by Mike Sirota
Mary cursed age and weight as she tried to climb the service stairs faster than normal. Breathless, she approached the door that separated the guestrooms from Harriet Thorburn’s private quarters. She opened it with one of the keys that Paul had given her.
Another corridor. Mirrors on both walls in fancy scrolled frames. The end wall, twenty-five feet from where she stood, was covered by a large, colorful Indian rug. Two pairs of double doors were opposite each other, halfway down. Mary chose the set on the left and tried the knob. It was unlocked. She opened the door an inch and made sure no one was inside before she entered Harriet Thorburn’s drawing room. Two chairs and a love seat wore brightly flowered chintz coverings, which matched the draperies. Dozens of framed photographs filled the tops of two Golden Oak sideboards and the mantel of a small stone fireplace. A harp stood in one corner, next to an ancient music stand. A comfortable room; but Mary spent little time there.
A door in the right-hand wall led into Harriet Thorburn’s large bedroom. Mary wondered if the frail woman felt lost in the middle of the mahogany poster bed that dominated the chamber. A Queen Anne highboy was undoubtedly priceless. In fact everything there, Mary decided, was incredibly old, except for a portable television sitting on top of a side table.
But knowing what she now did about this descendant of John Thorburn, Mary felt strange standing there. Crossed hands on a pillow, she thought. She glanced at the vanity and suddenly thought about Vera Miles’s Lila Crane character walking around Mrs. Bates’s bedroom in Psycho. It made her shudder. Gail Farringer was obviously not there. She wanted out.
The door opened behind her. There was a click; light filled the room. Mary turned, then froze.
The way down Whiskey Hill was not easy. Paul stayed off the road for fear of suddenly confronting a vehicle. One did pass: Roy Stillwell’s squad car, which Paul watched from a clump of skeletal trees.
Snow fell lightly again as he reached the bottom of the hill. Four o’clock. The colony day had just ended. He might not be out of place walking around Stillwell now, he thought, as he neared the intersection of Washo and Placer. Then he remembered the cars buried behind Big House. No, stay in the shadows. It was the only sure way.
He hid in the doorway of an empty store and checked the activity on Washo. There were a couple of vehicles by the Nugget Bar, which had just opened. Closer to him, Roy Stillwell’s squad car and a Chevy Blazer were parked by the sheriff’s office. Looking at them, Paul knew where he was going next.
He assumed both lawmen were inside. Jake Stillwell was home. The colony staff more than likely remained at work.
That eliminated all the descendants except Dan Fry and his daughter.
Gail was in their house. He would bet on it.
One loose end was tied when Carl Stillwell stepped out of the station. He opened the front door of his Blazer, took something from the glove compartment, looked up and down the street, and went back in.
How was he going to cross Washo? Paul wondered. What if one of them came out again? Exposure, though brief, could not be avoided. Still, he had to chance it.
His gaze on the sheriff’s office, he stepped off the curb. Washo Street had been cleared but remained slippery. Without realizing it he was practically running to the other side.
Mostly there, his feet gave way. He fell backward, hard. The impact stunned him. He lay there a few moments then crawled up the curb, over the sidewalk, to the corner building. He stopped there, his back against the brick façade, and shook off the haze that blurred his vision. His neck hurt from the fall, and he stretched it, hoping to ease the pain.
Move, dammit! The sheriff’s station…move!
He pulled himself up, staggered to the alley, then hurried past the back of Dooley’s Garage and other stores to Alpine Street. He remembered to check the door of Idlewood Livery. It was still wedged tightly.
Someone walked along Alpine Street from the direction of Trout Lane: Salazar, from the restaurant. Paul hid in a doorway and watched him pass. The heavyset man reached Washo Street and turned the corner. Satisfied that no one else was around, Paul left the alley.
The Fry house stood out ominously on the deserted Trout Lane. A few days ago he had helped Jenny carry groceries to her sick father. Now he approached their house like a burglar, using doorways, trees along the edge of the curb, and finally the fence of the house next door for cover. No one lived there. Windows were boarded up; the roof was in terrible disrepair.
Paul decided to take advantage of the house being deserted. He passed through a broken gate in the picket fence and crept stealthily to the side of the house. There, next to a large, decaying woodbin, he felt safe from exposure for the first time in a while.
Smoke poured from the chimney of the Fry house. Maybe just one was home, if the other had decided to open the store for the rest of the afternoon. The windows, all with light-colored shades drawn, revealed nothing.
Farther along the side fence a couple of slats were missing. Paul couldn’t fit through. As he started to widen the opening, he heard a noise. A cat scuttled atop the garbage cans in a sheltered niche on the side of the Fry house. He watched as the hungry animal squeezed under the lid of a half-opened can. The lid came loose, clattered against the next can, and fell to the snow. The cat froze then began rummaging.
A shade went up. Jenny Fry opened the window. The animal jumped from the can, knocking it over. There had not been much inside. Jenny yelled “Shoo!” and beat her hand against the sill until the cat ran off. She watched it disappear around back, then closed the window and pulled the shade.
Paul waited for her to take care of the overturned can. After three frustrating minutes he decided she wasn’t going to come out. Removing another slat allowed him a wide enough opening. His gaze on the house, he crossed the snow-filled yard. He stopped once behind the trunk of a young Ponderosa pine then went on until he knelt under a window.
His back pressed against the side of the house, he caught his breath. This was crazy, he thought. Even if he got inside without being seen or heard, how was he going to move around and look for Gail?
The basement. There were windows at his feet on either side. Small, but enough to fit through if he could get one open. The nearest was caked with soot from the inside. He crept to the other. Through a narrow opening he could see a portion of the Frys’ dreary basement. No lights were on, only the furnace’s red glow from an unseen corner.
Some luck: one of the small panes was broken. A rag had been stuffed in, waiting for the glass to be replaced. Paul worked the rag free and buried it under the snow. Putting his hand inside, he unlocked the window and pushed it in slowly, quietly, despite the urgency he felt.
Four-fifteen. It would be dark in less than an hour.
He squeezed through and lowered himself to the cracked concrete floor, then shut the window. It seemed oppressively hot. Cartons with names of diverse products were stacked along one wall. Jars of nuts, bolts, and nails lined shelves. There was a workbench, gray with dust and spider webs. Across from it, a rusty old bicycle lay on its side.
Farther in, past the wood staircase to the kitchen, was the hidden corner. As Paul moved toward the red glow, it suddenly flared brighter. A loud chuffing noise startled him, until he realized the furnace had turned on. He circled the base of the stairs, looking up at the kitchen door. From above came Dan Fry’s terrible racking cough.
Paul stopped, peering into the niche. A cot ran lengthwise against the wall, opposite the furnace. Gail Farringer, dressed in a heavy sweater despite the heat, lay on it, either asleep or…
No, not dead. Her hands and feet were bound; a belt was secured around her waist and under the cot. She was gagged with a red bandanna. Her boots were on the floor near the furnace.
Still, until he knew for sure, Paul’s heart raced. He leaned over her. “Gail?” he whispered.
Her eyes snapped open. She saw him, and they widened. The garbled sounds she made through the gag were too loud. He put a finger to
his lips. She understood, nodded.
The knot in the bandanna was tight; it must have been hurting her. He loosened it, and she moved her jaw painfully.
“Thank God you’re here!” she gasped. “Paul, what’s happening?”
“Later,” he said, looking up as Fry’s cough echoed through the house. “We have to get out of here!”
The other knots were hard to work loose. Paul had a small pocketknife on his key chain—not sharp, but it might take too long to find something else in the basement.
While Paul worked, Gail whispered in a halting voice, “They came…early this morning. I don’t know how many, but…they were in my cabin before I was awake. They tied me up, put me…in a sack!” She bit her lip. “It was Arthur, the cook! Big, gentle Arthur carried me out and put me in someone’s trunk. They…drove me here.”
He cut the last strands of the rope around her wrists. She threw her arms around him, and they held each other. Then Paul said, “I’d better finish.”
“That…woman has been down here a few times,” Gail continued. “She sits here, says crazy things, strokes my hair. She feeds me, too, but won’t answer anything.” She touched his arm; her hand was trembling. “Paul?”
“Yes?”
“They were going to do…something awful to me.”
“It won’t happen now. There.” He threw the piece of rope on the floor. “Hurry, get your boots on.”
As she did, Paul realized Fry’s coughing was louder. He looked up. The door was open. Jenny stood on the stairs, a third of the way down, looking over the rail.
“Paul, what a nice surprise.” She smiled. “I didn’t know you were friends.” Louder, she called, “Dad? We have another visitor.”
Reacting quickly, Paul circled to the base of the stairs and climbed them two at a time. Jenny backed up. The stairs were uneven; he stumbled once. His only thought—perhaps their only chance—was to get to Jenny.
Then Dan Fry was next to his daughter. Paul looked into the barrels of the man’s shotgun and froze.
“Why’d you come here?” Fry wheezed. “You can’t know what you stuck yourself into.” He sounded apologetic.
Paul glared at him. “Wanna bet?”
Fry glanced down at Gail. “Jenny’s gonna tie you back up. You let her, or I’ll blow his friggin’ head off. Understand?”
“Yes,” Gail said coldly.
“You, get your belly up against the rail and your hands out over the side,” he ordered Paul. “Don’t even breathe while Jenny’s goin’ down.”
Paul did as he was told. Jenny passed him, still smiling. As she reached the bottom, her father exploded in a paroxysm of coughing. The shotgun was aimed at the steps. Paul whirled around and grabbed the cold metal with both hands, trying to yank it away. But Dan Fry had once been a strong man. Even now, racked by illness, he was the equal of his younger aggressor. They wrestled with the gun. Paul finally pulled it free but nearly lost his balance. The shotgun flew from his hands, down past Jenny, and struck the hard basement floor. Both barrels were discharged with an ear-splitting roar, the metal spray ripping a hole in the wall.
“Damn you!” Fry yelled, reaching for Paul with both hands as blood trickled from his mouth. Paul sidestepped the lunging attempt, and, still coughing, Fry tumbled down the basement steps. There was a disquieting sound when the floor checked his fall. His body thrashed for a moment.
Then the coughing stopped.
Jenny knelt by her father’s body, poking it in hope of finding some life. Paul started down the stairs, then halted when she stared up at him.
“You killed him,” she said dully, then wailed, “You killed my father! Oh no, he’s dead!”
She stood and screamed. Paul clenched his fists, uncertain what to do. Gail spun the woman around and drove a fist into her face. Jenny moaned then went down, her fall broken by her father’s body.
“Let’s go!” Paul shouted.
He grabbed Gail’s hand. They ran up the stairs and into the kitchen. Paul noticed Jenny’s purse on the table. “Wait a minute,” he said, opening it.
“What are you looking for?” Gail asked.
“Car keys. Ah, here we go.”
“What about your car? How did you get to town?”
He rolled up a shade halfway. The snow was falling harder than a few minutes before.
“It’s been like this all day,” he said. “My car’s buried at the colony.”
“You walked to town?”
“Yeah.”
“To look for me?”
He shrugged. “Listen, you better find a coat or something before we go out.”
She kissed him, only for a moment, but hard, then hurried into the living room and found a closet near the front door. Paul checked the phone. Dead. He looked out the window. Trout Lane was deserted. Apparently no one had heard the gunshot.
Gail was ready. She handed him a pair of heavy gloves. “You left yours in the basement,” she said. “They were torn anyway.”
“Thanks.”
They went out the front door and ran to a large shed that doubled as a garage. Paul raised the door. The only vehicle was a five-year-old Ford pickup. It appeared ready for the road: no chains, but the tires were studded. They climbed into the cab, and he started the engine. It protested then finally turned over. He let it run for a minute.
“This is crazy,” he said. “I’m not sure we can get out of here. The road out of Stillwell is probably buried. Maybe we’re better off finding someplace to hide until we know it’s clear.”
“Then why don’t we?” Gail asked.
He slammed a fist on the dashboard. “Because these are crazy, desperate people! Wherever we hide—in town, at the colony—they will find us. Right now they’re not expecting this, so we have an advantage.”
She nodded. “Let’s try it.”
He forced the pickup through the deep snow in the driveway. Trout Lane and Alpine Street had been cleared once, but the slick surface was covered by another inch of powder. Luckily the studded tires bit deeply and held. As long as it stayed like this, he thought, they might make it.
Their element of surprise was suddenly gone.
Carl Stillwell’s Blazer turned onto Alpine Street.
“Shit,” Paul muttered. “Gail, hold on!”
“What are you going to do?”
“He doesn’t know who we are yet, so he won’t be expecting anything. We’re going to ram the bastard.”
Paul maintained his speed as the Blazer neared. When the vehicles were five yards apart he could see Carl Stillwell’s ruddy face. The deputy stared as he realized that neither of the Frys was in the truck.
“Now!” Paul yelled, shifting and accelerating. The tires first caught the ice then skidded when he jerked the wheel to the left. But even without full control the effect was the same, the vehicles being so close. The pickup plowed into Stillwell’s door with a frightening crunch of metal against metal. A headlight shattered; the front bumper, already loose, fell off. But the worst of the damage was to the Blazer.
Paul cut back to the right. The vehicles rubbed lengthwise for a second, finally separating. He slowed and regained control.
“Are you all right?” he asked Gail.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
They looked back. The Blazer had come to a stop against the curb in front of Idlewood Livery. Carl Stillwell opened the door, which nearly fell off. He staggered away from the vehicle, stared at them, then crumpled to the snow.
“Was he in your room this morning?” Paul asked.
“Yes. He held me while Arthur tied me up. He…hurt me.”
“I’d like to drive back over his face.”
“So would I, but let’s just go!”
They turned onto Washo Street. The wind from off the lake pushed the snow hard behind them. Paul watched the sheriff’s office until they crossed Placer Street. Half a minute later they were beyond the last of the town’s buildings.
But on its only run of the day th
e snowplow had given up halfway to the Aspen Creek bridge. A mound of snow several feet high blocked the road. No one was driving in or out of Stillwell that day.
“So we do it on foot,” Paul said. “Are you up to it?”
“Yes, but what about you? I noticed you limping before.”
“I’m fine. Come on!”
He wasn’t fine. His ankle throbbed from a fall on Whiskey Hill; his neck was sore. Screw it, he told himself. He’d worry about it when they were somewhere safe. He’d take Gail away from this madness, then—as Mary had put it—they’d come back with the cavalry.
Mary. By now she’d found nothing in Harriet Thorburn’s quarters and was safely back in her room. But was she safe? Were any of the residents safe from these people, all of who would soon be aware that the end was near? What would they do in desperation? Paul tried not to think about it.
A sign, barely above the top of a drift, read one-lane bridge ahead. It was near, although with the snow and descending night they could not see farther than ten yards.
“Paul, listen,” Gail said.
He heard it too. From behind, a motor. They went faster, Paul gnashing his teeth against the pain. Then another sound: the rushing water of Aspen Creek. Ice had formed all along the sides, but it was wide, and open water ran through the center of it.
On the bridge now. Holding tightly to each other, they slowly forced their way through the deep snow.
A gunshot, fired high above their heads, echoed somewhere. Barely visible behind them, Roy Stillwell called out, “That’s far enough. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“Gail, run!” Paul yelled, putting himself between her and the sheriff. Stillwell said something like “Damn fools.” Then a bullet hit one of the trusses near Paul’s head. He jumped aside, landed awkwardly, and struck a waist-high guardrail. His momentum carried him over, and he plummeted to the surging water below.
“Paul!”
His head grazed a large rock in the middle of the creek. A numbing chill captured him as the water rose around him, penetrating his clothes. He felt the current moving him along, then…