He pulled into the parking lot. There were fourteen rooms—one long, single wing of cabins with a little office near the entrance. Merle Bonner hadn’t changed the sign—it still advertised both color television and HBO in every room—since purchasing the place as a retirement investment about five years back.
Aside from Bonner’s old F150, the lot was empty.
Tasket stepped inside and Bonner met him at the desk. They exchanged pleasantries and Tasket showed him the photograph.
“Naw,” Bonner replied with a shake of his head. He showed the sheriff the registration book. “I’ve had just six bookings since the nineteenth. Not exactly berry-picking season up here in the High Sierra, Sheriff.” He wore a cheerless grin, a pinch of tobacco nestled in his cheek.
“Oh, I know it,” Tasket sighed. He slipped the picture back into his shirt pocket. “But these folks haven’t made so much as a peep in about a week. Family’s pretty worried about ‘em.”
Bonner winced. “Damn. Been mighty cold, too. You, uh…you pulling a team together?”
Tasket scratched behind his right ear. “Not just yet, Merle. You in if I do?”
“Of course,” Bonner replied. “You can count on me, Sheriff. Just hope we don’t have a replay of last year.”
“You and me both,” Tasket replied, grimacing at the memory of what had happened to the Ansons. They’d made a wrong turn onto a BLM road and simply run out of gas. Crews hadn’t found them until the spring thaw—Seth and Jenny Anson, and little Ryan and Carlie, too. “You and me both, Merle. Have a good day.”
“You too, Sheriff. Be well, now.”
FOUR
He played the events of the afternoon over again in his mind as the van devoured pavement.
They’d arrived at the shuttered road shortly before 4:00 p.m. The sun was maybe an hour from calling it a day, and the sinking feeling Phil experienced had just been brutal.
They’d been planning this vacation for months! How could this happen?
His eyes flashed to the rearview. The girls, all three of them, had secured pillows from the back. They were bedding down for the night, and who could blame them? It was creeping up on 10:00.
Carrie snored a little, her mouth open on the pillow. It was reassuring, and it made him happy.
Wendy also slept, but he could tell that Camille was still awake. She reclined against her pillow, intently watching the countryside flash by outside her window.
She noticed her dad and smiled. “Hi pop,” she said, her voice low.
“Hey yourself, Cammie. Pretty peaceful out there, isn’t it?”
She nodded, yawned, and turned back to the window. “Oh, Dad! Wow! Did you see that?” She sat up. “Look, Dad! It’s…it’s beautiful!”
He craned his head out over the dashboard and looked up at the sky. By God, there was a meteor shower! He slowed, scanning the road for a shoulder. After a time he found a turnout.
“Grab your blanket,” he said. “I’ll get the chairs.”
He set up a pair of folding canvas chairs near the metal guardrail and they sat in silence, stunned by the beauty of the heavens above them. It was late and he felt a twinge of guilt at pulling over, but when would he have another chance to watch a meteor shower from atop the Sierra Nevada?
Silver dashes scored the indigo night, expiring in the void. It was stunning.
“Look at that, Cammie,” Phil said. He pointed toward the horizon. “Isn’t that strange?”
“What is it?” she said. A faint light formed an emerald haze there.
“Must be the aurora borealis. I read that, on a clear night, you can see the lights as far south as Flagstaff.”
“It’s pretty,” she replied. She took her father’s hand and they sat quietly, until first seconds and then minutes passed between streaks of light. The green haze was brighter now—more vibrant than before—and Phil felt a little unsettled that they were driving straight into it.
He studied his daughter. Her head lolled on her chest, and her grip on his hand had loosened. She snored a little, and he smiled. It really hadn’t been such a bad day after all. If he could get them into a motel in the next thirty minutes or so, he would. If not, they’d just travel through the night and he’d hand the wheel over to Wendy in the morning.
No harm, no foul.
“C’mon, kiddo,” he whispered. He picked her up, grunting beneath her weight. Jeez, the girls were growing up fast. He buckled her into her seat and covered her with a blanket.
It was 10:23 when he pulled back onto the gently descending road. He hummed a little tune beneath his breath, concentrating on his driving. A late-night talk show buzzed on the stereo.
And just what did you see, Mr. Jones?
It was just the craziest scene, Art. These lights…well, they were green and they glowed like emeralds. I thought I saw…I guess I thought a saw a town, but then…
He tuned the show out as they made a slow, gradual descent, his foot on the brake pedal. Phil barely touched 40 mph as they wound down the mountainside on a 5% grade. He’d only traveled a mile or so when he noticed the hitchhiker.
“Ah, damn. Sorry for your luck, buddy,” he said; his heart did go out to the poor fellow. The traveler wore a small pack and a stocking cap and heavy coat, but he wasn’t really dressed for a night in these frozen highlands.
Phil thought about pulling over and shifting some of the luggage. Maybe he could make room in the storage area back there and the fellow could pile in with them.
The hitcher turned, waving his arms now in the glow of the headlamps, and Phil started in his seat.
The man’s eyes were glowing.
Was that…was that the same green glow that now hung over the mountains?
Inadvertently, he’d slowed to a crawl. Now, he realized that he’d made a mistake. The man, eerie green eyes and a grinning mouth and long, wild hair spilling out from beneath his stocking cap, began trotting toward the car.
The guy thought Phil was going to pick him up. And why wouldn’t he? Hadn’t Phil just slowed down?
Phil’s eyes darted to the rearview. “Jesus, Phil,” he muttered as the man jogged toward the van, “didn’t your old man warn you not to talk to strangers?”
He took his foot off the brake, seeing not only the stranger on the highway, but also saw his daughters—sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the man now approaching their van.
Feeling like a first-class asshole, he punched it. Ten…fifteen…twenty miles an hour.
And still the man kept coming. His arms had become a blur. The hitchhiker charged down the mountain road like Usain Bolt, hair now flying behind him, and pulled even with the van, peering inside the front passenger window with a twisted sneer on his face. He wore a scruffy beard and moustache combo, and Phil saw little icicles stuck there amongst the tangles.
“Jesus!” Phil cried, absolutely petrified. Wendy slept mere inches from the creature now peering into the van, for that’s surely what he was—what he had to be. No ordinary man could run like that! And what was wrong with his eyes?
The hitcher’s sneer widened. His lips drew back from shining teeth and he barked at the window. A cloud of greenish flies pelted the glass. It sounded like a burst of hail, and Wendy woke with a start. She looked at Phil, who now had it back up to 40 mph.
“What was that?” she murmured. “Heard something…”
Gulping air, his heart straining in his chest, Phil craned his neck to get a look outside her window. There was nothing there but a guardrail and a 3,000-foot drop-off. He checked the rearview.
The road was empty.
He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing, babe. Must have been…shit, it must have been some gravel in the road. Go ahead and go back to sleep.”
She smacked her lips and fluffed the pillow and did just that. It was like flipping a switch.
Phil waited for his pulse to regulate before taking down the last tepid dregs of the Pepsi he’d purchased back in Bishop. “You’ve been at the wheel too
long, Phil Benson,” he whispered. “Better find someplace soon.”
He checked the clock in the dash. It now read 12:00 a.m. on the button and he frowned. That couldn’t possibly be. They’d maybe covered five miles since pulling over to look at the meteor shower. He tapped the clock with his index finger and it blinked and went blank.
He checked his Seiko. It had stopped at 10:28. Criminy, the electronics were crapping out.
He covered a few more miles in silence until the road twisted dramatically around the side of the mountain, a wide parabola that finally revealed, nestled neatly in the crevice of a picturesque valley, a tiny village below. When contrasted with the sheer granite faces of the mountains surrounding them, the distant glow of streetlights was hugely comforting.
That eerie emerald radiance still remained over the mountains. Even though it was really the last thing that he wanted to do, Phil had no choice but to drive into it.
He reached the bottom of the steep grade and the road leveled out. He slowed as he approached the sign, then pulled to the side of the road before it.
WELCOME TO ADRIENNE
SMALL, BUT MIGHTY!
Phil paged through the atlas. He was exhausted, sure, but this…this was ridiculous. Try as he might, he couldn’t find the place on a map. He traced the route he thought they’d taken, but it didn’t matter.
There was nothing there. No road. No town.
“Must be unincorporated,” he muttered. “Lots of places like that in the country. And if the road’s not on the map, then I guess it makes sense that the town’s not listed as well. Maybe. Right, Phil?”
He squinted up at the sign. No population figure.
He turned and studied the twins. They slept soundly. So did Wendy.
Maybe he should just keep pushing forward.
Still, a warm bed would do them all good. He probably could just drive through the night, but now the idea frightened him a little. If that last hallucination had been any indication of his fatigue level…
He inched back onto the road and headed into Adrienne.
~0~
Sheriff Tasket knelt on his haunches at the intersection. The roads made a ‘T’ there at the crumbling remains of the Sierra Vista Motel, with Highway 168 meeting its terminus and Highway 266 angling either north or east into Nevada.
He studied the tread pattern before sketching it in his notepad. Tasket enjoyed that kind of police work, and the pattern gave him hope. It was a common tread. Michelin manufactured them for use on quarter-ton and half-ton models; it was also the tire that happened to come standard on Honda minivans.
Could be nothing, or it could be a tiny piece of the puzzle.
He stood and sighed, peering up at the mountains all around him. The sky was iron gray, and it would snow again soon.
He scratched behind his ear, kicked the earth where the tread pattern terminated and settled behind his wheel.
He radioed dispatch. “I’m gonna head up 266 a couple of miles, Sally,” he said. “Holler if anything comes up.”
“You’re going into Nevada, Sheriff?”
“Just a few miles. Maybe poke around some of the BLM roads up there. I’ll be in touch.”
“Sounds fine, Sheriff. Be careful, and good luck. Over.”
FIVE
It was a perfect little town. The main drag stretched about ten or twelve blocks, and quaint little shops appointed either side of the street. The mostly two-story affairs maintained a rustic, western aesthetic.
There was a drugstore, a laundry, a couple of larger department stores at either end of the strip, and a smattering of cafés and restaurants. There was a barber shop and a hair salon and a hardware store and a little library and a couple of bars, one of which still sported a wide-open front door. Phil caught a glimpse of people playing pool as he crept by.
Red neon piping spelled out The Dark Earth Saloon.
The streets were empty, although Phil did notice a vagrant sleeping beneath a pile of dirty blankets in the foyer of a little theater (NOW SHOWING: CARY GRANT IN NORTH BY NORTHWEST), called The Sunbeam.
There was a motor court (The Pines Bluff Inn) at the southern edge of town. The lot was filled, but the sign advertised vacancies, and Phil sighed with relief when he nosed the van into the lot’s lone remaining space.
“Wendy,” he whispered. He unbuckled and leaned across the console to kiss her temple. “Sweetie, I’m going to run in and grab a room.”
She blinked awake and nodded, her sleepy smile a beacon of comfort after the bizarre delusion he’d experienced on the mountainside. He locked the van and, fists plunged into his pockets against the cold, made his way to the lobby. A little bell tinkled somewhere in back, and Phil waited at the counter.
It was about what he’d expected. Nondescript chairs with vinyl upholstery surrounded a glass coffee table in the lobby. There was a tray filled with butterscotch discs in the center of the table, and a rack filled with tourist brochures along the wall.
A framed photograph in the corner of the room depicted the Sierra Nevada at sunset. There was a caption beneath it, spelled out in bold black lettering: Enjoy Our Killer Vistas!
“Evening, traveler,” a man said. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel as he emerged from the office. He was heavyset and had a pronounced widow’s peak with a little curly shock of black hair in the center. “We’ve got just the one room left this evening. Suppose it’s your lucky night.”
“That’s great,” Phil said. “We sure could use it—been driving all day.”
“Oh, yeah? Whereabouts from?” He put the towel down and leaned across the counter. Phil noticed something strange about him. Was that…was there an outline around his mouth? It was like he’d just taken a layer of makeup off.
“San Francisco,” Phil replied. He freed his wallet and handed the man his AMEX card.
The clerk winced, treating the card like it was a rattlesnake. “Dang. You, uh…you mind paying with cash?”
“I can’t. Don’t have enough on me. People around here still use cash?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I guess I’ll take the damned card.”
Phil frowned at the man’s tone, but he handed him the card. Adrienne might not be on any “most-friendly” lists, but he didn’t care. It was about a few quick hours of sleep, and then on to the Grand Canyon.
The man hunted beneath the counter for an ancient mimeograph machine and made a big show out of creating a credit card impression.
“Sign the book, Mr….,” he held the card up in the light, “Benson.”
Phil logged them in and the clerk whistled.
“Well, that’s mighty interesting. Got your family with you now, do you?”
“We’re on vacation,” Phil said. He pocketed his wallet and a wide grin blossomed on the clerk’s face. Phil noticed something else at the corner of his eyes, where the smile dimpled the skin there.
A blotch of white paint.
“You, uh…you notice any lights on the mountain this evening, Mr. Benson?”
“I did, in fact. What’s that all about?”
The clerk rubbed his jaw and, in that instant, Phil thought he’d seen him before. He couldn’t remember just where, but he was certain that he had. The guy had one of those faces…
“That is about dark highways, traveler. Dark highways lead to dark places. Places like Adrienne.”
Phil winced. Now why would he go and say something like that?
“That’s what the name means,” the innkeeper said, smiling; the mood lightened. “‘Adrienne’ actually means ‘dark earth.’ Pretty good soil up here for crops, if we weren’t at such altitude. Here you go, Mr. Benson,” he collected a key from a hook behind the desk and slid it across the counter. “Enjoy your stay with us.”
“Thanks.”
Phil took the key. He paused at the door, hoping for a final glance at the clerk, but the man had retreated back inside the office.
Room 119 was just a short distance from where they’d par
ked. Phil went inside and turned on all the lights. It was fine—simple and clean, with a pair of queen beds and a dresser with a television on it. A stuffed antelope head hung on the wall above the dresser, but it didn’t bother Phil. When in Rome…
He fetched their luggage and carried the twins inside, one at a time. Finally, he woke Wendy and helped her out of the van.
“I think I might take a walk,” Phil said when everyone was tucked in. He turned the heater up; warm air billowed into the room.
“What time is it?” Wendy yawned.
“I’m not sure. My watch stopped on the mountain. I’d say it’s close to 11:00, but I just need to stretch my legs. All that driving—it made me a little restless.”
“Okay, hon. Lock us up tight and come back soon.”
“I will,” he said. He kissed her temple and double checked that the room and the van were secure before zipping into his winter coat and heading down Main Street.
SIX
The Dark Earth Saloon was still going strong. Phil approached with a mixture of trepidation and excitement churning in his gut. He and Wendy had enjoyed the occasional night out before the twins arrived, but he wasn’t big on the bar scene.
Still, he’d been behind the wheel all day and a cold beer sounded just fine. Perfect, in fact. He’d pop in and have a drink and maybe get a feel for the town. It’d been a hell of a day, but it would make for a good story when they got back to Roseburg.
The place was large, with two bartenders serving drinks at a crowded bar that stretched the full length of two walls. A cluster of pool tables dominated the main floor while a group of folks threw darts in the corner. There was even a little dance floor where a few couples swayed to a country ballad warbling on the jukebox.
Phil took a seat at the end of the bar. The bartender regarded him warily. “Get you something?”
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