Cold on the Mountain Read online

  COLD

  ON THE

  MOUNTAIN

  DANIEL POWELL

  DISTILLATIONS PRESS

  COLD ON THE MOUNTAIN

  Copyright © 2015 Daniel Powell.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Educators are encouraged to use selected passages from this text under reasonable guidelines for fair use.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in 2015 by Distillations Press · Charleston, South Carolina

  ASIN: B00SU4OSE2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Project Design: Canopy Studios

  Kindle First Edition, 2015

  All they wanted was a vacation to the Grand Canyon. Instead, they found themselves on a collision course with a terrible, timeless darkness.

  Welcome to Adrienne, home to history’s worst serial killers and mass murderers. Nestled in an isolated meadow high in the Sierra Nevada, Adrienne is sort of like a cosmic lint trap. It collects the universe’s negative energy—all of our blackest human impulses—before purging that darkness back into the world in a yearly lottery. From Hitler to Bin Laden…Bundy to Gacy, Adrienne is the way station for dark energy that doesn’t just pass on—it passes through.

  When Phil Benson decides to take an unmarked detour over the mountain, he drives his family into the mouth of madness, where they are forced to join a captive labor pool with little hope for freedom. Escape is pointless and time stretches out into eternity, with every new day the same as the last.

  Sometimes, it’s better just to skip the shortcut.

  for Jeanne

  ONE

  They held hands, studying the sheriff from the business side of his metal desk.

  If the circumstances weren’t so unsettling, Bo Benson might have enjoyed the meeting. He felt as though he’d stepped from one manufactured reality into another—this one similar to Hitchcock’s Psycho, right down to the quaint little California town.

  The man asking the questions had a square jaw and keen gray eyes. The eyes communicated two things above all others: a wry sense of humor and a healthy dose of professional confidence. Bo thought that the criminals of Inyo County probably had their work cut out for them in their dealings with the man.

  His name was Woodrow Tasket, and he had a well-manicured moustache and a full head of trimmed gray hair. His uniform was neatly pressed and, when his eyebrows bunched in a frown of concentration, Bo suddenly placed the lawman in his mind.

  That’s Sam Elliot in his prime, he thought. The spitting damned image!

  “I enjoy your program very much, Mr. Benson,” Tasket said, “although your writers don’t really think too highly of law enforcement, now do they? If folks believed half of what was depicted on your show, they’d have a damned low opinion of the LAPD.”

  Bo grinned. “It all serves the plot, Sheriff Tasket. We have to set things up so the white knight can swoop in and solve the crime in the final act. Viewers love the formula. They wouldn’t watch if we nabbed the bad guys in the first twenty minutes.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s still not very realistic. Fact is, we solve around ninety percent of the major cases that cross our desk, and we do it pretty efficiently, if I do say so myself. Now then, the two of you drove up here from Los Angeles today?”

  Kelli nodded. “We left around 5:30, Sheriff. Traffic eased up once we cleared Palmdale and we made good time.”

  He nodded. “Shoot—I’ll say. Four hours?”

  “Give or take,” Bo replied, his smile admitting that they had, in fact, broken the speed limit here and there. His Boxster sat in front of the tiny police station, as conspicuous in Bishop as a zit on prom night.

  “Well, I guess I can say that I appreciate your punctuality, Mr. Benson. You might want to slow down on the way home—try to enjoy the view.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward over his desk, his hands folded in front of him. “Now when was the last time you spoke with your brother or his family?”

  Bo turned to his girlfriend. Kelli Armstead didn’t work in Hollywood, but she looked like she could have. She had bronze skin, striking hazel eyes, and a mouth that seemed perpetually ready to smile; the smiling was a good thing, given her line of work.

  She taught third graders at an elementary school in Malibu, and Bo had met her at a promotional event in a bookstore that specialized in mysteries. They’d been together for almost three years, and there was a ring in the back of his underwear drawer at home with her name on it. He was just waiting for the right moment to bend a knee.

  “Before they left for their vacation,” Kelli said. “I spoke with Wendy on the telephone, just wishing her a good trip and stuff like that. We Skype with them every Sunday afternoon. Haven’t missed one in months, I’d say. When I called this past weekend, nobody picked up. I tried them on the cell, but it went straight to voicemail. The thing is, they should have been back home the day before—on the 8th. So…so, I guess I’m really not sure when they might have gone missing.”

  Tasket clicked the button on his ballpoint pen. “When did they start out on this vacation?”

  “They left the previous Saturday,” Bo replied. “March 1. I believe they spent that first night in Crescent City, and then they had a night with our aunt down in San Francisco. From there, they were headed into Nevada, but the road was closed. They…well, I guess they had to make some kind of a detour.”

  “And how do you know all this if you haven’t kept in touch?”

  “Wendy updated her Facebook page,” Kelli said. “She posted that they encountered a locked gate and forty inches of snow on the south end of Lake Tahoe.”

  Tasket smiled. “They didn’t check with the road service before leaving San Francisco? That route’s completely shut down until May. Sometimes well beyond that.”

  Bo winced. “My brother’s not the best when it comes to stuff like that. The details, I mean. To them, it was just a road on a map, Sheriff, and the shortest way to boot. He thought it was viable. Phil’s a sucker for a good shortcut.”

  Tasket tilted his head and scratched behind his right ear; Bo recognized it immediately—it was the man’s I’m thinking gesture. Little mannerisms like that were the currency of good acting. He filed it away, excited about trotting it out when he returned to the studio.

  “And so why are you filing this report here in Bishop? They leave something about our fine little hamlet here on that Facebook page?”

  Kelli nodded. “Wendy posted two updates before they fell out of contact. The first was a complaint about the price of gasoline. That one also mentioned that a man at the filling station had directed them to an old motel out on the Nevada border. Wendy…well, she didn’t sound too thrilled about the possibility of spending the night there, but Phil insisted.”

  Tasket’s eyes narrowed. “They say which road they took?”

  “Nope. We’d have gone looking for them ourselves if she had. Just checking the map, though, I’d guess it was Highway 168,” Bo replied. This coaxed a nod of agreement out of the Sheriff.

  “You said there were two updates?” Tasket showed them a peace sign.

  “Yeah,” Bo said. He drew a deep breath. “In the last one, Wendy wrote that Phil was taking a road that wasn’t on the map. ‘Wish us luck!’ it said. You don’t think…you don’t suppose they got stuck in the snow, do you?”

  Tasket remained silent for a long minute.

  “She stopped updating the Facebook page and you two didn�
�t find that strange?” he finally said. “I mean, you said they were going to the Grand Canyon. Seems like there would be lots of updates—pictures, posts, and the like.”

  Kelli shrugged. “Yeah, it struck me as a little bit strange, I suppose, but Wendy and Phil are very into their family time. And Wendy really only updated her page in spurts. She’d neglect it one week, and then hit it hard the next. We just figured they were enjoying themselves. Like I said, they were supposed to be back in Roseburg last Saturday.”

  “Okay,” Tasket said. “I certainly understand your concern. First thing I’ll do is drive out to check those filling stations. I have an idea who they might have spoken with. And there is an old motel out on 168. That’s probably the direction they were headed. Right there on the north side of Last Chance Mountain.”

  Bo grimaced at the peak’s pessimistic moniker.

  “You folks staying in town?”

  “For the time being,” Bo replied. “We’ll be over at the Best Western. You’ve got my cell number. You want Kelli’s?”

  He nodded and took it down, then stood and shook hands with each of them.

  “What does your gut tell you, Sheriff Tasket?” Bo said. “You’ve probably been through this dozens of times. What do your instincts say?”

  Tasket frowned. “No two situations are ever the same, Mr. Benson. If I’ve learned anything in my thirty-two years in law enforcement, it’s that every case is unique. But I don’t think you folks should be too worried just yet. Let me poke around a bit, try to put something together.”

  Benson nodded, and they left the police station and drove back to the motel in silence.

  TWO

  March 03—A Dark Crossroads

  Are you sure you want to do this, Phil?” she said. The twins had been restless for the last couple of hours, so they’d pulled into the deserted parking lot to stretch their legs. This not-so-little detour was taking a toll on all of them, and Wendy was on the verge of tears.

  “Sweetie, we’re almost 300 miles off our route! If we want to keep our schedule, we have to do this! We don’t have a choice!” The frustration was plain in his voice, and he had to make an effort to keep from shouting.

  “But it’s…Jesus, Phil, it’s not even on the map! And I hate to break it to you, dear husband, but you’ve got your dad’s sense of direction. It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far without getting turned around, to be honest with you.”

  Phil shook his head, quietly seething. It was his fault, but still—the words stung.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Wendy said, wrapping her arms around him. “That wasn’t called for. I’ve…I’ve just got a really bad feeling about this.”

  Phil rifled a hand through his hair, taking stock of their situation. It was damned cold out, even after they’d dropped down a few thousand feet in elevation. The twins carefully picked their way across the gravel lot, studying the skeletal remains of a decrepit motel. The minivan (his buddy Craig had recently christened it Roseburg’s finest “mommy missile”) sat in the dim orange light of a solitary streetlamp.

  He reviewed their options: two pothole-strewn roads connected at a right angle. Two lonely roads, converging at a crossroads on the side of a frozen mountain in the middle of nowhere.

  Dark highways up here, Phil Benson thought. Some mighty dark roads indeed.

  The headlamps pointed down a route that they simply could not locate on any of the maps in the atlas, or on the little folding map of California that they’d purchased in Crescent City. It cut a path toward a bowl of majestic peaks, the route climbing gradually higher toward a distant pass.

  “It might not be on the map, Wendy, but that’s south! It just…it’s south, honey! Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t call ahead about that road outside of Tahoe. I didn’t even know that I was supposed to. You live and learn, right? I mean, you think I wanted any of this to happen? I just—I didn’t know, okay?”

  “I understand that, Phil,” Wendy said. She wrapped her arms around him again and hugged him hard, rubbing his back. “Of course I know that. It’s just…well, first I wished that we’d just changed our plans and stayed the night in Tahoe. Then I wished we’d stayed the night in Bishop. Then I’d even hoped we’d take a room at that creepy old motel outside of Deep Springs. Now…now I’m getting a little bit freaked out here. We’re in a tough spot, Phil. It feels serious to me. And this road…it’s not safe. Who knows where it leads?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Listen, we have almost a full tank of gas. If need be, I’ll just drive straight through the night. We still want three full days at the Grand Canyon, right?”

  She nodded, but there wasn’t much conviction in it.

  “Then this is our best bet. It’s got to be a shortcut, and who knows—maybe we’ll find a cute little town just over the next hill!”

  She smirked. Her husband, the eternal optimist.

  “Fine. You win, Phil, but don’t you dare wake me up if I fall asleep. I don’t want to hear it if—”

  She was interrupted by a shriek, and then they were both running.

  “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!” Carrie screamed. Camille was jumping up and down, pointing at something in the darkness.

  “Girls! Girls, what is it!” Phil called. He reached them first, frantically checking to make sure that they were unhurt.

  “It’s huge!” Camille said. “Dad, look!”

  He squinted into the night. A full, bright moon illuminated the white tips of the Sierra Nevada. A dilapidated roadside billboard advertising a car dealership (Bill Carmichael Dodge—Where WE Treat YOU Like A Million Bucks!) stood about fifty yards in the distance, the shredded canvas flapping in the wind. He studied it, heart hammering in his chest.

  “What am I looking at, Camille? That old sign?”

  “Just wait,” she whispered. “You’ll see.”

  Wendy caught up to them. “Kids, what—”

  “Shhhhh!” the girls hissed in unison.

  The four of them stood silently, watching the billboard, their breath steaming on the night air. A moment later, an ostrich strutted out from behind the billboard. Its neck bobbed comically as it walked. It turned and stared at them, clearly equal to their curiosity.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Phil whispered. “That’s an ostrich!”

  “Duh!” Carrie said. “But what’s it doing all the way out here?”

  “Must be a ranch close by,” Phil said. “They got ‘em all over the place in California, I think. Ostrich and llama ranches—all kinds of exotic animals.”

  The bird watched them a moment longer before losing interest. It turned and strolled in the opposite direction, disappearing in the darkness.

  “Well, that settles it,” Phil said. “We should definitely take the shortcut.”

  “What on earth do you mean, Phil?” Wendy said.

  “Isn’t it obvious? We saw an ostrich! That has to be good luck, right? Somewhere?” He shrugged, grinning.

  Wendy just shook her head in disbelief and the girls laughed at their dad. The tension had vanished and they climbed back into the mommy missile and swung out onto that dark highway.

  Wendy pulled her iPad from the center console.

  “What are you up to?” Phil said.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Wendy replied. “Just informing the world that my husband is driving our family straight into the abyss.”

  There was humor in her tone but, as she typed out the message on her Facebook page, she couldn’t discount the anxiety that was mounting, like August thunderheads over the Rogue River, in the back of her mind.

  THREE

  Tasket parked behind the Conoco station. A little convenience store sat in the center of sixteen gas pumps. A faded tin sign flapped in the breeze on the side of Highway 6.

  LAST GASOLINE FOR 128 MILES

  “Hello there, Billy? You in today?” Tasket called, stepping inside. He removed his hat. The place smelled of disinfectant and fried food.

  A thin man stepped out of a
back office and met him at the counter. “Sheriff,” he said, extending his hand. “What’s on your mind?”

  They shook and Tasket displayed a family photograph of the Bensons. In it, they were standing in front of an enormous Sitka spruce, a little plaque in the ground at their feet. The picture had been taken someplace near their home in Oregon. “Recognize these folks?”

  “I do,” Billy Carden said immediately. “They filled up a few weeks back. Darned nice people. Oregon plates, if I’m not mistaken. I told them about the Vagabond—thought Merle could use some business, but that man,” he tapped Phil’s image on the photograph, “was adamant about pushing as far into Nevada as he could get. Fella had a schedule to keep.”

  Tasket nodded. “Don’t they all? Did anything…anything seem strange to you? Any…tension between him and the missus? Kids look okay?”

  “Right as rain, Sheriff. They bought some snacks, topped off the tank and lit out for the big six-eight. What happened?”

  “Can’t say for sure. Why didn’t you tell them to take Highway 6, Billy? You know how 168 can be this time of year.”

  “Oh, I tried! I worked that angle from the very start, Sheriff. Fella wasn’t having it. He insisted they take the shortcut. I told him it was a tough road, but then I remembered ol’ Merle’s place. I mentioned it, and he agreed that they’d take a room. That made me feel better. I slept fine, supposing I’d done Merle a good turn and that the family would be well shut of the weather.”

  “Fair enough, then. Guess I’m off to Merle’s.” Tasket clapped his hat on. “Anything else you might have noticed about them?”

  Billy shrugged. “Real nice folks, Sheriff. Beautiful little girls. I hope everything’s okay.”

  “Me too, Billy. Me too. Have a nice day, now.”

  ~0~

  The Vagabond was less than a mile outside of Deep Springs—the last refuge on the way down the far side of the mountain.

  Tasket took it slow, the slush forming twin geysers beneath the studded tires of his cruiser. If the Bensons had been stranded up here since the 19th, then they’d seen fourteen inches of new snow in eight days. The temperatures had dipped down into the single digits every night during that stretch of cold.