by Mike Sirota
Gail stood. Her purse lay on the bed. She dug inside, finally extracting a small pillbox. She had to; she couldn’t handle it yet.
Later.
She would challenge the Dream later.
Paul spent a pleasant evening sipping wine and discussing all things creative, mostly with Michael and Thea. Robert Kingsley joined them for an hour, while other residents drifted in and out of the circle.
At midnight the day room was nearly empty. After politely sidestepping a proposition from Thea, Paul left Big House and walked to his cabin. The temperature had fallen into the teens, but there was no wind and the crisp air felt refreshing. As he passed No. 13, Paul noticed the lights were still on. Thinking about it, he couldn’t recall a time when the cabin had been dark.
He had assumed he would be asleep almost before getting his clothes off. Wine usually did that to him. The opposite was true. He lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Finally he picked up Trails of Promise and read John Thorburn’s account of crossing the treacherous Great Basin. There, the wagon train lost considerable time in the race to beat the winter storms across the Sierras.
When he finally acknowledged how wide-awake he was, Paul put the diary aside and started working. He’d pay for it; no doubt of that. But until four-thirty, when he fell asleep with his head cradled in his arms on the desk, he was productive.
Saturday, December 7
It played on a wide-screen television this time. She had seen it on every size monitor, one as small as a Watchman. That wasn’t what mattered. What played on them was always the same.
The images: so lifelike. Not thousands of high-resolution dots, but miniaturized real people and things in a box, people who could be touched and would keep on playing the scene even when she clicked off the remote. In the foreground the reporter, dressed casually in a khaki shirt, spoke into a microphone. His eyes, which should have been toward the camera, darted from side to side; his head moved as he tried to look behind him.
People were sprawled face down on the floor, their hands behind their backs, but not tied, although they might as well have been, because the people didn’t move them. A head would bob up occasionally, but otherwise they lay still. There were more than the few that could be seen; she knew that.
Those who strode among them were similar in appearance, swarthy men and women of medium build, all dressed in tattered fatigues. Some wore service caps, but most were bareheaded. Bandoleers crisscrossed their chests; their weapons were old Soviet PPS-43 submachine guns, although one, the leader, also brandished a gleaming pearl-handled Colt .45.
She recognized the room they moved in; she’d been there before. Elegant tapestries, thick carpeting, fine leather couches. It didn’t seem right. Why should this be the stage for some perverse drama?
The camera panned the room, revealing more of the hostages. In front of one tapestry lay a man and a boy—so alike, with fair skin and blond hair. The man had a small bald spot—the mark of his mortality, he called it. They were pressed together, the man wanting to cradle the boy but knowing his arms must stay where they were. One of their captors, a woman with long black hair, saw the man’s head move, and just before the camera left them she pushed it down with the heel of her boot.
Again the reporter stood in the foreground of the diorama, the leader next to him, holding the revolver against the side of his head. The image wavered as the cameraman’s legs shook. He’d done Vietnam and Nicaragua and places like that but always questioned to what limits the world’s need to know would be extended.
“You, quedar aquí!” the leader said to the cameraman. “Don’ go, no way! Comprende?”
The cameraman said something that she couldn’t understand; the reporter kept up a stream of words into the microphone.
Until the leader pulled the trigger and blew out his brains.
The camera, blood spattered on the lens, jerked toward the ceiling for a moment then found the reporter again. Still falling, but already dead. The leader waved a warning finger into the camera then swept his arm around the room as if he were introducing the next act.
They opened fire everywhere, at close range. People screamed and pleaded, then died. The cameraman, covered with blood, panned the room. In a van a safe distance away the moments were being recorded for all time.
The camera held on the blond man and the blond boy, and she watched the bullets rip them apart and got to hear the boy cry out one last time.
For her.
Later, Paul would not remember waking briefly just after five. There was a sound, distant, carried by the wind. An animal’s cry. Or maybe it had been the wind itself. He listened but didn’t hear it again.
He fell back to sleep in a few seconds.
Gail was thinking about it. She thought about it a lot, all the different ways it could be done: painless, quick, dramatic. But in the end she was still around.
Still around for the next time the Dream would come.
It never did come twice in one night. Knowing that, she slept for another hour before it came time to go to Big House.
Paul wanted breakfast, he really did. But an hour and a half of sleep! Somehow he made it to Big House, aware that he looked as bad as he felt. Avoiding human contact, he ate quickly but drank only decaffeinated coffee.
He was back in the cabin before seven-thirty and slept until Nora Hardman brought lunch.
The next day was Sunday. The non-fraternization rule and other Thorburn laws were still valid for those choosing to work. But Paul had checked with McClain and knew that it was all right to get away from the colony for a day. It sounded great to him, a chance to do something else.
Like play blackjack.
Maybe North Lake Tahoe, or even Reno. He wasn’t sure yet if he would do it. The book was going well and in the grip of creativity like this he felt cheated if he stopped working for even a short time.
In the middle of the afternoon the decision fell out of his hands. A storm from the northeast struck the region with sudden, devastating force. Snow piled up quickly as gusting winds drove it against the cabin. Paul questioned the structure’s ability to withstand the assault. But then, it had been there for a long time.
What bothered him most was missing the rendezvous with Gail. He had been looking forward to it. Maybe he could go to her cabin. It wouldn’t be an easy walk, but he’d have to do it later anyway if he wanted dinner. He might as well get used to it.
He’d been warned that “December kin bring some nasty storms,” and December just did.
At three, while getting ready, someone knocked on his door. That being the last thing he expected, he nearly jumped. Snow flew into the cabin as he opened the door. Gail hurried in and together they forced the door shut.
“Where were you going?” she asked, peeling off layers of clothes.
“To your place,” he replied.
“Are you crazy?”
“Yeah. Are you?” He took her coat.
“I suppose. You’d better hang it over your tub or there’ll be a puddle when the snow melts.”
“Sit down anywhere,” he told her. “Not much choice.”
“Can I move the rug in front of the fireplace?”
“Sure. I’ll put some more logs on.”
When the fire was going strongly, Paul sat down on the other end of the thunderbird rug. Gail looked around the room. For a few moments her gaze stayed on the Wieghorst painting. Then she pointed at the desk.
“Is that your new book?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How is it coming?”
“Real well. It’s been good for me up here.”
“I know what you mean.”
Outside, the wind blew, whining through the trees, throwing another barrage of snow at the cabin.
“It’s pretty bad out there,” Paul said. “How’d you manage?”
“I grew up with winters like this. You get used to it, or you don’t do anything.”
“Where was that?”
&nb
sp; She stared at the Wieghorst for a long moment. Paul was afraid he had asked the wrong thing.
Finally she said, “It’s not easy for me to be sitting here talking to you. I think you know that.”
“I do.”
“Then don’t ask me to talk about myself. I can’t. Not yet. If that’s not okay, then I’ll have to leave.”
“I don’t want you to go,” he told her. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Paul Fleming. Tell me about him.”
He smiled. “It’s not my favorite topic of conversation, but I am well versed in it.”
He talked. She listened intently, occasionally asking a question. She was especially interested in the last couple of years. Paul found it easy talking to her and did not gloss over any of the more unpleasant details.
But Gail Farringer never smiled. Paul’s stories of good times with Jeannie, anecdotes about Jason and Bree, did not change her, although she acknowledged each one with a nod.
When he finally grew tired of listening to himself, Paul stopped. He wished there were something he could offer Gail.
“I keep forgetting to pick up some stuff,” he said. “Maybe with this kind of weather I’ll remember. How about a Diet Coke and half a Hershey’s Big Block? Best I can do.”
“It’s fine,” she assured him. “I love chocolate.”
“That’s two things,” he said, breaking the bar.
“What?”
“Two things I know about you, that you’re from somewhere cold and you’re a chocolate freak—like me.”
They watched the fire and ate in silence, occasionally glancing at each other. Seeing her up close for this length of time, Paul decided she was more attractive than he’d first thought. He tried not to stare.
“It feels good in here,” she said at last.
“You don’t think it’s too warm?”
“No, it’s fine. Paul, I’d like to read one of your books sometime.”
“There are a few in my trunk. I’ll get one for you.” He turned toward her. “Gail, I wanted—”
“I have to start back now,” she interrupted, standing. “It sounds worse out there.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Yes.” She held out a hand. “Thanks for having me over.”
“I want to see you again.”
She nodded. “So do I.”
“What about tonight?”
She got her coat, not answering. As she pulled on her boots, the light went off.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Paul said.
She looked at him. “No, Paul, not tonight.”
“Then you tell me.”
“Tomorrow. After dinner. Come to…my cabin. Please don’t let anyone see you. Will you promise me that?”
“All right.”
The light came back on. “Paul?”
“Yes?”
“You be careful going to Big House.”
“I will.”
She went out into the storm. Paul watched through the window but lost sight of her in seconds. He went back to his desk, thinking he’d resume work.
The light flashed off again.
“Swell,” he muttered, sitting down on the thunderbird rug.
But it wouldn’t have mattered, because even when the light came back on, all he could think about was Gail Farringer.
What was the enigma of her? He would find out. Soon.
Maybe tomorrow night.
Until dinner Paul decided to read more of John Thorburn’s diary. He’d been anticipating this part, the account of the party’s seven weeks in the Sierras. It was an unnerving story, made even more real by the sound of the wind and driving snow outside his cabin. And he knew what the scene looked like. All he had to do was conjure up an image of Nancy Thorburn’s painting.
One of the entries puzzled him. On January 4 Thorburn wrote: Jordy Fry said he saw a figure through the trees in the direction of the pass. What confused Paul was that, as significant as such an event would be for a party that had been stranded so long, no other mention of it was made.
On the following day, January 5, Thorburn wrote: A Digger Indian came into camp at noontime. That must have been what they’d seen. But if that were true, why did the Indian, who proved to be their immediate salvation, wait until afternoon of the following day to come into camp?
Paul doubted that the two entries were related. Jordy Fry had probably seen an animal moving through the forest on the fourth, or maybe he’d seen nothing, considering the party’s condition. The shadows of swaying branches could have been mistaken for a rescue party from Sutter’s. But why hadn’t John Thorburn, usually so thorough in his entries, made mention of the mistake? Maybe it was the disappointment of finding nothing there.
Another thing Paul found interesting was the “illness” first mentioned on January 5. Until that date, five people had died at the lake. By the time the rescue party arrived, only a couple of days later, eleven more had been buried. That didn’t seem so improbable. In their weakened state some virulent strain of influenza could easily take its toll. But where had it come from? One or more of them must have been a carrier. Or maybe it was the Indian. Unlikely. It was usually the other way around: the Indian, who knows nothing of disease, meets the white man and is introduced to cholera, smallpox, and the like. With no immunities, half or more of his tribe is killed.
In any case, it seemed an irresponsible thing on Thorburn’s part not to mention it to the rescue party. But then, Paul wondered what anyone, himself included, would have done under similar circumstances. Listening to the storm lash his cabin, he understood the reason for Thorburn’s silence.
At six o’clock Paul set the diary aside to get ready for the trek to Big House. He figured he’d need the extra time.
He guessed right.
The worst of it was the wind. Without it, the snow might have been tolerable. But together they were a formidable barrier, especially in places where the trees were not as dense. There, Paul turned his body away and sliced sidelong through the blizzard. Only the close spacing of the tree lights kept him on the path, now obliterated by the soft powder.
Gail’s cabin, more exposed than his own, also stood farther back from the path. He could barely make out the lights as he passed. Footprints in the snow indicated she had already left for Big House.
Worst of all was crossing the unsheltered parking area. A few token paths had been made by the snowplow, but they were already filling in. Paul couldn’t identify his Cutlass among the white mounds.
When he hurried to the day room to thaw out in front of the fireplace, he saw that other residents had the same idea. Michael Whitney knelt in front of the screen like a supplicant at an altar.
“Hey, don’t hog all the heat,” Paul said, smiling weakly.
The cellist looked up. “I swear, if it’s like this tomorrow I’ll stay in the cabin and go hungry! Thank God I’m leaving Tuesday.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
Contrasting the previous night, Paul sat at the end of Harriet Thorburn’s table, as far away as possible from Gail. His immediate neighbors were Michael Whitney and Mary Sherman, a recent arrival. The genial, middle-aged woman from St. George, Utah was a teacher and historian. Paul enjoyed the company.
As if to apologize for the weather, Arthur Tyler outdid himself. His fried chicken was exceptional, the Black Forest cake after dinner the best Paul had ever tasted.
“I will definitely seek out the chef after this!” Michael exclaimed.
“Count me in,” Paul said.
Later the cellist said, “So how do you figure it, Paul? Old hands like us are stuck out in the snow belt, while Mary here—who arrived yesterday, mind you—has a nice warm room in the manor!”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it, boys?” the woman said, laughing. “An old, chubby broad like me would probably die on the trail! Young studs like you, no problem.”
Paul looked forward to talking with Mary Sherman again. His immediate plan, though
, was to get back to work. Before facing the elements he and Michael went to the kitchen to heap praise on Arthur Tyler. Grinning, the massive descendant of John Thorburn’s hired help put up both hands.
“Wait…hee-re,” he said slowly, and was gone for a couple of minutes. He returned with two paper bags. “For la-ter, or…” He glanced around like a mischievous boy. “Or the mor-ning, case ya can’t get…to breakfast!”
They took the heavy bags, thanked him, and left. Michael headed for the day room.
“You might find me asleep there in the morning,” he said.
The plow was hard at work when Paul crossed the parking area. Snow continued to fall, but the wind had abated and made the brief walk less of an ordeal.
Gail watched for him.
She thought he would be going back to his cabin right after dinner to work on his book. That would be a while after her usual early departure. Even so, she had been to the window a few times already.
On the bed lay a second charcoal sketch. Better. Not good enough, though. Not real.
Not him.
He was coming. She could see the patch more clearly than before. As usual he glanced at No. 13 when he passed. He couldn’t see her, not through the tiny slit. But he waved, because he knew.
For a moment she thought about hurrying to the door, calling him to come in. But she stayed at the window, watching, until she could no longer see him through the storm.
She gave the second sketch to the fire and began a new one.
At no other time since coming there was Paul more pleased to see the outline of No. 11. Taking off one glove, he hunted for his key. Earlier he had considered not locking the door; it didn’t seem a night for looters. But he reconsidered because of the force of the storm against his cabin, since he had no desire to return to a snowdrift on the rug. He found the key as he reached the front step.
He felt it again.
The cold.
Not the engulfing cold that was the snow or the wind or the temperature on a December night in the high Sierras. Rather, the pervading chill he’d known during the first couple of days, the gelid fingers that had touched him inside. Weak, nothing like before.