Cold on the Mountain Page 3

  “Coors draft,” Phil said, and the man nodded. He was young and had a goatee and long hair that he kept in a ponytail. He pulled the pint and set it in front of Phil.

  He left, but Phil felt the man’s stare from the other end of the bar. He sipped his drink, suddenly aware that everyone was watching him.

  All eyes in the place seemed pointed in his direction.

  He turned, meeting their gaze in full. Maybe it had been a mistake, coming in here. Confrontation freaked him out, and that’s what these people seemed to be looking for. He stared at his beer, his head down between his shoulders.

  “Can I ask you something?” the bartender said when he was half finished with his beer.

  Phil nodded.

  “Where did you wake up this morning?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  The bartender leaned forward, his voice low. “You don’t look familiar, mister. Can’t say I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “I’m from Oregon. Roseburg. My family and I are on our way to the Grand Canyon.”

  The bartender winced. He leaned across the counter, his voice just above a whisper. “Look, I’m not sure how you found this place, but I think you’d better—”

  “Stop pestering this man!” a booming voice said. Phil started as a hand suddenly braced him across the shoulders. A thin man with carefully sculpted hair and a nose like a hawk’s beak slid onto the stool next to his. He wore a gray three-piece suit that seemed wholly out of place in the little dive bar, and he had a tumbler filled with amber liquid. “You’d do well to remember your place here, William. Your job is to fetch the drinks and keep the peace. That is all. There’s no sense in boring our little town’s infrequent tourists with your alarmist narratives.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender mumbled. He cut his eyes and busied himself elsewhere.

  The man in the suit turned to Phil. His head tilted to the side, he offered a wide smile. “Welcome to Adrienne! I trust you have secured lodging for the night?” He had a heavy German accent.

  “We did. We’re at the little motor court at the end of the road, there.”

  “Ah, John Wayne’s place! Jah, jah! That’s the end of the road, to be sure! Well put, well put!

  “So please—indulge me, this time…where did your day begin, mister…?”

  “Benson. Phil Benson,” he replied, and they shook hands. “We’re from Oregon, but we stayed in San Francisco last night. We’re on our way to the Grand Canyon.”

  The man nodded. “Never been, myself. I have heard that it’s very nice.”

  “The girls are excited. We…we wouldn’t be here in Adrienne if the road had been open. We had to take a detour.”

  This tickled the man. His laugh was high and raspy. “Jah, a detour! That’s very funny. A detour…”

  Phil felt his cheeks burn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The man sipped his drink. He turned and swept an arm, indicating the fifty or sixty people in the saloon. “Take a good look, Mr. Benson. We are sitting together in a small-town bar, very near closing time. Last call will arrive at any moment. Does anything strike you as…well, as odd?”

  Phil turned. It took him a minute, but he finally picked up on it. “Not a lot of women.” He counted two. They were on the dance floor. One of them studied him over her partner’s shoulder, staring at him with an expression that made him take a long drink of his beer.

  “Jah, it’s a scientific certainty that the gentler race has less of an affinity for violence. But those that are here…well, they seem to more than make up for it. A wild bunch, to be sure.”

  “Violence? What are you saying?”

  “Am I familiar to you?”

  “No. No, I don’t recognize you. Who are you?”

  “My name is Joseph Goebbels,” the man said. He sipped his drink, eyebrows arched, then placed it gently on the bar. “Minister of information. Ringing any bells?”

  Phil gasped. His mind raced back to the history classes he’d taken at the University of Oregon.

  It was him—or someone who bore a stunning resemblance to the man.

  Goebbels sipped his drink. “Now, Mr. Benson, you may ask me anything. I’m sure you have some questions. What would you like to know?”

  ~0~

  Tasket nosed the cruiser down the logging road. Mud-crusted snow scraped the underside of the car, and he felt every wash in the soles of his feet.

  He’d been at it for ninety minutes, but he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. The roads that were supposed to be closed were locked up tight. The ones that were open were either empty or inaccessible.

  He’d saved this one for last. It had been where they’d found the Ansons, and passing the familiar monuments always brought him back to that day.

  A lump formed in his throat, and he switched on the radio.

  He stayed the course all the way to the end, to the clear-cut where the loggers had knocked down every tree in a twenty-acre parcel.

  He switched the engine off and stepped into the road, and then picked his way down to the edge of the clear-cut.

  Down to the place where they’d found the Ansons’ vehicle.

  The ruts where they’d bogged down were still visible. A year had passed, and yet the Sierra Nevada’s harsh weather hadn’t erased the evidence of their time there.

  Tasket cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hello!” he shouted, the echo rapping harshly against the granite peaks. “Hello the Bensons! Phil! Wendy!”

  He stood, perfectly still, waiting. Listening.

  A hollow with an alpine meadow stood on the other side of the clear-cut, and Tasket was surprised that he hadn’t noticed its beauty before.

  It was damned hard to appreciate the place when you considered what had happened to the Ansons, though.

  The meadow was bare, with no sign of the Bensons. Tasket lingered, listening for something—for a sign—but there was only the frigid wind; after a time, he climbed back inside the cruiser and made his way to Bishop.

  ~0~

  “William, please bring this man another drink. You’ll have another with me, won’t you?” Goebbels said.

  “Actually, I think I should probably…”

  “Nonsense! William, one more for the weary traveler.”

  The bartender set the pint down and removed Phil’s empty glass.

  “There. Fresh drinks for new friends! So tell me, Mr. Benson, how long do you plan to stay in Adrienne?”

  “We’ll be leaving in the morning. Dawn, if the girls cooperate.” He was actually considering waking Wendy and asking her to get them out of there. He knew she was tired, but the place was…well, it wasn’t right. This man couldn’t be Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi information minister. That was impossible.

  But the asshole thought that he was, and that kind of crazy scared the pants off of Phil Benson. The man was operating under some serious delusions.

  Goebbels winced a little when he heard Phil’s answer. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, but Phil didn’t believe that. In fact, he thought the man seemed to relish it. “I have to tell you, your departure won’t be quite that simple. Let me ask you another question, Mr. Benson: What are your thoughts on the subject of metaphysics?”

  “What, like ghosts? The afterlife?”

  “Jah, precisely that.”

  Phil swallowed some beer and offered a slight shrug. “I suppose they exist. I mean, I believe in heaven and hell—I was raised a Presbyterian.”

  “Good. That’s good, because I’d like to tell you something very important, Mr. Benson. Energy doesn’t dissipate. It just…well, it just changes. And there are many types of energy, as many different kinds of energy as there are stars in the sky.”

  “I don’t follow you, mister...”

  “Goebbels. I told you my name, and I expect you now to use it,” an edge crept into his tone. “Tell me, was John wearing makeup when you paid for your room?”

  Phil smirked. “No, but I think I’d just caught hi
m in the process of wiping it all off, as a matter of fact.”

  Goebbels wore a tight little smile. He sipped his drink. “Your innkeeper is none other than John Wayne Gacy, Mr. Benson. Your family, and perhaps even a few others in similarly bizarre circumstances, now sleep peacefully in one of that monster’s rooms.”

  Phil thought he might vomit. That man—damn, but he looked just like Gacy! Phil and Wendy had watched a show on TruTv about the infamous serial killer, and that fellow back there had been the spitting image!

  “Listen, I have to go, mister...”

  “Goebbels. Joseph Goebbels, damn it! I assure you, Mr. Benson, that your family is safe. Don’t run off just yet. Not before you hear what I have to tell you.”

  “But how can you say that they’re safe? How can you say that? And what…” he turned and looked out at the other patrons. Most had returned to their revelry, but a few still met his stare.

  Now he noted, the raw strings of anxiety tightening in his gut, a few other vaguely familiar faces among them.

  “…what is this place?”

  “As I said,” Goebbels held up his empty tumbler and William was quick with a replacement, “there are many kinds of energy. Some of it—the vast majority of it—is good. Some of it is bad. Much of it is…well, neutral is a good word for it, I suppose.

  “And Adrienne is a place where the bad energy seems to be trapped. This is a town populated entirely by monsters, Mr. Benson. A town filled with, for lack of a better phrase, depraved individuals.”

  Phil gulped beer. Goebbels was watching him intently; the smile had vanished and his dark eyes were shining. Phil looked to the end of the bar, where William the bartender wore a sorrowful expression. He gave a tiny nod of his head and looked away.

  “Am I—criminy, are we in hell?”

  “No,” Goebbels said, not unkindly. “You’ve maybe heard the phrase ‘Proof of heaven’? You haven’t? Well, it’s common enough, especially for those with certain beliefs. Many in your circumstance have asked me—they’ve said, ‘Joseph, is this proof of hell?’ I can only respond to them that energy,” he shrugged, “remains. People are comprised of energy, as well as matter, of course, and just because they expire in a physical sense doesn’t mean that their energy disappears.

  “That energy doesn’t pass on, it passes through. And Adrienne…well, I suppose it’s kind of like limbo. The people that are trapped here, for the most part, share a singular commonality.”

  “And what’s that, Mr. Goebbels?”

  “Ah, there you go! That wasn’t so hard, was it Mr. Benson? You may actually call me Joseph, if you prefer.

  “Anyway, the commonality that the town’s citizens share is evil, Mr. Benson—and not just evil, but evil of a particular type. Murderous evil. Every individual that has been placed here is a mass murderer. With the exception of people like you and your family, of course. You…well, you serve a different purpose.”

  Phil struggled for a breath. He turned on his stool. A few others had crept in closer, and he intimately understood what a creature must feel like at the zoo. He had a sense of claustrophobia and a deep and abiding certainty that the man sitting next to him was telling the truth.

  A handsome man with a pronounced Adam’s apple leaned against the pool table, hands folded over the cue. He stared at Phil, grinning.

  “Is that?” Phil said, his mouth falling open in disbelief.

  “Jah, Theodore Bundy. I recommend you avoid him at the pool table, Mr. Benson. Scratch that—avoid him altogether. Not an agreeable sort, him. I think he’s crazy.”

  Phil’s eyes darted about the room. The overwhelming majority of them were white males, but there were folks from all walks of life. A few faces he recognized from recent news stories.

  Two pimple-faced kids in trench coats shared a basket of french fries in the corner, studying him with naked curiosity.

  “I’m sure those two are wondering if you have children, Mr. Benson. Do you?”

  “Is that…?”

  “Jah, it’s them. We’re all here, Mr. Benson. My previous employer keeps a little home very near where you’re staying. We play shuffleboard when the weather warms. But please—answer the question: Do you have children?”

  “Twin girls,” he replied, his voice cracking. “Mr. Goebbels, how do we get out of here? Please, we have reservations at the Grand Canyon. They’ll be expecting us, and…”

  Just then the music cut out. A thin man with reptilian eyes, a high forehead and sandy blonde hair cupped his hands to his mouth. “That’s last call, folks. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”

  There were a few groans and some pockets of laughter as folks tipped their drinks back, then the music resumed.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the lottery, Mr. Benson. But don’t be alarmed. Your timing is actually quite impeccable. It’s most likely less than a month until the gates swing open once again.”

  The man rose from his seat. His smile wasn’t unkind as he offered his hand. “My advice? Stay out of trouble and keep to yourselves. Maybe look for a little bit of work in the meantime, unless you possess the necessary resources for an extended stay, that is.”

  Phil, flabbergasted, shook the man’s hand.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around town, Mr. Benson,” Goebbels said. He clapped a hat on his head and shrugged into a camel’s hair overcoat.

  “You mentioned…you mentioned your boss. Of course you mean Hitler, but I guess you also had a hand in all of those deaths?” Even as the words left his lips he felt foolish. Why was he buying into all of this? Why was he buying into any of it?

  It’s because of what you saw on that mountain, he thought. It’s because of that fucking green glow and it’s because of that guy that looks just like Ted Bundy and the clerk back at the motel with the pancake makeup and the little curly-q of hair in the center of his widow’s peak.

  “Well, not directly that,” Goebbels said. “There are scores of men here solely on the basis of our little human experiment, but I had no direct hand in what happened back then.”

  “I guess I don’t understand. Why are you here, then?”

  “I killed my children before taking my own life, Mr. Benson. I had six of them—God rest their beautiful souls.”

  With that he turned crisply on his heel and walked out of the bar. Phil watched his departure. He about jumped out of his skin when he felt the tap on his shoulder.

  “Hey,” the bartender said. What was his name? “Come by here in the morning. Bring your family. I’ll have breakfast for you and we can…we can try to answer some of your questions.”

  Phil nodded. “What’s your…what’s your name again?”

  “William. Yours?”

  Phil told him. “Are you…like them?”

  William shook his head. “You’d best get going. My boss doesn’t like to kick people out on his own. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk. Try to get in before 10:00 a.m.—there’s a better chance we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  Just then the skinny guy that made last call shot a glare their way and Phil snatched up his coat. He left a few dollars on the bar, shrugged into his coat and stepped out into the cold.

  Adrienne’s finest were firing up their vehicles, heading home for the night.

  Phil almost ran back to the motel. He triple-checked the lock on the door and brushed his teeth before sliding into bed, his heart still quivering in his chest.

  “It’ll look better in the morning, Phil,” he whispered. “You’re going on vacation. Going to the Grand Canyon. Going to the Grand Ca—”

  “Honey? What’s wrong?” Wendy mumbled. She lifted her head from the pillow.

  “Nothing, honey. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

  “M’kay. Love you.”

  “Love you too, honey. Love you too.”

  She rolled over and he clutched her close, attaching himself to her. It was a frightful notion, but the discussion he’d j
ust had at the bar was already growing hazy. Heat filled the room from the little unit beneath the front window.

  Phil sighed, and before long he was snoring lightly, the girls and his wife enjoying the sleep of the innocent right alongside him.

  SEVEN

  Bo and Kelli had steak dinners at the Silverdust Café, a little hole-in-the wall joint off the Best Western’s front lobby. The food was good, and Bo felt a twinge of guilt for actually enjoying Bishop just a little bit while they were there on such an unsettling errand.

  They toured Main Street when they were finished. A fan of orange and pink clouds tarried out over the horizon, and a rich, dusky blue provided a nice backdrop to the streetlights and glowing shop windows. They strolled down one side of the street and came back along the other, until the cold air chased them inside a tavern for drinks.

  They took spots at the end of the bar, Bo ordering a draft and Kelli having a glass of red wine. The bartender recognized Bo, but rather than bother him he just nodded and went to take care of the rest of his customers.

  Bishop wasn’t half bad.

  “I’m just sick thinking about the possibility of them being stuck out there in the cold,” Kelli said. It had almost become their mantra, but saying it out loud felt a little bit like action, even if it really wasn’t anything at all.

  Bo covered her hand. “They’ll find them. I get the impression that Sheriff Tasket knows what he’s doing. What do you think?”

  Kelli nodded. “He seems sharp. I just…damn, I wish there was some way we could get in contact with them.” She pulled her phone out and checked her messages. With a sigh, she tapped in a text for Wendy and opened up her Facebook page.

  No responses. No updates.

  “It’ll be okay,” Bo said, though he had a hard time delivering the line with conviction. Every night that passed cut a few percentage points off their chances of survival. It was just too damned cold. A family of six had made it through a couple of sub-zero nights back in December, and so there was hope. It wasn’t much, but it was there.

  They had a few drinks and tried to chat about their lives back in Los Angeles, but it felt like so much empty prattle that they soon gave up and fixed their eyes on the television, where a personality on FOX News let the President have it in garbled captions.