Cold on the Mountain Page 9

  “You don’t think…you don’t think the same thing that happened to Phil and Wendy and the girls happened to your deputy? Or to Frankie Ryman, or all the others that have gone missing?”

  “Miriam and Anna and a few others have quite an explanation for all of these disappearances, don’t they?” he looked to the rearview and flashed that wry smile. “Adrienne,” he said, whispering the name theatrically.

  “Miriam was pretty convincing,” Bo said.

  “Parlor tricks,” Tasket replied. “But you’re damned right—she’s good at pulling off those stunts. I’ll have to give her that.”

  “So then what is it, Sherriff?” Kelli pushed. “What is it about this mountain?”

  He sighed. He hated revisiting it, but he told them about the Ansons. “Oh, there’ve been others that suffered the same fate. Too many, truth to tell—going back decades. The Ansons are just the most recent, so it’s still a sore spot with me.

  “People—well, people just get lost out here, and then the snow melts in June. We find them. Happens more often than it should, but it’s part of our job up here. I learned that right quick when I took the position.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t account for all of them. What about the rest? They simply…they just vanished? Phil and Wendy have jobs. The girls are in school. They have a life that they love back in Oregon. They just wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well, this here’s an odd location, don’t you think? I’m talking about Bishop, but also Last Chance Mountain, and the whole of the Sierra Nevada. These mountains are a place where people just drop off the grid, Kelli. That doesn’t mean that they’re all stuck in some supernatural purgatory. Just means that this is where they were last seen. Hell, Aaron—my old deputy—he always used to talk about a second career as a charter-boat captain. Maybe he’s running clients out on the tarpon, somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. He could be eating oysters and drinking rum in the sun down in Florida as we speak. It’s a big country; lots of ways to get lost if one has a mind to. Who the hell knows?”

  Kelli frowned. It wasn’t the response she’d expected—though she really wasn’t sure what that response might be. It wasn’t rational for her to think that Tasket would trust in Miriam’s story, but an instinct deep inside made her feel as though they had to get Tasket on board—that his part in this would somehow depend on his genuine belief.

  She let it go, content just to digest the grandeur of the landscape. They drove for most of an hour before parking outside the decrepit hotel.

  “So we have three distinct networks of logging roads, see? They branch out, meandering there, there, and there,” Tasket said, indicating the thin dirt paths that had been carved into the mountain. They were nothing now but snow-covered tracks that hadn’t been used in what looked like forever. Bo winced as he thought about his brother taking his family down any such road.

  “Christ, Phil,” he muttered, rifling a hand through his hair, “why couldn’t you just stick to the pavement?”

  Tasket nodded. “That’s some sound advice that we’re about to ignore ourselves. Come on, then. Let’s head down here a stretch. It seems that those friends of yours back in town consider it the main culprit. What was that they said again about the road to hell?”

  “You mean the good intentions thing?” Kelli said.

  Tasket grinned. There was a skeptic’s gleam in his eyes. “That’s right. You see, this can’t possibly be the way to Adrienne, ‘cause this road’s not paved at all.”

  Kelli smirked at the corny pun and they piled in and started cautiously up the steadily ascending road. It was rough riding, the pitted trail climbing ever higher on the mountain. Tasket handled the cruiser expertly, but Bo felt his breath catch in his chest a few times at the sheer immensity of the drop-offs. If Tasket lost purchase in the snow, there was nothing between them and a few thousand feet of sheer granite cliff.

  They climbed at ten miles an hour before finally navigating a narrow pass, cresting a sparsely forested ridge overlooking a softer descent into an expansive alpine meadow. It was bordered on all sides by dense swaths of forest. Behind the last of the pine trees loomed steep granite slags, creating the visual effect of an enormous bowl. Wisps of clouds brushed the naked peaks, harbingers of the storm that would soon blanket the Sierra Nevada in several inches of fresh powder.

  It was beautiful—a winter Eden, situated at the top of the world.

  “Breathtaking country up here, isn’t it?” Tasket said. “If it weren’t so danged remote, this might be a nice spot to set up a homestead. See that?” He pointed to a spot far in the distance before handing Bo a pair of binoculars. Bo could just make out the roof of an old building, mingled amongst the snow-covered pines.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s the old operations office. If the timber company gets a renewal on the rights to this parcel, which they probably will in a few years or so, this whole place will be hopping with activity again. It’ll be just like a tiny little city for six or eight weeks.” He chuckled. “Can either of you imagine driving a truck filled with twenty tons of timber down that road we just came up?”

  “No way,” Bo said. “They really do that?”

  Tasket nodded. “Probably twenty times a day when they’re really cranking. That’s why those fellas make the big bucks. Let’s go have us a look around. See what we can see.”

  They descended into the meadow and followed the road until it penetrated the edge of the forest. It was much darker there; pine branches scraped along the sides of the cruiser, the road a little better due to the canopy of trees shielding it from the snow.

  Bo listened to the forest swallowing the cruiser, and he felt a sudden and intense pressure on his chest. He swallowed, perplexed by the dryness in his mouth. “This place,” he said, “Kelli, do you feel it?”

  “What is it, honey?” Kelli said.

  “You okay?” Tasket added. “You look a little green around the gills, son.”

  “I guess I’m okay. Wow! It’s…” he rolled his window down, drawing deeply of the frigid air. He gulped a few breaths. “Okay—I’m fine, I guess. It’s passing. Just got nauseous there for a second. I’ll be fine.”

  Kelli squeezed his shoulder.

  The road terminated in a little clearing. A single-wide trailer with a rusting metal access ramp stood, desolate and decrepit, at the edge of the clearing. A metal shed stood behind it, near what looked like the remnants of an old fire pit. There was at least a cord of wood stacked along the side of the building.

  DEER CREEK FOREST PRODUCTS

  BLACK HANDS MEADOW SALVAGE

  “These old boys do a solid job of it when they’re working up here. Come on, kids—let’s check around inside,” Tasket said.

  Bo opened his door, wincing at the sharp pain in his gut. He closed his eyes, drawing breath deep into his chest.

  “Bo?” Kelli said, rubbing his back. “Honey, what’s going on?”

  “I can feel it,” he hissed. “There’s something about this place, Kelli—it’s just…Christ, it’s just wrong. Don’t you feel it?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide. “What is it, Bo? Is it…is it Phil?”

  He vomited, and no amount of suppression could stop it once he started. He knelt and threw up in the snow for more than a minute until finally exhausting himself.

  “Stomach bug’s going around,” Tasket remarked. “Sally had it just last week. Nasty stuff.”

  “It’s not that,” Bo gasped, wiping his watering eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “Sherriff Tasket, something’s off about this place. I…I wasn’t sick at all until we entered the meadow back there.”

  “You want to stay in the car? I’m going to check around inside, but you don’t have to go inside.”

  “No, no—look, I want to help. I’m just saying…this isn’t the flu, Sherriff. Wow! You two really don’t feel that?”

  Kelli shook her head. “Why don’t you stay in the car, Bo? We’ll be right back.”

  He s
tarted toward the house, even as another cramp gripped his stomach. “You have a key, Sherriff?”

  “Nope. But I know where they keep it. We drop in from time to time, just to keep tabs on the place.” He disappeared behind the building, and they heard him rooting around in the shed. He came back with the key and opened the door.

  Despite the frigid air, the place had an unmistakable stench. Probably mold or mildew. Bo covered his face with his sleeve, fighting the urge to be sick again.

  There wasn’t much to it. Two old desks (one with what looked like the world’s oldest computer atop it) and a couple of folding chairs. A long row of dented filing cabinets. A table piled with hand tools and hard hats, as well as a library of plastic binders filled with paperwork.

  Over everything, a fine layer of dust and grime.

  No sign of Phil or Wendy or the girls.

  “Go ahead,” Tasket said. “Poke around as much as you like. I don’t expect that there’s anything useful to find here, and you won’t be ruining anything. Deer Creek leaves a pretty Spartan ship behind when they clear out.”

  Kelli checked the filing cabinets. There were reams of files, but nothing useful.

  “I have to go,” Bo said, gagging. “This place is making me sick.”

  He ran outside and they heard him dry heaving.

  “Poor fellow,” Tasket said. “Say, now—what’s this?”

  He stood over the desk near the building’s single window, a sheet of construction paper in his hand. That old PC, a stained coffee cup, a desk blotter and a couple of cheap plastic pens shared the desktop. Tasket studied the paper, then passed it to Kelli without another comment.

  She gasped. It was a crayon illustration of the beach. There were two adults and two little girls—two little girls of equal height and identical hair color. Someone had drawn four tidy little figures. In the corner of the picture, in her careful hand, was a pair of words that brought tears to Kelli’s eyes: Camille Benson.

  FOURTEEN

  They stopped first at the Sugar Shack—a narrow building nestled between Herman’s Department Store and a little shoe repair shop. The inviting aroma of baked goods—cookies and bread—wafted on the air.

  “You did well, Wendy. Aside from the ownership, this place is actually run by normals.” Wren said. “Might say something about the dark psyche, actually. I guess hardened killers aren’t really into baking.”

  Wendy was incredulous. “Really, Denny? Baking?” she replied. “I suppose the feminist movement hasn’t quite made it to Adrienne, then? I’m just one rung away from making partner at our firm. I can’t remember the last time I baked something from scratch. I’m completely out of my element here!”

  Phil couldn’t resist a grin. “Does this mean we’ll be getting fresh cookies a little more often when we get out of here, Wendy?”

  She shot him a glare and he cut his eyes.

  Wren sighed. “I hope your promotion will still be there when you get back, Wendy. I sincerely do. But in the meantime, we need to focus on just that—getting back. Come on. Let’s head inside.”

  The place was bright and cheery. An older woman worked alongside a boy and a girl; they looked like they were still in their teens. The woman smiled and swiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron. She came around a glass counter stuffed with donuts, pastries and croissants and took Wendy’s hand in hers.

  “Hi—welcome! I’m Sarah,” she said. “You must be Wendy.”

  “Jeez. Word travels fast around here.”

  Sarah nodded. “We’re just happy you’ll be joining us. There’s plenty of work to go around. We’ve had a bunch of new orders coming in from a couple of the local restaurants.”

  Wendy looked around, forcing herself to smile at the kids. It was clean. The place looked safe. These people seemed nice. Denny was right—she probably had lucked out, regardless of her feelings about the work itself.

  There was a commotion in the back of the house, and then an obese woman with carefully sculpted orange hair piled high on her head waddled out into the bakery, a cane with three rubber stoppers on the bottom taking the brunt of her weight. She wore a floral pantsuit, and she studied Wendy from head to foot with a pair of crystal blue eyes pushed deep in her fleshy face.

  “Another skinny one,” she said dismissively. Her voice was deep. “So…can you work, honey?”

  Wendy nodded. She introduced herself and offered her hand.

  “I know who you are. Put that thing away,” she said, nodding at the hand. “Better yet, go wash it and help us out with the One-Stop order. Consider yourself on probation. No wages today, but if Sarah says you’re good to go, then I won’t send you back to Jennie’s office. Crazy old broad, isn’t she?” the woman said.

  “She’s…unique,” Wendy agreed. “You’re saying I won’t be paid for any of the work that I do here today? I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need to be paid. My family—you see, we were just on vacation. We were just…”

  The woman snickered. She turned and waddled back toward her office, never acknowledging the presence of either man. “I’m Penny Lancaster. They call me the Baker of Bennington, in case you’re curious. And no, honey, I won’t be paying you until I know for sure if you can work. You got a problem with that? Go back and see Jennie again. I’m sure she can find you something else.”

  She disappeared, and the others came around the counter.

  Wendy shook their hands. His name was Kyle; hers was Erin. They were siblings, and had also been on their way to the Grand Canyon.

  “When we get out of here, I swear I’m moving to Alaska,” Kyle said, “or maybe Maine. You couldn’t pay me to set foot in California ever again.”

  Erin nodded. “We think it’s been almost two years. We’ve been putting our money away. Nothing’s going to keep us out of the drawing this year.” She looked away. “Our parents must be sick about it.”

  Sarah offered a sad smile. She rubbed the girl’s shoulder. “Such good kids. Back to work, you two. We need to get that order packaged up by 2:00. Wendy, would you take a walk with me?”

  “Clock out!” Lancaster bellowed from her office. “And be nice, Sarah! You know that I hear things…”

  “Of course, Ms. Lancaster! We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “See that you do.”

  Sarah slipped her apron and hairnet off and the four of them went outside.

  “We’ve got to go,” Wren said, staring anxiously at his watch. “Meet you over at the school around five?” he said, eyebrows raised at Wendy.

  “Of course,” Sarah said for her. “We’re just going to get acquainted—discuss the rules of the house. You two run along. I’m sure you have your own introductions to make.”

  “Love you,” Phil said. He hugged Wendy close, and she squeezed him back. Her touch warmed him; his guilt for insisting on the shortcut was immense, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were in this because of him.

  “I love you too, Phil. Be careful, and make sure you’re there at the school on time.”

  “Of course. You remember how to find it?”

  She nodded. “Bye, honey.”

  The men hustled down the sidewalk, and Sarah turned and they walked in the opposite direction. “Ms. Lancaster isn’t really all that horrible to work for, if you follow her protocols,” Annie began. “She is—or was, however you want to think about it—a horrible human being, but she can actually be a pretty decent boss.”

  “What did she do to end up here?”

  “She ran a little bakery in Vermont. She slowly poisoned a number of her regulars, giving most of them kidney and liver failure. And then, toward the end, she just snapped. She put cyanide in a batch of sweets intended for a group of first graders. It was one of the worst cases of food tampering in American history.

  “Before they could trace it back to her, she’d ingested one of own macaroons. Bye, bye, Baker of Bennington.”

  Wendy thought about her girls—about all of the birthday parties and holiday celebrat
ions they’d had over the years at their schools—and shuddered. “So give it to me straight. What do I need to know?”

  “Well, she’s very sensitive about her weight. Be careful about how you choose your words, because she twists things very easily. She might encourage you to eat up on the job, and it’s not a bad idea to pack on some pounds. It honestly makes her feel better. Just…”

  “Just what, Sarah?”

  “Just make sure that you eat something baked by me or the kids. Ms. Lancaster…well, she actually likes it here. And she isn’t going anywhere. That woman hasn’t drawn a lot in all the years that I’ve been here. And because of that, she’s not above poisoning normals. In fact, she’s done it before. We had such a nice young woman working with us, back before Kyle and Erin got stuck here, but Ms. Lancaster didn’t approve of her.”

  “What happened?”

  “She slipped the girl a poisoned croissant. Her name was Samantha. She was well liked amongst the normal population—a very sweet and compassionate young lady. Sammy’s buried in the purified ground, just outside of Adrienne. When I get out of here, I’m going to try to contact her family. They deserve a chance to bring her home.”

  Wendy stopped. She locked eyes with the woman. “I have children, Sarah. I have to be there for them.”

  “I know, dear. I know.” She took Wendy’s hand. “It’ll be okay. We just have to look out for each other. Let’s get back inside. Break’s over.”

  They walked in silence before Wendy posed her question. Since she’d accepted the surreal nature of their predicament, it was all she was curious about—taking her own macabre census. “You said it’s been a long time. How long, Sarah?”

  The woman shrugged. “I’ve lost track. Time is different here, and I’m not really sure if the lottery is annual or not. But I can tell you one thing for certain: I’ve drawn lots nine times.”

  ~0~

  The factory was even more forbidding up close. It seemed to loom over them, like the face of some partially hidden goblin king, the crenelated molding its crown.