by Mike Sirota
Nothing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Someplace dark but warm.
A familiar place, with a familiar smell and a familiar feel under his bound hands.
The thick softness of the thunderbird rug.
Paul was a prisoner in his own cabin.
Why were the lights off, the fireplace dead? Maybe he was blind, or his head hadn’t cleared enough, or they had something over his eyes. No, he could dimly see outlines of things. And as he became used to the darkness he knew that someone sat in a chair by the door.
“Paul? Paul, can you hear me?” Gail’s voice.
“Yeah,” he said with difficulty. His mouth felt like straw.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “You were out for hours. Paul, they have us at the colony again.”
“I know.” He tried to move. Everything hurt. “Jesus, what happened?”
“You better keep it down,” a man cautioned, and punctuated the warning by spitting loudly on the cabin floor. Their jailer was Jake Stillwell.
Paul, like Gail, wore different clothes. He started to remember things as his head cleared.
“The creek,” he whispered. “How did I get out of there?”
“That sheriff was going to let you drown,” Gail said bitterly. “The bastard! He said it didn’t make any difference.”
“Then…you…?”
Three quick knocks sounded on the door. Stillwell got up as Walter McClain entered and switched on the light, nearly blinding Paul and Gail.
“So he’s back,” McClain muttered. He crossed the room and stood over them. “We had no idea you were such good friends. You take her from the Fry house—killing poor old Dan in the process—and she pulls you out of Aspen Creek! More than just friends, I think. Oh, if we’d only known, then none of this would be happening.”
“McClain.” Paul glared up at the man. “You son of a bitch!”
“Actually, I’m glad you didn’t drown. It’s been so long since we’ve had two at the same time.”
“Two for what?” Gail asked.
McClain smiled grimly at Paul. “I don’t understand how, but he knows. Don’t you, Paul?”
“You won’t get away with it this time!” Paul snapped. “I’m not like Gail, or Sherri Jordan, or Christ knows how many others you murdered! It’s over, don’t you understand?”
“That will be my problem,” McClain said. “A traffic accident on your way to the casinos, something like that. Terrible tragedy. Such a well-known, talented writer. But accidents happen, Paul. No one will suspect anything different.” McClain turned to go then looked at him again. “Tell me, how did you figure it out?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
McClain smiled. “I really do want to know. Since you did it, who’s to say someone else won’t in the future? I’ll make a deal. It doesn’t matter to them who they get. Tell me everything, Paul, and you’ll be the only one. Gail will die quickly, without pain. If you know the truth, then you understand what you’ll be saving her from.”
Paul wavered. Gail looked at both men, then cried out, “No, Paul, no! If I’m going to die, then I’ll die with you. But don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing anything. Please!”
Paul stared hard at McClain. “There’s your answer. Now get the hell out of here.”
McClain spun on his heel and looked at Jake Stillwell. “Everything will be ready soon. Watch them carefully till then. Any problems…take care of it however you want.”
He left. Stillwell checked their bonds, then switched off the light and again slumped down in the chair. Paul’s body shook with rage from the confrontation with McClain. Gail could feel it.
“Paul?” she whispered. “Paul, please, it’s all right.”
“Nothing’s all right! They’re going to—”
“No, stop,” she said firmly. “I changed my mind. Paul, I don’t want to know.”
He nodded. “Maybe that’s best. Gail?”
“Yes?”
“You could’ve died jumping into the creek.”
“You could’ve died trying to find me.”
“McClain said we must be more than just friends. I think he’s right.”
“I know he’s right. Paul, listen. Can you hear me?”
Her voice had dropped. “Barely,” he said.
“Good, then he can’t hear us at all. There’s still some time left. I can’t just wait for them to come and kill us.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“A lame one. I can still move my fingers. If we were back to back, maybe I could untie you. But with him sitting there…”
“If I get on my side, you can reach.”
He started rocking, then moaned, as though in pain. Stillwell sat up. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“My arm hurts from laying on it!” Paul yelled. “Jesus, ow!” He rolled onto his side. “That’s better.”
Stillwell was alert for a few seconds, then relaxed. They waited, to be sure. Then Paul felt Gail’s fingers. Her body shielded the frantic movements of her hands from Stillwell, even if he could see across the small room in the dark. So subtle were her actions, Stillwell suspected nothing.
But the knots were too tight, her access limited. She worked at it for fifteen minutes, growing more frustrated. Finally she gave up.
“Sorry, Paul, I can’t do it.”
“I’ve been thinking of something,” he said, “but it’s more desperate than brilliantly conceived.”
“That’s where we’re at now. What is it?”
He eased onto his back without a stir from Jake Stillwell, then explained his plan to Gail.
Jake Stillwell wished the night’s business was finished. He had never cared much for it, but like his father had always told him and Roy, “You gotta do what’s gotta be done.” Not profound, but concrete. Still, he wished it were over so he could be back in his basement. Especially since this one was not going so smoothly. If only Ms. Thorburn hadn’t felt so poorly last night, it would have already been over.
They had been quiet for a while. Now he could hear them talking again. Softly at first; then, in growing fear and anger, their voices rose.
“Why the hell am I dying for you?” the man yelled.
“For me?” the woman cried. “I didn’t ask for your help. You could’ve stayed out of it!”
“I don’t want to die!” he whined. “Where’s McClain? We can make a deal!”
“Coward!” the woman shouted. “You make me sick!”
“Hey, shuddup,” Stillwell warned, “or I’ll stuff something in your mouths.”
They ignored him, the man saying loudly, “McClain! I want to talk to you! Let me go and I’ll tell you everything! Take her, like you were going to! McClain!”
“You bastard!” the woman screamed.
Stillwell was on his feet and across the room. “Goddammit,” he snapped, “I swear I’ll—”
Gail thrust her legs out in front of him. Stillwell fell hard, his head just missing the brick ledge around the fireplace. His shotgun, not cocked, dropped harmlessly to the rug. Although dazed, he tried to get up quickly. Paul, already in position, drove both heels into the man’s face. Stillwell groaned, then was quiet.
Both knew what they had to do. They worked silently, untying each other’s hands. Gail managed to stand, then bent and slipped the ropes off her legs. Paul did the same on the floor. They finished at about the same time. Gail’s gaze remained on Jake Stillwell, but the man did not move.
“Let me help you up,” she said to Paul.
“I’m okay.” He scrambled to his feet.
Their captors had touched nothing in No. 11. Even the rough draft of his new novel lay scattered on the desk, as he had left it. Inside the smaller of the two desk drawers he found his Swiss army knife, a gift from his father on his tenth birthday.
“Let’s hurry,” Gail whispered as Paul snatched up Jake Stillwell’s shotgun.
“Put some more clothes on first.” He hurried to the front wind
ow and peered out between the blinds. “Wouldn’t do us any good to get out of this and then freeze to death in the damn woods.”
The clothes they had worn earlier were strewn across the cabin floor, still damp from the plunge into Aspen Creek. Paul’s down jacket, which he had changed at noontime—a hundred years ago, it seemed—was on the bed where he had left it. He gave it to Gail then helped himself to Jake Stillwell’s large hooded coat, heavy with extra shotgun shells and the man’s gloves in the pockets.
“Come on,” he said, again checking the footpath. “It’s clear.”
Baby Ben read 12:45 when they stepped outside.
The clearing was alive with anticipation. They felt it there, in front of No. 11. It affected Paul as it always did. Gail was overwhelmed.
“Not that way!” she exclaimed. “Oh no, I can’t!”
Paul understood. “The trail to Big House is out too. They’ll be coming soon, if they’re not on the way already. Let’s get across the creek. We’ll follow it to the lake and take our chances there.”
Leanna Creek was nearly three yards wide where it wound past the cabin. Plenty of stepping stones, Paul knew, but not easy to find in the dark. He hadn’t thought of bringing a flashlight. Too late now.
They crossed warily, concerned about their visibility from the footpath. Paul slipped once, the icy water numbing his left leg. The opposite bank was steeper. They scrambled up, paused for a moment then hurried on.
Snow had stopped falling hours ago. The sky was clear, and there was no wind, but the temperature had to be in the teens, or less.
The internal chill eased its grasp as they moved farther away from the place where the Thorburn/McClain cabin had stood. Despite the danger, they were both relieved.
Dense manzanita, rabbit bush, and quaking aspen slowed them; so did the deep virgin snow. They could see the footpath on the other side for a time but finally veered away from it.
Even harder going now. One deep drift took Gail up to her waist. With poor leverage, Paul could hardly help her out. More time lost.
Thorburn Lake, finally. The creek was narrow and forceful where it emptied into the broader body. There they found the path that skirted the lake. Paul took Gail’s hand then suddenly stopped.
Arthur Tyler’s great bulk filled the trail a few yards away.
“Uh, sor-ry but…you can’t go no more,” he said.
Arthur appeared to be unarmed. Paul raised the shotgun. “Get out of our way, Arthur,” he warned. “I will use this.”
“You won’t, Mr. Fleming, not unless you want this woman’s head blown off. Now put it down!”
Jane Tyler, both hands on a service revolver, emerged from the trees on Gail’s left. Jake Stillwell, shivering in a blanket he had thrown over his shoulders, followed.
“You do like she said,” Stillwell told them. “Janie can hit anything she can see.”
Reluctantly, Paul obeyed. Arthur retrieved the shotgun and handed it to the older man.
“We can’t wait anymore,” the librarian said to her brother. “Go tell them that Jake and I are bringing these two out.”
“O-kay.” Arthur looked at Paul and Gail sadly then left.
Stillwell approached the pair. He was rubbing the side of his face where Paul had kicked him. “Take the coat off, now!” he snapped. “The gloves too.”
Paul felt the man’s rage and quickly unzipped the heavy coat and pulled off the gloves. Stillwell snatched them away and threw him the blanket, then tied their hands—too tightly—in front of them.
“Jake, you lead,” Jane Tyler said. “You two, single file behind him.”
“Janie, you watch out for ‘em,” Stillwell warned.
“Don’t worry about me.”
Paul expected the way back would take them along the parking area behind Big House. Not that it would help them much. But the trail they followed was neither along the creek nor directly toward the mansion. It was narrow, thick with snow, but easier than the way he and Gail had come. A few minutes later they were again on the familiar path, between Gail’s cabin and No. 12.
Both Stillwell and the librarian were behind them now. They were urged forward quickly, past the deserted No. 12, past Paul’s cabin, where earlier the snowplow had finished its work long before reaching the sentinel pines. Their footprints in the deep snow became the first. If others were already in the clearing, they had a different way of getting there.
Gail’s anxiety grew as they neared; she shivered uncontrollably. Paul stayed close, trying to keep his body against hers.
Closer to the pines they could see a glow in the distance, through the trees. A small fire, Paul thought. No, hardly a small one. As they neared, he could see a mound over five feet high just across Leanna Creek, its flames crackling as they groped for the night. A strange illusion, to have perceived it as small.
Two people stood close to the fire, adding more wood. Paul recognized Nora Hardman’s red coat. It was a moment before the other hooded figure turned: Jenny Fry, her face bruised where Gail had hit her. The woman had lost her father that day and was now about to take part in murder. She saw Paul and Gail, smiled, waved.
“Stop here,” Jake Stillwell ordered when they were a few yards past the fire. “Guess they aren’t ready,” he said to Jane.
“It won’t be long,” the woman said.
There was some warmth from the blaze, although Gail continued to tremble. Her gaze darted around the clearing, never remaining long on anything. Paul felt her fear grow.
“I can still give in to McClain and spare you this,” he said.
“No…way!” she gasped. “Just…take my hand.”
It was hard, but they managed to link fingers. Gail breathed deeply, exhaling through the mouth. Soon the trembling lessened.
But the terror of their surroundings would not go away. It was alive, this place, some living, throbbing entity. The darkness was its lifeblood, the branches of the pines its arteries and veins, the angry fire its heart. They were intruders there—infectious things—and in time the organism would protect itself, as it always did.
More people were coming. They emerged from the trees near where Leanna Creek again penetrated the forest. Two of them carried something. They walked like litter bearers at opposite ends of what appeared to be flagpoles, each maybe fifteen feet long. The man in front limped badly.
Carl Stillwell and his uncle carried the poles to where Paul and Gail waited at gunpoint. The deputy, his head bandaged under his Stetson, glared at Paul as they lowered the poles to the snow. Paul noticed that one end of each was threaded, as if they were giant screws. Roy Stillwell knelt by Jane’s feet and dug in the snow. When he had dug deep enough he rolled away a large rock, then brushed the earth off a hinged metal flap, about the same diameter as the poles. His nephew did the same at another spot a yard away.
“We won’t even have to untie ‘em,” Roy said. “Bring ‘em over.”
Jake Stillwell pushed them forward and forced them to their knees. Grimacing in pain, Carl lifted one of the poles then guided the threaded end between Paul’s arms and into the hole. He didn’t try to be careful. Twice the cold metal knocked against Paul’s wrists. With his uncle’s help he lowered the pole a couple of feet into the ground, then began turning it. They screwed it in another half a foot before meeting resistance, and were grunting as they tightened it.
Paul caught the deputy’s eye as he worked. “Done this a few times, have you?” he said.
“You shut your mouth, mister,” Carl exploded, “or I swear—”
“Carl, enough!” his father said. “Just get it done.”
They inserted the other pole, trapping Gail, then backed away. For the first time Jane lowered her pistol. She and the Stillwells walked over to the fire. There the six descendants spoke in hushed tones, occasionally gesturing in the direction of the prisoners.
“Tell me one thing,” Gail said to Paul. “Will it…take long?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Once, Paul’s eyes found Nora’s. The woman’s face was lined with anguish. She didn’t want to do this, he thought. Maybe she had never wanted to. But that hadn’t stopped her before, and it wouldn’t now, because she was one of them, and this was their legacy. Still, if he could somehow reach her…
After a moment she shook her head and turned away.
The dancing flames made the trees surrounding the clearing seem alive. Yet aside from the fire and the flow of water in the creek, they were engulfed in silence. Not a bird or animal. Nothing.
Arthur Tyler emerged from between the sentinel pines and lumbered across the clearing. His sister looked at him admonishingly, as if he had done something wrong. Then all the descendants turned toward the trees where the Stillwells had earlier appeared.
Harriet Thorburn held Walter McClain’s arm. Their entrance was the same one they performed every night in the dining room. Slow and regal, not even the terrible Sierra chill enough to quicken their steps. They walked past the other descendants to Paul and Gail, stopping a yard away. The old woman, heavily clothed, stared at Paul.
“So, here’s our complication,” she said, her expression like that of a stern parent with a troublesome child. “We had another once, didn’t we, Walter?”
“Yes, but not like this,” McClain replied. “That one was an accident.”
“I remember now!” she exclaimed. “It was 1951, in…February, I think. Weather like this. That fine artist from Idaho. Excellent work. But the poor fellow had trouble sleeping. Used to take walks at all hours. Wound up here one night, when he shouldn’t have.”
“Entertaining story,” Gail said scornfully. “Why don’t you tell it at dinner sometime?”
“We took care of it,” she went on. “But afterward it was a dilemma. The man had a big family, friends…” She tilted her head, suddenly remembering something. “Not an accident, you say? He knows, then?”
“Yes,” McClain said.
She took two steps toward Paul. “How could you know?” she shrieked. “How could you understand?”
She began slapping him. A fire grew in her eyes, and it was more than just her creeping senility. Raising an elbow, he tried to ward off the blows. She managed to scratch his face with a long fingernail, drawing blood. Paul bit his lip against the pain.