by Mike Sirota
But he did that with a phone call to Jason and Bree, and a few minutes of Dan Rather, before dinner.
After dinner he sat in the day room, watching a Lakers-Pistons game. Eventually he got into a spirited conversation with Michael Whitney, Kathy Parrish, and two other residents over the boundaries of freedom of speech and the press, and the moral responsibilities of those who dealt in the written word. That led to a poker game that went on for hours.
Paul still felt uncomfortable with people; maybe he always would. But that night he needed them, and it was all right.
The rain had become light snow by the time he made his way back to the cabin. He felt tired. The walk shouldn’t have had any effect on him. But with his mind on the book, he hadn’t exercised at all. Arthur Tyler’s great food wasn’t helping either. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would get up earlier and jog a couple of miles. Or maybe a mile to begin with, at this altitude.
But in the morning half a foot of snow pressed against his door, with more on the way.
Wednesday, December 4
The storm had hit in the middle of the night. Snow fell in large flakes that were sometimes blown horizontally by gusts of wind. The plow did its work at dawn, but by the time Paul—dressed in almost every bit of winter gear he’d brought or borrowed—started for Big House the path had been covered again.
“Hell, this one is nothing,” Thea Douglas said at breakfast.
Paul was dubious. “It’s not?”
“The radio said it’ll blow over by this afternoon. I did a residency here earlier this year, parts of January and February. One storm lasted for almost a week! Power was out, phones, everything.”
“Power?”
“They have generators. We all survived, but talk about bor-ing!”
Later, Paul spent an hour in the library then trudged back to No. 11 and worked all day. Nora Hardman brought him lunch shortly after noon. He couldn’t believe they would make her deliver it in such bad weather.
“Heck, this snow ain’t nothin’,” she said.
He shrugged. “That’s what I keep hearing.”
“Besides, you folks hafta eat, don’t you?”
“I think we could live without one meal.”
She grinned. “You don’t know a lotta these people.”
“Why don’t you stay a few minutes and get warm?”
“Uh-uh. Too much work. Thanks anyway, Mr. Fleming. You’re one of the good ones.”
The snow stopped falling in the middle of the afternoon, as predicted. But the temperature remained in the low twenties, with a wind chill factor of far less than that. Had there been a way of avoiding another trek to Big House, Paul would have. But that was part of the price for being there.
Incredibly, two new residents had arrived that day. Paul figured they must have thought themselves crazy as they came up from the interstate on those miserable roads. He sat at the first table that night, a few places from Harriet Thorburn, whose stories of past storms made this one seem like a picnic in July.
The book was coming along better than Paul could have imagined. By late afternoon that day he knew it had begun to consume him. In a way that was good, because, after all, he had traveled there to try to regain what he thought might be lost, and in that he’d succeeded beyond measure. Still, this obsession with his work had done so much to destroy his relationship with Jeannie. And if he was still like that, would it happen again with someone else—assuming there would ever be another in his life? That was what scared him.
But for now he was on a roll and had no intention of slowing down. Refusing an invitation to party in the day room, he returned to his claustrophobic, snow-covered spartan accommodations and worked until the words made no sense.
The purple Volkswagen was parked in front of his cabin. He saw no snow on the footpath, or anywhere else. The door on the driver’s side was open. Watching from his window he could see inside clearly.
Sherri Jordan, naked, stretched languorously on the front seat. Her long legs dangled outside the door. Returning his gaze, she ran her tongue across bright red lips. The nipples on her small breasts were hard, possibly from the cold. Her sculptor’s fingers brushed provocatively along her thighs, at first circumventing the golden mound of hair, then working nearer in short, circular turns. He stood, realizing how much he wanted her, as her legs parted…
Darkness filled the car, as if someone had been hiding in the backseat and now rose over her. Paul could see nothing except a shadow. Sherri was pulled inside; the door slammed. She might have been screaming, but he couldn’t hear a sound.
The car shook. Sherri thrashed wildly, but he only glimpsed her in the shadow that engulfed the interior. He continued to watch, unable to help.
Her head slammed against the window three times. Blood trickled down the glass. Her dead eyes stared at him, mouth agape. The car stopped shaking.
The shadow inside was gone.
Thursday, December 5
When he awakened with the alarm in the morning, Paul figured one of two things had happened: either no new snow had fallen, making it unnecessary for the plow to come at its usual ungodly time, or it was snowing right now and thirty inches lay on the ground.
His first guess proved correct.
It was still freezing, though. The thermometer at the service entrance of Big House registered 17°. Paul wished Gary Marks were standing there with him, sucking in the crisp mountain air. The man would probably turn brittle and crack into a thousand pieces.
Paul had been unable to let go of Idlewood Livery. All right, don’t be stupid. At that moment Sherri Jordan was waking up next to some young stud and would have to think hard to recall his name. There was no reason for her car to be there. None. Lots of things in life were purple. And he might not have even seen that correctly, considering the light.
But he was determined to make sure.
He would drive into town after four. He wanted to pick some things up anyway. Not that he needed an excuse, but it helped.
It remained cold and threatening all day, but no new snow fell. Paul left right at four. A few other residents had the same idea.
S. Lakeshore Drive had been cleared but still required caution because of many slick spots. The potholes were filled with hard-packed snow and ice, temporarily nullifying their hazard.
This time Paul parked in front of Mountain Apothecary. He took a flashlight from the glove compartment and stuck it in his back pocket as he walked to the intersection. A few people walked on Washo Street, but Alpine was deserted. Still, he moved cautiously, until he stood at the door of Idlewood Livery. Wiping away more of the grime, he peered in.
The stall was empty. He saw the burlap cover draped over one of the side panels. It had been folded.
Maybe what he thought he’d seen was nothing at all.
But one thing he knew: someone had been inside Idlewood Livery in the past forty-eight hours.
Then he thought, so what? The building had owners. People stored things in them. There was no mystery, only his overactive imagination.
An alley ran along the side of Idlewood Livery. There had to be another door, he thought, probably larger. He decided to explore. First he shone the flashlight into a few dark corners but saw nothing. He put it back in his pocket and turned.
Someone stepped out of the alley. Paul froze. Sheriff Roy Stillwell walked down the street, his gaze on Paul. A yard away, the big man stopped.
“Need something?” he asked gruffly.
“Hi, no,” Paul said. “I was just looking at these great old buildings.”
“You like old buildings?”
“Sure. I may want to use them in a story sometime.”
“You’re from the colony, huh?”
“That’s right.”
Stillwell nodded and glanced at the door of the livery. Paul wondered if he noticed the clean spot. Then he looked past Paul, toward Washo Street. Carl Stillwell, the nephew, walked toward them.
Finally the sheriff forced a smile. “Not too many
of you people wander our streets, ‘specially when it’s so damn cold. Just checking.” He touched the brim of his hat. “You have a good night.”
“Thanks, Sheriff, you too.”
Paul turned and started for Washo. Too fast, he told himself. Slow down. He nodded at Carl Stillwell as they passed. The deputy joined his uncle, and they watched the “crazy damn writer” turn the corner.
Keep it up, asshole, Paul thought. Why not come back tomorrow and try to get into Idlewood Livery? Then they can arrest you for breaking and entering, and you can see the inside of what is probably their very old jail.
He went into Mountain Apothecary for toothpaste and razor blades then drove back to the colony, too fast. A spinout slowed him down.
At dinner Paul wished that he were isolated at the end of a table. Ten minutes after Harriet Thorburn dismissed the gathering, he was at work in his cabin.
She had been watching him at dinner and knew something was bothering him. Once, in another life, Gail Farringer had possessed an understanding of people so acute, others called it her “gift.” She could see hurt, feel it, draw some of it into herself to relieve the burdened one and help begin the healing.
But that was a million years ago, when she had cared.
Usually he glanced at her while Harriet Thorburn shared her reminiscences. She knew it, even though he might not have been able to tell. But not that night. He had been preoccupied and seemed anxious to be out of there. When he passed her cabin he was running.
Still, it was none of her concern…
Maybe something that was part of who and what you are can never be lost. Maybe it only lays dormant, awaiting rebirth.
Friday, December 6
The next morning Paul awakened before the alarm. The night’s sleep had been his best yet. Yesterday seemed like a bad joke. He put on warm-up pants and jogged past Big House to Thorburn Lake, then along a path that skirted the shoreline. A mile and a half, at least.
Among the delivery trucks at the service entrance was one that Paul hadn’t seen before: Grapevine Hill Stationers, Truckee, California was scrolled in black on a purple Dodge van.
Purple.
Paul smiled and went inside to fill himself with Arthur Tyler’s pancakes.
The morning’s work was productive. And if Paul needed more incentive, it came in the form of a message that Nora Hardman delivered with his lunch.
“Saw it in your box,” the woman explained. “It got put there just before I left, so that was real good timing.”
Loved it! Faxed it to Ann. She’s excited too. Keep it up, boychik! Gary.
Paul taped the message on the wall above the desk and kept working.
Droplets of melting snow ran down the window by the time he stopped in the middle of the afternoon. The temperature soared to the high thirties and the sun had been out since early morning. It felt like a mild day to Paul, and he figured his blood must have already begun to thicken.
The dialogue in the scene he’d been writing sounded insipid. Time for a break. Normally when that happened he would jog or ride his bike and enact the scene as many times as he had to until the words sounded right. Today he would settle for a walk.
He followed the footpath to the sentinel pines, crossed Leanna Creek, and paralleled it until the tributary disappeared into the forest. Playing out the troublesome scene, he walked along the perimeter of the trees. A jay looked down and scolded him.
Fifteen minutes and a lot of pacing later, the scene began to come together. He had no pad or tape recorder; that wasn’t how he worked. With nearly total recall, he could transpose it verbatim when he got around to it, which he expected to do in a few minutes.
But as he turned to cut across the clearing he saw Gail Farringer sitting on the log.
He had no idea how long she’d been there. The sketchpad sat on her lap; she was watching him, her expression blank, dispassionate, as usual.
How was he supposed to react? he wondered. He wasn’t about to approach her. Maybe he’d just go back along the forest’s edge. But what did she have in mind? She had seen him first. If she had wanted to avoid a confrontation she wouldn’t have stayed there. On the other hand, maybe she was determined to work at her spot regardless of who came around.
This was stupid, he thought. Okay, he wouldn’t go right up to her, but he wouldn’t go out of the way to ignore her, either.
He was a third of the way across when his foot found a rock hidden under the snow. He stumbled, fell hard, the rock scraping his ankle. Nothing serious, but it hurt. Grinning, he got up.
Gail had half stood but sat again as he continued across the clearing. Despite how comical he must have looked, her expression remained unchanged. He angled toward the sentinel pines, passing within ten feet of her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He stopped and looked at her. “Fine. A little embarrassed, that’s all.”
“Don’t be,” she said, glancing at the log. “Will you sit down?”
He was surprised. “Uh, sure, if you want.”
“I apologize for my rudeness the other day, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
He sat next to her. She stiffened, then eased. “I deserved it for spying on you,” he said.
“You weren’t spying.” She held out a hand. “I’m Gail Farringer.”
He took the hand. Her grip was firm. “Paul Fleming.”
“I guess we both knew that.”
“I guess. Aren’t you afraid of violating the Prime Directive?”
“The what?”
“The non-fraternization rule. Walter McClain has a thing about rules.”
“I’d forgotten. Maybe we shouldn’t talk, then.”
“Not a chance! I’d been hoping to talk to you since the first night I was here.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I…”
“Felt sorry for the weird lady who sits by herself?”
“I don’t know. A little, I suppose.”
“I…wanted to talk to you also.”
“Yeah?”
Gail was trembling, not from the cold. Paul sensed how difficult this was for her. She rose suddenly and stared down at the snow.
“I have to go back now,” she said.
“What is it?”
“I have to go!”
“When can we talk again?”
“Soon. I don’t know…”
“What about dinner? I can arrange—”
She wheeled to face him, eyes wide. “No, never there!” she exclaimed. “So many people! Don’t try to talk to me there!”
“Okay,” he said.
She softened. “Please, Paul?”
He nodded. “Will you tell me when we can talk again?”
“Tomorrow. Here, this time.”
She ran off, leaving her sketchpad, which Paul didn’t notice until she was beyond the twin pines. As puzzling as the encounter had been, he was glad she had emerged, however briefly, from her private hell to speak to him. He wanted to see her again, learn about the demons that possessed her. But it would come slowly, and he had to accept that or risk driving her away.
Gail Farringer needed someone, needed him.
Maybe Paul Fleming was ready to need someone also.
CHAPTER SIX
At dinner, Walter McClain had an interesting proposition for Paul.
“A couple of the guest rooms in Big House will be available tomorrow,” he said. “We’re under thirty residents right now and that’ll continue to drop until after the holidays. You’re welcome to one of the rooms if you want to come in from the cold.”
Paul thought about how nice it would be: meals downstairs, no treks through the snow or squirrels on the roof. Then he remembered how much he’d accomplished in his spartan accommodations and how he liked the crackling fire and the Wieghorst on the wall.
And he thought about Gail Farringer.
“Thanks, Walter, I’ll stay where I am,” he told the associate directo
r.
Curiously, his dinner place was at table four, as close as anyone could get to Gail. This was a chance, he felt, to win her trust. He hardly looked at her.
Earlier, on his way to the mansion, he had dropped off the sketchpad. He’d been tempted to knock on the door but left it on the porch instead.
Satisfied with his day’s work, Paul stayed in Big House after dinner. He stopped for a minute in front of Nancy Thorburn’s disturbing vision on canvas. But this time, with the central hall full of residents, he couldn’t feel the bitter chill of the blizzard or share the anguish of those trapped there forever. He went into the day room.
Before the evening was over he learned that David Van Ness would be leaving in the morning.
All in all it had been a gratifying day at the Thorburn colony.
Gail sat cross-legged on the floor, as far across the room as she could be from the half-finished work on the easel. She’d been back in her cabin for a couple of hours but still hadn’t picked up a brush. Earlier, it had been easy. Now, the painting annoyed her. So did others scattered about the room. She chose instead to stare at the fireplace.
The sketchpad sat on her lap, a piece of charcoal on the floor next to her. It hadn’t taken long to finish the picture of him.
But something was wrong with it.
The face was cold, a lot like so many others she had done on canvas. It wasn’t the way he looked, not the face she had studied so closely that day. She wasn’t capable of capturing that kind of emotion.
Not yet.
She tore out the sheet, crumpled it into a large ball and gave it to the fire.
How long had it been since she’d gotten any sleep? She couldn’t remember. Two, three days. It all seemed the same. She could try tonight; but then, why bother?
She would fall asleep and the Dream would come.
It always came. There wasn’t a time when it didn’t. Still, how many more caffeine pills could she take? How much deprivation could her body stand?
Did it matter?
Maybe, now. She had to try.
But the Dream…
The…damned…Dream…