good idea. He started jogging and quickly passed the empty No. 12. But he was tired, and the altitude was over sixty-five hundred feet. Panting, he walked the rest of the way to his cabin.

  Still a few yards from the door, it began to snow.

  “Swell,” he said, and went inside.

  Unpacking, other than immediate necessities, would wait till morning. Paul climbed into bed within ten minutes. He slept a dark, dreamless sleep his first night at
the Thorburn colony.

  Even the squirrels on the roof didn’t bother him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sunday, December 1

  The sound that awakened Paul the next morning was not the familiar soft ring of his Baby Ben, which had been set for six-fifteen. This came from outside twenty minutes earlier, loud and harsh. Groggy, he staggered to the window and peered out.

  A snowplow—a riding mower anyway, with a narrow blade in front.

  An inch or so of snow had fallen overnight. Plowing didn’t seem worth the effort, although it was good to know they kept on top of things. The plow, misfiring badly, pushed the snow from all but a couple inches of the path on both sides. After clearing the way to No. 11’s front step, the driver turned it around and started back the other way.

  Before it fell quiet, Paul had climbed back into bed. The extra sleep helped. He took his usual “instant” shower—Jeannie had called it that—and was dressed and ready in thirty minutes.

  For the first time, Paul had a look outside the place where he would live and work for nearly a month. Lodgepole and Jeffrey pines, their branches sagging under newly fallen snow, sheltered the cabin and path. Beyond them, white-capped peaks thrust high in the clear morning air, barely piercing the undersides of a few low clouds. Leanna Creek purled busily toward the lake. And everywhere the plow hadn’t touched, a dusting of white lay over the floor of the forest. Yes, Gary, he thought, inspiration may be arriving on schedule.

  Then he heard the sound again.

  The one from last night, only this time near his cabin. Not the rushing water; that was the creek for sure. The scraping, the long, continuous…

  There was a wind, not strong, but enough to make the tops of the thin, towering lodgepole pines sway like tules. They grew close together, these ubiquitous Sierra trees.

  So close that they rubbed against one another.

  Paul smiled and started for breakfast.

  The plow had done a good job. Hardly any snow remained on the path all the way to the parking area. He noticed that some of the cars were missing. Maybe it was okay to go into town for breakfast. Where, at the Mule Deer Cafe? Whatever Arthur Tyler cooked up would be fine.