Mountain Home

by Bracken MacLeod

  #

  1426 hrs

  Lyn felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around, hoping that it wasn’t Beau with her final paycheck. The cook, Leonard Blackbear, stood towering over her. He had long black braids and an easy smile that curved up below eyes that always seemed deadly serious––like he knew something no one else did and was trying to keep the bad news to himself. “If everyone’s all set,” he said, “I’m headed out to have a cigarette.” Chances were that he probably had a customer coming to buy a little weed and was going out to wait for them. She didn’t mind. He was nice and gave her a discount when she needed a spliff.

  “Yeah. Everyone’s good, except for the guy with the ten gallon bladder over there.” Lyn nodded toward Bottomless Coke. “I’ll come get you if anyone wants anything from the grill.”

  “Thanks.” Leonard was a quiet man, and although Lyn thought he treated her better than most of her fellow employees that was close to the longest conversation they’d ever had. “Oh hey,” he said. “You dropped this when the boss dragged you to his office.” He held out the small Moleskine notebook she kept in her apron pocket. She took it from him, clutching it to her chest with crossed arms like a shield. “Can I see inside?” he asked.

  Lyn’s focus shifted to him instead of into whatever distant land she was surveying through him. “Huh?” She appeared to be trying to shake off a momentary disorientation.

  “Your sketchbook. Can I take a look? I’ve seen you drawing in it when business gets slow, but you’ve never shown me anything you’ve done.”

  “I don’t usually show people my stuff. It’s not that good.” She tried to hug the book a little tighter.

  Leonard held his hand out, not demanding, but hoping that she’d open up a little and share. He liked her and on day like this he thought that if she didn’t catch a break she’d crack open completely. Every time she opened the book it seemed to take her someplace better. He wanted to go there too, if only for a moment. She handed the tablet over and looked at her feet like she was waiting for the inevitable advice to not quit her day job. He flipped open the first page to a sketch of a lithe young woman wearing an ensemble not unlike what Lyn was usually wearing before changing into her uniform––like something an elfin warrior would wear to a nightclub in New York. “Nice work,” he said. She didn’t reply. The next couple of pages were more of the same straightforward sartorial illustrations with more attention paid to fashion than artistic experimentation. Then he came to the portrait. Lyn had drawn a three-quarter profile of him.

  Although Leonard came and went from the Kitchen dressed for work with his hair in a net, she’d drawn him with his braids down. She’d been kind in her representation, yet she’d still captured the little wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that she couldn’t have possibly seen all the way from the front of the restaurant. Her attention to detail impressed him. She had to have been studying him in the small moments when she’d hang an order on the spinner or pick up a plate. He held up the picture so she could compare it to his face. “No one has ever drawn me before. How do I look?”

  “Sorry,” she said without looking up.

  “Don’t be. I think it’s excellent.”

  “You really think so?”

  He regarded her with a look that said he didn’t pay empty compliments. She smiled a little. Leonard flipped to the next page to find a portrait of someone who must have been a customer at one point. It was a man sitting, staring out one of the windows at Joanie’s house across the street. Again, her attention to detail was startling. He held the page closer and thought he might have been able to see the silhouette of the woman who lived on the other side of the highway.

  The next two pages were more flat urban fantasy clothing designs. He turned the page and nearly fumbled the book. Staring at him was a chimerical beast, mostly bear, but with a leering wolf’s head topped with a stag’s antlers. The monster’s slavering mouth hung open revealing teeth that––even in pencil––seemed to glisten on the page. Leonard held his breath.

  She looked up at him and a worried expression passed over her face. “Which one?”

  He struggled to find the word.

  “What?”

  “This one looks like something my grandfather used to tell me about. Kreewatan is what they called him by the Great Lakes. He has other names from other people, but that’s the one I remember.”

  She pulled the sketchbook out of his hands and closed it. With a trembling voice, she said, “I made this guy up. I had a dream about him.”

  “Dream or no dream, that’s Kreewatan.”

  “How do you know what it is? Is it a thing because… how do you know?”

  Leonard felt conflicted. He liked Lyn and wanted to explain, but the picture frightened him badly. So much for distractions.

  “He’s a fringe figure that appears after westward expansion. Like the ghost dance people thought would bring the buffalo back and rid the land of the Whites. The Kreewatan Cult started with the Paiute, but spread as a new religious movement through native communities around 1880. He was worshiped from the Abenaki in Maine to the Yakama Nation. They believed that the only way to be rid of the white man was to invite Kreewatan to their lands.”

  “So he’s a protector?” she asked.

  “Not at all. He’s a spirit of destruction. Kind of like an animistic atom bomb.”

  “So he comes and takes out everyone you hate?”

  “When he comes everyone goes mad and kills each other. He’s a harbinger, kind of. But he’s also an agitator. Kreewatan’s coming means that the whole world is about to end. At least, the whole world for the people who see him.”

  “You know this because you’re Indian?”

  Leonard looked at the kid with a touch of exasperation. “I know this because I have a Master’s degree in American folklore.” She blushed hard and smiled at him as if to apologize for saying something so stupid. He continued, “When I was in grammar school, he appeared to me in a dream right before a man set fire to our dormitory. Thirty-eight boys taken from tribes all over the Southwest died because some redneck nut with a gas can and a Zippo hated American Indians. But Kreewatan was there; I dreamed about him. My grandfather was a Codetalker. He was there when they liberated Dachau. The prisoners told him they saw him. They called him something else––something in their language, but it was the same spirit.”

  “I don’t believe in that sort of stuff. Gods and spirits,” Lyn added.

  “Do you believe in lightning? In the stories, Kreewatan is a force of nature like that or fire, not a god. You can harness it, but if it gets away from you it’ll consume everything. And sometimes it just happens, even when you don’t do anything.”

  “How do you get rid of him?” The expression on her face was remorseful, building toward panicked.

  “You don’t. You can put out individual fires, but that doesn’t get rid of fire, does it? You survive if you can. You work together and survive.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Hey, a drawing is just a drawing, right? No need to get weirded out. Go out and do your thing. The day’ll come to an end and you can go home and enjoy this.” He pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  “I don’t have any extra cash.”

  “Consider it a thank you for letting me look in your book. I think you’re really talented.”

  Lyn took the joint and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Thanks.” The big man turned to head outside for his smoke break. “Hey, Leonard. Did you ever see a bear up here?” she asked.

  The big man stopped and turned around slowly. His smile faded and he simply looked sad. “A couple of times. They’re not around like they used to be. Why?”

  “The couple who just left said they saw a grizzly.” She hesitated. “Or maybe… an elk.”

  He huffed out a breath of air that sounded half like a laugh and half like a moose snort. “They couldn’t tell the difference?”

  “They thought they saw different parts.�
�� Lyn was reminded of the parable of the blind men trying to describe an elephant. She tried not to think of her sketch.

  “Were they locals?”

  “No. From Colorado.”

  “They probably saw a tree stump.” He winked at Lyn as if to say, city folks wouldn’t know the difference and walked away to have his smoke.

  #

  1426 hrs

  Joanie sat at the breakfast table in front of the picture window that looked out on Your Mountain Home Kitchen and filled in the diagram she’d started the night before. The Coloradoans are seated at the first booth by the door––they’ll be leaving soon––the redhead and the jealous woman are at the table in the middle of the restaurant, ‘Fat Fuck’ is in the fifth booth from the door by the picture window, and the couple with the dog is at the table near him. Finally, the last customers were the quiet man and his teenage boy in the booth along the wall. Employees: The bus boy likes to hang back and polish tableware by the soda-machine and the cook is in the kitchen where he belongs. Lyn moves around the floor, but when she stops it is usually at the register near the door. And Beau. Beau is locked in his office like the fucking coward he is.

  Is that everyone? No one at the counters. It’s late for lunch and early for dinner. It was probably busier this morning, but that run felt so good. She thought fondly of her extra long morning run after her pre-dawn excursion into town. She’d been determined to let the calmness of the woods settle deep into her body and mind before going into the diner to do her reconnaissance. She’d been very disappointed to discover that Beau had held Lyn’s shift over again. She was supposed to be gone as soon as the lunch rush was over. Then that other girl comes in. The one with the whorey makeup and the boyfriend who keeps a twelve pack of Bud Light under the front seat of his Mustang. Another regret. But at least the couple at the first table wouldn’t add to them. As soon as they got in their car and left, she’d head to the “hide.” From there she’d try to figure out a way to let Lyn go if she could.

  A glint of sun from the glass door opening and closing across the highway caught her attention. She heard the faint jingle of the bell above the doors each time anyone entered or exited. Until now, it had never sounded like a starting bell. Ding ding. Ding ding. Fight! She watched the Coloradoans walk with their arms around each other to the green Subaru crossover SUV. He kissed his wife before she got in and then continued around to the driver’s side. They acted like newlyweds but their telepathic link was too strong for anyone who’s only been married a year or two, she thought. Lucky them.

  She wondered if it might be a good idea to call Bryce one last time. Put things off until tomorrow. Hear his voice. Invite him over. Feel his breath. No. It’s too late for that. I don’t know if the judge will order the sheriff to lock this place down. It has to be today.

  Joanie reached down to run her fingers through the soft white fur of the kishu-inu that lay at her feet. He looked at her with the eyes that she loved second only to Bryce Douglas’ and wagged his fluffy curled tail. She listened to the sound of the Subaru driving off in the direction of Jasper’s Fork. “That’s it. Time to get started.”

  Taking the forty-five from the table, she put two rounds in the dog. “I’m sorry, Jonesy.” One more regret to add to the day; she was going to need both hands to count them all before she was done.

  #

  1442 hrs

  Looking in her sketchbook at the fantasy wolf-bear thing she’d dreamt about, a feeling of unease crept into Lyn’s guts. She stared at the thing that had haunted her the night before. Just a dream, she reminded herself. It’s not real.

  The woman with the dog drew in the air impatiently to signal Lyn for the check. She slipped her sketchbook into the drawer underneath the cash register and headed over to their table with the check and a warm smile. “Is there anything else I can get for you folks?”

  “The bill we asked for five minutes ago.” The mutt yipped at Lyn as if to punctuate the woman’s sharpness. They hadn’t asked for the check, but Lyn apologized anyway.

  “Here you go, guys. My name’s Lynnea and it’s been a real pleasure serving you today.”

  “Service? Is that what you call it? Whatever the owner is paying to keep his bad reviews off of Yelp is worth every cent.”

  “Sir? I don’t think I understand.”

  “I’m saying that when we checked out this place online it didn’t quite prepare us for the kind of experience we actually had.”

  Lyn tried to parse the man’s passive aggressiveness, but was too tired to want to go too deeply into his mind. “I’m so sorry if your meal… or the service wasn’t to your liking. There’s a place on the back of the check where you can leave your comments and contact information if you’d like the manager to get in touch with you.”

  She tore the ticket out of her pad and held it out the man. He stared at her, silently dismissing her. Lyn took the hint. She set the bill face down on the table and returned to the cash register. She cast her eyes around the restaurant looking for signs that other customers needed her attention before she got locked to the station cashing these jerks out. Everyone seemed to be settled in well enough––even Mr. Bottomless Cola. She took the moment to try to relax a little. The day was becoming a nightmare and she still had six more hours in her shift. At least when this rush cleared out she could ask Leonard to fix her something to eat. Worst job ever. Just six more hours, Lyn, and then you can start looking at the want ads. If there was any luck in the world it was that Adam Bischoff only owned one restaurant in Mercy Lake. She wasn’t interested in anything else he had his fingers in.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the couple with the dog get up, collect their bags, and walk her way. All right, Lyn… time to turn on the charm! Earn your money. She tried to put the frustrations of Joanie and Beau’s pissing match out of her mind so she could improve her tip. She checked to make sure that her blouse was undone enough to show the hint of cleavage she didn’t really possess, but not to look like she didn’t know how to dress herself. It was a fine balancing act. One last chance to earn your keep, and then they’re gone forever, sweetie.

  #

  1400 hrs

  Deputy sheriff Bryce Douglas pulled his cruiser into the parking lot of the Idaho Loggers’ Association Credit Union. He sat in the car for a moment before radioing in his position and turning off the ignition. Carlotta squawked through the radio, “Checking in on the little lady?”

  “Yep,” he replied. “Back in two minutes.”

  “Treat her right, Bryce. Take five.”

  “Ten-four. Bryce out.” By two o’clock he figured she should be back from lunch and at her desk. He wasn’t sure of her schedule since the promotion to loan officer––an advancement she’d received after kicking him out of the house. He unscrewed the cap off the disposable water bottle in his cup holder and spat a brown line of viscous tobacco saliva into it. He recapped it and put it back. So far, in a regular patrol he had yet to completely fill one.

  He walked into the pleasantly air conditioned lobby and, by force of habit, headed toward her old spot along the customer transaction wall. He stopped himself and scanned the room for a desk with her name on it. He’d never really noticed before that all of the desks were behind short privacy walls. He couldn’t find Cherie’s new station.

  “Bryce, how are ya?” He jumped a little as the manager spoke from over his shoulder. He faced the man he’d arrested twice for DUI. In a town like Mercy Lake where the men at the paper mill worked hard and played harder, you had to be more than a little bit of a menace to get busted for driving drunk. There were too many of them and only him, Chet Carey––the other deputy––and the sheriff (who went to bed early on weekends) to keep the peace. The last time he saw Jacob, the man had totaled his Expedition over by the courthouse and was wandering the street pulling on door handles trying to find another car he could “borrow” to get home.

  “Just fine, Jacob. And you?” Jacob Nance fished around in his front po
cket and pulled out a green token. Holding it up, Bryce saw it was a three-month sobriety chip. There’s no such thing as anonymity in a small town. He wondered which of the drunks he hadn’t run in for a while was Jacob’s sponsor. “Well, I’ll be damned, Jacob. Lookin’ good.”

  “Feelin’ good. With the help of the Lord and my family I’ll earn me a whole collection of these.” Jacob returned the chip to his pocket and stood for a moment looking like he expected Bryce to take the news of his prolonged sobriety and walk right back out the door. “You lookin’ for Cherie?” he finally asked.

  “Yessir.”

  “She’s in the third carrel. Don’t keep her long. We need her in the game. She knows how to close a deal like nobody’s business.”

  “Thank you kindly.” He walked a little shakily to the low walls surrounding his wife’s desk, uncertain whether he should knock or peek over the top. He elected to knock. “Cherie. You in there?” He could see through the frosted window that she was.

  “Bryce?” She stood up to peek out at him. “Come on in.” He stepped through the gap in the carrel and sat in a low, uncomfortable chair that reminded him of a doctor’s waiting room. Cherie sat back down in her fancy ergonomic swivel chair.

  “How’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Just fine, as you can see. I’ve made loans to… well, it’s not for me to say––confidentiality in lending and all. Two truck purchases and a house re-fi. It’s been a pretty good first week.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” They sat in uncomfortable silence. It reminded Bryce of the long comfortable silences they used to share sitting on the sofa after the kids had gone to bed, watching television, him with a beer and Cherie enjoying a glass of wine. They’d done that for close to ten years. And then one day she found a motel receipt. That’s all it was. Not a chat transcript, not a boudoir photo or a pair of souvenir panties. Just a receipt for a check in to the Sleepy Inn out on Route 4. Cherie knew he had no need for a motel. The county wasn’t that big and his duties kept him in town for the most part.