by Mike Sirota
Then, across the clearing, we saw what was casting the shadows. Nancy screamed something about not letting our children die. She joined the others around Mr. Black. I could not be without my family, so I ran forward too. Noah Tyler, with his wife and baby, followed. The others remained by the fire.
I felt a terrible coldness inside as the shadows reached us. Mr. Black urged us to lift our eyes and see what cast the shadows in the snow, but I only looked down. Strangely, most of the screams came from those on the ground near me, not the brave souls awaiting their fate by the fire. I knew shame then.
Mr. Black continued uttering sounds as the shadows fell over our meeting place. The coldness within seemed enough to destroy me. They were closer now. There was a smell about them, like death. I shut my eyes, cried out for Nancy and the children to do the same. They were around us, studying, probing, then past, to those at the fire.
Oh, the screams and the pain! I wanted to cry out to God, not for myself, having forfeited the right to ever again ask His help after being a part of this, but for the others. Not even He could have heard me above the agony, and the rushing wind, and—now—the laughter of Mr. Black.
They were being murdered—the Smiths, Gibbses, Parkhills, Joseph Krueger and his son. Why did it take so long? On and on, as though the pleasure was in prolonging it. Nancy’s hands were over her ears as she screamed. I opened my eyes a little and peered behind me. The snow was stained with blood as close as a yard away. Of those who had chosen to stand against the dal-yawii, I could only see young Simon Parkhill. He too cried out, but with a sound of defiance in his voice as he swung a branch over his head. Then something, huge, dark, came at him, and his cry was silenced by a terrible cracking noise. I shut my eyes again.
It went on almost forever, but finally ended. The last of the screams that fell silent were from our own throats. We looked up, though not yet behind us. Mr. Black, again clothed, stood over us like some benevolent preacher man. Past him, the clearing was still. He gestured for us to rise, but no one did. No one could.
Tom Hardman asked him if it was over. Mr. Black said that it was, that in two days a rescue party would find a way through the pass and take us out of the mountains. He warned us to bury our dead before then, and not just in the snow.
Our dead. Amanda McClain was the first to turn around. She screamed and fell into Patrick’s arms. We…
This part of the entry, at the top of the next page, was illegible. Something moist had smeared the ink before it could dry. A third of the way down, Paul was able to read it again.
…buried all of them this morning, deeper than the others. We saw nothing of Mr. Black until we were done. He said that he was leaving but would see us again. I demanded to know what he meant, since this business was over. He told us it would never be over, not for us, not for our children or their children, not ever. The dal-yawii, he said, were not that easily satisfied.
I told him that once away from these mountains not he nor his shadows could hold us. He laughed then, and said that there would be a sign, and that we would be back here to stay. Then he went off into the forest, the way he had come.
A sign, Paul thought. The deaths of the Hardman child, and Thorburn’s own daughter.
The entry for January 6, Tuesday, ended with a single line well before the bottom of the page.
Whatever happens in the future, no one must ever know of this.
The January 7 entry, beginning on the next page, had been reprinted verbatim in Trails of Promise. Paul read the words that John Thorburn had forced himself to write:
…because of the terrible illness that befell us so near the end.
Sickened, Paul dropped the diary.
So the Thorburn party had returned to the North Lake, had built a town in the path of the pioneers and gold seekers, had started an acclaimed artists’ and writers’ colony.
Had murdered scores, possibly hundreds, through the decades as part of an unending payment for their survival.
Sherri Jordan had died in the same manner as the brave Parkhill boy and the others.
Just as Gail was going to die.
He extracted the pages with the missing journal entries then put everything back into the chest. Donning his jacket he made certain the room looked undisturbed then slipped out into the hallway. It did not take him long to complete his search of the third floor. He found nothing.
Paul’s head throbbed. He needed to talk to someone, to share the secret of the Thorburn colony, because the thought of it was threatening to drive him mad. Mary Sherman was the only person he could reach, perhaps the only one who might believe him.
Briefly abandoning caution, he ran down the steps. Another resident, her arms laden with books, had just come upstairs and was almost to her room on the far end of the second floor. He watched until she was inside then strode to Mary’s room. He knocked twice but did not wait for an answer. The woman was alarmed when she saw him.
“Paul? My God, look at you! What is it?”
She took his arm to guide him in and made him sit. He caught his breath, stared at her.
“Something’s wrong, something’s really wrong,” he told her. “You have to hear me out.”
She nodded and sat on the end of the bed, across from him. He spoke for five minutes, wishing he could be briefer. The woman listened, not interrupting but shaking her head as she tried to comprehend what he was telling her.
“Dear Lord!” she finally exclaimed when he stopped. “It’s not possible.”
“I have proof.” He pulled out the pages of John Thorburn’s journal. “Read them. Do you have something for this headache?”
“Yes, in the bathroom.”
He found a bottle of Tylenol, swallowed a couple of tablets with three glasses of water, and closed his eyes for a few minutes while Mary read the entries. She was shaken by the time she finished and handed them back.
“The monsters!” she snapped. “Paul, what do you want me to do?”
He glanced out the window at the falling snow. “I was hoping you could leave here, maybe bring help, but—”
“Not a chance,” she said. “I was down at breakfast late and heard them say that the roads were already impossible to drive. And the phones aren’t working.”
He nodded. “I know. Damn this place!”
“Okay, so we can’t get out of here yet. The most important thing is to find Gail. Tell me what your plan is, so I can help you.”
“Mary, I can’t ask you to get involved in this!”
She shrugged. “I’m already involved, dear boy. This can’t be allowed to go on. Tell me.”
He detailed his plan, which now sounded ludicrous, considering the weather and the limited time. Mary was aware of that.
“I agree with you that she has to be found before dark. Okay, I’ll finish searching Big House. I belong here, so my wandering around won’t raise too many eyebrows. In the meantime you can check out the cabins.” She looked out the window. “Lord, I don’t envy you that. Will you be all right?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll look for Walter McClain’s radio?”
“Of course.”
“Mary, listen,” he said firmly, “I don’t want you being the SWAT team or anything. If you find Gail but can’t help her without risk, just leave it alone. Okay?”
She nodded. “I don’t have a death wish. We’ll need a time to meet.” She checked her watch. “It’s nine-forty. Can you be back here at one?”
“No, too late. I’ll cover the grounds quickly and meet you at noon.”
“Paul,” she protested, “it’s not long enough—”
“It’ll have to be!” he snapped. “Mary, if she’s not here, at the colony—”
“Then you go into Stillwell.” She shook her head. “Christ, Paul.”
He wrote down the numbers of the unoccupied rooms on the second floor and removed all the keys for Big House from Landry’s ring. Mary opened the door and looked outside.
“It’s clear. Paul, be careful.
”
“I only have to worry about the snow. You have them.” He clutched her hand. “You be careful too.”
He left. Mary watched him enter the stairwell then gathered up the keys and the list of room numbers.
CHAPTER TEN
Snow fell hard outside. Paul saw no one. A day like this was good for staying where you were—like inside a warm cabin. At least one risk was minimized.
Thin trails of smoke rose above Joe Landry’s filthy quarters. He had abandoned the futile task of trying to plow in the face of the storm. Paul wondered if he’d noticed the missing keys. No time to dwell on that.
Four cabins were on the first path that Paul chose, only one of them occupied. The farthest, No. 7, was where Michael Whitney had stayed. Regardless of the storm, Paul walked the covered path cautiously. No one should be out in the storm, but he could take nothing for granted, the stakes being what they were.
No. 10 stood closer to Big House than he had guessed. The door was unlocked. No doubt all of the empty cabins would be accessible—except for the one where they held Gail.
There was no one in No. 10. He hurried out and continued along the path. It took nearly five minutes to reach No. 9. These cabins were spaced widely apart to accommodate anyone who made music: “Noisemakers,” Michael had said.
Allan Kroll, once-renowned composer-conductor, occupied No. 9, his home away from home. Considering the weather, it was a wonder the man could make it to Big House for his meals. Didn’t they pick him up or something? Smoke rose above the snow-blanketed roof, and there was the sound of a piano from inside as Paul went past. At least he was working.
No. 8 and No. 7 were also empty. Michael’s former cabin, near the outer fence, was over a quarter-mile from Big House. Paul understood why the musician had joked about spending so much time in the day room.
The map at the message center showed a narrow trail along the fence that encircled the grounds. Utilizing the wrought-iron bars to keep from sinking too deeply, Paul trudged through the snow until he came to the end of another footpath. There were three cabins, two with residents, the third empty.
He wound up back at the edge of the parking lot, behind the stable. The force of the storm had abated, but snow still fell in light, steady flurries. Joe Landry and his helper were taking advantage of the break. The ill-tempered handyman plowed a swath through the lot on his way to the main gate; the other worked on clearing the asphalt. Paul chose the nearest footpath.
The cabins along there, two of which were unoccupied, yielded nothing. He retraced his steps to the parking area. He’d been listening to the distant drone of the snowplows and hadn’t expected to see one, until it rounded a curve fifteen yards away. He dove off the path into the trees. The snow saved him from being jarred any harder than he was. He rolled down a bank, sank deeper then lay there, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice the footprints, or care, if he did.
The sputtering plow went past. Paul waited another minute then pulled himself out of the drift. He climbed the bank, slipping twice before pulling himself up and over with the help of a handful of rabbit bush. The cleared path was his only consolation.
Nature had been toying with the region. Any respite from the storm was an illusion. Within a few minutes the snow again fell heavily, propelled by a swirling wind. From meager shelter behind a storage shed, Paul watched Landry drive the plow back into the stable. He could almost hear the string of obscenities. The second plow returned a minute later. They closed the double doors. Landry trudged to the smokehouse, the other man to the service entrance of Big House.
Had Paul considered how cold he was, how exhausted, he might not have continued. The next path had been cleared before the storm’s resurgence. Kathy Parrish was in No. 17, the first cabin. The rest—three of them—were unoccupied, according to the message center. Paul searched them, slamming the last door shut in his growing frustration.
There was probably a shorter way to the next path, but he couldn’t risk it through the forest in the storm. Again, he started from the parking area. But this one had not been cleared all morning. Residents were in No. 20 and No. 19, but not No. 18, the farthest one out.
The failures took their toll. Paul was freezing, could barely feel his toes. His muscles protested each plodding step through the drifts. His head throbbed again. Once he stumbled over a rock and could not make himself get up. The snow held him, like a blanket. He felt peaceful, safe…
But they were going to murder Gail! They had murdered Simon Parkhill and Sherri Jordan and so many others in-between and now they were going to murder Gail. He couldn’t let it happen. Not even the snow—December kin bring some nasty storms—could prevent him from finding Gail before they sacrificed her to the fears they had inherited from their ancestors.
He got up and willed his body to No. 18. Empty. Only one path remained: his own. No. 12. How ironic if they were holding her there. No, not likely; but he had to make sure.
The snow held him back like a giant hand as he struggled to square one—which was how he thought of the parking area. Then it swirled around him as he started up the familiar path. He glanced at No. 13 but gave no thought to stopping. Had they been holding Gail there, he would have found her earlier that morning…
No. 12 was empty. Unless he had missed something on the map, Paul had to concede that Gail was not being held in any of the colony’s outer buildings. That left the rest of Big House.
And Stillwell.
He needed rest, warmth. What good would it do Gail if he fell in the snow again and couldn’t get up? His cabin was close. Just a few minutes…
The last yards to No. 11 were the longest that he had walked all morning. His numbed fingers frustrated him as he tried to unlock the door. Finally inside, he turned up the thermostat then crumpled atop the thunderbird rug, where he shivered uncontrollably.
Get up, dammit!
He rose and slowly stripped down to his shorts and T-shirt, then pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him. His toes were numb but not discolored. He massaged them, walked around the cabin. Soon he could feel them. Relieved, he sat on the bed and huddled in more blankets. He stared at the Wieghorst and concentrated on staying awake.
But fatigue lured him. He might have succumbed but for a noise that penetrated the haze. It came from outside, on the porch. Paul knew what it was.
Lunchtime.
Five minutes past twelve. He hadn’t thought about time all morning. Mary expected him at noon. He had insisted he would be there.
“Shit,” he muttered, throwing off the blankets. He dressed warmly, pulled on three pairs of socks. Two minutes later he was ready.
He returned to Big House in the heavy snow. The thermometer at the service entrance read 5°.
“Hello, Paul, what brings you out in this nasty weather?”
Walter McClain, cordial but curious enough to ignore the Prime Directive, approached him in the corridor. Paul forced a smile.
“Some research that couldn’t wait,” he replied. “You know.”
The associate director nodded. “See you later.”
They passed each other, McClain watching Paul. Was he suspicious? Paul wondered. But why should he be? Paul couldn’t take that chance. The man could check with Jane Tyler to see if he’d been there. He hated to lose a minute, but he had to go to the library.
He strode quickly across the central hall. The librarian eyed him over her glasses. He nodded as he walked to one of the nearest shelves, where she’d seen him working before. Two others were in the library. He sat down with some books, opened them, made notes. His gaze was seldom off the clock.
Twelve-thirty.
It was killing him, but it might buy him the rest of the day. He spent ten minutes there and left. McClain saw him coming out of the library. He had made the right move.
“My God, where have you been?” Mary exclaimed as he rushed into her room. “I was worried.”
“Did you find her?” he asked brusquely.
“No. Then you didn’t either.”
He shook his head. “Not a damned thing! How far did you get?”
“I checked all the unoccupied rooms. Even closets. The only thing on the second floor I couldn’t get into was Harriet Thorburn’s quarters. But she always goes downstairs in the middle of the afternoon. I’ll try it later.”
“You be careful doing that,” Paul warned. “What about the first floor?”
“Almost everything down there is accessible to anyone. I poked around in a few odd places. Nothing. But I know where Walter McClain’s radio is.”
“Where?”
“In a small closet behind his desk. But that’s the problem. He’s either there or he keeps his office locked. And we don’t have the key.”
“If we need to, we’ll find a way in. You did good, Mary. Thanks.”
She shrugged. “Big deal. We didn’t find Gail.”
“It’s not over yet!” he snapped. “They didn’t take her far, I’m sure of it. We know where she’s not, so it’s either the old lady’s rooms—or Stillwell.”
“Little towns, Paul, can get awfully big when you’re looking for something that no one wants you to find.”
He nodded. “I know, but I’m going anyway.”
“If you find her, get her out of there and down to Truckee or wherever as fast as you can.”
“What about you? I was going to come back—”
“Don’t be foolish. They’re not going to do anything to me. I’m perfectly safe here. Just make sure you bring the blasted cavalry tomorrow!”
“I will.” He turned to leave, then looked at Mary. “If I can’t find Gail now, I’ll be back…because I sure as hell know where she’ll be tonight.”
He raced down the stairs and out the rear door. The temperature had dropped another degree. Looking wistfully at his buried Oldsmobile, he walked around to the side of Big House and started toward the main gate.
Most of the road had been cleared during the one brief lull. The new snow rose above his ankles, but there were mounds on either side over five feet high.