Black Mountain

by Laird Barron

  His visage shone pale and stiff in the glare of an industrial lamp. Victims who’ve suffered burns have waxen, drum-tight flesh around the eyes and mouth. That’s what it reminded me of as I watched the recording flicker through microloops. He didn’t resemble the man in earlier photographs. That’s the moment I realized he’d actually gotten torched in the factory explosion and a surgeon must’ve put him together again to uncanny effect. There are a limited range of miracles modern science can pull off, judging from the imperfect results.

  Nice theory, except the longer I studied him, the eyes and lips were wrong.

  “It’s a mask,” I said.

  “No mask. He’s wearing someone’s face,” Lionel said, nailing the horrid truth, first swing on deck.

  The video stuttered the way a Max Headroom bit would’ve in the latter 1980s when that show and MTV were popular. The Croatoan dug his fingers into his cheeks and peeled aside latex, cured human flesh, or whatever material it was, and revealed his traditional stocking mask as the next layer. He laughed and pulled the stocking upward, inch by inch. His grinning teeth dripped black. I flashed to Denis Swenson baring his fangs at me in Deering.

  Before we saw what came next, the image cut to static.

  I poured another round and savored mine this time around and told myself what I’d seen was an optical illusion; low-budget special effects and clever editing. Lionel stared at the dead screen. His features were wooden. I dared not ask his opinion because I feared he might disagree with my own assessment. He might tell me there’d been no trick photography, that the images were all too real.

  Battling the compulsion to dump gasoline on the tapes and set the collection ablaze, I returned them to the container and sealed it in duct tape and shoved the mess into the closet until such time as I decided their ultimate dispensation. Swore I felt their vile radiation under the door gap.

  That wasn’t going to fly.

  * * *

  —

  YET ANOTHER GLASS OF BOOZE; the most I’d drunk since Reba Walker died. Lionel and I loosened enough in our skins to mull the events of the day. We discussed the strands linking Zircon and the Department of Defense to the Croatoan and what it portended. We two ants were trapped in no-man’s-land while the government, the Mafia, a clan of industrialists and their globe-spanning corporation lumbered around the field like elephants. To say nothing of a serial killer and a mercenary company with a history of mayhem.

  “Which strands us in the middle of . . . where?” Lionel said, intercepting my very thought. We were already an old married couple. “Where are we stranded, Isaiah?”

  “We’re not stranded.” What else was I going to say? I swallowed my bourbon, thankful for the bite in the back of my throat and how the buzz took the edge off my nerves. I opened the ammo box containing Oestryke’s maps and spread them over the table. “Temple Hill, Granite Hall, Baranowski’s Hiatus, The Bonaventure, Wasser’s house, Goldstein Hotel.”

  I tapped my index finger on red marker dots sprinkled throughout the Catskills. Each dot represented a former luxury vacation site akin to the White Rock Hotel. Each had fallen by the wayside, reclaimed by the forces of nature.

  “Bellow called it. He theorized Oestryke used the abandoned resorts as hubs. Oestryke’s cabin was fine and dandy as a spot to bring friends, associates, and the occasional victim. Not enough by itself. To do it right and expand his reach, he required multiple safe houses. There are over a dozen of these defunct resorts along the range. Stands to reason Oestryke’s successor moves around them as well.”

  Lionel pinned the corner of the map with his glass. He traced a line along the red dots.

  “You might be onto something. It’ll be of interest to the authorities. I mention the authorities because what needs to happen with a fucking quickness is those tapes and weapons get sealed and anonymously delivered like a baby in a basket to the nearest cop shop.” He didn’t say the rest of what he was surely thinking: Dump the info in Curtis’s lap and hit the showers. Let the mob fight Zircon Corporation. The winner can deal with the Croatoan or his copycat. Or not.

  There was a reason he didn’t say it aloud. Attractive as the notion might be, we’d committed ourselves a while ago and then sealed it with a bloody kiss at Oestryke’s house in the woods when we absconded with the dirty money. In the words of somebody wiser than either of us, If you’re going through hell, keep going.

  “The box of cash should be high on our list of priorities. It’s a fat stack, amigo.” He watched my expression. “Been a rotten day, yeah. But, my God, the dough. Life-changing dough. Why don’t you look happier?”

  “Did you check the serial numbers?” I said. “Those bills date from the ’60s and ’70s. Could be hard to wash. Another problem is that you’re right—it’s a fat stack. Might as well be a suitcase nuke so far as it represents a clear and present danger to our health. Life-changing? Nah, life-ending if we make the wrong move. Half of our ‘friends’ would slice our throats ear to ear for a taste.”

  “You’re harshing my buzz.”

  “And I say unto thee—we’ve drop-kicked a hornet’s nest. I don’t even trust the cops or the Feds after some of the insanity I’ve seen. Watch your six. I’d even go further and counsel taking steps.”

  “But, the loot, Isaiah. All that sweet, wrinkly folding green. Please don’t say we’ve gotta burn it, or something.”

  “That’s crazy talk. We have to be careful and we have to be smart. We don’t do anything hasty. Sock it away and formulate a plan for how we’ll get it back into circulation. I’ve hunted down numerous low-rent guys who all committed the same fatal error—they absconded with a heap of loot and became conspicuous consumers. The morons thought a new car, a fancy watch, a modest hacienda, or a few big-spender nights at the strip club would fly under the radar. Every last one of those suckers walked around a corner and bumped into me.”

  “Right, point taken. We’re keeping the cash.”

  “We’re keeping the cash.”

  “Hear! Hear!” He topped off my glass. He killed the bottle by gulping straight from the neck. His eyes were red-rimmed and metallic. A man’s eyes harden to metal when he breaches a certain threshold and everything reduces to a weight or a calculation; when his thoughts linger increasingly on the gun at his waist, the knife in his pocket.

  The drink wasn’t celebratory or in honor of some small victory amidst the never-stopping carnage of the universe. The booze had scalded and then numbed my throat. I wanted to keep that numbness going, help it spread. We sealed the money bin inside an industrial garbage bag and buried it in the woods. The wind rose like a black-gilded tempest in a fairy tale. Branches slashed our shoulders and sleet pelted us. The last of the leaves cascaded to join their fallen brothers.

  Definitely a warning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  When we’d finished acting the part of pirates burying treasure on a nameless island, I parted ways with Lionel and changed into dry clothes. My cell rang.

  “How’s it hangin’?” Curtis said. He sounded too cheerful. Never ever an auspicious sign when mob bosses are sunshine and roses. “Got us a problem. Noon today, a little birdy told me Nic Royal ducked into the Knarr to collect his pay. Same little birdy next saw him sneakin’ around over in Clayton Park. Packin’ his bags for Timbuktu, if he’s got a brain. Sent a couple guys over to keep an eye on him.”

  “Keep an eye on him or roll him up in a carpet?” I said.

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Didn’t hear from them, so I grabbed more guys and paid him a personal visit. No sign a my men or Royal. My crew’s car is gone too. I’m assumin’ the worst.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the news bulletin.”

  “Save your thanks. This is on you, Coleridge. You had the cocksucker in your grasp and let him walk.” He pulled away to yell at a subordinate. He sighed into the receiver to demonstrate the burden of his
forbearance. “Forgive my temper. It’s a delicate problem. We’ll straighten this out at a later date, yeah? You see that peckerhead in the meantime? My advice is shoot first. Ciao.”

  I’d always acknowledged the possibility that Royal was somehow involved. This development with Curtis’s missing soldiers didn’t necessarily confirm the worst, although it was far from cheering news. Honestly, Royal had every reason to be paranoid, and maybe he’d gotten the jump on the mob brutes.

  The angel on my left shoulder—he with the nub horns and larcenous grin—muttered into my ear that it was equally fair to venture that Royal had lain in wait for the goombahs. The dragnet was closing in; why not take some mobsters with him on the way to thug Valhalla? I tossed this speculation onto the mounting pile of worrisome unknowns.

  It felt intolerable to store evidence from Oestryke’s house anywhere near where I ate and slept. I gathered the materials, stowed them in the truck, wrapped the Mossberg in a blanket and laid it beside me on the seat, and drove over to the office.

  I slid into my space behind the Elton Cooper Building several minutes past sunset. My neighbors had already closed shop for the day. Oestryke’s papers, knives, and films went into the safe. I hung the ghillie suit from the coatrack. Light from the solitary desk lamp I’d switched on didn’t reach the corners of the office. The suit, with its tangle of burlap strips and hanks of twine, resembled a tall man hunched, his misshapen shadow creeping across the wall and ceiling.

  Messages blinked on the machine. Two were telemarketing pitches; another was left by the building manager advising of a power interruption for repairs on the first of the month; Burt P requested a return call in regard to his granddaughter’s problem. She put a bug in his ear after the brouhaha at her house the other night. I understood his anxiousness. He’d given me a decent amount of money with next to nothing to show for it, except a wildly antagonized granddaughter.

  Headlights bounced off the ceiling. I went to the window and spied a pair of Ulster County Sheriff’s patrol cars bracketing my truck. I locked up. Full dark had stolen over the world. It was an interminable and strangely unpleasant walk downstairs, across the dim lobby and through the security doors.

  The deputies were edgy until I produced ID and detective credentials. One of the neighbors had reported a prowler about twenty minutes ago. A vague description, except the caller noted the prowler absolutely didn’t belong, whatever that meant. Trooper A figured the citizen had mistaken me for an intruder because of my skin tone, like as not. Thanks, buddy. The timing felt off. I didn’t mention it, though; I nodded to him and his partner and watched them drive away.

  In the truck, I dialed Meg and apologized because I wouldn’t be available in the near future. Hard to do, because I missed her fiercely. She knew something was amiss, but cheerfully suggested we touch base when my schedule permitted and let it lie.

  The investigation had swerved ninety degrees and all bets were off. Anybody could be tracking my movements: the mob, Black Dog, law enforcement, or a serial killer. Last thing I wanted was to lead a bad guy straight to her doorstep.

  An image of the black wolf materialized in my imagination. It crouched a dozen paces away and gazed down at its kill. I couldn’t discern what kind of animal lay in the red snow, but I could guess. The wolf yawned, pleased with the death it had completed and the death to come.

  Gene K whispered from its gory muzzle, Prick up your ears, killer. Didn’t you smell the odor of death in your office? Faint, oh so very faint. It turned in profile and raised its head to inhale deeply of the breeze. The universe has noticed you.

  Where else had I encountered the rank odor? Nic Royal’s truck, and, later, in my room at the West Kill Lodge. A sensation of doom rolled over me, like I was lying in an open grave. I didn’t spare a moment to snatch the shotgun as I exited the truck, took three huge bounds, and flattened against the side of the building.

  Gene the Wolf chuckled, a blot in my peripheral vision.

  That’s the way. It won’t happen at close quarters. A smart enemy will snipe you from a distance. You’ll never feel your melon blast apart. You’ll cruise unto Kingdom Come with that sappy look on your face.

  Intuition told me that Gene’s theory didn’t fit this scenario. A sniper’s bullet wouldn’t be my fate. The Croatoan had reveled in intimate violence. He’d enjoyed the tactile and auditory sensations of murder within blood-splash distance. Odds were, his imitator felt the same. Odds were, if the imitator had indeed been here, he longed to plunge a knife into my heart and watch my eyes go dark.

  Praying that the nosy neighbor wouldn’t spot me and summon the gendarmes for round two, I sneaked to the rear entrance, punched the key code, and moved inside. Next came the stairs, carpeted and solid. They muffled my steps as I ascended, hugging the wall, revolver in hand.

  No direct light in the second-story corridor, nor my office. I froze, a shadow within shadows, for five minutes or an eon. A clock ticked. The boiler kicked on and ducts thumped and rattled. My entire performance was tactically unsound. Gene, Lionel, and my dear old dad would’ve unanimously excoriated me for my recklessness. Clearing a structure that size requires a team of trained personnel with overlapping fields of fire moving in tandem. Lacking such a team, the odds of neutralizing an entrenched opponent before he got the drop were prohibitive.

  I tried my office door. The dead bolt was disengaged. No denying the evidence; someone had lurked while I bumbled around the room. I stepped through and immediately crouched and held my breath. Nobody took a shot, nobody rushed me.

  I flicked on the lights and took stock. Everything seemed undisturbed except for one detail. The ghillie suit was missing from its hook. My reflection warped in the tall, black window that overlooked Atwood Street. I almost put a hole through my own distorted face.

  The drive home to Hawk Mountain Farm was winding and intricate. Dad and Gene K had instructed me in the basics of evasive driving and the lessons had stuck. I put those skills through the paces. I peeled my eyes for a tail; detected only crimson shadows trailing in the truck’s wake.

  * * *

  —

  BACK AT THE FARM, I reclined in my favorite chair, selfishly wishing Minerva were at my feet instead of camping at Meg’s house. The dog would’ve hated my mood anyway. She and I were entirely too sensitive to amorphous peril.

  Fire crackled in the hearth and two generous glasses of bourbon warmed my gut. The shotgun lay across a small table near my right hand. I hadn’t bothered to attach the laser sight or the tactical grip. I had loaded it with four rounds of double-aught buckshot and three bear slugs. Another slug nestled in the chamber, ready.

  The phone I kept on hand for dubious contacts and informants buzzed one minute after midnight. Unknown name, unknown number. I held it to my ear and waited for the caller to speak.

  Both of us breathed for a few seconds. A third someone whimpered in the background. Gurgled, really. There are several injuries that can cause a man to make those sorts of noises. Each possibility was worse than the last. That would be one of Curtis’s vanished minions.

  The caller set down his handset with an audible clack of metal on metal. Footsteps receded. The background whimpers transformed into frenzied screams. They were somewhere private with no chance of interruption. It went on and on and finally stopped.

  Sweat trickled down my cheeks. I sipped another bourbon through gritted teeth. Heavy footsteps scuffed and scraped. The caller breathed into the phone the way a man does after a sprint, or sex.

  “Nic?” I said. A reasonable guess, considering recent events. “Abducting Curtis’s soldiers wasn’t smart. Bad, bad men are looking for you. Shoot to kill.”

  His chuckle, when it came, was low and malicious.

  “The darkness isn’t killable.”

  I couldn’t decide whether or not I recognized the voice. Could’ve been Nic Royal; could’ve been anybody.

&nb
sp; “Historically, a hail of gunfire is reliable,” I said. “Man, you snowed me. You were the Croatoan’s sidekick all along. You killed Harry because he betrayed your mentor. Classic motive.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “The time line is confusing,” I said. “You inserted yourself into Harry’s world at least two years ago, roomed with him for nine months with the express intent to end him at some point. How did you know Harry sold out Oestryke? Did Harry let it slip? He wasn’t an idiot. He would’ve taken that secret straight to hell. Had to be someone else. Who?”

  “Maybe a spying bird lit down,” he said. His breathing roughened. “Ask the right person the right questions, all will be revealed.”

  “And Ray Anderson? You opened him like a sack of rice. Why?”

  He chuckled again.

  The realization that got to me? Royal had likely parked near my office with a couple of wiseguys in the trunk of a stolen car. Which further confirmed I had a certifiable maniac by the tail.

  What malignant set of circumstances originally brought Nic Royal and Morris Oestryke together? My gut insisted that Oestryke, a collector of men, as Curtis had stated in not so many words, scooped Royal off the street. He’d swooped down shortly after the younger man cashiered out of the Marine Corps—penniless, friendless, rudderless. The Croatoan had introduced the soldier into a more rigorous methodology of violence. Groomed him for the inevitable day when the butcher’s blade would be passed to the new generation.

  Gene K half formed in the shadows. He nodded and I averted my gaze until he evaporated.

  “Nic, you there?”

  “I could have taken you before.”

  “At the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I’m the messenger, so listen. Your life and death belong to another. Take a walk. Onetime offer. At the end of this conversation, it’s gone.”