Jericho: A Novel

by Alex Gordon

  “These are all faculty offices.” The man stepped out into the corridor. He held papers in one hand and a red pen in the other, and looked irritated enough to call security. “Were you looking for someone in particular?”

  “No, I just came in through the wrong door—”

  “Are you a student?”

  “I’m sorry.” Lauren slipped outside and hurried down the walkway. When she didn’t hear the door close behind her, she turned, and found the man standing in the open entry, watching her.

  She smiled an apology, then continued to the library, entered, and walked straight through to the doorway that opened out to the parking lot. Got into her car, and sat still. Breathed slowly. It took her some time to come to grips with what had just happened, and to realize that yes, she definitely had to go to Portland.

  When the lights had flashed on in the hallway, she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face.

  It was Fernanda Carmody.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lauren returned to her condo and spent the rest of the day cleaning, packing, and arguing with herself. That she had only imagined seeing Fernanda Carmody. Or that even if she had seen something, it had been a trick played by whatever had summoned her to Oregon, and had nothing to do with the missing woman.

  But she knew better. If her adversary had wanted to taunt her, it would have shown her an image of her father, her mother, or one of Gideon’s lost souls. She had never known Fernanda Carmody. Beyond a vague sense of regret and disquiet over the unexplained loss of another human being, she felt nothing concerning her disappearance.

  She came to me. But why? Lauren pondered the question as she finished packing. She set her suitcase by the front door, then went to the window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked outside. It was a clear night, and she counted a handful of stars that managed to shine through the light pollution. It will be different tomorrow. Even with the lighting around the compound, she expected that the mountain night sky would be amazing.

  That’s one thing to look forward to. Lauren brushed the curtain back into place and returned to the living room. There would be no more playing with dark space that evening. No skeins of otherworldliness winding through the air. She settled on the couch, turned on the television, and tried to concentrate on a reality show.

  Instead she pondered her hallway encounter. More and more details surfaced in her memory, like a figure emerging from fog. Fernanda had been about twenty-five when she vanished, but the face Lauren had seen had not been that of a young woman. She looked much older. Worn and battered, her face drawn, heavily lined.

  Lauren had never heard of ghosts aging. They remained frozen in time, bound to the event that had rendered them thus. So she could be alive. Possibly hiding. Or being held captive. That sort of stress, the assumed lack of care, would age a person prematurely.

  She closed her eyes and once more saw that ashen face framed by long, black hair, eyes wide, hands reaching out.

  “She wants something.” Not exactly a stretch. The question was what. Freedom? Justice? Her husband’s head on a plate? Lauren folded her arms and nestled against the cushions. Eventually she fell asleep, and dreamed of being chased by a shadowed woman, down winding corridors that led nowhere.

  THE DAY DAWNED brilliant and the flight to Portland offered a taste of a different life, awe-inspiring mountain vistas viewed over a made-to-order breakfast of an omelet and fruit so fresh it still held warmth from the sun.

  Lauren proved the only passenger for that leg of the trip, and she worried that Kaster had lied to her about the other guests. But those fears abated when she disembarked and spotted the group milling outside the entrance to Carmody Field’s small terminal. Two men and three women, all dressed in summery garb, the men in khakis and short-sleeve shirts, the women in sundresses.

  Lauren looked down at her white linen pants and yellow T-shirt. First test passed.

  “Ah, the special snowflake.” One of the men, round face shiny pink with sunburn, bowed to her with a hand-waving flourish. “Some of us had to find our own way here.”

  A sun-bleached blonde in green batik clucked her tongue. “Quiet, Heath. We drove all of twenty minutes, including a stop for coffee.” She held out her hand. “I’m Samantha Dane. But everybody calls me Sam.” She had adorned her fingers with henna, whorls and rings that traced from bases to tips, and sported multiple piercing in her ears and nose and an overlarge shoulder bag of whipstitched leather. “You must be Lauren—I’m sorry, is it Mullin or Reardon?”

  “Reardon’s my legal name.” Lauren tensed as the woman took hold of her elbow and steered her toward the rest of the group. “Mullin is a family name.” Not the clearest of explanations, but she hoped it would suffice for the time being.

  “How interesting.” Samantha positioned Lauren in front of the others, then gestured that she should remain still. “Okay, everyone, one at a time.”

  The second man stuck out his hand. “Peter Augustin.” Tall, but slightly bent, his short black hair tipped with gray, his skin the same deep brown as his eyes.

  “Stef Warburg.” That from the eldest woman. A slight figure, face obscured by the round black frames of her eyeglasses, brown hair wound into a tight bun.

  “Heath Jameson.” Pink Face looked Lauren up and down, then arched his eyebrows and turned away.

  The youngest woman stood leaning against the terminal wall, attention fixed on her phone. She wore a crisp red linen blazer over her tan dress; a thin leather briefcase rested on the ground next to her. “Jenny Porter.” She raised a hand, then resumed reading.

  Okay. Lauren smiled, muttered a greeting. Tried to ease out of Sam’s grip without appearing rude, but the woman seemed bound and determined to hang on to her.

  “So, what’s your specialty?” Sam smiled broadly, but her eyes held that certain glint that indicated points would be awarded or deducted depending on the answer. “Spells? Herbs? Prognostication?”

  Lauren thought for a moment. “I’m afraid I’m more a GP.” She fielded the woman’s puzzled look. “General practitioner. Whatever’s needed?” She glanced at the others and caught Stef frowning. “I can get a sense of things sometimes, when I handle them. Their history.”

  “Well, that sounds very . . . useful.” Sam pressed a hand to her chest. “I myself am a trained herbalist, and I have brought a veritable cornucopia with me. If any of you feel the least bit ill or out of sorts, physically or spiritually, just come see me and I will fix you right up.”

  “Don’t worry—it’s all legal.” Heath jerked his thumb at Jenny, who had yet to look up from her phone. “The steely eye of Carmody’s legal department, here to make sure we do nothing to embarrass our host.”

  “I would never—” Sam colored, then walked up to the man and swatted his arm.

  Peter stepped around the pair and bent close to Lauren. “Don’t mind Heath. Nerves bring out his edges.”

  “He’s nervous?” Lauren looked past him to Heath, who had just laughed and shaken his head at something that Sam said to him.

  “Aren’t you?” Peter twitched one shoulder. “I am.”

  “I don’t—” Lauren fell silent. Nervous? Yes, maybe a little. Maybe a lot. “I was told this was a chance to, I don’t know, relax?” She caught a flicker in Peter’s eyes. “It isn’t?”

  “Do you mind if I ask how you acquired your invitation?” Peter’s expression remained friendly, but his voice held an edge.

  Lauren hesitated. She could see Stef hovering nearby, doing a poor impersonation of a disinterested bystander. “Gene Kaster.”

  “Really? He . . . contacted you?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Gideon?”

  Lauren forced a smile. “No. I first met him in Seattle.” She could see the questions form in Peter’s eyes. He obviously knew something about her. But he didn’t hear it from Kaster, or he’d have known I was coming. So how did he know about her? A feeling returned from her corporate days, a sense that she had stepped into the middle
of a territorial squabble. “Sam mentioned that she was an herbalist. Do the rest of you specialize as well?”

  Before Peter could reply, Stef joined them. “Heath is a well-regarded dealer in antiquities.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “I believe his current snit is because he thought he’d been invited for a solo visit. He’s been dying to get a look at the sculptures for years now.”

  “The house has a pretty well-regarded sculpture garden,” Peter said to Lauren, “though not many folks have seen it. The architectural magazines have been trying to get up to the place for decades, but—”

  “But?” Lauren guessed what was coming and decided against filling in the blanks. She had participated in retreats before. Anything said always got back to the hosts, and gossiping about the man who had invited her to his home seemed rude. Given all the poking around she intended to do, she didn’t want to risk whatever goodwill might be out there for her to tap. Who knew when she would need it?

  “The Carmodys were always very private. Until the last several years, of course.” Stef shook her head. “The curse of—”

  “Hey, Pete!”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, Heath?” He turned to the man, who had retired to the air-conditioned waiting room inside the terminal and now leaned out the door.

  “Come in here a minute. I need to ask you about that book that Fraley’s is auctioning next week.”

  As Peter grumbled his way out of earshot, Lauren followed Stef to the shade of the building awning. “Were you going to say the curse of Carmody Peak?”

  “Don’t tell me you visited that horrid website.” Stef took an embroidered hankie from her shoulder bag and dabbed sweat from her brow. “The pet project of a former acquaintance, emphasis on former. Friends shouldn’t let friends post in sixteen-point Gothic, but one can only do so much.” She motioned for Lauren to accompany her and headed around to the side of the building. “No, I was going to say the curse of too much money, though I’m sure we would all love the opportunity to prove our ability to cope.” As soon as they were out of sight of the others, she raised her hand and drew an X in the air, then enclosed it with a circle.

  Lauren stared, unsure whether she had just seen what she thought she saw. “You’re a Child of Endor?”

  “A bit more than that.” As the seconds ticked by, Stef’s brow arched. “Please tell me that Virginia told you.”

  Lauren waited for assistance, but none proved forthcoming. Then the penny dropped. “You’re from the Council.”

  “You’ve heard of us?” Stef sighed. “That’s reassuring, I suppose.” She leaned against the building, folded her arms. “You seem puzzled.”

  “Gene Kaster led me to believe that the Council wasn’t involved in this.”

  “Gene would prefer if we weren’t involved in this. Gene doesn’t always get what he wants.” Stef cocked her head and studied Lauren. “So, you’re the woman who saved Gideon.” Her voice held a bit of wonder and a lot of question. “How is Virginia? We haven’t heard from her since January, when she sent us a rather terse account of your ordeal.”

  Lauren looked toward the helipad located alongside the airfield’s single runway and wondered when the helicopter would arrive to bail her out of this conversation. You never told me you filed a report, Virginia. The woman had made it sound as though she ignored the Council as a matter of course. “She’s fine.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt, but I find it concerning that she sent you here without consulting us.”

  She didn’t send me. The decision was mine. Lauren met Stef’s eyes, narrowed behind her owl glasses. She thinks Virginia is still Mistress of Gideon. Best to let her keep thinking that, at least for now. “Maybe she felt the decision was hers to make.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see about that.” Stef looked up as the whop-whop of an approaching helicopter rattled the air. “This isn’t the time or the place, but rest assured, we will address this.” She turned on her heel and headed toward the runway.

  Lauren hurried after her. “This is what you choose to get upset about? Seriously? When it served you to leave Gideon in the charge of a family that had a long-standing relationship with the demon who tried to destroy it?”

  Stef stopped and turned. “If you’re talking about the Catemans—”

  “I am. From the very beginning, they ruled Gideon, and every Council since the founding of the town was content to stand aside and let it go on. So don’t try to tell me that you know what’s best for us, or that we’re not capable of taking care—”

  “You lost half your population to the blizzard, and you’re losing the rest to economic realities. Virginia is the Mistress of a town in crisis, and yet she has seen fit to send you here. Why?”

  “Yes, Gideon is in crisis. That being the case, how could she not send someone to talk to you directly?”

  Stef stared at her. Then her eyes slowly widened. “You’re her emissary?” She snorted softly, but before she could say more, Heath poked his head around the corner. “Heads up, ladies. Our bladed chariot has arrived.” He pulled Sam after him toward the helipad. “Took them bloody long enough.”

  “As I said, this is neither the time nor place.” Stef turned and followed the others to the helicopter.

  Lauren waited until the others had boarded and the pilot had stowed the luggage and she had no choice but to follow.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lauren spent the forty-five-minute flight staring out the window, and pretended not to hear when Peter made an attempt to talk to her. When he wasn’t trying to get her attention, he and Stef sat close together, heads bent, deep in conversation.

  She sneaked glances at them, took note of the hand motions and half smiles, the hundred tiny gestures that marked them as close friends. Very close. She wondered what they intended to do after they arrived at the Carmody compound. They know something is going on. They had to. Surely she couldn’t be the only witch in the United States who sensed that something was rotten in Oregon.

  She took some comfort from the views of the mountains, the ribbon of the Pacific Ocean visible on the horizon. No danger to be seen or smelled from this height, and no voices thanks to the chopper noise.

  But the respite didn’t last long. A few minutes later, the Carmody compound came into view. The helipad, jutting out from the mountainside like a giant shelf fungus. Assorted support structures and outbuildings artfully obscured by landscaping. And through the trees, the light veining of roads and trails, bits of roof and flashes of skylight and window glass that drew closer and closer until before Lauren could draw her next breath the spruce and hemlock loomed overhead and all motion had ceased and the sounds of rotors and motors slowly died.

  Lauren and the others disembarked and walked away from the helicopter, eyes fixed on the scene before them like explorers taking their first steps on a new world. The Carmody house hugged the summit of the peak, an arrangement in wood, stone, and glass that blended with the trees and reflected passing clouds, that seemed to have emerged from the side of the mountain rather than been built on it.

  “Welcome to tonight’s episode of how the other hundredth of a percent lives.” Heath tried for flippant but missed, the wonder in his voice all too apparent.

  “The main part of the house was built in the late sixties.” Peter pointed to the lower levels of redwood-stained beams and balconies. “Steven Carmody, our host’s late father, wanted it to look as though it had always been part of the mountain.”

  “Places like this always have names.” Sam held on to Heath’s arm and gasped as a hawk flew overhead, its mirror image coursing along the side of the house. “Did he give it a name?”

  Jenny spoke for the first time. “The house on our mountain? The little cabin in the woods?”

  They all continued to marvel until a strange sound filled the air, like steam escaping from a teakettle. Then came a metal-on-metal whine, at which point a small train emerged from a gap in some shrubbery and chugged toward them. It ran along a narrow track
, a trio of open cars attached to a miniature locomotive complete with cowcatcher.

  “Mornin’, folks.” The driver doffed his cap as the train rounded a curve until it faced the direction of the house. “All aboard.” He smiled at the stares. “A lot of the logging outfits installed their own rail lines to transport cut timber. You’ll see the old track if you visit the Jericho camp. Mr. Carmody’s father had this installed for guest use. Kinda like a tribute.”

  Sam stroked the side of the locomotive. “Could we ride this train to Jericho?”

  “No, ma’am. This is like a miniature version. Track’s too narrow.”

  As staff appeared out of nowhere to unload the luggage from the helicopter onto a flatbed for transport to the house, Lauren and the others boarded the train. Lauren looked over the driver’s shoulder at the array of electronic gear and paperwork spread across the dashboard. Amid the clutter, she spotted what looked like a WANTED poster poking out from beneath a clipboard. “Who’s that?

  “Picked it up down at the truck stop off the main road.” The driver pulled out the sheet of paper and handed it to her. “He went missing around here two–three weeks ago.” He hit the starter and the train jerked into motion. “Hikers go missing all the time. The woods are pretty. Folks forget that pretty can hide bad things.”

  Lauren studied the image, a copy of which was currently stashed in her messenger bag. “David Garvin.”

  “Do you know him?” Peter asked.

  “No.” Lauren handed the poster back to the driver. “I figure that if we went hiking, we could keep an eye out.”

  The driver shook his head. “It’s been almost three weeks, like I said. Anyone who’s been missing that long doesn’t want to be found. Or they’re dead.” He glanced back at his passengers. “Poor fellow could be a ghost by now.”

  Sam clucked her tongue. “What an awful thing to say.”

  “Fact o’ life around here, ma’am, much as I regret to say it. Respect the woods, because they sure as hell ain’t got no respect for you.” Sensing an audience, the driver sat up straighter and cleared his throat. “Even if, God willing, that Mr. Garvin is still alive somewhere, we’ve got more than our share of spirits. There’s Bandage Man—they see him mostly near Cannon Beach, but he’s been known to turn up in these parts. A lumberjack, he was, injured in a horrible sawmill accident. They tried to treat his wounds—wrapped him in bandages from head to toe like a mummy—but he died anyway. Now he haunts the woods and roadways around here—”