“A broken pipe in one of the cabins. Those folks left early. A mix-up in registration made two couples cancel out.” Roy rubbed his jaw. “A few other things. Could be simply a run of bad luck. That’s why I decided . . . Well, anyway.” He shook his head, then took a deep breath. “We have a pretty full house this week. I keep hoping.” He turned to leave.
“What’s the story on Darby Graham?”
Roy paused. “What do you mean?”
“She mentioned at dinner that she works for a company, a Clan something—”
“Firinn.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Most of your guests are, quite frankly, stinking rich. Like they own companies like Amazon or Microsoft.”
“The Gateses enjoyed their stay.”
Bram smiled. “I’m sure. But Darby doesn’t seem to fit that mold.”
Roy slowly nodded. “Darby’s special. Her . . . employer is a friend of mine. He sends me, um, guests on occasion. Folks that really need to be here.” His eyes had become unfocused as he spoke. Now he sharpened his gaze on Bram. “This time I asked for a bit of help. Do me a favor. Keep what I just told you under your hat.”
Now it was Bram’s turn to slowly nod. “One last question. What does she do at Clan Firinn?”
“From what I’ve been told, she has something to do with words. Deception through language. Things like that.”
* * *
The art room was as spacious as the rest of the lodge, with long tables covered in white paper, a single chair at each table, and a stack of art supplies. A smaller table with an angled mirror overhead for demonstrations took up one end of the room, with a set of chairs in front for the students.
Against one wall was a line of wooden lockers with our names neatly printed and placed into a holder. Each locker had a coat hook, a set of shelves, and an empty Mule Shoe backpack.
After everyone checked out their locker, selected a seat, and properly admired the new art toys, Angie again got our attention. “Class starts at nine thirty, right after breakfast. See you all in the morning.”
Still shuffling along with the throng, I left the room and headed outside, then stopped. Since I’d been at dinner, the sun had set. It was dark.
I hated the dark.
As I turned to the lodge, Bram appeared beside me with a flashlight and held out his arm. “May I see you to your cabin, madam?” he asked in a bad British accent.
Flashlights were narrow beacons of light in the vast darkness. “Um . . .”
Wyatt appeared at my other side, also with a flashlight. “Looks like you have a full entourage escorting you.”
My hands were already shaking and I knew my face would be drained of color. Darkness was one of my triggers. Come on, Darby. It’s been five years. Get over it. “Um . . .”
A screen door slammed somewhere nearby and Cookie rounded the corner of the lodge carrying a lantern. She strolled to a bear-proof bin and tossed a paper bag inside, then turned to us. “Evening, Wyatt, Bram, Miss Graham.” She peered closer at me. “Wyatt, why don’t you take my lantern and let me have the flashlight. You can see a whole lot better.” She grinned. “And I know you two good-looking fellers want to keep an eye on each other while escorting Miss Graham to her cabin.”
My face grew warm.
Cookie and Wyatt exchanged lights, then the three of us moved toward my cabin. The dogs followed, Maverick at a wary distance. The silence made me feel awkward. The two men acted like I was some kind of prize. Like I was still desirable.
I wanted to tell them about the last five years, what I had done, why I was here.
Words abandoned me.
The very things that had once defined my life were gone.
The cabin was a warm haven after the evening chill. Someone had lit several lanterns, stoked the lively fire in the fireplace, and turned down the bed. Both men paused at the door, sending irritated glances at each other.
“Thank you both.”
Slowly I closed the door. I listened for their retreating footsteps across the small porch. In a few moments the click, click, click of dog toenails was followed by a low whine. I opened the door to Holly and Maverick. Holly found a spot on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. Maverick tucked himself into a corner where he could observe the room.
I was suddenly too tired to unpack but still had my exercises to do. While both dogs watched, I pulled my exercise mat from my suitcase, grabbed a pillow off the bed and a towel from the bathroom, then slipped off my slacks and shirt. I found my tattered FBI T-shirt and baggy shorts and pulled them on. Removing my heavy glasses, I placed them on the bedside table.
Sitting on the bed, I tugged off my prosthetic left leg, attached below my knee, and propped it beside me.
Chapter 4
I crouched beside the rear bumper of the truck, my heart hammering in my ears. Churning blackness swirled on the other side of the vehicle. I had to kill this bleak presence of evil, but I was unarmed.
It’s a dream. Wake up!
Wait. I had a pistol. But something was terribly wrong. I looked around, but only tall grasses surrounded me. Wake up!
He yelled my name.
I turned and ran. His voice retreated in the distance. Coward! The earth rushed up to meet me. The raw smell of dirt filled my nose. Reaching forward, I dug my nails into the ground and pulled. I gained a few inches. Again I clawed forward. I tried to go faster, but something held my leg. Twisting around, I looked behind me.
The swirling blackness crept up my leg. I screamed.
Something wet touched my face, shoved against me. I pushed it away. It came again, more insistently. The scene faded, but the solid feel of the creature continued.
Opening my mouth to scream, I felt something wet slap against my teeth. I jerked upright, gasping.
Holly was on the bed, licking my face and nudging me awake.
The nightmare clung to my brain like pine pitch, reluctant to let go. I pushed Holly away from her frantic concern and sat up. My T-shirt was soaked. The sheets wrapped around my right ankle. The lamps I’d left flickering sent eerie shadows dancing around the cabin.
I needed to clear my head. A shot of whiskey would hit the spot, but I’d been on the wagon for three years now. And the easy fix of popping pills was no longer an option. I wasn’t going back there.
I left my oversized glasses beside the bed. I didn’t need them to see. They were only a prop I allowed myself to discourage unwanted attention.
Getting around in the middle of the night was a challenge for any leg amputee. The options were hopping, crawling, or crutches. Putting on and taking off the prosthesis was very involved for a simple trip to the bathroom. My solution was an iWALK, an exoskeletal temporary lower-leg prosthetic. The device was a crutch-like lower leg with a curved top where I put my knee. It was held in place by Velcro straps that went up my thigh and around my residual limb. From the front, I looked like I had a crutch from the knee down. From the side, my residual limb stuck out behind. Not very attractive, but very useful. The dogs watched with interest as I strapped on this mobility device.
I moved to the kitchen area. A pot of tea might calm me. The kitchen was fortunately stocked with both Yorkshire Gold and Taylors Organic Chamomile.
Confronting Sam about shooting the dogs, or maybe simply being somewhere new, had triggered my PTSD dreams. I hoped this episode would be short-lived.
While the water heated on the small gas stove, I found the package from Clan Firinn and placed it beside one of the chairs. I started unpacking my suitcase and hanging up my clothes. A large duffel bag, in addition to my suitcase, held my work materials and iWALK. With all my luggage, I always looked like I was moving in for a month.
The teapot sputtered and started to whistle. I dropped a tea bag into a cup, added the hot water, then brought it to the overstuffed chair by the fireplace. The fire had dropped to just glowing embers. After I added a small log and stirred the coals, the log caught fire.
Something moaned behind me.<
br />
I turned.
Holly had snagged the pillow, somehow crawled under the blanket, and was stretched out on my bed. Maverick, on the other hand, lay on the hard floor, pressed against the door like a giant draft stopper.
“The original odd couple,” I said to both dogs. “A hedonist and an ascetic. An extrovert and an introvert.” Curling up in the chair with my tea, I watched the dogs until the nightmare completely dissipated.
I set my tea aside and opened the package. On top was a cover letter.
Darby,
Roy Zaring has been a longtime patron and supporter of the work we do here at Clan Firinn. He’s invited a number of our people to stay at the resort in the past. He’s getting up to retirement age and is thinking about selling the ranch but is concerned about some random events that could become a problem. His letter is enclosed.
We thought this small assignment would be an easy way for you to reenter your field, and Mule Shoe is always a great experience. Study the papers, talk to a few people, then give us a report. We’ll follow up with Roy.
Scott
I set Scott’s note aside and pulled out Roy’s letter.
Dear Scott,
I hope this letter finds you well. As I told you the last time we talked, I’m thinking of selling the family ranch. I do so reluctantly as it’s been in my family for generations. Over the past few months, however, a series of “accidents” has made me wonder if someone is trying to thwart my plans. It started small—a burst pipe, a mix-up in reservations—but now I have some major concerns. Our primary focus, and income source, is our team-building program. With the death of two patrons, and several other incidents, I have lost liability coverage and am on notice of losing all my insurance. This all may be a run of very bad luck as I can’t put my finger on any particular pattern, but I could use another set of eyes. Please be discreet.
Roy
Insurance statements, letters from guests, a timeline of events, employee information, and reservations for the resort rounded out the packet. I could probably knock this out in a few hours, do some casual interviews, then grab the next horse and wagon back to town. Yee-haw.
My irritation with Scott dissolved. I might even enjoy this.
Under all the paperwork was some bubble wrap enclosing a plastic sandwich bag with three small rocks inside and a note. I unfolded the note.
Darby,
I wanted to give this to you in person before you left but was called away. As per our tradition with all residents of Clan Firinn when they leave for the first time, I’m giving you two Bible verses and a small gift. The first verse is for the challenges of the present. It’s from Joshua 1:9. “This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” The second you will need to look up—Jeremiah 29:11. This will help with your future. The gift is in the plastic bag. Memorize the verses and reflect on them. Carry the gift with you. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with both.
Scott Thomas
I hadn’t packed the Bible they gave me when I arrived at Clan Firinn. Although daily chapel was a part of the Clan Firinn program, I’d left my faith five years ago.
Maverick stood, then walked over and sat in front of me, but well out of reach.
“What?”
He blinked.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
He cocked his head but remained seated. He was so large, even seated, that his head was higher than mine.
“Need to go to the bathroom? Eat a treat? Discuss whether you cried more over Marley and Me or Old Yeller?”
His gaze went to the note still in my hand.
“Do you want to know what it said?” I read it to him, then held up the rocks. “Got any ideas for these?” I’m talking to a dog.
He yawned.
“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a sparkling conversationalist yourself. Come to think of it, your previous owner was Shadow Woman. Probably not much for rousing debate. Am I a step up or a step down?” Not only am I talking to the dog, I’m waiting for an answer.
The chamomile tea didn’t make me sleepy. Or maybe the thought of another visit from my nightmare kept me on edge. Whatever the case, I was restlessly awake.
What now? Art class wouldn’t start for several more hours. Darkness lurked outside. No internet to surf or television to watch. But I was alone . . . wasn’t that something I sought?
I casually looked at the paperwork Roy had sent to Clan Firinn, focusing on the employee information. As I’d already figured out, Wyatt had been in prison on an assault charge, but that was when he was much younger. Cookie’s real name was Irma Dankworth. No wonder she didn’t mind Cookie.
I checked out several magazines on the end table. Outdoor Idaho had an interesting story on livestock guardian dogs. Pictured were Great Pyrenees, Akbash, and an Anatolian Shepherd. I folded a corner down and left the magazine on the top of the stack. I didn’t feel like reading.
The fire was burning down. I pulled out another small log and added it, stirring the coals to freshen the blaze. A small door behind the stacked logs allowed someone to restock the fuel from outside without hauling the logs through the cabin. They’d thought of every detail.
I slipped out of my iWALK, curled up, and watched the fire.
Barking jerked me awake. Maverick was on his feet and Holly had leaped off the bed. I didn’t have to wait long for the earthquake. This one was short, almost an earth shiver.
What had Grace, the retired teacher, said about the number of earthquakes? One possible sign that the volcano is waking up is an increase in seismic activity. More earthquakes.
After tugging on my iWALK, I slowly stood. Was God really going to take me out with a supervolcano? He could have simply let me die.
But I didn’t believe in God.
“Stop it!” I said out loud. Both dogs gave me a questioning look. The light seeping in around the curtains told me it was daybreak. Finally. I opened the door and let the dogs out for their run.
As always, the night before I’d rolled down the outer sleeve of my prosthetic leg, removed the liner, washed it, and hung it up to dry. I’d washed my residual limb, then put on a compression sock for the night, which helped reduce phantom pain. In the morning I reversed these steps, took a shower, and downed several cups of coffee.
I got as far as the door before returning to put on my glasses, then dropped the three rocks into my back pocket. They tugged my pants down. I shifted them to a front pocket where they did the same. What was Scott thinking? He could have given me three hankies. Three dollars. Three platinum credit cards. Now we’re talking. I finally put one rock per pocket. If I was going to have floppy pants and lumpy hips and rear, at least I’d have a fairly even sag.
A high-pitched buzzing and rank odor greeted me outside. I followed the sound and smell to the next cabin. Both dogs were fixated on something above them.
A very dead raccoon was wedged between the end logs of the cabin.
My stomach tightened, a jolt of acid burned the back of my throat, and my neck itched as if a thousand mosquitos had bitten me.
There was no way that critter could have ended up there on its own.
And if it hadn’t crawled up between the logs, then someone put it there.
Maybe. Raccoons were notoriously inquisitive creatures. And they were known for being host to many diseases, such as rabies and distemper.
My neck continued to itch.
* * *
Bram spent the night on the top bunk in the seasonal staff building. His roomies were a maintenance man from West Yellowstone, a dishwasher from St. Anthony, and an assistant horse wrangler from Cheyenne. The only name he could remember belonged to the dishwasher, whom they called Spuds. St. Anthony was in the middle of potato country.
The building had a shared living area in the middle, with the women’s quarters on the other side. Wyatt, Angela, and Cookie had their own private quarters in a separate building.
Roy lived above the lodge.
Bram woke with Darby on his mind. What was it about her that stayed in his thoughts? Maybe because she’s the first attractive and interesting woman I’ve met in a long while. After finishing high school and graduating from the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, he’d done a stint in the navy, then sought out and been hired by the Fremont County Sheriff’s Department. Unfortunately, the number of available females in the county was limited. Extremely limited.
And his time was equally limited.
He’d finally looked into internet dating services and met Rachel. Perfect in almost every way—beautiful, slender, intelligent—but with the morals of an alley cat. The divorce came six months after the wedding when he found her in bed with his best friend.
Once bitten, twice shy, as his grandmother used to say.
Sitting up, he swung his legs over the bed and jumped down. The other male staff members had already left to start their chores. The sheriff would expect him to head back at daybreak, and he’d slept in.
He rolled up his jeans and shirt as well as yesterday’s uniform shirt and placed them into a laundry bag. He’d arranged some months ago for one of the staff to wash and iron his clothes and have them ready whenever he was here. He hated the smell, and feel, of stale clothing. After a long shower, and longer battle with his hair, he dressed in a fresh uniform shirt and headed to the kitchen for a cup or two of coffee before harnessing the horse for the trip to town.
* * *
The dogs trailed me to the lodge and selected a patch of grass on the right of the building to observe any activity.
An early morning jogger passed through the trees in the distance. I admired the discipline it took to run daily when no one was chasing you.
A fire blazed in the oversized fireplace, but none of the guests had arrived at the lobby. The sign outside the dining room stated breakfast would be ready in a half hour, and the building was filled with the mouthwatering aromas of bacon, cinnamon, and baking bread.
Next to the map of Mule Shoe on the wall hung a photograph that looked like it was taken for a Christmas card. Snow blanketed the ground, with cobalt-blue shadows under the trees. Sam’s big Belgium, covered with bells, was hitched to his wagon that had been decked out in red bows and pine boughs. Sam and Cookie were on the spring seat, waving at the photographer. In the back, Wyatt, Roy, and the rest of the staff, all wearing red Santa hats and ugly sweaters, were laughing. Underneath, written in ink, was Have a Merry Christmas, from our family to yours.
Woman in Shadow Page 4
