by Mike Sirota
“Another time, Paul.” She was defensive. “Maybe I’ll show you them…later. Look on the desk. I made that for you. It’s not a big deal.”
He turned over the page from her sketchpad. He and Jeannie once had their portraits done by a sidewalk artist in Sausalito, but nothing as good as this. In the brief time they had spent together, Gail had memorized his face: the birthmark by his left ear, the tiny cleft in his chin, the nearly invisible scar on his forehead from a childhood fall. She had captured him as he once had been, as he hoped to be again. This was how she perceived him. It was the only way she could. The charcoal image smiled—not broadly, but with warmth and humor that bordered on the mischievous.
Paul Fleming was looking at the inside of himself.
“I…it’s excellent,” he said, touched. “Thanks.”
“We’ll figure out some way to protect it when you go outside.”
She sat down in front of the fireplace. He looked at the sketch one more time then joined her. They were silent, Gail’s chin resting on her knees as she stared at the flames. Paul did not intrude on her thoughts.
Finally she said, “Minnesota.”
“That’s where you’re from,” he said.
She nodded. “I was born in St. Paul but grew up in Devon, about thirty miles north. It’s an upscale little town. My husband was Lyle Farringer. We’d known each other since we were children. He was a big man in high school. Voted Most Likely to Succeed at Just About Everything. All the people said we were the perfect couple.
“We went to the University of Minnesota together and got married after graduation. Lyle went on to law school; I worked in an art supplies store. It wasn’t like I was trying to support us. Lyle’s parents were wealthy and had set us up quite nicely. The job was a part-time thing. Mostly I took art classes and worked on my paintings.
“Lyle’s career had been programmed from day one. Within five years of passing the bar he became a junior partner in a prestigious Minneapolis law firm, compliments of his father. I opened a gallery, showed some of my own things, but mostly other artists’ work. Really, I wasn’t very good and I accepted it. We had a big house with all the trimmings, belonged to everything we were supposed to. The ultimate yuppie dream come true, I suppose.
“We had a son. His name was Todd.” Gail paused, breathed deeply. “You couldn’t tell his baby pictures apart from his father’s. Lyle called Todd his clone. He loved him so much.
“Just before Todd’s sixth birthday we took a vacation. We traveled a lot. Lyle was into photography, would take hundreds of pictures every trip. We went to Costa Nueva. It was my idea. I’d vacationed there with my parents as a girl and had wonderful memories of it. They wanted to go to Disney World, but I got my way.” She shook her head. “Just Disney World, for God’s sake. It’s all they wanted.”
“When…was this?” Paul asked hesitantly.
“Late summer, five years ago.”
“Oh, Gail, no!”
She nodded. “So you know about Costa Nueva. Beautiful island paradise, one of the most popular resort places in the world since the turn of the century. Then a revolution, and for ten years the country was shut down. Another revolution, and the good guys are back in. Every television station is playing that commercial with the dancers and the catchy song. We were lucky to get reservations two months in advance. Lucky…
“We stayed at the Hotel Presidente. It was a new one and very luxurious. The first three days were wonderful: sightseeing, fishing, shopping. Todd loved the fishing. Lyle kept running out of film, he shot so many pictures of old stone fortresses, the wall around the harbor, the marketplace, even the inside and outside of the hotel. He finally told me what a great idea I’d had.
“Of course we heard reports of another revolution brewing. But it’s an everyday thing in countries like that. The official word was that a handful of peasants armed with stones and pitchforks were causing trouble in some remote mountain province. There was no threat at all to Cartago, the capital city, where we were staying.
“On the fourth day I got up early. Todd was still asleep. Lyle was awake but too comfortable to move. I told him I was going over to the marketplace, about ten blocks from the hotel. He said he and Todd would meet me there in two hours, at a restaurant we liked. I looked forward to getting in some serious shopping.
“An hour later the noisy marketplace became silent as gunshots filled the air. Cartago fell into a panic. People screamed; everyone was running. I ran too, back to the hotel. Jeeploads of government troops passed me. I tried asking people what was happening. No one knew.
“Then I reached the hotel and saw that it was the center of whatever was going on. The troops had already cordoned it off. Two bodies were sprawled on the front steps by the main entrance. My heart sank when I saw that. I told people that my family was inside and again tried to get information. All I could learn was that someone had seized the hotel, that employees and guests were being held as…hostages!
“For an hour nothing happened. That feeling of utter helplessness is indescribable. Someone said that the terrorists—revolutionaries, they called themselves—were in touch with authorities by phone. But nobody seemed to know what was going on. At least there weren’t any other gunshots during that time.
“The van from CBS News had gotten there right at the beginning. They were the only network with a correspondent on the island, and that was because Maury Levin was doing a feature on Costa Nueva’s rejuvenated tourist industry. We had run into him at the pool once, and again at dinner. An interesting man, very intense. Now he was doing reports from the perimeter of the barricade. I spoke to him for a couple of seconds but found that he was as much in the dark as everyone else.
“Then an official told Levin that the terrorists were demanding a reporter and cameraman so they could voice their plight to the world. Levin accepted without hesitation; the cameraman was more reluctant but finally agreed. They went in, the reporter with his hands above his head, the cameraman holding his camera aloft. I walked to the van and in a couple of minutes saw what the whole world was seeing.
“The terrorists were holding the hostages—over a hundred—in the lobby. When the camera panned the room, all you could see was the backs of heads. I saw Lyle and Todd and tried to imagine what my child, so sheltered and safe all his life, could possibly be thinking just then. At least they were still alive.
“Maury Levin interviewed the leader, tried to find out what his organization was and what it wanted. The man’s tirade, partly in terrible English, made no sense. ‘Yanqui ass-kisser!’ he would call the government over and over, along with other revolutionary rhetoric.
“Later they found out that this gang of fourteen thugs—fourteen—was acting entirely on its own. None of the worst terrorist organizations in the world claimed affiliation with them.
“Finally their demands became tangible: safe passage to the airport, lots of money, a plane to fly them to Libya. They wanted an answer by eleven. For every minute beyond that time they would kill a hostage. The leader told this to Maury Levin, who was translating it when the bastard gunned him down.
“No one knows why it started then. People in the remote van were screaming. I watched the monitor and saw them being butchered. For whatever reason, the camera froze on Lyle and Todd. My son looked up and cried ‘Mommy!’
“Then I watched them die.”
Gail’s body trembled; tears streaked her face. Paul wanted to hold her, but she stood up and backed away, then turned and stared at the floor.
He knew all about the Costa Nueva Massacre. He’d researched it and given thought to a story or screenplay about it, then decided to leave the tragedy alone. Other writers would doubtless exploit it, he figured. And they did, for it spawned a few books and a poorly done TV movie. Sixty-three hostages, more than half Americans, had been killed. Eight Costa Nueva soldiers had died in the ensuing raid, as well as all the terrorists.
“It was my idea, Paul,” Gail said softly. “They w
anted to go to Disney World.”
“Gail, listen—”
“And it wasn’t just them!” She turned. “I hadn’t told Lyle yet because I wasn’t sure. Afterward I found out that I was pregnant. I miscarried, of course.”
Paul sighed. “No.”
She grabbed tissues from a box on the mantel and wiped her face as she sat down again. “You don’t have to listen to any more of this,” she said. “I’ll understand.”
He started to put his hand on hers, hesitated, then did it when she gave no sign that she would resist. “I’ll stay with you. And I don’t mean for just now.”
She nodded. Her mouth twitched, then she said, “There’s a bottle of wine in the desk drawer. Do you mind?”
He poured them each a generous amount of three-year-old white Zinfandel. He needed it. Gail sipped hers slowly and stared at the fire, composing herself.
“The time right after is a blur,” she continued. “I was sedated a lot, even during the funeral. People tried to be helpful, understanding. I wanted no part of it. They urged me to go to shrinks. I tried one, but that made it worse. Soon I had alienated my friends, then Lyle’s family, finally my own. I had nobody. That was the way I wanted it.
“I left Minnesota a year after Costa Nueva, and I’ve lived in a hundred places since then. Two or three months at a time, that’s it.”
“Where are you now?”
“Woodland Hills.”
“You’re in the Valley?”
“Yes. I’ve been in California longer than anywhere else. It’s a place where it’s so easy to be anonymous. All I do is paint. There’s plenty of money left over from my other life, so I don’t have to work. I would never be able to if it meant being around people.”
“Do you think you’re ready to change that?” he asked. “Is that why you told me?”
“Maybe. I suppose. There are other reasons.” She looked at him. “Paul?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I want you…to hold me. Just hold me.”
He put his arms around her. She stiffened, then eased, and her head lolled on his chest. He held her for more than an hour, sometimes touching her hair with his lips. Once, she hugged him tightly. Another time she buried her face in his sweater and sobbed softly.
“I’ll show you my paintings, if you want,” she finally said.
Some were in the closet, others under the bed. She withdrew eight canvases and propped them up. Paul looked at them, stunned, trying to remember that this was the woman who had done the sketch of him.
The colors that dominated her paintings were red and gray, in all their shades. Her subjects were misshapen people, mostly elongated, as if they had been stretched on some medieval torture device. While many of them had features that were vague, the eyes were always precise: opened wide, staring ahead or glancing back, always in fear.
In fear of what pursued them, of what threatened them.
Dark formless things, mostly in the background. Twisted shapes that melded into one another until you couldn’t tell if you looked at one or many. The gray hues blended together so skillfully it was impossible to see where the change was happening.
She had painted walls also, broad barriers of dripping mortar over which some of the formless things scrambled. And large buildings done in crimson with more of them in the windows and people reaching out with impossibly long arms.
Large buildings like hotels.
In one painting a clock floated amid the colors. The numbers on its face were precise; so were the tiny lines between them.
But the clock had no hands.
Gail Farringer painted nightmares. Although no expert, Paul knew her work was brilliant. And so disturbing.
So full of pain.
“Do you still want to see me, Paul?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll come to your cabin after dinner tomorrow—if that’s all right with you.”
“You know it is.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He wanted to take her in his arms but restrained himself. She backed away to the desk and picked up the sketch.
“I’ll put this between the pages of my pad so it won’t get damaged. Don’t worry, I have another.”
He went through the ritual of putting on his outer garments—they were still damp and felt cold—tucked the pad under his arm, and walked to the door. Before he opened it, Gail looked outside.
“It’s clear,” she said. “Good night, Paul. Thank you.”
He hugged her. She first stood with her arms at her sides, then returned it. They separated, and Paul—still trying to comprehend this woman’s anguish—went out into the night.
Gail didn’t watch him from the window this time. She hurried to the bed and fell on it. Sobs racked her body until her chest hurt. She stopped only when no tears remained.
The paintings bothered her. She thought about stuffing them into the fireplace but changed her mind and put them in the closet. Hungry, she ate some of the food Paul had brought. After washing her face and brushing her teeth she peeled off her clothes, donned an old flannel nightgown, and climbed into bed.
The Dream would not come, and she would have a long night’s sleep. It might never come again because of her courage.
And because of him.
Paul, preoccupied with images of Gail, gave no thought to what might be awaiting him at No. 11.
It was there again, still not nearly as strong as the first couple of times, but disturbing enough. This time it annoyed him, more than anything else. Nothing much beyond Gail’s revelation could shock him that night.
“Bullshit,” he said, and continued past his cabin through the light snowfall.
Toward the source.
To the last tree light, where the path veered away from the creek. Almost to the trees that formed the gateway to the clearing.
A dark figure emerged from the sentinel pines. Paul stopped. “Who’s there,” he called. “Landry, is that you?”
The handyman walked toward him. Paul took a few steps back.
“You ain’t polite,” the gruff voice said, “passin’ someone who’s wanted to see you all night.”
He pointed past Paul, who spun around. Two yards away, Harriet Thorburn crawled through the snow. Or something that wore her clothes, for under a head of white stringy hair was a gray, leathery death’s-head. Fleshless fingers reached for him.
The mouth of the death’s-head snapped open, and it spoke. “I’m not feeling well tonight, Mr. Fleming, that’s why I can’t be at dinner.”
Something dark gushed from the mouth, staining the snow. Paul could not move. The bony fingers curled around his ankle.
“Holy shit!”
This time Paul sat on the foot of the bed. He got up slowly and washed his face at the sink.
Baby Ben said it was ten minutes to four.
It had been so real. What was happening to him? Here he was, playing some small part in Gail Farringer’s courageous quest to heal herself, and he had begun to have trouble separating nightmares from reality.
Though tired, he avoided the bed for a few minutes. The fire had nearly gone out. He rekindled it, watched it grow, then went back to sleep.
Monday, December 9
Neither the alarm nor the snowplow at his door could rouse him the next morning at six o’clock, and Paul only made it to breakfast just before they took the food away.
Around midmorning the lurking storm emerged from its cover. For the next hour it was worse than at any other time in the past few days. The electricity went out, and soon after that the backup power. Then, as the cabin grew colder, Paul realized the pilot light in the furnace had died.
He groaned. “Jesus.”
He quickly stoked the fire and brought his work over to the rug, which he hadn’t moved since Gail had put it there. Surprisingly he managed to continue working and did not
even realize that the storm’s fury had begun to subside.
Soon he heard a noise on the porch. One of the staff bringing lunch, he assumed, Joe Landry, probably. This time the man could leave it; he had no desire to see him.
A loud knock on the door startled him. “Mr. Fleming? It’s me, Nora Hardman.”
Paul let the woman in. “You’re being bold today,” he said good-naturedly.
“Hafta let everyone know what’s goin’ on,” she replied, slipping off a heavy backpack. “You probably figured it already. No power, a break in the gas line somewhere…and our big old generator gave up the ghost! On top of that the phones are dead. Walter’s got a ham radio that runs on a battery pack, in case things get real bad.”
Paul nodded. “Real bad.”
“Anyway, the longest I remember everything bein’ out was five, six hours, and that was durin’ a terrible storm back in the late sixties.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“First thing, did you turn off the gas valve on your furnace?”
“No.”
“When it came on later, you woulda known. Go ahead and do that. I got some stuff for you.” She opened the backpack. “A flashlight, some extra batteries, and candles, just in case. You got enough matches?”
“There’s plenty on the mantel.”
“What about your wood bin?”
“It’s half full.”
“I’ll bring in more so it can start dryin’ out.”
“No way,” Paul said. “You have enough to do. I’ll get the wood.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Thanks, Mr. Fleming. Jeez, why ain’t they all like you? Okay listen, we’re gonna try to keep the paths as clear as possible so’s everyone can get to Big House. We got a couple of portable generators, and the day room is heated up, so you’re welcome there anytime. In case the power stays off, you might want to walk over before dark. Anyway, that’s about it. Trust me, this is normal for up here. You get used to it.”
“I thought the storm was supposed to be over today.”