by R. R. Irvine
Harriet nudged him. “Say something. Or have you fallen asleep on me?”
Graham blinked. He’d been so immersed in the past that he’d forgotten where he was. “Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
She shook her head and led the way to the cashier. After he paid the bill, they left Bridger House together. As they walked, he positioned himself on the outside so that his plastic hand wouldn’t be next to her.
They’d taken only a few steps when she asked, “Have you tried painting left-handed?”
The hot beef sandwich in his stomach turned to lead.
“Yes,” he responded woodenly. “That’s why I’m now a former artist.”
She gave him a searching look. “Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself?”
He waved the mechanical hand in front of her face. “You have to have ability here . . . in your hand. The hand, the fingers, they carry out the orders from the brain. The hand is everything.”
She looked away before saying, “You’ve got to try, Jack. Otherwise . . .”
“Have you ever seen any of my paintings?”
“Now that you ask, Mr. Graham, I have.”
That surprised him.
“Your uncle showed me some of your things. In some ways they were more like photographs than paintings.”
“There you have it. That kind of realism demands a perfect hand.”
They had come to a stop outside the Ledger.
“There are plenty of artists who aren’t realists,” she said.
“There’s no need to go on. I understand perfectly. You’re suggesting that I become a dauber, a splasher. Maybe I could paint squares or circles, or even use a roller.”
“When you stop being hostile, you can call me Harry.”
He decided to change the subject. “What is this Hunting Ground all about?”
With a start, Harriet glanced up at the mountains. Although the town was in deep shadow, the high peaks blazed in the last rays of dying light. “I’m not the one to tell you. It wasn’t my idea, and I’ve never been an enthusiastic backer of the project either.”
“You sound like Timmons,” he said as he watched the peaks disappear. The night suddenly got colder. “What about that TV crew?”
“You know as much about it as I do. You heard what the mayor said. He hasn’t said anything different to me.”
“What do you think killed them?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said coldly. Her face was in shadow, so he couldn’t read her expression.
“Did you know them?” he asked.
“I met them.” Suddenly she was even frostier than the night. “They seemed nice enough. They were here doing advance work for Jimmy Keene.”
Keene, Graham knew, was considered to be Johnny Carson’s only competitor on late night television.
“What does he have to do with it?”
“It’s cold out here,” she said, “and I’m tired.”
Sure, he thought, now that she’s not talking about something safe like his art. Just what the hell was going on? And was Harriet in on it?
“Besides,” she added, “I have a council meeting to attend later this evening.”
“As a reporter?”
“I’m a member of the town council, in case you didn’t know.”
“Isn’t everyone?” he said, his tone openly sarcastic.
“If you want more details,” she responded sharply, “read about them in the Ledger. Or better yet, ask Mayor Benyon about Jimmy Keene and the Hunting Ground. It’s his baby.”
She opened the door to her office.
“Good night,” he said.
“Night,” she responded brusquely.
As he started back toward the hotel, he began to shiver. He pulled his collar up around his neck and stared straight ahead. Even though he couldn’t see the mountains, he felt their presence. In Moondance, there was no way of escaping them. There was no way of escaping something else either. They all seemed to be hiding something, the mayor, the sheriff, even Harriet. But what? And what the hell had killed those men?
In his mind, he again saw the rescue party they’d picked up on the highway that morning. He saw the green plastic bag, and that look on the mayor’s face when he’d gaped at those same mountains like a man expecting to see demons.
6
EVEN THOUGH there was no audience, the mayor used his gavel to pound the town council to order. The sound, echoing in the city hall chamber, brought Harriet out of her reverie. She sighed. Now was not the time to be daydreaming about Jack Graham.
Mayor Benyon cleared his throat. “I hope you all know why we’re here.”
“Sure,” answered Del Timmons. “To listen to more of your foolishness.”
To Harriet, the councilman looked as grim as the day his wife had run off with a salesman. Since then, Timmons had changed. He’d gone from outgoing and friendly to the belligerent, stiff-necked man she saw before her now. Had love meant so much to him? Or was it loneliness that was corroding his soul?
Harriet stretched and wondered if living alone would eventually do the same thing to her.
“We’re here,” the mayor went on, “because I wanted a united front on our story about what happened in those mountains.”
“I hope you’re not going to tell me it’s a bear again?” Timmons said, his mockery heavy-handed.
Benyon nodded slowly.
Sheriff Fisk spoke up. “Doc Epperson examined the remains. He doesn’t have any better explanation.”
“What can he tell from one head?” Timmons said.
“Whatever our official position,” the mayor continued, “the doctor has said he will attest to it. And the network will just have to buy it.”
“Do you?” Harriet asked.
Lamar Mortenson, deputy mayor and owner of Bridger House, coughed. “Why shouldn’t he? He’s trying to do what’s best for Moondance.”
“And that,” said Benyon, “is an accident blamed on the attack of bears.”
Timmons uttered a series of piglike snorts.
“Do you have any better ideas?” Mortenson asked him.
After one more snort, Timmons said, “You’ve heard the stories as often as I have. You know what happens to strangers who go poking their noses into our mountains.”
“Gossip,” Mortenson countered.
“People who live here ought to know better,” Timmons said.
“All right,” interrupted the mayor. “We’re going to stop that kind of talk right now. Our official position is that bears attacked. All those in favor raise their hands.”
Three hands went up, with only Harriet and Timmons failing to signal. After a moment, Timmons raised his hand too.
Harriet abstained.
“Four to nothing,” said the mayor. “That settles it.”
“No, by God.” Timmons pounded a fist on the council table; his blow rivaled the mayor’s gavel. “I say we put a stop to this Hunting Ground now before someone else gets killed.”
“We’ve already voted,” Benyon said quietly.
“That’s right,” Mortenson added. “Our town will die if we don’t get some new money coming in.”
“Of course.” Timmons scowled. “Anything to fill up your hotel.”
Mortenson’s chair scraped back from the table. His hands closed into fists as if he were fighting mad. But it was all bluff, Harriet knew, because Timmons was not a man to tangle with, not with fists anyway.
“Del,” said the mayor, “you’ve been outvoted on this several times. We’re committed to the Hunting Ground. So there’s nothing more to say.”
“Just keep those hunters off my land. I won’t have strangers butting into my business.”
“If you’re through now,” the mayor said, tucking his chin against his breastbone, “we’ll get on to the problem of Lew Graham’s nephew.”
Harriet felt herself tense.
“We’ve got to get that land of his,” the mayor co
ntinued, “before Jimmy Keene arrives.”
He paused to extract an old pipe from the pocket of his suit coat. He’d used the briar as a prop for years, despite grumblings from church quarters. Harriet had yet to see him light it. At the moment, he was pointing it at Timmons like a pistol. “Any suggestions?”
Timmons folded his arms and stayed mute for once.
It was Mortenson who spoke. “Offer him more money.”
Harriet smiled. “I had a long talk with him. I don’t think that will work.”
“What then?” Benyon clenched the briar between his teeth.
“We could be honest with him,” she said. “Tell him just how badly we need his land.”
Benyon shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth.
But it was Timmons who spoke. “We ought to stay away from Graham land. That Indian put his charms all over the place. It’s . . . tainted.”
“Don’t start that again,” said the mayor.
“The land is sacred. That’s what the Indian said.”
“Do you believe that kind of talk?” the sheriff asked.
Timmons shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he said.”
Benyon coughed for attention. “Let’s not worry about heathen gods. What we’ve got to do is concentrate on keeping the TV network happy.”
Timmons mumbled a few incomprehensible words before saying, “We ought to have known better than to have used that damn Indian as a guide.”
“We thought Yeba Kah would add local color,” the mayor responded.
“Nobody eke knows—knew—these mountains like he did,” Mortenson pointed out.
“You’re fools,” Timmons said. “You should have known better. Strange things have happened before in our mountains.”
“Old wives’ tales,” said Benyon.
“Not so old,” Harriet said. “All you have to do is read some back issues of the Ledger.”
“Speaking of the paper, Harry, I’ve talked to a number of prominent citizens.” The mayor tapped his pipe on the table before naming every one of her major advertisers. “We’ve all agreed that another strange story might kill this town.”
“I won’t lie,” she said.
“We’re only asking you to hold off awhile.”
“The next edition is three weeks away, so why worry?”
“I just didn’t want you bringing out a special or anything crazy like that,” the mayor said.
Harriet sighed. “I promise you one thing. It won’t be the Ledger that kills Moondance.”
“Good.” Benyon nodded. “Because right now we have to keep our sights on television and „The American Huntsman.’”
“Thirty minutes of prime time killing,” Harriet said dryly.
“We know your views on hunting,” the mayor said, then paused to suck spittle from his briar. “The film crew we lost was to have been an advance party, a way of scouting the terrain so that no time would be wasted when the main production crew arrives, and with it, Jimmy Keene.”
Even now, Harriet had trouble believing—really believing—the town’s good fortune. Not only was ABN going to tape a prime time program in the Hunting Ground, but the star of that particular episode was to be none other than Jimmy Keene, the wisecracking host of the network’s highly rated late night talk show, “PM.”
Keene’s name alone guaranteed that millions of viewers would be watching “The American Huntsman.” And God alone knew how many of them were rich sportsmen who would pay plenty to hunt in an area of the high Uintas that hadn’t heard the sound of a rifle for decades, private posted land that had been pooled in a last-ditch effort to bring prosperity back to Moondance.
The mayor continued. “The advance crew was supposed to get some good kills on film, kills that could be edited in later and attributed to Jimmy Keene if he comes up empty-handed. So what it boils down to now is that our future rests on a single hunt.”
7
A BONE-CHILLING cold was seeping through the window that Jack Graham had forgotten to close. It was as if the chill had substance and weight, so much so that he fully expected to see it as he squinted toward the moonlit opening.
So get up and close the window before you freeze to death, he told himself. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave the one bearable, semiwarm spot his body had created in the center of the bed. For that matter, he refused to move at all and thereby expose himself to icy spots in the sheets. Yet to leave that window open would be to deny himself sleep and maybe even guarantee himself a case of pneumonia. Of course, insomnia was a blessing of sorts. As long as he was awake he wouldn’t dream.
So get your mind off the cold and think about something happy, for Godsake! Bed, a nice warm bed. Is that all you can think of? Yes. No. Sex. Sex in bed. When was the last time? The last time didn’t count and certainly couldn’t be called sex. What then? An act of charity on Noreen’s part. Then again, maybe it wasn’t charity. Maybe he was a fool. Maybe he blew it. Blew his whole goddamn life. Maybe she did want him just as he was.
Despite himself, he began reliving that painful scene. She’d done her best, Noreen had. He had to give her that. She had tried to make love to him while he lay there watching like a stranger. And all the while he had felt desperation, and a terrible loneliness, a fear that such loneliness might last for the rest of his life.
“It’s been a long time,” she said softly, suggestively. She was wearing the scanty nightgown that he’d given her on their last anniversary. “Too long, Jack.” Her hand, soft as ever, moved down across his stomach, tickling, caressing, then wriggled beneath the elastic waistband of his pajamas. “Why, look what I found? And to think it might have fallen off from disuse.”
He felt no reaction to her touch. Yet more than anything he wanted to reach out to her. Dear God, a man needed two hands to love a woman, one hand for each breast. He longed to run his tongue over her nipples until they popped up far enough to be nibbled. Then, and only then, would he go down between her legs to lick the juices from her, to glory in the smell of her, to hover there like a frenzied bee overcome by its first taste of spring pollen.
Brutally he grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she made a whimpering sound and released his limp manhood. “No, thank you,” he snapped at her coldly, savagely. “I can do without your charity. One hand is as good as another when it comes to masturbation.”
He regretted the words instantly. But they accomplished what he thought he wanted. She’d recoiled from him then, and forever.
Why had he done it? He knew now that he had needed to hurt her, as he himself had been hurt. But there was more to it than that. There was the fear, always the fear. Fear that she would find him repulsive. Fear that she would love someone else, someone whole. Fear that she would be there to witness his failure as an artist and as a man. Always fear. The fear that made him drive her away.
And there in the hotel room Graham was still afraid, afraid of what he’d done and what was to come—the empty life stretching out ahead of him.
And making it worse was the cold, numbing him without dulling his mind. He couldn’t cope with both things at once, the cold and the fear. And only one of them was within his control.
He threw back the covers and rushed to the open window. As he slammed it down he glanced toward the Uintas. The moon, though nearly down, still lit the foothills. And there, in a large clearing, he saw them, men dancing. The idea of it chilled him more than the cold air.
He squinted, testing his eyesight, his sanity. Jesus, those weren’t men out there. They were . . .
No, damnit. He refused to believe his eyes. The vision was part of some overly real nightmare. Deliberately, he turned away from the window, from the mirage, and started back toward bed. But he knew he’d find no rest there now, no warmth, only his newest fear—for his sanity.
8
NIGHT FEARS seemed foolish in the common sense of morning. Jack Graham chided himself for a fool as he looked out at the rugged beauty of the Uinta Mountains. Above them, half
the sky was blue; the other half billowed with thunderheads whose changing shapes were more animallike than last night’s imagined dancers. More than likely he’d been the victim of the unaccustomed altitude. Imagine! An Indian leading a chorus of prancing creatures.
By daylight, the clearing looked far away, well over a mile, too distant to see such dancers even if they had existed. He shook his head, embarrassed now at his childish reaction to the dark. If anything, the clearing appeared idyllic, a pale green opening in the darker forest of aspen and blue spruce.
In the street below his window, sequins of frost glittered on cars that had been parked overnight. His Jeep had taken on a glacéed patina that gave its ungainly ugliness a kind of chilly elegance. The ice reminded him that last night’s cold had been real enough. It told him, too, that his thin California blood would need time to thicken. To help that along, he’d have to buy heavier clothing.
In fact, if memory served him, his uncle’s cabin had only its fireplace for heat. Or had Lew made improvements? Graham should have thought to ask Harry.
He shrugged. He’d be seeing the cabin for himself soon enough. But future planning, his stomach told him, would have to wait until after breakfast.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute past seven o’clock when Graham crossed the lobby and entered the cafe. Although a sign pasted to the back of a shiny brass cash register listed the hours as seven-thirty to ten, half a dozen customers were already seated and waiting. The sign, he decided, was meant for strangers like himself, because two of the regulars had been served and another was having his order taken by the single waitress, the same woman who’d been on duty the day before. She was looking Graham’s way when a bell rang, summoning her to the kitchen.
When she charged back through the swinging doors, the smell of bacon came with her.
Bacon and eggs will be fine, said his stomach.
He said the same thing to the waitress, and then gingerly fingered his waistline. There was no lean and hungry feel to him. He’d gained weight since the accident, two notches on his belt. It was as if he’d lost his self-control along with his hand. For years he’d held himself rigidly at one hundred and fifty pounds, moderately lean for his five feet eleven inches. An artist, he felt, ought to be thin, bone-thin even, to give the proper ascetic air. Surely the great ones, the van Goghs, the Gauguins, had been thin. Imagine a chubby van Gogh. Impossible. A roly-poly Gauguin. Unlikely. Not that Graham thought of himself in their class. The critics, after all, called him a mere illustrator, and his animal studies were only recently beginning to command decent prices.
