Rattlesnake Hill

by Leslie Wheeler

  She was about to check upstairs when she noticed a long, narrow object that resembled a door warmer draped across the landing, one end wedged between two slats of the railing. It was sewn from a dark, patterned material that looked like snake skin. She stepped closer to examine it. Dear god, it was a snake!

  Stifling a scream, she backed away before the snake could spring to life, slither toward her and strike. She held her breath. Nothing happened. Somehow, she found the courage to lob a piece of wadded paper at it.

  Again nothing happened. It must be asleep or dead. How had it gotten in? She wanted to get rid of it, but the thought of touching the thing made her skin crawl. She’d have to get help, but who to call? She went into the kitchen, found an emergency number posted on the refrigerator, and dialed. After several rings a gruff male voice answered, “Lapsley, here.”

  “Is this . . . the police?”

  “Yup.”

  Relief flooded her. “I need your help.”

  After she explained the problem, the man said, “Get a broom and a sack, laundry bag’ll do fine, and—”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m not going anywhere near that thing. You need to come and remove it.”

  “Look, Ma’am, I’m off duty now. And even if I wasn’t, I got more important things to do than—”

  “Please, you have to help me!” She was becoming hysterical, but she couldn’t help it.

  “Okay, calm down. Be there in a bit.”

  A bit? What did that mean? What if the snake woke up before he arrived? She wasn’t taking any chances. Abandoning Amore to his fate, she flew out the kitchen door and raced around to the front to wait for Lapsley.

  Ten minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up. The car looked official but not the man who got out. Unlike the city cops she was used to, Lapsley wore jeans and a plaid shirt. “So where’s the snake?” He removed a sack, a long-forked stick and a shovel from the back seat.

  “On the landing, halfway up to the second floor. You can’t miss it.”

  Lapsley disappeared into the house. Kathryn waited tensely outside. If the snake attacked him, what would she do then?

  To her relief, Lapsley emerged from the house a few moments later, carrying sack, stick, shovel, and the snake’s inert body. He looked as though he were about to have some kind of fit.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your snake isn’t just dead—it’s been that way a long time. It’s stuffed!” Lapsley’s round, ruddy cheeks quivered with laughter.

  “What?”

  “Don’t believe me, come and touch it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Then I’ll take this critter back where he belongs.”

  Before she could ask him where that was, Lapsley hopped into his cruiser and roared off into the night, leaving her to wonder who had played this nasty trick on her.

  Chapter 11

  “Iwant you to send a locksmith out today to change the locks,” Kathryn told Brandy over the phone the next morning.

  “I’ll see what I can do, but are you sure you didn’t accidentally leave a door unlocked?”

  “Positive.”

  “At least it was only a stuffed snake, not a real one,” Brandy said. “I doubt it’ll happen again. Probably just some kid having a little fun.”

  “That’s what you said about the defaced picture. I don’t think it’s funny that someone can just walk in and—”

  “I’ll get on it right away.”

  Twenty minutes later, a locksmith called to say he’d be at the house that afternoon. Relieved, Kathryn went into Great Barrington to run some errands. It was Thursday and she was expecting Alan tomorrow evening. He’d be calling today to confirm. She’d food-shop for the weekend and equip herself for what she thought of as “the expedition” into the woods to find the house and mill sites.

  *****

  Kathryn had just finished unpacking her shopping bags when the locksmith arrived. He was a talkative man with squinty eyes that made him look as if he spent his time peering through keyholes.

  “Way out here all alone, are you?” he said. “You’re a lot braver than my wife. Wouldn’t last a night in a place like this. Gotta be in the center of town. Even then, she don’t like being alone. But to each his own. Might as well start with the front door before I go round to the kitchen.”

  She looked at him curiously. “You know the house?”

  “Been out here a few times before.”

  “To change the locks?”

  “That and other things.”

  So previous tenants had worried about intruders. Before she could question the locksmith further, the phone rang. She hurried to the kitchen to answer it.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Alan said, “but it looks like Sophie and I won’t be coming this weekend. She’s picked up a bug. I kept her out of school yesterday and today. I just spoke to the housekeeper and she says Sophie’s a bit better. But I doubt she’ll be up for the trip. And I don’t feel right about leaving her.”

  “Of course not.” Metal clattered on wood. Kathryn gave a little gasp. The locksmith must have dropped something.

  “Is everything all right?” Alan sounded concerned.

  “No, I mean, yes.”

  “Once again, I’m sorry. I hope our not coming tomorrow doesn’t affect any plans you made.”

  “I didn’t make any special plans,” she fibbed. “Tell Sophie I hope she’s better soon.”

  While the locksmith worked on kitchen door, Kathryn went upstairs. Alone in the valentine room, she gave in to feelings of disappointment. Unless she went by herself, she’d have to wait a whole week before she visited the foundation and mill ruins. She didn’t blame Alan for not coming, though. His devotion to his daughter was one of the things she admired about him. He wasn’t about to abandon Sophie like the little girl’s mother had, running off to Taos to “find” herself. She had never understood people who did this. She knew herself and didn’t need to go to a new place to discover who she was. Alan’s ex-wife’s behavior was selfish and irresponsible. Like her father, chasing after every new skirt that came his way.

  Alan was a nice man, and she was fond of him. She liked it that he was serious and steady, careful in speech and actions. He was also striking-looking: pale, almost translucent skin set off by raven black hair with a white streak running through it like the wake of a boat in a night sea. Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe she’d let him get close in a way she had never let any man before.

  “Miz Stinson?” the locksmith called up to her.

  “Yes?”

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m done. I’ll leave the new set of keys on the kitchen counter. You need anything else, give a holler.”

  “Thanks.”

  After the locksmith had gone, Kathryn examined the shiny new locks. They ought to do the trick. Or would they? It might not be so easy to keep intruders out here as it was in the city.

  Chapter 12

  Alan Marquette hated to admit it, but he was seriously lost on his way to Kathryn’s. After telling her yesterday he wouldn’t come, he’d decided to come today, after all, since Sophie seemed much better. He’d been fine getting to the Berkshires, but as soon as he’d left Route 7, the maze of dark, winding back roads had become confusing despite Kathryn’s careful directions. He wished he had a GPS.

  It was past eleven. Kathryn would be worried. He’d told her he would probably arrive late, but not this late. After work, he’d had a quick supper with Sophie before tucking her in. When she cried and clung to him, he felt so torn. He wouldn’t have left her if she hadn’t seemed better. Plus, he hated to disappoint Kathryn.

  In the six months they’d been seeing each other, their relationship had become important to him. He felt fortunate to have met her at all. The few times friends had fixed him up hadn’t pa
nned out, and he was too busy with work and his daughter to get involved with the singles scene. He’d simply poked his head into the bar that night to see what was out there. The little he observed was a turnoff: the women dressed to the nines with their perfume and pasted-on smiles, laughing while the men sniffed them like dogs. He would have fled if one of those flashy women hadn’t caught him by the arm and literally dragged him over to meet her friend.

  In that steamy atmosphere, Kathryn seemed like a breath of fresh air. He liked it that she was pretty without trying to be: no makeup, hair pulled back from her face. Also, that she was as shy and uncertain as he. Unlike her friend who had “been there, done that” written all over her, Kathryn had an innocence he found appealing. He knew she’d been involved with other men, but she had somehow emerged from these relationships unscathed. She reminded him of the new notebooks he used to get at the beginning of school, the pages fresh and clean, waiting to be filled with his meticulous script.

  She was definitely a keeper. Time to swallow his pride and call. He pulled over and took out his cell phone, but couldn’t get a signal. Damn. He’d have to find someone to give him directions. Unfortunately, he’d been driving for at least twenty minutes without seeing a single house. He turned around and retraced his steps, continuing until he came to a crossroads. He turned left. Just when he was beginning to think he should have gone the other way, he rounded a bend, and a squat, one-story building with a sign identifying it as The White Stag magically appeared.

  The White Stag—the name tugged him back to his Maine childhood and a story his grandfather had told him. He shook his head. His grandfather had been a great teller of tales, most of them probably untrue.

  The lot in front of the roadhouse was filled with pickups and a lone police cruiser. Alan parked and got out. The dim, smoky interior, its walls decorated with frowsy stuffed animal heads and Posted signs, reminded him of bars in Maine. Still, he’d never seen a lighting fixture like the one that hung from the ceiling. A large, rusted animal trap, festooned with Christmas lights, blinked on and off: red, green, yellow, blue.

  “You lost?”

  A group of men hunkered over beer glasses and bottles at the bar. Dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, they made him feel self-conscious in his dark suit and bow tie. He wished he’d taken time to change before leaving home.

  “I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “Where you headed?” asked a man with rugged features and a deep tan.

  “Rattlesnake Hill Road in the village of New Nottingham.”

  “Rattlesnake Hill, eh,” the man repeated. “Farley house?”

  Alan nodded.

  “We can tell you how to get there, can’t we boys?” the man said. The others grinned and bobbed their heads.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Why not join us for a beer first?” the man suggested.

  “Thanks, but I really shouldn’t.”

  “C’mon.” The man motioned to Alan. “One drink and you’re on your way. I’m buying.”

  Alan hesitated.

  “Don’t be shy. We won’t bite,” the man called.

  Alan flushed. He didn’t want these men to think he was afraid of them, though an inner voice warned about a den of thieves. Alan ignored it.

  He strode to the bar. “I’ll take you up on that beer.”

  Chapter 13

  At the edge of what was supposed to be a road into the woods, Kathryn paused. Lucas Rogers had told her about it when she said she wanted to visit the old Cutter mill and house foundation. He explained that Gordon Farley had a half-mile-long road put in so he could get firewood. But all she saw was a tangle of wild berry bushes, burdock, and golden rod. Beside her, Alan’s pale face had a faint greenish tinge, and there were dark circles under his eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. The poor man was still hung over.

  Alan had arrived late last night, tipsy and deeply apologetic. He’d been conned into having one too many by a bunch of locals at a backwoods bar, when he stopped to get directions. She wouldn’t be surprised if Earl Barker had been among them. It would be just like him to trick Alan into getting drunk the same way he’d tricked her into drinking Lucas Rogers’ vile coffee. At least Hank Lapsley had the good sense to realize that Alan might be too far gone to make it to her house in one piece and had delivered him to her doorstep in his cruiser, while another man followed in Alan’s Volvo. She was grateful to Lapsley, but mad at the others for leading him astray.

  Alan smiled wanly and gestured at the so-called road. “So, my jingling jack-o-lantern, shall we?”

  “Okay.” Kathryn smiled back. She was, indeed, a “jingling jack-o-lantern” in the bright orange anorak and set of sleigh bells on a leather strap, attached to the daypack she’d purchased in Great Barrington. But thus attired, there was little chance a hunter would mistake her for a deer.

  Alan strode gamely into the tangle of brush, holding back branches for her, and helping her over fallen trees. Then, miraculously, the way cleared and they followed a path of burnished leaves, flanked by towering pines, through which patches of blue sky were visible. The road ran parallel to the Farley fields, and she caught glimpses of the house through breaks in the trees. It was reassuring to have this landmark to orient her. But as they moved deeper into the forest, she lost sight of it. Even so, Alan proceeded with the confidence of a born woodsman. And thus far there were no signs of hunters. Aside from the jingle of her bells, the only sounds were the crunch of their feet on the leaves and the occasional creak of a branch in the wind. Maybe Brandy was right about the woods being safer since the passage of the “written permission” law. Or Garth Barker had decided to take a day off from his pursuit of the white stag.

  A pile of mossy logs, half-buried beneath leaves, marked the end of the road. Ahead, the land dipped into a gully, where a boulder-strewn stream cut a swath through the leaves, then rose in a hill on the other side. “We do the down, up,” Alan said after studying the map.

  The leaves were so slippery underfoot she nearly fell on the way down. She was grateful for Alan’s outstretched hand, as she hopped from rock to rock crossing the stream. Winded and sweaty by the time they reached the top of the hill, she stopped to catch her breath and take off the orange anorak.

  “Too hot inside that pumpkin?” Alan teased.

  She picked a burr from the anorak and flicked it playfully at him. “Don’t think I need these either.” She indicated the bells on her pack.

  “Probably not,” Alan agreed.

  Unfastening the bells, she hung them from a tree branch. When they’d walked a distance, Alan stopped and frowned at the map. “We should have turned awhile ago.” They backtracked until they came to Alan’s turning point. There was no trail, just the rocky plunge of a dried up streambed. The rough terrain made her glad she’d purchased hiking boots. She started down, using her legs as brakes. Her hamstrings stiffened, and her toes pressed painfully against the hard leather of the boots. She felt blisters forming and knew she’d be sore tonight.

  They descended into a level, open area, encircled by pines. In front of them lay a body of water several times the size of the Farley pond. Dead tree trunks rose, gray and spectral, in the middle of the swamp, and interspersed amid its murky waters were little hillocks covered with brown grass and weeds. At one end, a haphazard pile of logs and tree branches, bleached white like bones, marked the remains of an abandoned beaver dam.

  The landscape struck her as eerie and primeval, a place where dinosaurs might have roamed. It wasn’t beautiful like the view from the Farley house, yet something about it spoke to her. She was almost sorry when Alan broke the silence: “Want to look for the house site?”

  They bushwhacked through the woods around the swamp until they came to a hollow in the ground with stones banked along the sides and a scraggly pine sticking out of the leaf-strewn bottom. This was it? S
he’d hoped for something more picturesque. Still, she removed her camera from her pack and took several shots, so she could prove to Emily she’d been here. Alan must have sensed her disappointment. “I’m sure it was a nice house once, with a fine view of the pond. Let’s look for what’s left of the mill. It sounded like there’s more to see.”

  They found the brook and followed it upstream past a breached dam to a large and impressive collection of moss-covered stone ruins, buried deep in the woods like an ancient castle. Twin stone columns rose up in front of what must have been the main entry. On one side, high walls supported rusted machinery and the remains of the giant wooden waterwheel that had powered the mill. On the other, a set of stone steps led down into a labyrinth of underground rooms—the storerooms mentioned in Emily’s recollections. Though the rooms were open to the sky, the walls between them were tall enough that once inside, a person would have a hard time seeing over them. The high walls, combined with numerous nooks and crannies, made for excellent hiding places.

  Kathryn could understand why Emily and her cousins had enjoyed playing hide-and-seek at the ruins, also why they appealed to courting couples seeking privacy. She snapped more pictures for Emily, and then turned to Alan only to realize he’d vanished.

  “Al-an, where a-are you?” she called in a child’s sing-song voice. No answer. “All right, guess I’ll just have to find you,” she said in the same sing-song voice. She took a step forward. Shots rang out. She froze. Omigod. Hunters. Alan jumped out from behind a tree just as a bullet zinged into it. Kathryn’s heart seized. “Hey, watch where you’re shooting. We’re people here!” Alan yelled.

  A second bullet bounced off one of the stone pillars, perilously close to Kathryn. “Let’s get out of here!” Alan grabbed her and they charged through the woods surrounding the swamp, then up the dried streambed.