Cold on the Mountain Read online

“That’s exactly what we try to provide here at Providence. Come, come. Let me to introduce you to the rest of our family.”

  There were three classrooms filled with children of all ages, as well as a fenced play area. There was a tiny auditorium where Phil noticed two racks filled with musical instruments and sheet-music stands in the corner. Wendy smiled when they came to the pre-school, where toddlers and even a few babies were cared for by a pair of smiling young women. They met Mr. Austin, who taught the high schoolers. They met Mr. Norton and Ms. D’Antonio, who would be working with the twins.

  “I’m sure they’ll fit right in,” Norton said. He was a thin, older man with a full beard and a comforting demeanor. D’Antonio was young; she looked like she had just finished school herself. In the midst of a lesson, she merely smiled and waved to acknowledge the Bensons. “This is a fine school, Mr. and Mrs. Benson. We strive to fill their minds while also giving them hope, and we do a commendable job at both, if I can brag just a little.”

  “Well, we certainly appreciate it,” Phil replied. He hugged his girls, looking up at Norton in the process. “These girls mean everything to us. We just want them to be safe.”

  “They will be. Just…just be sure that you get back here at the end of the day, Mr. Benson. The school closes promptly at 5:15,” Norton said. “We all have to watch the clock around here. I hate that it has to be said, but it does.”

  Phil nodded, and he looked at Wren and Broadmeyer, confused. Wren just offered a subtle nod, Broadmeyer a stoic smile.

  “Okay, kids. We’ll be back at 5:00,” Wendy said. She smiled brightly and kissed her girls before Norton led them into the classroom. D’Antonio suspended her lesson to allow the girls a proper introduction, and Broadmeyer turned to usher the adults out of the room. As the door was closing, Phil heard Cammie’s steady, even voice: I really enjoy science and reading, and I like to write my own stories…

  “It’s been such a pleasure meeting you both,” Broadmeyer said, clasping their hands again. “Thank you for trusting us with your daughters. We won’t let you down.”

  “What was that Mr. Norton said in there about the clock?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Wren will explain it to you, Mr. Benson. If you’ll please excuse me now, I’ve got to get the afternoon snacks ready for the little ones. They’ll be hungry and we don’t want to keep them waiting, now do we?”

  “Okay. Thanks again. We’ll be back before 5:15,” he replied.

  Broadmeyer disappeared into a back room, and Phil turned to Wren, who checked his watch. “Come on, let’s walk. We’re burning daylight.”

  “Criminy, Denny!” Phil gasped when they were back outside. “Come out with it, will you? Why so cryptic?”

  “Phil, there’s a system here. It’s kind of like indentured servitude, okay? If you want to pull a ticket in the lottery, you need to hit your number. Yours will be a little bit higher this year, as the lottery is so close. It’ll be prorated, of course, but it’ll still be weighted because you got stuck here so close to the big day. The powers that be wouldn’t take kindly to such a short stay, so they’re going to get their licks in on you guys right away.

  “You’ll both need to work to hit it, I think. Every night that you stay here in town, you lose capital. Every resource that you use here in town, you lose capital. You don’t hit your number, you start all over after the lottery’s finished. Get it? Look, I’m missing a day of work here just by talking to you. I’ll lose another by keeping you at our place tonight—it’s against the rules to share resources. That’s why we have to hustle back here to school, or the staff will be issued demerits. I might miss my number again this year, Phil, and it’s because I’m always helping people like you. I don’t mind doing it, but I need you not to jump down my throat, okay? I’m doing the best that I can.”

  Phil wiped his eyes. He loosed a huge sigh. “Shoot, Denny. I apologize. Why again are you going to be docked just for putting us up?”

  “Town rules. Every normal has to pull his own weight. We, uh…well, we really can’t go union here in Adrienne. Not if we want to draw a lot, anyway. So everyone that gets trapped here just works…and waits. Every year, at least a few normals do go home, so there’s at least a little bit of hope. Only…well, it seems that for me, and a few others in similar leadership roles, we don’t get an equal chance. But that’s okay. I’ve grown used to it here. I can tolerate it. Big shoulders and all that.”

  “Will we all get to leave if…if we draw the right card?” Wendy asked.

  “You’re adults, so you both have to work. That’s just part of it. You came in with kids and you came in together, so you’ll leave with your kids if either of you pull a winning lot. Let’s get over to the employment office, okay? I’ll have better answers for you when we get a feel for what you need to earn, and what they want you to do for work. The simple truth is, there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. It was true back in the real world, and it’s sure as shit true here in Adrienne.”

  Wren charged ahead, and they followed him in silence back into town. They passed a barber shop and two hair salons, a few clothing boutiques, a shoe repair shop, the first of the big department stores, a little hardware store, and a large, nondescript brick building with a pair of concrete loading docks that looked like shuttered eyes.

  “What’s that?” Phil said, pointing at the building.

  “The factory,” Wren replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  “What do they make?” Wendy asked, but Wren didn’t reply.

  They trudged past Gacy’s little motor court and made a couple of turns before arriving at a grubby little cream-colored two-story building.

  Stenciled on the glass double doors:

  PUBLIC WORKS ADMINISTRATION

  of ADRIENNE

  WE AIM TO SERVE!

  Wren led them inside and down a warren of hallways until they found the employment division. A harried young woman smiled woefully at Wren from behind her desk. “Hi, Denny,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s been waiting for you. She’s having one of her days.”

  Wren grimaced. “Thanks, Angie. Appreciate the heads up.”

  The woman ducked her head and disappeared into the back of the office. She returned a moment later. “Ms. San Marco will meet with you now. Right this way, please.”

  They followed her to a cramped office in the back of the building. It smelled faintly of eggs and ammonia and…was that sulfur? An acrid aroma lay beneath the general stench, and Phil fought his gag reflex, breathing through his mouth.

  A thin woman with curly black hair and a longish face sat behind the desk, playing with a cracked ballpoint pen. There were smudges of blue ink on her fingers, as well as a diagonal swatch where she had touched her temple. She flashed a toothy smile. The bright light of lunacy shone in her wide brown eyes.

  “Ah, have a seat, have a seat,” she said, pointing to the chairs across from her. “And you—you get the hell out of here, you big degenerate,” she said to Wren, making a shooing gesture with her hand. Wren drew a deep breath and slipped out of the room and the woman leaned across the desk and spoke in a conspiratorial tone to the Bensons. “Fucking giants! Am I right?” she said, shaking her head.

  I thought he was a 49er, Benson thought, keeping the joke to himself. This one didn’t look like she’d appreciate the humor.

  She returned to the folder on her desk, ignoring the ink that was now smudged across the paperwork. “Mr. Gacy says your family name is Benson. Is that…what is it, Irish?”

  Phil looked around the room. A nameplate on her desk read:

  Jennifer San Marco ~ I am “THE BOSS”!

  “Welsh,” Phil replied with a smile. This woman scared him. He remembered what Wren had said about the monsters of Adrienne not hurting the normals, but he was suddenly certain that this could go any number of different ways, with most of those ending badly.

  She made a note of something in his file and then looked up at them, her head canted to one s
ide, a dreamy smile on her face. “And how would you like to earn your keep in our happy little hamlet?”

  Phil cleared his throat. “Well, I have experience in both human resources and labor management. I can probably…”

  San Marco barked a laugh, interrupting him mid-sentence. “No! No way, Jose!” She looked back at his file, and Phil noticed that it wasn’t a file at all. It was a photocopied page of an old cartoon. He recognized the artwork. Something from The Far Side. Christ, how perfect! “It says here that you have…let’s see, it says that you can use a shovel. Where did you get this experience in,” she flipped through the pages—all comics—before apparently failing to locate what she was looking for, “ah…shoveling?”

  “I…well, I busted trails for the Forest Service two summers back in college. Lots of…uh, lots of shoveling in that job,” he stammered.

  “Forest service, eh?” A shadow passed across her face, and she looked at the wall. “I used to work for the government, too. Small world! I was with the postal service. Say, were there a lot of beaners in the Forest Service? I bet the place was just crawling with them, wasn’t it? Filthy work crews just filled with pepper guts, out there…just out there shoveling in the woods with you?”

  “I…uh, I’m not sure what you mean by…”

  “Jesus, Jennifer,” she said, this time her voice much lower. She turned her head and spoke out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes taking on a suspicious, hooded appearance. “Will you look at this guy! He never hit a fuckin’ bean bandit in his life! Why are you asking these ridiculous questions? Just stick his stupid ass in the factory and be done with it!”

  Just as quickly, she composed herself, the eyes springing wide again. She turned her head slightly, as if talking to a ghost. “I’m just doing my job, okay? I’ll thank you kindly to not interrupt while I—”

  “—Christ, Jennifer, will you get on with it?” the other voice interrupted. “While we’re young!”

  She sat up straight in her chair, a tight-lipped smile on her face. “Where were we? Shoveling? You like shoveling too, miss…” she flipped through her ink-stained comics before giving up, “miss…wife?”

  “I’m Wendy. I have a communications degree, Ms. San Marco. Is there…is there a place where I can help out with some writing? Maybe the city has a,” she took a moment to steel herself, “a public relations department? You know…PR?”

  Another braying burst of laughter. Spittle flecked her desk blotter. “PR? No…no, PR. No sir, no PR at all for this place! Stinky, filthy Puerto Ricans! Americans my ass! I’d shoot every last one of them…I mean every last stinking one,” she suddenly disappeared beneath her desk. They heard drawers banging before she came up with a compact little handgun. She pointed it at the ceiling and pulled the trigger, and an explosion of powder and smoke filled the room, the sound deafening. “NO PR!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Wendy screamed. She’d buried her face in Phil’s chest, and he stared at the ceiling, a look of stunned awe on his face.

  She’d fired a blank. Somebody had taken Ms. Postal’s bullets away. He vented a huge sigh of relief and, even as he whispered to his wife that it was okay, that everything was going to be okay, he placed the scent he’d encountered when they’d first entered the room.

  Gunpowder.

  Ms. San Marco apparently liked to shoot her little handgun indoors.

  She suddenly noticed Wendy cowering and an expression of sincere distress changed her features. San Marco studied the gun, the barrel still smoking, and dropped it on the desk blotter like it was a rattlesnake. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry wife! I didn’t mean to…I hope you don’t…oh, Christ, this was an error, just an error! Let me see if…oh yes, here we are! Two new positions, right here. They just opened up.”

  She pulled a Peanuts cartoon to the top of the pile. “Wife, it says here that you will take your employment at the Adrienne Sugar Shack. Sure hope you like baking!”

  “Mr. Benson, we have an immediate opening over at the factory. Congratulations! You’ll both want to begin your orientations this afternoon—leave directly, in fact! Yes, directly!” She picked up her splintered pen and waved it like a wand, flicking ink across her desk blotter.

  “Ms. San Marco,” Phil ventured. He turned his body to shelter Wendy from the mad woman. “Please, Ms. San Marco. How much do we need to…to earn to draw lots in this year’s lottery?”

  San Marco grinned. She’d put the pen in her mouth, and there was a sheen of blue ink on her yellow teeth. “Oh, good question, Philly! Great question, in fact.” She located the first piece of what appeared to be actual official documentation and handed it across the desk.

  Phil scanned it. It had their names, their ages—a cursory amount of other information. Then, at the bottom, was a ledger with a subtotal. After lodging and other miscellanies, they would have to earn $3200 in what passed as Adrienne’s currency to pull lots.

  His heart swelled. That was nothing! They could do that no sweat! And then, just as quickly, his mood plummeted. “What are our actual wages, Ms. San Marco?”

  She looked away. “How should I know?” she said in that low, paranoid voice. “You’ll have to talk to the filthy kikes that run this little shitberg to figure that one out. That…that bitch on the hill. Ask her, I dare you! I just help people find work. That’s it. Now, if you’ll just please fill out these surveys,” she pushed a pair of Chinese take-out menus across her desk at the huddled couple, her mood brightening again, “that will conclude today’s appointment. I hope you’ll give me tens across the board. I really, really hope you will!”

  Phil and Wendy took a few moments scrawling the number next to a selection of combination dinners. They stood and left San Marco’s office, their employment order in hand, thankful for their lives. Big Wren smiled when they entered the lobby. He and Angie had been chatting, and it was clear that she was happy to have had the company.

  “Angie!” San Marco screamed, and her smile vanished. Wren reached out and squeezed her shoulder. Angie ducked her head and disappeared down the hallway.

  As they were leaving the administration building, Phil heard several muffled gunshots from somewhere in the back offices.

  THIRTEEN

  Tasket put a trio of deputies on the search detail, and a weathered man named Merle Bonner joined them, bringing the team to seven. Bo and Kelli had picked up coffee and donuts and they stood at a conference table, studying a BLM map of the Sierra Nevada.

  “There’s a condemned motel out here,” Tasket said, pointing to a spot on the map, “where I noticed some treads that might come from a Honda minivan. They just as likely might not, of course, but it’s a pretty common pattern. Whatever their origin, they’re underneath four inches of snow and ice by now. I think we should start there and fan out. There are a number of meadows in this area—places where, if they somehow took a wrong turn down one of the logging roads up there—that they might have walked across in search of shelter. It’s more likely, though, that they’ll stay with the van. We’ll be looking for a few things. Disturbed foliage—maybe a place where a heavy vehicle might have crashed through the brush. Obviously, we’re looking for tracks—either boot prints or tire treads. I’m assuming they packed boots, right?” Tasket said. He looked at Bo, eyebrows raised.

  Bo sighed. He shook his head. “Snow boots? I doubt it. Phil hadn’t planned on staying in the mountains. They’re hotel people, Sherriff. They only planned for a couple of day trips at the Canyon.”

  Tasket touched the spot behind his ear and sipped his coffee. He decided to just keep moving forward with his talk—no sense in speaking ill of the greenhorns. “Okay, be that as it may, we’re also looking for clothing. One of the primary indications of hypothermia is a trail of garments. Hypothermic individuals—well, they don’t behave rationally. When the condition advances into dangerous levels, folks begin to feel warm. They, uh…well, they start to take their clothes off. I’m hopeful that’s not the case her
e, of course, but it needs to be said, and we need to be on the lookout for it.”

  Bo and Kelli nodded. Kelli looked ill, and Bo felt terrible knowing that there was a horror reel of images flashing through her mind.

  “Okay, so here’s how we’ll do this. Tim, I want you take Ricky and head down BLM 22…” Tasket laid out the rest of their plans. When the deputies had departed with Bonner, he looked at Kelli and Bo. “So we’ll just pile into my cruiser. You two—did you bring boots? Do you have gloves?”

  Kelli smiled. “We packed for the weather, Sherriff. Got our gear out in the car.”

  “That’s good,” a woman said, poking her head into the conference room, “because there’s a whiteout coming in around 2:00 this afternoon. Oh, may I?” she said, pointing at the box of donuts.

  “Of course, Sally,” Tasket said. “Watch the radar close, and let us know how it looks, okay? We’ll try to be off the mountain an hour before it hits, just to be safe.”

  She took a chocolate cream-filled. “Will do, Sherriff. Ya’ll be safe, and good luck out there.”

  Bo opened the hatch on the Porsche and he and Kelli pulled on brand new Sorels. They grabbed the rest of their gear and hopped in the police cruiser with Tasket.

  They’d just cleared the town boundary when he asked them about Anna Wells.

  “She came to us,” Kelli said. “We thought…well, let’s just say that we keep an open mind, Sherriff. I’m not sure what else you’d have us do.”

  Tasket shrugged. “She’s an okay sort, I suppose. A little zealous about her beliefs, but generally harmless. Her and Miriam both. You don’t believe her, do you?”

  “Like I said, we’re just keeping an open mind,” Kelli said. “Sherriff? Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure can.”

  “What happened to your deputy? We heard…we heard that a man of yours went missing.”

  Tasket perked up in his seat. “I don’t rightly know, Kelli. That’s an open case. He, uh…he had a family issue out in Indiana. We’re waiting to see if he shows up near Bloomington. Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the final outcome, truth be told.”