The frozen remains of some long-dead animal—an old mongrel, or maybe even a coyote—showed the muted white of its bones in the parking lot. They walked up to a pair of heavy glass doors.
ADRIENNE AUTOMATED TEXTILES
QUALITY GARMENTS SINCE 1872
They entered the building and Phil was immediately overcome by two things: the swampy heat and the stench of chemicals.
“Criminy, Denny! What is that?” he gasped.
“Indigo,” Wren replied, “c’mon. This way.”
The front of the building was comprised of offices. A receptionist smiled warmly at Wren and sadly at Phil before pointing to a room with the words “Normal Resources” stenciled in black letters on the frosted glass.
Phil would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so damned disheartening.
Wren knocked and a nasally voice bid them entrance.
A thin man with thick glasses, a receding hairline, and a bristly, red and gray mustache sat behind a desk that was much too large for him. He looked like a child visiting his father at work.
“Dennis, it’s always a pleasure,” he said, standing and coming around the desk to shake hands. “You must be Phil. Welcome to our little family here.”
Phil shook the man’s thin hand. It was exceedingly cool, and more than a little damp. He fought the urge to swipe his hand against his thigh.
“Please, please. Have a seat. My name is Jacob, by the way. We prefer a first-name basis around here, Phil. I hope that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine.”
They sat, and Jacob smiled at them, fingers tented before him on the desk. “Did Dennis describe the nature of our business?”
Phil shook his head.
“Ah. I see. Well, it’s simple really. We make blue jeans. We make many other products as well, but blue jeans are really what we’re known for. You might call them our raison d’etre!”
Phil nodded. The man had an accent. “Are you French, Jacob?”
He shook his head. “Born in Latvia, but raised mostly in Reno. I’m as American as the apple pie, Phil. Just like you!
“So anyway, you will help us with our industry. Every year, we lose men. Every year, more men join us. But one thing…one thing never changes, Phil!” He flashed a toothy smile, pushed his glasses up on his nose. He was waiting for a question.
“What…uh, what never changes, Jacob?”
He bent over and picked up a pair of blue jeans, displaying the familiar stitching with pride. “The world never tires of Levi’s, Phil! It only wants more! And in these last years, with the Asian markets wide open, demand has never been better. Never!”
Phil turned to Wren. “You’re sewing Levi’s here? Is this some kind of joke, Denny?”
Wren shook his head.
“I thought Levi’s were manufactured overseas. It was a big deal in the news—this All-American company outsourcing their manufacturing to India and Costa Rica. They said it was like…something like fifty countries that got the work!”
Jacob’s smile grew by an inch. “Glad to hear that the official narrative is intact. So glad to hear it! When our founder crossed over—well, let’s just say that when some doors close, other windows appear. You like that metaphor? It’s a good one, I think.”
Phil didn’t have the heart to correct him. “Your founder? You mean Le—”
“No, no!” Jacob interrupted, fingers splayed before him. “He is the only person here not on a first-name basis. My apologies for not mentioning that sooner. In fact, just don’t mention him at all, if you don’t mind. If you see him on the floor, and you will, just smile and nod at him. That is more than enough for him to notice your dedication to the company.”
“I don’t understand. I mean, you’re telling me that Le—that the founder of this company was a…a serial killer?”
Jacob shrugged. “Look, Phil—everyone has appetites. It was a different time back then. You have to understand that life in the 1800s was filled with danger. My partner and I—we worked hard to keep our business on an upward trajectory. That’s all it was, Phil. Business. I mean, mostly.”
“Your partner? So you…I mean, the two of you…created Levi Strauss and Company and now you’re operating a sweat shop in some alternative reality populated almost entirely by serial killers?”
Jacob snorted laughter, slapping his desk. He saw the look on Phil’s face and quickly composed himself. “When you say it that way, it does sound a little…outlandish. But you know what they say, Phil. We don’t pick our destiny. Sometimes our destiny picks us.”
It was all Phil could do to control himself. This place—it was fueling something inside that had been dormant for years.
He felt rage. Purple, irrational fury.
He hated these people. He hated this place. His life as a minivan-driving middle manager on the cusp of a layoff was forgotten, his careful avoidance of conflict now a thing of the past.
He wanted to wipe the floor with this Latvian dandy.
Wren sensed it. He put a hand on Phil’s arm. “What’s next, Jacob?” he said softly. “I’d like to get an hour of work in today yet, if I can.”
“Of course,” Jacob said sincerely. “Of course you do. Lottery coming right up, after all, and you can’t afford these distractions, can you big guy?” He cleared his throat while he rummaged through a drawer in his desk before locating the contract he was searching for. He pushed it across the desk.
Obedience, work, and silence, or death.
X__________________________
Phil studied it. “What the hell is this? You call this a contract?”
“Oh, we’ve had our legal team check this document repeatedly. Everything is in order, Mr. Benson,” Jacob said, reverting to the formality Phil had initially expected. “Our terms are not complex.”
Phil’s mouth fell open. He looked at Wren. Wren nodded at the pen and paper before him.
“Obedience to whom?” Phil said.
“To our founder. To our town. To our product and our processes. In short, to Adrienne, Mr. Benson.”
“And work? What does that mean?” Phil continued.
“Make your quotas and that won’t be an issue. Next?”
“Silence?”
“That’s a simple non-disclosure, Mr. Benson. You win the lottery and fly the coop, so to speak, you keep your mouth shut about what happened to you here. Not that anyone would believe you, but if you talk on the other side, there will be consequences.”
“Yeah? So what happens, Jacob? You coming after me?”
That sickly smile again. “Not me, Phil. Them.”
On cue, a corner door in the back of the room sprang open and a trio of figures strode into the room. They wore seersucker suits, their fedoras pushed down low over their eyes. They were almost identical—each with a stubble of beard on his jaw. They crossed their arms before them, standing behind Jacob.
“Our rovers have special abilities, Phil. There’s nowhere that they can’t reach you—or the ones that you love. Nowhere at all. Now,” he pushed the contract forward on the desk, “are we clear on this? It’s time we let Mr. Wren return to his own work, don’t you think?”
Phil drew a deep breath and scribbled his name. When he looked up, the rovers were gone, the door shut.
“Excellent!” Jacob said, making the contract disappear in a drawer. “Welcome aboard. Mr. Wren, feel free to take your leave. I am going to introduce Phil here to his new foreman.”
They stood and Wren touched Phil’s elbow as they were moving toward the lobby of the factory. “I’ll be back for you right at 5:00. Control your emotions. Don’t do anything rash, okay?”
Phil nodded. Wren smiled briefly and was gone, hustling back out into the world. When Phil turned, Jacob wore that same toothy grin. “Come, come. Let’s get out there on the floor. I can’t wait for you to see our operation.”
FIFTEEN
Bo and Kelli were encouraged by the drawing—by the possibilities of what it might mean—but Tasket
remained silent throughout the trip down from the pass. Bo couldn’t tell if he was concentrating on the road, or simply processing the gravity of what they’d found.
The actor drew a deep breath. At least the nausea had vanished. It lifted the instant they cleared the boundary of the meadow. He hadn’t experienced anything like it since he’d suffered sea sickness on a cruise along the Maya Riviera, and it was a relief to feel a little bit human again.
They were back in the lot of the decaying motel when the clouds finally split. Two of the deputies waited there, having discovered not a trace of the Bensons’ van. Bonner and the others were still in the field.
Tasket told them about the drawing.
“So what do you make of it, Sheriff?” the slight deputy named Ricky said. He had a drawl and a pinch of tobacco in his cheek. “I mean, this is proof that they passed right through that stretch of country, right?”
Tasket touched the spot on his neck. He spat in the snow. “I don’t know, Rick. Where else is there for them to go from there? You think a family of four brought alpine climbing gear—maybe scaled the rim of the punchbowl there? And we didn’t see hide nor hair of the family vehicle.”
“Yeah, but Sheriff…” the deputy insisted, motioning at the drawing in the sheriff’s hand.
Tasket’s only response was a frustrated scowl before crunching back over to the cruiser and depositing the artwork on the front passenger seat. “I know, Ricky. Doesn’t exactly make sense, now does it?”
“Come on, Sherrif Tasket,” the other deputy said. His name was Tim Routledge, a tall, athletic kid probably just out of the academy. He had sandy hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. “It’s just like the wallet, boss. You have to admit that.”
Bo and Kelli shared a glance while a shadow darkened the Sheriff’s face. “Hold your tongue, Tim. That’s an open case, and it’s unrelated to what we’re doing here today.”
The boy’s cheeks flushed red. He turned and looked to the horizon, the snowflakes collecting on the fleece of his department jacket. Bo sensed the tension between them, but the kid knew not to push his boss.
“Sheriff Tasket, come in please?” the radio crackled. “Sheriff, this is dispatch.”
Tasket left the door of the cruiser open while he worked the radio. “Go ahead, Sally.”
“It’s going to get bad up there real soon, Sheriff. Call in those boys and get off the mountain, okay?”
The sheriff studied the sky. Walls of dark clouds were advancing from the east. “Will do, Sally. Thanks.”
He radioed the others and instructed them to head straight back to the station. Bo and Kelli climbed into Tasket’s cruiser, but not before Bo caught the sheriff shooting another dagger of a glare at his deputies.
They started the drive back to Bishop in uncomfortable silence, Bo studying the drawing. After about twenty minutes, Tasket finally opened up. “So we found Aaron’s wallet in the Deer Creek office last year,” he said. “In fact, there have actually been a few things left there—objects that belong to folks that have been reported missing in this vicinity—that have turned up there over the years. And that’s reported missing, mind you. I want to be clear in my language.”
“And Aaron’s the deputy you thought might be sipping drinks down in Florida?” Kelli said. “Why didn’t you tell us that?”
“Because it’s none of your business, Kelli. No offense, but it’s just not. These are unrelated cases. I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you at all, truth to tell.”
“But that’s a pretty damned big coincidence, don’t you think, Sheriff?” Bo said. “You said there were other items? What are we talking about here?”
Tasket touched the spot. He stared at the actor for a long moment in the rearview, then came clean. “We found a hairbrush that might have belonged to a woman named Amanda Corbin. We found an airplane ticket stub for a fellow named Frankie Ryman—he’s been missing for most of a year, but of course you already know that. And we found a worn trading card with an image of an old football star—Big Denny Wren. He went missing a damned long time ago. These things, and a few others we haven’t yet identified, have shown up from time to time in that trailer. And the hell of it is that we just have no earthly idea how they got there.”
Kelli’s heart raced. If she’d ever doubted the things that Miriam and Anna had told them, she surely didn’t anymore. The energy in the cruiser had changed. Now, it felt more like one of shared purpose.
It seemed like a huge hurdle they’d cleared; Tasket had shared privileged information.
“Why can’t you believe, Mr. Tasket?” Kelli said softly. “I mean, when all of the rational explanations are gone, what’s left?”
Tasket considered this. “Well, I wasn’t raised like Miriam or Anna, Kelli. And I’m not ready to go in whole hog with their theory. I mean, what would we even do if it was the truth, huh? Would we just wait for some special, green mist to cover the mountain, then set off on our merry little way down the highway of the damned? Maybe go in there and rescue all of the lost at once, like Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt? There’s some sound police work for you, sure. Shit…”
Tasket’s frustration was clear. In that moment, Bo understood just how hard this situation weighed on the old lawman. For one single, naked moment, the starch had gone out of him.
“Let’s just go to Miriam’s, Sheriff,” he pleaded. It was worth a shot. “Please. I know you don’t believe in anything she has to say, but what have we got to lose? We’ll bring the drawing. See if she can make any sense of it.”
Tasket drove, his eyes trained on the slushy asphalt. Kelli finally said, “Sheriff?”
“I’m thinking,” he snapped.
They concluded the trip in silence, the only sound the bite of the wipers as they pushed flakes off the windshield. When he pulled to a stop beneath the veranda of the Best Western, Bo and Kelli got out. Without another word, they walked toward the lobby. The electric doors had slid open when Tasket rolled the window down. “Go ahead and make the call,” he said.
Bo grinned, and Kelli looked so relieved he thought she was going to hit her knees in thanks. “We will, Sheriff. Thank you…we’ll let you know after we speak with her.”
The window went up and Tasket punched it, the tires leaving a three-foot mark as he pulled back into traffic. Bo didn’t envy the deputies back at the station; might be a rough afternoon if they didn’t keep their distance.
They went into the hotel bar and ordered Spanish coffees. Kelli called Anna and told her about their find in the Deer Creek office.
“We need to schedule another meeting with Miriam, Anna. Sheriff Tasket wants to come along this time.”
Bo heard Anna’s delighted squeals on the other end and smiled. He took a big swig of his drink, feeling the hot coffee and spiced rum kindling a fire from the inside. He felt good—like they were maybe getting somewhere.
Kelli finished her call and immediately rang Tasket. Their conversation was terse, but not unproductive.
“Okay, so 6:00 p.m. tomorrow evening,” Kelli said, sliding her phone into her pocket. “So, Mr. TV star, I have a question for you. I know this ain’t the red carpet, but I have to ask…any thoughts on what one should wear to a séance?”
SIXTEEN
There weren’t any windows or doors that he could see. It was an immense, gray structure, muted steel and faded brick that stretched to the edges of his vision.
Industrial hell.
Men toiled at their stations. They sat hunched, sewing at tables. They punched rivets into fabric, they stitched pockets, and they inspected garments.
There was an air of frenzied desperation about the place, complete with automated conveyers and hissing machines. Upton Sinclair would have had a field day.
“You’ll begin, as all new employees do, on our simple seams machine. This way, please—chop, chop. Time is money, Phil. Nowhere is that old chestnut more true than it is here at Adrienne Automated.”
Phil h
ustled to keep up. They passed scores of men and a fair number of women as well. A few met his eyes, but most kept their heads down, eyes on their work.
It was damned depressing.
They walked almost to the rear of the factory. There, stacked along the far wall, Phil saw great cages lined with shelves. On each shelf were pallets and pallets of pressed denim. Enormous presses—at least a dozen of them—hissed and churned, cutting patterns in a rhythmic fashion. Most of the patterns were for pants, but he noticed shirts and jackets as well. The patterns collected in a hopper and two men with wheeled carts collected the garments to be distributed amongst the sewers.
They strode over to a long bank of at least a hundred sewing tables. Here again, men wheeled racks up and down the rows, collecting the freshly sewn jeans.
Jacob marched him over to a man overseeing this stage of the operation, and Phil almost yipped his surprise.
It was him—that eerie demon that had barked a cloud of flies against his sleeping wife’s window on the road into Adrienne. The man with the glowing eyes, and the impossible speed on the mountainside.
He grinned as Phil approached his desk.
“Nice to see you, again,” he said with a wink. His voice was deep, his eyes shining with laughter. “I guess you have a policy, eh?”
“A…a policy? I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“About hitchhikers, I mean. A policy about picking up hitchhikers.” He showed Phil the palms of his hands, head cocked. “Hey, Phil. I don’t blame you. It’s not a smart move, picking up the mongrels that roam the roads. No harm, no foul, buddy.”
Phil just swallowed. He stared at his feet.
“Well,” Jacob said, clearly pleased. “It appears you two have already met?”
“Not formally,” the man said. He stood, and Phil was again struck by the man’s vitality. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a logging camp. He extended a hand. “I’m Jasper.”
Cold on the Mountain Page 10
