by Mike Sirota
“What? It’s…my publisher. Back in New York. It’s later there.”
“Oh, yeah.” She nodded. “Well, they’ll probably be workin’ before long. You have a good day, huh?”
The woman went about her business. Paul returned to the central hall, angry at himself for the way he’d handled the confrontation with Nora. He would have to do better than that, or they might start wondering.
On his way to Big House he had made the decision to look for Gail first in the outbuildings. There was already a thin layer of snow on the asphalt when he crossed the parking area. Seeing no one around, he hurried to the farthest structure, a small storage shed. He slipped behind it, found a clean spot on a grimy window, and peered inside. Freestanding metal shelves were pushed up against the walls. They were mostly empty—a few rusty cans, some boxes, little else.
The next two buildings, similar in size to the first, yielded nothing. Staying concealed was a problem. Paul kept each structure between himself and Big House, when he could. But there were also footpaths. Once he hid behind trees when Thea Douglas walked past on her way to the mansion, complaining loudly about the weather.
The old stable came next. He stole inside through a rear door, closed it, began looking around. He smelled gasoline and noticed two snowplows in front, near the double doors. No horses had been boarded there for a long time, although assorted tack still hung on the walls. Cords of firewood were everywhere.
He was looking through the stalls in back when the double doors opened. He dropped to the floor, jarring his shoulder and nearly crying out. He waited, afraid his frosty breath would give him away. He heard two voices; one belonged to Joe Landry.
“You want I should start on the parking lot?” the other asked.
“What the hell else?” Landry said. “Here, take this one.”
The machine would not start. It sputtered a couple of times, whined then was silent.
“Goddamn son of a bitch!” Landry swore.
“What you gonna do, Joe?”
“Fix the fucker, what do you think? Take the other one and get outta here! After the lot make sure you do all the way down to the gate.”
The second machine started and was soon outside. Landry kept up a stream of foul language as he dragged a heavy tool chest across the floor. Paul looked around, making certain there was nothing the man could need anywhere near him. Now he could only wait.
Ten minutes later—it seemed longer—Paul chanced a look. Landry had parts of the engine scattered on the floor and was dismantling it further. His work had just begun.
Shit, Paul mouthed, leaning back.
Landry worked on the engine for over an hour. Once he injured a finger and paced around the stable, cursing louder. Paul hoped he would leave to take care of it, but he kept working.
Finally done, he drove the plow outside, leaving the doors open. Paul waited another minute then left through the back. Although he hadn’t seen everything, he felt certain Gail wasn’t in the stable.
Snow was slicing down hard. He crept stealthily to the next building. There the only choice was a single door facing Big House, for the cube structure had no windows.
He counted on the falling snow to give him the few moments he needed.
The building was a freezer, something he hadn’t realized despite all the times he’d passed it on the way to the footpath. He gripped the handle, hesitated, then opened the door and satisfied himself that nothing out of the ordinary hung next to the sides of beef or stacks of boxes.
All that remained was the smokehouse. Joe Landry’s place. He probably had nothing to do with this, but Paul had to make certain. In the distance he could hear the drone of at least one snowplow. The handyman could be back at any minute.
The door was locked, but one window felt loose. He managed to raise it an inch, slip his fingers under, and open it all the way. It was not a big window. He went in headfirst, quickly shutting it behind him.
Joe Landry’s living quarters were two small rooms and a closet-sized bath, the whole thing no bigger than Paul’s cabin. He had come in through the bedroom, a dark, depressing cubicle that looked as if it had never been cleaned. Grimy clothes were scattered on the floor. He caught a faint smell of gasoline, a stronger one of urine. The walls, where visible, showed peeling layers of paint; the rest was covered with pictures of women, cut out of magazines. Women having sex with men, with other women, with dogs, and by themselves using a variety of exotic aids. There were even some of men and small children.
“Sick bastard,” Paul muttered, looking in a closet. Other than more clothes, it contained boxes of the magazines from which Joe Landry had clipped his wallpaper.
The front room, a kitchenette with a couch and television, was as filthy as the bedroom. Dishes with food stuck to them sat on the table and in the sink. The smell was of garbage and whiskey.
A ring of keys hung on a nail over the sink. Looking at the barely legible tags, Paul realized they opened many of the doors on the colony grounds. But what about the risk of taking them? Landry might report their absence quickly, and the descendants would be warned that something was wrong. Still, having them would be invaluable. . . .
The smell began to overwhelm him. Resisting the urge to vomit, Paul took the keys, slipped out the front door, and ran across the parking area.
Big House was next.
The work day had started. Residents were not usually afoot in the main building, unless they needed to use the library. Paul had to remember that in case he ran into any staff, at least on the first floor. Upstairs he would be on his own.
A plan, some sort of sensible plan, he told himself. He couldn’t just open every door. The message center. A room number was next to each resident’s name. Not only would he learn the numbers in Big House, but also the cabins. He would search them next, assuming Gail was not in the mansion.
Assuming he made it that far.
Walter McClain was crossing the hall on his way to the staircase. Paul watched from the corridor until he was gone then hurried to the day room.
A resident with whom Paul had little more than a nodding acquaintance sat in one corner, writing on a steno pad. She barely noticed him, although he glanced at her a few times while copying down the numbers of unoccupied rooms and cabins. He pocketed the scrap of paper, studied the colony map for a few moments, then left quickly.
Arthur Tyler carried a heavy box across the central hall. Paul could not avoid him. The big man smiled but, obeying the colony rule, said nothing. Paul changed direction toward the library and was almost there when the cook disappeared into the dining room. Turning, he crossed the hall to the corridor, his heart pounding heavily, hurting his chest. And he had barely started, he thought.
There was no one in the corridor or on the service stairs. He ran up two steps at a time, slowing near the top. If Gail was in Big House, it made more sense to keep her on the unoccupied third floor. He could search the guestrooms later, if necessary.
A sign on the door said staff only in block letters. The door was locked. Paul found the right key and opened it slowly, grimacing when it creaked. He slipped in quietly.
The dark third floor was nearly identical to the one below. Most of the doors were not only unlocked but ajar. It all but eliminated them, because they would not have been open with a prisoner inside, not even up there.
Still, he looked in every one, on the chance that Gail’s captors were either smug or thoughtless. Some of the rooms were empty, not even a rug on the hardwood floors. There was furniture in others, ranging from ornate pieces to the most dismally plain, although all of it was quite old. He noticed a few chests, as well as flat, tightly nailed wooden crates, the kind in which paintings were shipped.
One room behind a closed but unlocked door was different. An oval rug covered the middle of the floor, and two Queen Anne easy chairs sat on either side of a tall lamp. The walls were covered with paintings. Someone’s sitting room, perhaps, sanctuary from the daily routine below.
A la
rge chest stood next to one of the chairs. Memories were probably stored there. Paul decided to have a look. John Thorburn’s eyes watched him from the largest painting there, above the stone fireplace. Paul knew it was him, for the portrait had been used on the cover of one edition of Trails of Promise. He stared at it.
“What happened up here, great man?” he asked bitterly. “You took something to your grave, I know you did. Whatever it is, they’re going to kill Gail over it. I wish I could make you talk, you son of a bitch!”
The chest was open. Paul had guessed right. It was filled with clothes and shoes from other eras, old books, large framed photographs, albums filled with smaller snapshots of what must have been the Thorburns through more than a century, packets of letters, and other memorabilia. Normally Paul would have been fascinated looking through something like that.
Not today.
Still, he continued digging until he reached another layer beneath the clothes and linens. Here were items of greater value, not only as antiques: jewelry boxes, varying in size and shape. One of them, Paul swore, had been forged from solid gold. All had precious stones inlaid. This was the cherished collection of one of Harriet Thorburn’s ancestors.
Nancy Thorburn’s collection. Her chest. Their chest. That was why Paul continued to rummage through it, although he wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
Until he found it.
On the bottom was a sheaf of paper wrapped in thin supple leather and tied with heavy twine. A faded but legible two-line inscription said Journal, 1845-1846, J. Thorburn.
His diary. As he had written it, along the trail.
And here, in the mountains.
No time to treat the historical treasure with the respect it warranted. Snapping the twine easily, Paul laid the diary on the floor. If there was an answer, he knew just where to look. He flipped halfway through; the slightly yellowed pages were sturdy, with a linen-like texture. The first date he saw was in November, when they’d arrived at the lake. He kept turning the pages until he found the entry he wanted.
January 4, 1846.
He already knew the words: Jordy Fry said he saw a figure through the trees in the direction of the pass. Tyler thought he saw it too. Maybe our Salvation is near.
Paul was at the bottom of the page. He flipped to the next one.
The entry for January 4, Sunday, went on.
Three-quarters of the way down that page the entry for January 5, Monday, began. Unlike the brief entry in Trails of Promise, this one ran through all of the next page and part of the following one.
And unlike the published diary, there was one dated January 6, Tuesday.
John Thorburn’s missing journal entries.
Sweating, Paul slipped off his heavy jacket. His mouth was dry. Although reluctant, he knew this had to be done. He turned back to January 4 and began reading.
We had no trouble finding the man. It seemed as if he was waiting for us. He had nothing with him, no pack, no animal, but he seemed to be in no difficulty, so we assumed he must be from a party of others who were nearby. We asked many questions, but all he would tell us was that he had come alone. Then he started walking toward the lake. Tom Hardman confided in me that he found the man very disturbing. I felt that way also. You could not look him in the eyes without wanting to turn away.
Later, Mr. Black—this is what Nancy called him, since he never told us his name—looked around our pathetic camp. I think he was amused by the suffering. He took me aside and said that every one of us would perish unless we accepted his help. But there would be a price, which he named. I told him he was mad and would have chased him off, except I realized that he would do whatever he wanted. Afterward I saw him talking to the Stillwell brothers. Knowing the character of these men I am not surprised that they were more receptive.
That was the remainder of the entry for January 4. Paul continued reading.
January 5, Monday—Very cold, but the sun is up. Mr. Black was in camp again this morning. No one knew where he had gone for the night, but it had not been in any of the cabins. He said that he would prove himself and told us that an Indian would be coming with supplies. If this happened, he insisted, we would have to believe him.
A Digger Indian came into camp at noontime. He brought food and blankets, which we have divided. I thought this to be a coincidence, and I told Mr. Black. He spoke to the Indian, who then left. A while after he told us that the Indian would return with meat. Again, he was right. The Indian dragged in the carcass of a bear.
How could we doubt him now? The Stillwells were willing to go along with whatever he wanted. I was not. From what he had told us I believed that this man, although himself evil, was only a servant of a greater Evil. We needed to drive Mr. Black away, before whatever it was came, then hope for rescue, or the end of winter. How could we pay such a price!
The price again, Paul thought. And the entry for this date read differently from the book.
Mr. Black spoke to me and said it must be done tonight, or there would be no other chance. After that he would leave. Our food would last for a week or less. And more storms were coming, he promised, terrible ones. None of us would leave the mountains alive. Tonight; that was all the time we had. I said that I would meet with the others near my cabin and talk about it. This seemed to satisfy him, and he left.
Perhaps my mind has grown feeble from hunger, and I’m imagining things that cannot be. But if it is true, then the Lord God help me for what I may be party to this night!
It is after dark now. All of us have eaten well. Patrick McClain has begun a large fire outside. I can see the first of the families coming up from the lake.
That was the end of the January 5 entry. Not a word about any illness. Paul wasn’t surprised.
The last missing entry was illegible in some places. It had been written in what must have been a trembling hand. Blotches of ink were like crushed insects on the page. Paul filled in words that seemed to fit.
January 6, Tuesday—It is the afternoon now, sun shining, cold, quiet. I am supposed to be a man of words, but how can I find any to describe what happened last night, a few yards from where I’m sitting? After all the people were here, I went out and spoke to them. It was an unpleasant surprise to learn that most already knew of Mr. Black’s proposal, because the Stillwells had been spreading the word through the other cabins. They were aware that, in order for the majority of us to survive, others would have to die.
The price, Paul thought. Jesus, they had to sacrifice some of their people!
There were those who scoffed at the whole thing. Louis Gibbs, for one, and William Parkhill. They thought Mr. Black to be some trickster with another motive, such as acquiring our possessions. Joseph Krueger and Franklin Smith, God-fearing men, knew Mr. Black for what he truly was and wanted no part of any agreement. The Stillwell brothers and Tom Hardman were willing to do anything for survival. That left the McClains, Tylers, and the peddler man, Fry, all without an opinion yet. I would have expected that of Noah Tyler, who had been my teamster, for he was a simple man, although very loyal.
So we talked about it, and argued, and the women had their say also. But since none of us could truly understand what this was all about, we arrived at no conclusions and became more frustrated. Then Parkhill’s son—a boy of ten or eleven but with so much wisdom!—said what was the most sensible thing of all. He didn’t like this Mr. Black, he said. We should make him go away, and then the Digger Indian, who was still around, would either take us out of the mountains or continue to bring us enough food to last until spring. Simon—for this was the boy’s name—knew he could make the Indian understand.
I believed him, truly, and so did some of the others. But Edward Stillwell scoffed at us for listening to the words of a child, and it began again, until I thought it would grow violent.
Mr. Black appeared then, looking smug, as if he were feeding off the rage off our helpless band. Everyone stopped talking. He raised his hands and said something about the tim
e having come. Right then I knew that there had never been a choice at all.
The Stillwells and Hardmans moved toward Mr. Black, pleading to be saved. Jordy Fry followed. Then, more reluctantly, the McClains went. Patrick looked at me and shook his head. I could see the fear in his eyes.
Nancy, holding our children’s hands, urged me to step back, which we did, along with the rest. We moved closer to the fire, perhaps for its warmth and safety, although at this time it gave neither.
Those surrendering to the evil were around Mr. Black in a half-circle. He stared at them silently as he unraveled the scarf from around his face and tossed it away. Then he removed the rest of his clothes and stood naked. One of the women—Lavinia Smith, I think—screamed when she saw his body, which was disfigured with deep scars. Leanna squeezed my hand so tightly that it hurt, but I did not say anything.
It seemed to please Mr. Black that we were so repulsed by him. He looked from one face to another, then turned and gazed across the clearing in the direction of the lake. His back was equally scarred. He was saying something, but the words had no meaning.
Then we heard a sound that was like the wind blowing, only there was no wind. It grew stronger, so loud that it was deafening. Still, we felt nothing, and the fire was not affected.
Something was happening in the clearing. I couldn’t see at first, then I noticed something in the snow. They were shadows, three shadows, moving toward us as they lengthened. But this made no sense, because nothing cast them. Still, they were coming.
Mr. Black turned around. He was grinning. Our fire reflected in his eyes. He yelled at those closest to him to fall on the ground before the dal-yawii (I think this was what he said), to acknowledge their greatness, because only then would they be spared. The terrible sound of the wind grew even louder as Edward Stillwell and his family dropped to their knees at Mr. Black’s feet and were followed by the rest. The shadows were closer, and I wavered, but stood where I was.