by Mike Sirota
“That’s what the radio keeps sayin’, but who knows? Oh, there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Your lunch.”
Nora Hardman went back out into the snow, which still fell steadily but without the force of the wind behind it. Paul ate his lunch by the fire and thought about being stranded in the high Sierras. Stranded? The colony had plenty of food and wood. There was a town nearby for additional supplies. The roads would be cleared within a few hours of the storm’s end. In the event of some emergency, Walter McClain could summon help on his radio. When you thought about it, the situation hardly seemed menacing at all.
When you thought about it in comparison to the Thorburn party, it sounded like a vacation.
Stranded. They’d had no food or adequate shelter. There had been no roads for them to clear, even if they’d had the strength to do it, which they hadn’t, for it had been sapped by many months of traveling across the American wilderness. No means of communication. Their only choices had been to starve or freeze. People in that circumstance would do anything to survive.
Anything.
The Donner party had proven that. It was a matter of record.
But what had John Thorburn and his people done? Were they just lucky, or had something else played a part in their salvation?
What had they seen through the trees on January 4, 1846?
Sherri Jordan’s purple Volkswagen…
It was the Indian, Mr. Fleming.
…in the old livery stable.
Nasty storms. December…
A crackling log jarred Paul from his thoughts. He shook his head and swore at himself. Looking at the half-finished sandwich, he decided he wasn’t hungry anymore. He recalled Nora Hardman’s advice and brought in two armfuls of wood, spreading the logs out on the cabin floor. Finding no other jobs he could do, he got back to work.
At two o’clock the electricity came back on. Paul tried the gas, but it remained off. Outside, the storm had diminished to gentle flurries. A short time later even those had stopped.
By three—incredibly—the sun had broken through and the temperature pushed into the thirties. The snowplow sputtered up to the cabin. Paul twisted the valve on the furnace, heard the rush of escaping gas, and lit the pilot. If not for the walls of snow lining the path it would have been hard to imagine that a storm of three days’ duration had just come to a halt.
At the end of the colony work day Paul did fifty pushups, three times that many situps, and a few other exercises he’d recently begun in earnest after catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He missed his bike rides, his morning jogs on the beach. There were sacrifices to be made for his art, but that didn’t mean he had to sacrifice his body to gobs of Arthur Tyler’s German chocolate cake.
He knew this experience was necessary; it had rejuvenated his creativity. But he was a southern Californian, no doubt of it, and in less than three weeks—after he picked up Jason and Bree—he would be home.
As he did deep knee bends Gail walked past his cabin, a sketchpad under her arm. She moved slowly, her gaze on the path. Paul saw her for only a moment through the fogged window. He wiped a larger hole. She was farther up the path, following it away from Leanna Creek to the sentinel pines, where for a moment she hesitated, then passed between them.
Her spot again, he thought. This was the first time in a couple of days that she could get out. But there must be a ton of snow on the clearing. The old log would be buried…
Gail emerged from the trees, walking fast. She nearly stumbled a few times, following her own deep prints back to where the path was clear. Paul watched, curious, as she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
Finally she shook her head and continued along the footpath. He backed away from the window. She didn’t look at his cabin when she passed.
Gail knew something seemed wrong about the clearing.
Would she be reluctant now to see him that night? He hoped not.
Paul started for Big House after five—seriously overdressed this time, but he didn’t care. He phoned Jason and Bree after learning that service had been restored. The connection was not perfect, but they managed. He had less luck with Gary Marks, having to shout to be heard. Before finishing their conversation, they were disconnected.
Half the residents were in the day room, but not Mary Sherman. Paul wanted to talk to the woman and didn’t think they’d have a chance at dinner, assuming Harriet Thorburn was back. In the library he saw only Kathy Parrish and a man at work. Dodging Jane Tyler’s cold gaze—was the woman actually watching him, or was he crazy?—he walked through the library and into the outer corridor.
Mary had to be in her room. He climbed to the second floor, where a plain service door opened into a carpeted hallway as luxurious as the rest of Big House. Silver sconces without candlesticks hung on both walls. Six small, elegant crystal chandeliers lit the hall. Each guest door was painted a light shade of blue, with a brass number. The wallpaper throughout was a subtle floral pattern.
He knocked on the door of No. 203. Mary looked most pleased to see him. “Come in!” she exclaimed. “Just ignore the mess. Two things I never won any awards for were cooking and housekeeping.”
“You sure I’m not interrupting you?”
“Not at all. Sit down.”
She moved some books off a chair. Texts and papers lay strewn everywhere, even on the floor. The room was small and, contrasting remarkably with the hallway, appeared as spartan as his own cabin. The fireplace seemed more decorative than functional. Paul was glad he had decided to remain in No. 11.
“I was thinking about you and Michael when that last storm hit this morning,” she said.
“Well, I survived it, and Michael’s down in the day room.”
She nodded. “I saw him before. You know, Paul, I’m starting to believe that he does sleep there!”
Paul grinned. “I was wondering if you dug up anything.”
“About what we discussed? Not a whole lot. But it wasn’t for want of trying. I spent a few hours on the Thorburn party and anything relevant to it. First thing I did was reread the diary of their seven weeks here.”
“What do you think?”
“You know, if it wasn’t for Jane Tyler’s weird reaction, I would think you’re way off base. I read where John Thorburn’s diary was published with little or no editing, for the sake of authenticity, and I believe it. Some of the entries in the last couple of weeks tend to ramble. He suddenly gets closer to God, that sort of thing. So if he thinks he sees something, writes it down then forgets to amend it, that would be in keeping with where he was physically and emotionally.
“Aside from that, the Thorburn party incident is little more than a footnote in most of the texts. Some give it a paragraph or two, others a page. But in all cases their primary reference is Trails of Promise.”
“Big deal,” Paul said. “So where do you go from here?”
“Oh, I’ve hardly scratched the surface, dear boy! There are a lot more obscure works to delve into, and many of them are here, like you said. The only thing…” She paused.
“What?”
“That blasted librarian always seems to be looking over my shoulder! It got to where I was thinking of ways to throw her off the track. Then I thought, why should she care what I’m researching?”
Paul laughed. “Sounds like you’re getting as paranoid as me.”
“But that’s the reason you’re not pursuing it, right?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “You’re a better detective than I thought.”
“Paul, what’s this about?”
“I don’t know. Really. I suppose that if I wasn’t here, where it happened, I would hardly care. But I am here. My cabin is not far from where the Thorburns and McClains spent those seven weeks.”
Mary nodded. “And you’re feeling the ghosts, aren’t you?”
“Feeling the ghosts?”
“Once, I led a research group on a field project. We retr
aced the entire route of Chief Joseph and the Nez Percé Indians in 1877 as they tried to escape from the U.S. Army and make it to Canada. More than fifteen hundred miles. There are paved roads along some of the path now: towns, people, billboards, smokestacks. But a lot of it was exactly as it had been over a hundred years ago. We rode horses, and sometimes mules. It was along those trails, especially when I was by myself, that the wind would carry the sounds of warriors in battle, the mourning wails of squaws, and the cries of their babies as their bellies went unfilled during the terrible trek. I was feeling the ghosts, Paul. Does that make sense?”
“Yes. But what I feel over there is…well, it’s so unnerving. You want to get as far away from it as you can!”
“Paul, remember what happened in that cabin. People died; everyone was starving. Considering that, what you’re feeling isn’t unusual.”
He shrugged. “It’s something else.”
“What?”
He looked at her. “Mary, the Indian tribe that once lived here—”
“The Washo.”
“Yes. Could this area have held some significance for them? Any of the streams, maybe the lake itself?”
“It’s possible. Lake Tahoe did, of course. It was the center of their universe. I’ll check it out.”
“I can do that.”
“Nah, I’m having too much fun. Okay, enough of this. I allow myself two brandies a day and haven’t had the first one yet. Let’s go down.”
They found Michael with Kathy Parrish and Robert Kingsley. “Good news,” the cellist announced. “I’ll be getting out of here tomorrow after all. Walter says the roads should be clear all the way to the interstate.”
“It’ll be a mass exodus from the mountain in the morning,” Kathy said. “Four people are leaving, and no one else is expected up here until after Christmas. It’s going to get even quieter.”
Paul’s dinner place was at the third table, between Thea Douglas and an empty chair. Sitting where he was, he couldn’t help looking at Gail. Although dressed the same, she seemed…different. Something about the face, or maybe her hair. He wasn’t sure. Their eyes met a couple of times, but unlike before she didn’t turn away as quickly.
He wished dinner were over so he could be with her again.
Harriet Thorburn arrived on schedule. This time, as if trying to make up for having missed the previous evening, she started her reminiscences before the salad had been put down.
Thea groaned. “One more week of this and I can repair to the bosom of my many friends and many cats!”
“But you’ll be back another time,” Paul said.
She nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
Gail left the hall only a few minutes before Harriet Thorburn ended the nightly ritual. Paul caught up to Michael in the day room after helping himself to a bottle of wine from a well-stocked rack behind the bar.
“What time are you leaving in the morning?” he asked the musician.
“Early,” Michael said, rather emphatically.
“How about breakfast at six-thirty?”
“Sure, that’s fine. But aren’t you going to join us now? We have a little party planned.”
Paul clapped him on the arm. “Sorry, but I’m on a roll and I want to get back to work. See you in the morning.”
It was 28° outside, mild, no wind. Someone had graciously cleared off the snow and ice from the cars. Paul started up the Cutlass and let it run while he searched in the trunk for one of his books to give to Gail.
He hadn’t expected to see her again until later, but she walked into the parking area with an armful of canvases. Her car, a teal-blue Nissan Sentra, was parked a few spaces from his. He watched her open the trunk and throw the paintings in. She noticed him, glanced around the parking lot, saw no one.
Gail waved, smiled, then closed her trunk and hurried back to the footpath.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The night felt good. Gail wanted to run forever but contented herself with a bracing jog to No. 13.
She felt different. The pain of Costa Nueva would never go away. But she had begun to understand that it was all right. Lyle and Todd would be part of her soul and her heart for the rest of her life. What she chose to do with that life was entirely up to her.
That morning she had awakened from eight hours of dreamless sleep and jogged to Big House. She’d enjoyed the early morning chill and moderate snowfall. Later, when the storm grew angrier, she had sat in front of the fire looking through the contents of a box she’d held onto for years, only opening it to put in more things. They were books, magazine articles, newspaper stories about Costa Nueva. Also, letters from sympathetic strangers—including one from the President—though only a few, for she had destroyed so many back then. She had spent an hour with the material, all she could handle.
But she would open the box again.
Drained, she had taken a nap. Some of the darker images had returned in desultory fragments, but mostly her dreams were of good times with Lyle and Todd. She saw them running again, smiling. All three of them smiling, which reminded her how it was done. That was the way she wanted to remember them, not face down on a floor.
Shortly before waking she had dreamed of Paul.
In the middle of the afternoon she finally set up the painting she was working on. This time it felt as if she were looking at someone else’s work. She tried doing some things with the background, but it didn’t feel right.
That was why she had decided to go to the clearing.
After those few days when she’d felt nothing there, it had begun to return. She had utilized the black motivating force, weak as it was, and at first it was all right. Then it had grown stronger at the same time that she was changing, until its effect on her seemed different from before. Where it had guided her hand in brushing the colors of her pain onto the canvas, now it became the cause of more pain, threatening to rip her apart.
That afternoon she had broken free before it could happen. She’d never go back there again. She swore that.
One part of her life was ending; another was beginning. It frightened her, but excited her too.
Paul had walked past ten minutes before. Despite what she’d told him, she couldn’t wait. Throwing on her coat, she hurried outside.
He wouldn’t mind. She knew that too.
Near his cabin, she felt it. Much stronger at night. She knew it from walks she’d taken during the first weeks of her residency. “No, damn you, no!” she told the night. “You won’t stop me!”
And she went on.
Paul had felt it too. Not as keenly as Gail, but enough. He lingered in front of No. 11, staring up the path. Curiosity was stronger than fear. What had happened there? Was he feeling the ghosts of more than just the death and despair that had been the aura of the Thorburn/McClain cabin?
The night seemed to mock his frustration. He went inside.
With Gail coming, Paul suddenly realized his cabin was a mess. He scrambled around, picking up clothes and throwing them in the closet, stacking books and papers, piling the dried-out logs into the bin.
A few minutes later Gail arrived. He had thought she might come early. He let her in and closed the door quickly.
She peeled off her coat. “Hi,” she said, and smiled.
“You know, when I saw you smile in the parking area, I didn’t recognize you for a minute.”
“Sort of like Scrooge after he’d met all the ghosts, huh?”
He laughed. “Great analogy. Yeah, I guess so.”
He hugged her. She gave it back without hesitation. They held each other, not saying anything for a few moments, finally separating.
Paul handed her a copy of Summit of Fear. “I found this for you.”
“Thanks. Did you autograph it?”
“No, but I will, if you do the same to that.” He indicated her sketch, which he’d hung on the wall with pushpins. “When your works are being auctioned at Sotheby’s, I want to make sure I got my old age covered.”
> “Right.” She smiled again then touched her mouth. “I better stop this, it hurts my face.”
He stroked her cheek. “Don’t, it looks great on you.”
She looked at him, no longer smiling. “Oh, Paul!” she exclaimed, again embracing him. “Thank you. Just…thank you! I don’t know what else to say.”
“You couldn’t have done it unless you wanted to,” he said. “I think you know that.”
“Nevertheless, I owe you a lot.” She pulled free, reached for her purse.
“You don’t owe me—”
“But I wondered if you’d settle for a Hershey’s with almonds.” She held up two bars.
“Consider it paid in full!” He took one. “That’s great, my supply was depleted. Your rug, ma’am.”
She sat in front of the fireplace. He poured two glasses of wine and joined her. She moved closer to him.
“Chablis and Hershey’s,” she said. “I’m not sure if white or red goes with chocolate. Are we gauche, or what?”
Paul laughed. “Who cares? You had a good day, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes. I didn’t paint at all; I couldn’t. Maybe I’m done with what you saw.”
“Is that why you were putting the paintings in your car?”
“Partly. I was also making it easier on myself, since I’m leaving Wednesday morning. Less to load then.”
“You’re leaving Wednesday?” Paul couldn’t hide his surprise. “I didn’t know.”
“It hadn’t come up, I guess. Yeah, I’ve been here nearly four weeks. It felt like a lot longer—until now.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“How did you come to be up here?”
“I read an article about the Thorburn colony—what they do to encourage new talent, that sort of thing. What I liked most was what it said about the solitude in the mountains. I sent a note and got a questionnaire in the mail from Walter McClain, which I returned with some Polaroids of my work. He answered quickly, and I came up the following month.”
“It wasn’t easy for you to be here, was it?”
“After the first night I told Walter that I didn’t want any part of Harriet Thorburn’s dinner ritual. I…had already walked out, rather than deal with anyone. He said it was impossible, and I said fine, I’d leave in the morning. I guess he wanted me to stay, because he said that he would speak to her. The next day he offered the compromise, as you’ve seen it. I agreed, because I didn’t want to go right back, and because I did feel comfortable in my cabin. The forest, the creek, all the mountains around. It started to snow the second week and that made it even better, sort of like…home.”