by Mike Sirota
Just having the option improved his outlook.
With the cabin walls beginning to close in on him, Paul decided to drive into Stillwell. It being Gail’s last night, there were some things he wanted to pick up. He walked over to Big House in unseasonably mild weather, hoping it wasn’t the calm before another storm.
Walter McClain sat in his office. He nodded at Paul over his reading glasses but didn’t seem quite his affable self. Paul explained his plan.
“Well, I guess,” McClain said. “I know you’ve been working hard. The only thing is, there’s supposed to be more bad weather later this week. You might want to go as soon as possible. Just let me know tomorrow for sure.”
“I will. One other thing. I know it’s not four yet but I’d like to drive into town. Any problem?”
McClain waved a hand in dismissal. “What the devil, just go!” he said peevishly. “You’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”
Paul left. The man’s behavior puzzled him. On the other hand, Walter McClain had lived there all his life—a long time—and had probably spent very little of it out of the mountains. He had been associate director for what, thirty years? And he’d probably done other jobs at the colony for a couple of decades prior to that. He couldn’t be as dotty as Harriet Thorburn, but he had his ways.
S. Lakeshore Drive looked reasonably clear, aside from a few icy patches. Either way, Paul wasn’t going to drive too fast. He passed no one on the way but was surprised at the number of vehicles parked downtown when he pulled in front of Fry Mercantile.
Carl Stillwell, the deputy, stood across the street, near Mountain Apothecary, engaged in a conversation with another man, whom Paul recognized as the critic from the Mule Deer Cafe his first day in town. They both looked at Paul, the deputy gesturing, the other still expectorating onto the sidewalk. Paul stared at them briefly then went into the store.
Jenny Fry was helping her only customer, an elderly woman, with some skeins of yarn. Paul wandered through the aisles, finding most of what he wanted. By the time he brought it up to the counter, Jenny was free. He thought she looked even more pale, which didn’t seem possible.
“Hello, Paul, it’s good to see you again,” she said with little emotion.
“Hi. Are you okay?” he asked.
She jerked her head back. “Why? Don’t you think I look okay?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s my father again, he’s very ill. I suppose he’ll be dead soon, just like Mother, then what will I do?”
“I’m sorry. Has he seen a doctor?”
“Yes, a friend drove him to Truckee this morning. He has more medicine, but I don’t know, I just don’t know.” She handed Paul his change and glanced around the store. “Oh, quickly, no one’s here. I have to close for a little while and take some things to him.”
She picked up two bags from the floor behind the counter. “Here,” let me help you,” Paul said, taking one. At the door, Jenny set the clock face on a will return at—sign to three forty-five, twenty minutes away, turned it around then locked the door behind them.
“Can I drive you, or do you have a car?” Paul asked.
“Oh heavens no,” she said. “It’s not far, and I enjoy the walk. Here, I’ll take that.”
The bag was heavy. “That’s okay, I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind. Just let me toss my things in the car.”
She smiled. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
Carl Stillwell and the other man had crossed the street and were smoking in front of the Mule Deer Cafe. They pinched their hat brims as Jenny and Paul walked past.
“Miss Jenny, how’s your father doing?” the older man asked.
“A little better this morning,” she replied. “I’m going to him now.”
The deputy, who had been staring at Paul, said, “You still lookin’ at old buildings?” It was more a challenge than a casual inquiry.
“How could you avoid it in this town?” Paul tried to sound cordial but was afraid he failed. He didn’t like Carl Stillwell.
“Well, you give Dan my best, okay?” the other man said, spitting noisily. “Tell him I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
They walked past the Mule Deer Cafe, Paul glancing back once. “Who is that?” he asked. “Not the deputy, the other man.”
“Jake? Oh, that’s Jake Stillwell. He’s Carl’s father, also the mayor. I don’t know if that’s impressive, mayor of a town with a few hundred people. He owns the sporting goods store, bait and tackle and ammunition and that sort of thing. Also the Thorburn Lake Marina. It’s busy sometimes, especially the week of the Fishing Derby, in the summer. But right now the town’s practically shut down.”
“Mayor Stillwell, Sheriff Stillwell,” Paul said. “Sort of a monopoly. How many are there?”
“Just the three, that’s all. Roy never married and Carl’s mother died years ago. The Stillwells have always taken care of the town, the Thorburns the colony, from way back. Carl, by the way . . .” She paused, smiled. “He’s courted me ever since back in school. Someday, who knows?”
Courted, Paul thought. Jenny Fry really did live in romantic novels.
They turned the corner and were on Alpine Street, across from Idlewood Livery. Paul glanced at it once then concentrated on Jenny, who recounted past liaisons with Carl.
Alpine ended one long block past the livery near the base of a steep hill. The Fry house, another of Stillwell’s “old buildings,” was the second one on Trout Lane, a short, narrow street to the left. The two-story frame house appeared deceptively small. An addition in the rear, constructed of native stone, extended almost to the bluff. There was a full-length shed-porch in front and a large brick chimney on one side. Twin doors in the ground, facing a vacant, snow-covered lot on the other side, led down into what Paul assumed was a storm cellar.
They went up on the porch. Dan Fry’s racking cough was loud. Jenny took the bag from Paul.
“I’d ask you in, but…”
“I understand. Tell him I hope he feels better.”
“Thank you.”
Paul walked back to the middle of town. Carl Stillwell, alone, stood on the corner of Alpine and Washo, staring at him. What was it with these people? he wondered. While he hadn’t planned on it, he slowed and began leisurely reading the nameplates on the facades of ancient stores, peering through the windows of an assay office and tonsorial parlor, bending down to study inscriptions on cornerstones. Okay, he was being an asshole, he thought, but if this was what Carl Stillwell expected, he’d give it to him.
Just stay away from the livery.
Stillwell watched him for five minutes, then shook his head and walked away.
Paul made one more stop at Mountain Apothecary, then started back. Thorburn Lake gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine, the snow-capped peaks reflecting off its gently rippling surface. He drove more slowly in order to enjoy it.
Another exodus was in progress as he neared the main gate. Thorburn’s artists-in-residence, confined for days by the storm, were taking advantage of the break to drive into Stillwell. He passed seven vehicles, only two containing more than one driver. The last, an enormous ten-year-old Bonneville, belonged to Mary, who waved at him and rolled down her window.
“Back in an hour!” she yelled, slowing but not stopping.
Paul didn’t feel like going back to the cabin; he wanted to be outside. After parking the Cutlass he strolled toward the buildings behind the mansion. While not indicating that they were off limits to residents, the information pamphlet had described the structures as being used strictly for storing supplies and other equipment. Still, they were as old as Big House itself, at least worth a closer look.
As Paul neared the smokehouse, Joe Landry emerged from it. Paul stopped. The man’s cold gaze bothered him.
“Need somethin’?” Landry asked.
“No. I was just walking around,” Paul said, “filling up some time before dinner.”
Landry shrugged. “Got a ways t
o go.” He gestured toward the smokehouse. “This is my place.”
“You…live here?”
“Yeah. Always have.”
Paul nodded. “Always.”
Landry started off. “Got work to do.”
Deciding to pass on the rest of the outbuildings, Paul spent the next hour exploring some of the colony grounds. He traversed a couple of the other paths then followed Leanna Creek to the lake.
A narrow trail along the edge of the lake led him to the far side of an inlet, where an abbreviated pebble beach ended at the base of a bluff. Already dusk, it was even darker there because of the many Jeffrey pines surrounding this finger of Thorburn Lake. There were no lights along the path either. Time to start back, Paul figured.
The sound pierced the silence of the lakeshore.
A baby crying in terrible pain. No, more feline than human. An unnerving cry that went on for a few long seconds then was punctuated by a clear whoowow and fell silent for a heartbeat, only to start again. It was nearby; it had to be. As strange and disturbing as it was, Paul felt drawn to it. He walked toward the pines, looking for whatever it was in the shadows.
Something darted from the trees across the pebble beach.
Low to the ground, dark, long. Too far away to see clearly. Moving rapidly, gliding, the mewling cry rising, finally ending with a last whoowow as the shape cut the surface of the water and disappeared below, not even causing a ripple.
“What the hell—!” Paul exclaimed. As if freed, he turned and tried to run but could only stagger away.
Mary’s Bonneville was in the parking area. Others were just getting back. Paul had never been more pleased to see people. He went directly to the day room, but it was still sparsely occupied. His slot held no messages. Mary was not around. He found an isolated corner and tried to sort out what had happened.
An animal. Just an animal, that’s all it had been. He didn’t know what kind, not this city boy. The darkness, the shadows, being in a strange place—that would mess up anyone’s perception. It was nothing, he decided. Nothing.
But it still troubled him when Mary joined him ten minutes later.
“What’s with you?” she asked. “Bad day at the typewriter?”
“Yeah, it was.” He smiled. “How’d you like beautiful downtown Stillwell?”
“I’m a small-town girl, so I’m used to it. But I did run into that girl you told me about, in the general store. Oh, that poor child… Spent the whole time I was in there reciting Robert Service out loud.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame. How did your work go?”
Mary shrugged. “I didn’t find as much as I would have liked about the Thorburn party. There was this journal written by one Ezra Cage, a rather notorious mountain man of the time. He had nothing to do with the Thorburn incident, but he made a brief reference to someone who did.” She took a small note pad from her purse. “I’ll read it to you. My handwriting’s lousy. Keep in mind I wrote it down verbatim.
“‘LeBeau was good with horses and told good stories at night but I always thought the Frenchie was a little queer in the head. Like what he said about early this year when he went from Sutter’s to go and bring those fool people down from the North Lake where they got freezing. He said they didn’t look happy but looked like they was already dead but still walking around even though they was getting rescued. That is queer stuff and is why I’m not sure about LeBeau.’” Mary closed the pad. “Is that the kind of thing you’re looking for?”
“How do you know he was referring to the Thorburn party?” Paul asked. “He doesn’t mention the name.”
“The date of his entry coincides with the incident. There were no other stranded parties recorded up here that winter. And the clincher is his reference to the North Lake. That was the old Indian name for Thorburn Lake.”
“‘…looked like they was already dead but still walking around.’” Paul shook his head. “What the devil does that mean? These people were being saved! And they’d already had food for a couple of days, whatever the Indian had brought. Why would they give that impression to the rescue party?”
“It might have had something to do with the illness that took so many of them right at the end,” Mary said. “Remember how John Thorburn began his entry that day?” She drew upon her memory, which Paul realized was quite impressive. “‘We rejoice this day, but also grieve.’ Doesn’t that fit?”
“The illness again,” he said. “I suppose you’re right.”
“But you’re still not buying it.”
“I don’t know if there’s anything to buy or not. It was just…something I got interested in. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s all right. Anyway, you were right about this area.”
“What?”
“Next to Tahoe, the North Lake was the focal point for all kinds of Indian legends. There are stories of battles between gods and demons along the lakeshore and in the surrounding forest. Enormous firebirds swooped down from the sky and ripped up any mortals foolish enough to be around. A one-eyed, one-legged giant would hop down from Arrow Point—that’s Thorburn Peak to us—to feed on human flesh. So would the wild men, who lived in the trees.”
“Sounds great.”
“The Water Babies were everywhere,” she continued. “The lake, all the streams, puddles from rain—”
“The what?”
“Water Babies. Impish creatures that dominate Washo legends. Lake Tahoe was chock-full of them, of course, but this one must’ve had its share. They were supposed to lure Indians with their cry, then do something to them. It could be nothing more than a prank; they might even give the victim a gift, like a new song. But mostly an encounter with a Water Baby was unpleasant.”
Paul felt his heart racing. “What did they look like?”
“That’s hard to say. The descriptions are vague. They were also known to assume other shapes. But in their real form the best I can figure was that a Water Baby resembled a giant deformed otter.”
“A giant deformed otter,” he repeated, then broke up laughing in the way that Jeannie used to say reminded her of Steve Allen on his old television show. Mary joined him and for nearly a minute they were out of control.
When it finally subsided, Paul realized how much he’d needed the catharsis. Things had fallen back into perspective.
“The bottom line,” Mary gasped, “is that whatever the truth or fiction of these legends, the Indians believed in them strongly. It’s the strength of these beliefs, once so dominant here, that you must be feeling, along with what happened to the Thorburn party. You’re incredibly sensitive.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Remember I told you about feeling the ghosts? I’d always thought myself pretty receptive. Having an open mind helps, I guess. Well, before I drove into town I took a walk out your way, to where the Thorburn cabin had stood.”
“You went to the clearing?” Paul exclaimed.
She nodded. “Walked around for a while, went up and down the creek. There was nothing.”
“Nothing,” he said vaguely.
“Surprised me too.” She smiled. “I’m jealous now. Please understand, Paul, that I believe you. I know that you’re feeling what you say. Maybe it has something to do with how long you’ve been out there. Whatever. Just accept it. Enjoy the fact that you’re a little different from everyone else—which, being a writer, you might have already known.”
“I think that was a compliment,” he said.
“It was, dear boy.”
“Thanks, Mary, thanks for everything. You don’t have to bother with it anymore.”
“Are you kidding? I’m having a ball! But we’ll put it to rest for tonight anyway. I’m thirsty, and I know the extent of your gratitude is such that you’d love to go and pour me a brandy.”
“You got it.”
Put it to rest for tonight, she’d said. No, put it to rest, period, he told himself, because it was getting crazy. Finish up the residency, wh
ich so far had brought his career—and himself—back to life. Leave there with the nearly completed first draft of a new novel. Anticipate being with Jason and Bree.
And Gail Farringer.
Enough of the Thorburn party, the clearing, Jane Tyler, Idlewood Livery, the figure through the trees, purple Volkswagens, Nancy Thorburn’s painting . . .
Water Babies.
Resolved, relieved, Paul carried the half-filled brandy snifter to Mary Sherman.
CHAPTER NINE
The lunch lady—Nora, was that her name?—greeted Gail in the corridor on her way to dinner. Gail responded with a vague nod and continued on to the main central hall. Had the woman, she wondered, noticed the interaction between Paul and herself earlier? What had she read in Nora’s face when the woman spoke to her?
Did it matter?
She knew it didn’t but could not help wondering. Despite what had happened, the work had hardly begun. That’s what going back would be all about.
To learn how to stop hating.
Herself, mostly, for leading her husband and son to the slaughter.
The world, for carrying it out.
Gail suddenly realized that Nora was walking behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she said hello.
Nora smiled in surprise and crossed the hall. Gail went into the dining room.
Paul sat at the far end of the third table, next to a woman Gail thought was named Kathy. With the census down, residents were scattered through the room. Harriet Thorburn could have bunched them together at the first two tables. But then, that was Harriet Thorburn.
On the other hand, had she done that, Gail would have looked even more absurdly out of place. As it stood, the nearest resident at her table was three places down.
Tonight she looked at herself through their eyes: not impressive, to say the least.
How badly she wanted to be sitting with Paul, talking to him, listening. For a moment she eyed the empty seat on his right. He had asked her, hadn’t he?
No, she couldn’t do it. Not to him. Whatever the stir it caused tonight, for her it would be over tomorrow. But for Paul the questions and comments about the crazy lady would go on until the day he left, and he would resent her for it.