The Devil's Breath

by R. R. Irvine

  A particularly strong gust of wind rattled leaves; branches scraped together nervously.

  “Quaking aspens,” murmured the mayor.

  Inside his head another voice echoed, “Quaking aspens.” It was Yeba Kah’s voice, and suddenly it was as if the Indian were there in the room, chanting, “And how did the quaking aspens get their name?”

  It was singsong and hypnotic, as compelling in memory as it had been years ago when the Indian spoke to a group of Cub Scouts huddled around a blazing campfire, Hiram Benyon among them.

  Yeba Kah’s voice grew, challenging the darkness and the shrieking wind. Benyon had been ten, maybe eleven years old.

  “Trees, like people, must live within their rightful boundaries. It is so even with aspens.”

  Yeba Kah paused.

  The wind sighed.

  “But once, long ago, when aspens were assigned their place, they were not satisfied. They wanted something better, even though the Great Spirit, Koshari, told them to stay where they were, to climb no higher in the Uintas than their fellow blue spruce and white balsam. Loftier elevations, Koshari said, were reserved for fir. And beyond that, no trees at all were allowed, because the highest places were for the Great Spirit’s use only.”

  At that point, or so memory told Benyon, the wind had gusted mightily as if to add an exclamation point to the Indian’s tale.

  “The Great Spirit saw that the aspens were restless and warned them to heed his commandment. But the aspens ignored Koshari to talk among themselves.

  “„We have been cheated,’ they complained. „Are we not equal to the firs and the spruce who live above us? Are we not the most beautiful of trees, and therefore entitled to the finest place to live?’

  “There followed a chorus of yeses. And so the aspens began to move, higher and higher, until they approached the desolate land that the Great One had taken for himself.”

  Around the campfire, trees creaked and groaned as they bent with the wind.

  “When the aspens came to the timberline where stunted firs barely survived, they paused to rest. The pitiful firs pleaded with them to go no farther. „This is our limit,’ they said. „Here we must be content. Beyond this point, only the lichen and moss survive.’

  “The aspens mocked the firs. „Soon,’ bragged the aspens, „we shall rise above you all.’

  “The firs shrank back and cried, The Great Spirit is nearby. Go back before it is too late.’

  “But the aspens only laughed.”

  Yeba Kah had also laughed, throwing back his head so that he could roar into the wind. Then he fell silent and, after a while, so did the wind.

  “And when the foolish aspens arrived at their destination, they understood the Great Spirit’s warning. For what they saw there was so terrifying that they quaked with fear. And even after they descended to their own, rightful place in the mountains, they continued to quake. And so, to their everlasting sorrow, that is how quaking aspens got their name.”

  The mayor goosepimpled at the memory.

  He forced himself to speak calmly to the sheriff. “I will not cancel the hunt. I talked to the network people less than an hour ago. They wanted reassurances about Jimmy Keene’s safety. So I told them the only thing I could, that our first hunting accident was going to be our last, that you and I would personally accompany Jimmy on this hunt. Oh, and one more thing. I told them you were a professional hunter.”

  “Thanks,” Fisk said sarcastically.

  “Listen to me. This town is going to survive, no matter what. From now on that’s all you have to think about.”

  The sheriff walked over to the window and pointed up at the Uintas. “I’m worried about those damned mountains.”

  “You think I don’t know that.”

  “It wasn’t a bear,” the sheriff added. “You can’t tell me it was.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Alden. I’m not looking forward to going up into those mountains either. But we don’t have any choice.”

  22

  TELEVISION MONDAY had dawned appropriately blue, Graham noticed as he drove toward town. But such a sky, he decided, was far too blue for a painter. No one would believe such brilliance.

  He was feeling far from brilliant himself, and had to blink twice before believing his eyes as he turned the corner and saw at least a hundred people milling around the city hall steps.

  Parked right in front was a large mobile home with the ABN logo painted on the side.

  Most of the townspeople, however, had walked to the scene, because there was plenty of parking available. Graham stopped his Jeep directly in front of the Ledger.

  He got out, did his best to ignore the inquisitive stares that he drew, and walked to the door of the newspaper. It was unlocked but Harry wasn’t inside.

  He went looking for her in the crowd.

  More people were arriving all the time. The official welcoming ceremony was scheduled for 10:00 A.M., as per the mayor’s orders.

  Graham stood on tiptoe in an attempt to spot Harry.

  Next to him, a woman said, “Do you see Jimmy Keene?”

  “No. I’m looking for someone else.”

  “He’s so handsome on TV.”

  “I guess so,” Graham answered, obliged to say something.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said an elderly man. “They never look as good in person as they do on the tube.” Despite his words, there was awe in his voice.

  Graham edged toward the city hall steps. More than ever he felt like an outsider.

  A car horn blared and Graham, like everyone else, rose up to peer toward the sound.

  Then a hand slipped into his.

  “You can’t escape,” Harry said. “Not even in a crowd.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Another horn blast cut him off.

  “You have a desperate look on your face,” she said in the relative quiet that followed.

  “I don’t like crowds.”

  “I thought it was me. Last night doesn’t commit you, you know. Two nights in a row doesn’t make us engaged.”

  “If you’ll have me, I want to be committed.”

  Before she could reply, a shout went up as the mayor and half a dozen others emerged from city hall. The crowd surged forward, carrying Harry and Graham along with them.

  “You should be up there on stage,” Graham said.

  “As a newspaper woman, my biggest story is right here.” She squeezed his hand.

  Jimmy Keene—there was no mistaking him—stepped through the main door of city hall. His was a solo entrance, timed so that he received a fresh burst of applause. He held up both hands acknowledging the crowd.

  To one side of the city hall steps, a cameraman crouched, taping the proceedings. He was a short, bull-like man with red hair and shoulders so big that the camera looked flimsy as it rested on them. A young woman trailed him carrying a Porta-Pak tape recorder attached to the camera by cable. The pair moved as one, closing in on Jimmy Keene, who was now hurrying forward to shake the mayor’s outstretched hand. Graham couldn’t get a good look at the woman because her back was to him.

  The red-headed cameraman thrust fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly, like a doorman in search of a cab.

  The crowd quieted. In the silence that followed, Keene moved to center stage, teetering there on the edge of the top city hall step. He stood six feet two, at least, was slim, with long black hair that completely hid his ears. The hair was like a dark halo focusing attention on Keene’s even darker eyes, eyes that flashed as if the sun were his personal klieg light.

  After acknowledging his welcome, Keene turned and beckoned the mayor to join him. It was a gesture, Graham felt certain, designed specifically for his cameraman. It looked well rehearsed.

  Keene’s speech also sounded too pat to be spontaneous. But the crowd loved it, responding like a studio audience to cue cards. They laughed, applauded, and occasionally gasped with awe, and each time the camera swung away from Keene to capture th
eir reaction.

  Even Harry appeared spellbound. But then Keene was damned good-looking.

  All at once Graham, who had tuned out on the speech, got a good look at the woman attached to the camera. She had to belong to Keene. Women just didn’t look like that in Moondance. She exuded sex. And at the moment, the heaving of her blatant breasts either signified that the altitude had gotten to her, or that Keene’s words had one hell of an effect on women.

  Graham decided to pay attention.

  “I’m told by Mayor Benyon that the Hunting Ground represents an investment for every man, woman, and child in this area. Fifteen dollars apiece, he told me.”

  Keene paused to nod wisely. “Well, I’m here to tell you that the American Broadcasting Network appreciates your sacrifices. I have been authorized to tell you that we at ABN will do our best to get a top rating for your Hunting Ground.”

  This time Mayor Benyon’s applause was a signal for everyone else’s.

  “This country”—Keene flung his arms wide—“God’s country is so beautiful that I hope—no, pray—that our ABN color cameras can do it justice.”

  The camera turned toward the crowd, touching off a wave of fresh enthusiasm.

  “With your help,” Keene said, his voice rising, “ours will be the most successful segment of „The American Huntsman’ ever put on video tape.”

  Keene paused for acclaim and got it. Even the clouds gathering over the northernmost peaks thundered approval.

  Keene peered up at the brilliant sky. He answered a second clap of thunder with an exaggerated gesture, as if to acknowledge God’s presence in his audience.

  The crowd loved it, cheering fervently.

  Keene smiled and waited until he could make himself heard again. “Now I’d like to introduce the members of my crew.” He half turned and pointed a finger at his cameraman. The pose reminded Graham of Michelangelo’s God imparting life to Adam.

  “He may look like a squashed fullback, but he’s all mine—Boyd Jarman. And right behind him, Marilyn Cobb, my sound person.” He winked and leered. “And finally my producer, Sid Norris.”

  Graham felt a tug on his arm.

  “Come on,” Harry said. “We’ve heard enough.”

  “Don’t you need to write this up for the paper?”

  “What’s to say? I know where everybody stands. Besides, there are a couple of things I want to show you.”

  She led the way back to her office. Once inside she said, “I want you to see where I live first, my inner sanctum.”

  She opened the narrow wooden door marked “Private” to reveal an entirely different world, where cinder-block walls had been paneled and painted, where paintings and prints had been hung with care.

  A powder blue oriental rug patterned in golds, browns, and rich reds served to highlight the dark oak flooring.

  Her comfortable-looking furniture was a mixture of velvets and corduroy in bright colors, all the brighter because of contrasting pale, tapestrylike drapes that shut out all thought of Moondance.

  The room’s total effect, its suddenness of transition, made Graham feel as if he had been transported to Oz. As he stared at the wonders around him, his head kept shaking in disbelief, a reaction that delighted Harry.

  “Wait till you see the bedroom,” she said, barely suppressing a giggle.

  She was pulling him toward that inner, inner sanctum when someone knocked heavily on the private door.

  “Harriet!” The mayor’s sharp voice penetrated the wood with ease.

  “Damn.” She sighed and whispered, “Later,” into Graham’s ear.

  When Graham opened the door, he saw that the mayor was flanked by Jimmy Keene and his TV entourage.

  Without hesitation, Graham moved over the threshhold to prevent anyone from entering Harry’s citadel. She came right after him, closing the door behind her.

  “Jimmy wanted to meet the local press,” the mayor explained. “I know you have some background information for him on Moondance.”

  Harry, whose face now flushed pink, nodded. “On the counter.”

  Keene picked up a clipping.

  “No,” Harry said. “In the manila folder.”

  Keene kept hold of the clipping while he made a production of looking Harry over.

  Graham stepped forward, snatched up the folder, and thrust it at the man.

  “Let him read the clipping,” Harry said. “I got it out for you, Jack, but maybe Mr. Keene ought to be forewarned.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said the mayor. “We don’t want Jimmy getting the wrong idea about Moondance.”

  “Secrets?” Keene said gleefully. “Not about our first, ill-fated crew, I hope.”

  “Not at all,” Benyon answered.

  “Then why the fuss?” Keene straightened his shoulders and began reading the clipping as if it were a bulletin on the six o’clock news. “„Nathan Edgars, a lifelong resident of Moondance, has been released by authorities after being questioned concerning the death of his neighbor, Josiah Grant. Grant’s mutilated body was found in the foothills above town after Edgars led sheriff’s deputies to the scene.”

  When Keene paused, Harry touched Graham’s arm and said, “It happened a long time ago, when my father ran the paper. I didn’t remember it till this morning. I pulled it out of the files for you.”

  Keene winked openly at the members of his crew. “Murder in Moondance. I like the sound of it.”

  Their heads nodded agreement.

  “It was an accident,” said the mayor. “Pure and simple.”

  “I don’t know.” Keene scratched a luxuriant side-burn. “A little mystery can do wonders for the ratings.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Benyon responded, then looked away.

  “Sid, here, is my producer. If anybody can work it into the narration, he can.”

  Sid smiled.

  Keene went on reading. “„Edgars told the Ledger that he and Josiah Grant were returning home late from a barn-raising when they came upon an extraordinary sight—strange dancing in the forest.

  “„These are Edgars’s exact words: “The moon was full, so we could see real good. That’s how come we spotted them in the first place, not more than a half mile from the Graham farm, in a clearing just off the road. There was a strange sound, too, like singing, but not quite singing, if you know what I mean.”’”

  Keene hopped in the air. “This is good stuff. Perfect. What do you think, Sid?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you, Boyd?” Keene asked the cameraman.

  “Yeah. I can shoot some mood stuff to match. Clouds sliding over the moon, that kind of thing.”

  “My network hires nothing but the best,” Keene said, winking at the woman who’d been carrying the tape recorder earlier.

  Then he waved the clipping to signal that he was going on with his recitation.

  “„“At first, we just couldn’t figure out what was happening, what with trying to see through the trees and all. So we tied our horses by the road and crept closer, figuring the worst it could be was young people kicking up their heels. Anyways, since we’re both deacons, we knew it was our duty to stop that kind of thing before anybody got into real trouble. But it wasn’t young people. It was animals dancing there in the moonlight.”’”

  A delighted grin spread over Keene’s face. “How are you going to handle that?” he asked the cameraman.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  The mayor stepped in. “Don’t you think it would be better to concentrate on the Hunting Ground?”

  Keene answered with a lopsided smile, then went back to the newspaper clipping.

  “„“Real animals,” Edgars insisted. “Wolves, coyotes, even a bear. All up on their hind legs, they were, like humans, heads thrown back howlin’ at the moon.”’”

  Jimmy Keene threw his head back and howled with laughter. After a moment he subsided enough to add, “Our viewers will eat up this kind of crap.”

  “It r
eally is good,” his producer insisted.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Harry said, “I can’t vouch for its authenticity.”

  “It’s in a newspaper,” Sid said. “That’s good enough for us.”

  Keene nodded and continued to read.

  “„“It was worse than singing once we got up close. Like unholy praying, it was. Unnatural. Evil, Josiah called it. He said he had to put an end to it then and there. He raised his rifle. But something told me we ought to run for our lives. I started to say something, but he up and shot one of the animals. The singing stopped then and suddenly there was a different sound, like the wind growlin’ and rushin’ in on us. Demons, it was. Demons from hell. I ran. I thought Josiah was with me, but he must have stayed to face them alone. I swear to God, that’s the way it was. Demons killed Josiah Grant.”’”

  Keene licked his lips. “It couldn’t be better. It will add just the proper touch of menace to our show. After all, there’s not much danger in shooting deer, now, is there?”

  Graham watched the mayor’s Adam’s apple plunge. “I . . .”

  “Trust me,” Keene said. “You want to publicize your Hunting Ground, right?”

  Benyon nodded.

  “OK. I know what I’m doing. This”—he folded the clipping and handed it to his producer—“this, will guarantee us the biggest rating „The American Huntsman’ has ever had. We’ll turn this place into the Bermuda Triangle of the west. Why, we may even throw in Big Foot.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me,” Keene said. “Trust me.”

  23

  THIRTY MINUTES later, Mayor Benyon’s camper, carrying the crowd from the newspaper office, bounced to a stop at what His Honor called Trail’s End.

  Jack Graham, the first one out, was immediately disappointed. Trail’s End turned out to be nothing more than a large clearing in a forest of aspens.

  Jimmy Keene asked, “Where are we?”

  “This is where we’re going to build a lodge eventually,” the mayor answered. “When that’s done, we plan to rename this place Hunter’s Point.”

  “Is this the trail to the Hunting Ground?” Keene asked.