by Mike Sirota
The road beyond the main gate was obliterated by drifts. Each step became part of a tiring process: extract a leg from one deep hole, make another, and do it again. He fell once, not realizing he had strayed off the road to the rim of a bank. It winded him, and he lay there for a few moments, struggling for breath.
Slowly. Go more slowly. The road intersected S. Lakeshore Drive. Soon Thorburn Lake—gray and brooding, not the blue jewel he had seen on the first day—was on his left. There, with few trees for shelter, the wind threw whips of snow at his face and chilled his body through the layers of clothes.
Paul thought: How did your daddy die? Oh, he froze to death. And he didn’t even like snow that much.
What if he couldn’t find Gail in the town? He had already told Mary he would return to the colony. But how? Right now there was some question about reaching Stillwell. And if he got back later, then what? Show up at the appointed time, dripping guns like Rambo, or Ripley hunting aliens? His fans would have been disappointed, because Paul hated guns, knew little about them other than what he briefly absorbed in research for authenticity.
Besides, what good would weapons be against whatever was in the clearing?
Okay, give up, he told himself. With that kind of motivation, why not lay down here in the snow and the hell with it! Or even better still—assuming you can stand a little more effort—turn around, go back to the colony, forget this bullshit. Finish out your four weeks, go back to the career, the kids. Have a nice life. Come back someday and do another residency…
He was near the lake when he realized that he now stood still. He couldn’t remember why he’d stopped, or when. Disgusted with himself, he glanced across the lake at unseen enemies and shouted “No!” A faint echo mimicked him. The wind replied with a puzzled howl; those who dwelled below the surface of the lake remained silent.
Satisfied, Paul started walking again, and walking, and walking…
Ahead, less than half a mile, the small town waited.
Paul continued walking, and walking, and walking…
Ahead, less than a quarter-mile, the small town waited.
Paul continued walking, and—staggering…
Then, the wind sighed something like you’ve won for now and relented as Paul looked up and realized that he neared Washo Street.
Snow piled up on untended streets. The Mule Deer Cafe was closed; so was Fry Mercantile and Dooley’s Garage, even the Nugget Bar. Someone moved around inside Mountain Apothecary. But that was because the woman who owned the store lived above it and had nothing better to do that afternoon, the cable being out and probably causing her to miss One Life to Live. The flashing light at Washo and Alpine was a meaningless beacon in the gray-white gloom.
He was concerned about what he had to do, mostly of being seen and having it all come to a premature end. Even if he could avoid people, the task seemed overwhelming. The small town had grown large, as Mary had said, and there were precious few hours of daylight left. It was one-fifty. Nearly an hour to get here from the colony!
Nor could he continue until he had a few minutes out of the storm. He was freezing, exhausted. He had worked hard and now paid the price.
An alley ran behind the stores on the west side of Washo Street. He hadn’t noticed it at first. The entrance from S. Lakeshore Drive was hidden by mounds of snow pushed off to the side when part of the road had been cleared earlier. The drifts in the alley itself were deep. But it gave him a better option than Stillwell’s main thoroughfare.
Paul left the road and trudged to the first building. A sign on the door read deliveries, but nothing had been delivered there in years, for the door was nailed shut.
There was a window, mostly covered by boards. He looked inside, saw the cannibalized interior of a bathroom. Shards of broken glass covered the floor. No shelter there, since it was just as cold within. He moved on.
The next store was another long-abandoned shell. A narrow driveway ran along the side. He walked cautiously to the front, peered up and down Washo Street. Nothing. Stillwell was blind to his presence. Its citizens were somewhere else. Somewhere warm, dry.
But Paul remained in the shadows. Back to the alley, past more derelict buildings, until he came to Poplar Street. To his right, Poplar dead-ended near the base of Whiskey Hill. He turned left and hurried across Washo to the alley that ran behind the stores on the next block.
He had already made Fry Mercantile his next goal.
A closed sign hung in the window. He’d noticed it before. Even if that was a mistake and someone was in the store, it would probably just be Jenny. Her father wouldn’t risk his illness to this kind of weather. Just Jenny Fry and . . .
Gail?
Would they trust their prisoner to the strange young woman who recited poetry and took day trips to Hallucination? But if Gail were bound and gagged, maybe drugged, then would it matter who was watching her?
Bound and gagged. This woman had witnessed the murder of her husband and child. For the first time in five years she had faced it, admitting to herself that—maybe—there was some sort of life to live. How did she feel now? What was her opinion of the world? A world with places like Costa Nueva and Stillwell and the Thorburn Colony?
Stop thinking, about it, or you won’t do her a damn bit of good! Whatever they’d already done to Gail was nothing compared to what they planned to do.
The heavy door at the back of Fry Mercantile was locked and bolted from the inside. A single small window hovered a foot over Paul’s head. He looked around for a way to climb up. There was a dumpster a few feet down the alley, probably shared by a few businesses. It was half-full and heavy, despite being on wheels. He managed to push it under the window. He climbed up, tried to open the window: locked.
Break it! Damn the risk, time was too valuable.
He found a brick doorstop near the back of the Mule Deer Cafe and used it to smash out one of the panes. The glass shattered in a few large pieces. He picked out the ones that had not fallen inside, then unlocked the window and climbed through.
Fry Mercantile’s back room was mostly for storage, with a small office and bathroom. The only other door led into the store. He checked up front quickly, saw no lights on. The store was empty.
He covered the broken square of glass with an end flap from a corrugated carton. For the first time since leaving Big House he was out of the storm and able to rest. The room felt warm to him, even with the thermostat turned down. He sat in a worn armchair, put his head back, and shut his eyes for a moment, letting his tired body soak up the warmth.
Stillwell, California, probably didn’t have a phone book; maybe two poorly mimeographed sheets of paper. But a Rolodex sat on an old metal desk. He flipped through it, noticing that the Frys used it to keep a record of what their customers owed. He found Walter McClain’s card first. The associate director’s address was neatly printed in the upper left-hand corner. Not that it mattered, for McClain’s A-frame on Whiskey Hill was the only other house he knew, aside from the Fry place on Trout Lane. It was the addresses of the rest—Hardman, Tyler, both Stillwells—that he wanted. He found them all and pocketed the cards.
He was hungry and helped himself to a quart of milk and a bag of Chips Ahoy. He finished half of each.
Ten minutes there. Too long. He cleaned up the broken glass and left by the same way he had come in.
The alley ended at Alpine Street, across from Idlewood Livery. Paul first sidled along the old storefronts to Washo, where he looked up and down. Still deserted. He dashed to the door of the livery and peered in.
Something was there again, under the burlap cover in back. Although he had expected this, Paul could hear his heart pounding as he ran around the door in the alley. But the oversized door was sealed with an enormous padlock, the kind that on television even bullets shot from high-powered rifles couldn’t open.
In spite of this imposing deterrent, the door did not seem that sturdy. It rattled when he shook the knob. Maybe he could break it down. T
he idea seemed ridiculous. In movies, people broke down all kinds of doors. Even in his novels some of his characters did it. But for real? He held the knob with both hands, gave an exploratory shove with his shoulder, then leaned back and rammed it. The rotting wood in the frame splintered; the door opened so easily he nearly fell.
He was in an area that had once been used for storing tack. A wide doorless opening led into the stable. He raced to the rear stall and grabbed the tarp but decided against yanking it off. His hand shaking, he looked underneath…
…at Gail Farringer’s teal blue Sentra.
“Bastards!” he cried. “You goddamn crazy bastards!”
Both front windows were open, keys in the ignition. The car was empty. He removed the keys and started to open the trunk, then hesitated. Although it made no sense, what if Gail’s body was in there? He trembled, not from the cold, as he played the discovery scenario over and over in his head. Finally he raised the trunk and saw only her belongings.
Her paintings were stacked under three pieces of luggage. A couple of sketchpads had been thrown in last. He absently flipped the pages as he imagined one of them loading the bags then driving her car to the livery. Who had done it? McClain? One of the Stillwells?
The sketches were recent ones. One of Big House, another of the lake, a third of Thorburn Peak…
And a half done portrait of Paul Fleming.
He stared at it in disbelief. Had they seen it? Did they suspect his relationship with Gail? Maybe they had been watching him since he began his crusade, following his steps, laughing at his persistence, wanting to see how far he would get in their world. Playing with him, ready to step in as soon as he was close and say Nice try, asshole, now we’ll take you to her.
He tore the sketch out, folded it many times, and shoved it in his pocket. Whatever they did or didn’t know, it wasn’t going to stop him. Leaving the trunk exactly as it had been, he put the keys back and smoothed the tarp over the Sentra.
Outside, he wedged the door from underneath so it would stay closed. He weighed his choices. The residences of Jake and Roy Stillwell were on Snowcrest Way, the same as Walter McClain’s A-frame, which put all three on Whiskey Hill. The Fry house was nearby, and farther down Trout Lane were those belonging to Nora Hardman and the Tylers. The three of them were at the colony; so was McClain. The Frys were undoubtedly home.
Paul chose Whiskey Hill. He guessed that one of the Stillwells would be responsible for watching Gail.
The storm was relenting. Light snowfall, less severe wind. It was past two-thirty when he reached the far end of the alley and turned onto Placer Street.
A machine’s sputtering roar broke the long eerie silence. The town made ready to clear its streets. From the corner of Washo and Placer, Paul saw Carl Stillwell emerge from the sheriff’s office, across from Dooley’s Garage and not far from where he stood. It was fortunate that the deputy went in the other direction. Paul watched him walk to Mountain Apothecary then hurried to the other side of the street after Stillwell had gone in.
Placer Street curved left behind the back of the deserted Liberty Mill, which took up the entire block. It then turned sharply right and wound up the side of Whiskey Hill. The tree-lined street was now called Snowcrest Way. Houses sat back from the road, at the end of long drives. Paul read the address on the first mailbox and kept walking.
Snowcrest Way grew steeper. It was slippery beneath the thick layer of new powder. He fell a few times and once slid back a couple of yards. Finally he came to 74 Snowcrest Way, the home of Jake Stillwell and his son.
Gray smoke poured from a brick chimney on the side of the conventional ranch-style home. Utilizing the cover of trees, Paul plowed through deep drifts and circled around to within five yards of the back door. He hid behind a stack of wood and studied the house, noticing low, horizontal windows at ground level, mostly covered by snow. A basement. Maybe the rest of California couldn’t have them, but that rule didn’t seem to apply up here.
He heard a sound from somewhere inside. It was vaguely familiar. He crept closer to the house and peered in a basement window. Jake Stillwell was cutting wood with a power saw. Most of the tiled cellar had been converted into a workshop. Stillwell was intent on his hobby. Paul could have watched him for a long time without the man looking up. But he moved on, peering through each window, until he had circled the house.
The mayor apparently had nothing to hide. Gail was not there.
He took the long way back to the road, diving for cover once when a Bronco four-by-four rumbled down the hill, its heavy tire chains clanking loudly. Paul couldn’t see the driver. When the Bronco was gone he started back up Snowcrest Way, mindful that people who lived in this environment didn’t need a two-day thaw to resume their lives.
Sheriff Roy Stillwell’s house, a hundred yards farther up, was an old two-story brick colonial with a large barn in back. The driveway and part of the street had recently been cleared. Paul guessed the lawman was in town, but he nevertheless approached cautiously.
This one, he knew, would have to be searched from inside.
A large picture window in the den overlooked the partially visible town and Thorburn Lake. On clear days Roy Stillwell had an awesome view from his stuffed armchair. I hope you got to enjoy it yesterday, Sheriff, because if I have anything to do about it your life is going to change.
The window was locked. Paul went to the next one, much smaller. Inside was a room of about eighty square feet, its only furniture a tubular side chair. Two black file cabinets stood against the near wall. A utility room, seldom used. He tried to raise the window, which was unlocked but stuck. He worked until it gave way then climbed in.
Crossing the room, Paul realized he was tracking snow. He pulled off his boots and left them in a corner, then brushed more snow off his clothes. Ready, he searched Roy Stillwell’s house.
His caution was unwarranted on the first floor. All of the rooms were empty. He tried the phone in the kitchen. The line was dead.
The basement was nothing more than a storage room, about the size of a walk-in closet. Cases of Coors beer in bottles were stacked against the walls. Paul looked for doors leading into other chambers, but there were none. He went back upstairs.
Second floor. All of the doors in the hallway were open, except one. A linen closet. Gail was not there. Paul swore at himself for guessing wrong again.
Downstairs, a door slammed.
Paul backed away from the top of the stairs and ducked into what was apparently a seldom-used guest bedroom in the front of the house. From the window he saw Roy Stillwell’s squad car parked a few yards from the door. He hadn’t heard it pull up.
Too late to worry about that. The sheriff was inside. Paul opened a closet door and entered an oppressive darkness that smelled strongly of camphor. He waited, listened.
Stillwell was in the kitchen, making himself something to eat. The refrigerator door opened and closed a few times; dished clinked. Music came on: Randy Travis. Sometimes the sheriff sang along, even with food stuffed in his mouth.
Twenty minutes in the closet; twenty minutes that felt like twenty hours as Paul thought about his boots in the room below and wondered if Stillwell would find them. The man had to be going back to town; he had just stopped home for a bite. He would be out of there soon, and Paul would follow—
Roy Stillwell started up the stairs.
His footfalls sounded like the beating of a drum. He reached the top and sounded so close Paul thought he was in the same room. But he had gone past, to a bathroom near the end of the hall. From the sounds that followed, it was likely he would be occupied for a while.
Paul slipped out of the closet, carefully shutting the door, then peered out into the hallway. The bathroom door, open, was on the same side. Stillwell continued his business loudly as Paul crept to the stairs, then ran down. Back to the utility room, where he snatched up his boots and climbed out the window, pushing it down after him. With the boots in hand he ran behind the ba
rn, keeping it between himself and the house until he was into dense woods, forty yards away, where he stopped.
His feet were wet and freezing. Nothing he could do about it, other than pull the boots on. Using the cover of the woods, he trudged back to Snowcrest Way in snow at times waist deep.
The road was now little wider than a driveway as it neared the top of Whiskey Hill. There was only one house left.
Walter McClain’s A-frame.
An impressive home on half an acre of land, all for a man who lived by himself and spent most of his time somewhere else. No vehicles were parked there, and the snow along the driveway had not been disturbed, aside from the tracks of a small animal. Nor was there any smoke from the tall chimney. Still, Paul approached warily, for there was little shelter. He glanced back at Snowcrest Way a few times.
McClain told residents at the colony to keep their doors unlocked, but his house was sealed tighter than a bank vault. After checking every door and window, Paul dug around in the snow-covered shrubbery along the base until he found a large rock. He carried it to the kitchen window and hesitated for only a second before shoving it through the glass. It was nearly three-thirty; no more time to be discreet.
He enlarged the opening then listened. The breaking glass had not roused anyone. He climbed inside the attractively paneled room and explored every square foot of the house. For the third time he was frustrated on Whiskey Hill, although not surprised.
Before leaving he helped himself to some dry socks from Walter McClain’s dresser. At three-forty he started down Snowcrest Way.
Harriet Thorburn was late.
Mary usually saw her on the first floor between two and two-thirty. But today she hadn’t appeared on the great staircase until three-twenty, while Mary was crossing the main central hall from the day room. She had found a lot of reasons for being downstairs during the workday and, like Paul, worried about arousing suspicions. But other than Jane Tyler, who seemed to treat everyone with equal indignation and distrust, she had not encountered any of the descendants more than once.