The trees that stepped back, then forward, stepped back again. Only one limb with tiny leaves still clung to Gloria.
The young mother would find her own release.
With Dex still pulling, she fumbled for a better hold inside the cab in order to push herself free. Freaking out, she grabbed the rifle and accidentally pulled its trigger. The resulting CRACK! sent every birch back at least twenty feet, including the one that refused to let go. Gloria was no longer a captive.
Weary and hunched over, Dex and Gloria wobbled to the east between and past the birches. Entering the darkest part of the forest, they ducked under staggered aspen branches, expecting more trouble. Behind, the birches lofted rolls of thin, coiled bark, hoping somehow to violently connect with human heads or backs or legs or at least delay movement while the grove regrouped. All rolls made contact, but the most damage done resembled that of a paper towel core being tossed or lofted.
Croaking and thrashing about with rage, the birches crumpled the pickup into a sort of metal cube.
15. The Trial of Mayor Roland Pike
July 21st, 1945, 3:10 a.m.
The Krebs place.
A half mile northwest of Decoreous’s cabin stood the burnt-out remains of the homestead once owned by Adolphus Krebs. Built in 1920, when land rights were more certain, the combination manor and sawmill represented the most successful of Westcreek ventures. At one end of the property, a long metal shed housed four equally spaced, rusty vertical saws on long tables. On the ground, hats with furry ear flaps, dingy gloves, little gas and oil cans, and metal lunch pails lay scattered, as if a team of lumberjacks had suddenly been in a hurry to leave.
Following a narrow path of moldy wood chips, past a lean-to containing dozens of unprocessed pine trees, a two-story shell of a home appeared ghostly quiet. It resembled a doll house cut diagonally in half with a dull knife—one half missing, and the remaining upstairs, downstairs, and bedrooms creaked with a yearning for yesteryear.
Inside, everything appeared blackened. Past a pair of scorched mahogany double-doors fit for a giant, an Egyptian-tiled hall set off by a pair of marble pillars led to a sunken living room, ripped Persian rug, two long leather couches, wooden chairs with mosaic seats, and a coffee table held up by four ivory tusks. The small space resembled an explorer’s club, and if one could have inhaled deeply enough beyond the musty ash, the scent of expensive cigar smoke lingered.
A few feet to the north, a dining room waited to entertain its next guests. Flanked by two entryways in the back missing doors and leading to a large kitchen containing multiple stoves and ovens, the dining room was dominated by a crumpled oak table. Twelve hand-painted dinner plates, matching salad plates, saucers and cups, sterling silverware, and broken crystal goblets spilled inward to an unnatural crease, and it seemed a great feast would never be had.
Above, timid lightning shone through missing sections of the roof and second-level flooring. From an owl’s perspective, the Krebs home interior appeared like a two-layer horseshoe, the lower more open and horizontally complete, the upper a scrunched-together mess of five rooms, precarious hallways, and broken or flimsy walls waiting for better luck.
The right fork of the horseshoe housed two bedrooms: one for Katie, age eight, and one for Lisa, age thirteen. Katie loved stuffed animals. In her room, charred, partially dismembered giraffes, lions, and polar bears lined the floor near a little bed frame, cloth and stitching singed into the wooden floor. Tiny ash footprints documented a grand escape into the hallway, met by larger footprints.
Lisa was a girl interrupted. In her room, torn posters of the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra and Frank Sinatra performing at various locales around the state of Minnesota lay in scraps upon a twin bed of frilly pink pillows and a pink blanket. On a tilted bedside stand, the needle on a phonograph with a tulip-shaped speaker froze on the song “Cheek to Cheek” by Fred Astaire.
Across the horseshoe chasm, two other rooms also seemed stuck in time. One belonged to twelve-year-old Jonas, affectionately referred to by the family as “Chief White Sky.” Jonas’s room contained deer and moose hides, moccasin slippers, deer hide headbands on a windowless windowsill, and a poplar bench at the foot of a metal bedframe carved intricately with the image of a timber wolf. Based on the boy’s love for Indian ways and the fact that he often spent most of his free time outside exploring, hunting, and gathering, Adolphus and his wife, Anna, would frequently remark that Jonas was part Ojibwa.
To the south, the last of the children’s bedrooms belonged to Wyatt, age sixteen, and the room stood in stark contrast to the others. Inside were no furnishings. No wall hangings. No mementos giving insight into dreams or interests. The only evidence that someone had once lived in the room was found in the northwest corner, scattered across the floor, and drawn or etched on gray walls. In the corner of the room, a blue blanket and pillow sat in a twisted ball. On the floor, eight empty glass bottles topped by a cork with the inscription “PHARMA” across the front were arranged like a mine field. And on the walls, crude stick figures and symbols depicted horrifying scenes. Of the scenes, three were most prominent: to the right of the bedroom door, drawn in dark blue crayon, long, thin clouds with menacing eyes and sharp teeth terrorized a group of little stick figures running for their lives below, their handless arms raised up in fright; to the left of the door, brown stick figures with long ears danced under black clouds around a big rock with a long arm clutching frowning little heads. And around Wyatt’s bedroom window that crowded a dead spruce tree on the outside, deep red flames shot across the wall, interspersed with the etched phrase, “here it comes” twelve times. Adolphus and Anna’s oldest boy rarely stepped outside his room, let alone the home. Shortly after the fire, Wyatt was committed to a sanitarium in Duluth with an unknown diagnosis until he died of natural causes.
On the handle of the horseshoe, where ornate stairs from below on both sides of the dining room led to a small landing in front of a pair of cracked French doors, the master chamber still waited for Adolphus and Anna to retire for the evening. The chambers had three distinct rooms. At one end was a bathroom the size of three Westcreek bathrooms, and it was here that Anna touched up her beautiful face. Beneath an oval mirror and above a cushioned stool, a hairbrush with trapped blonde locks, a small tube of toothpaste oozing dry gray cream, and a makeup case full of many shades of blush all lay on a granite counter covered in debris. Close by, a pulverized porcelain toilet, bidet, and partial tub with gold footings that still had rings of dirt around the rim filled the room. At the other end of the chamber, a first for Northern Minnesota: a walk-in closet. Though most clothes were either singed or ripped, two levels of hangers on the north showcased still-intact coats and dresses from New York, England, France, and Singapore. In the center, a four-sided hutch stored various styles of shoes. Anna would sit on a nearby flowery love seat to mix and match her favorite styles and designs.
All furnishings in the main room accented—crescendo to—the smallest bed in the mansion. Directly opposite the French doors, in front of a foggy bay window, atop a Winnie-the-Pooh rug, placed comfortably between an oak bed frame with four thick posts and an oak dresser, a wooden baby’s crib stood eerily empty. A mattress, pillow, blanket, dangling mobile with animal cutouts, and most of the crib’s ribs were either missing or broken. Proof that the small bed had been used, though, was found on the floor in the form of a thin layer of black ash. It resembled the outline of an infant reaching for its mother.
/////
Suddenly, the crib jiggled.
Hyperventilating, his knees near his throat and his shoulders and back smooshed up against the wall, Mayor Pike held onto one of the wooden legs stiffly, hoping the behavior might somehow erase any human sounds. Reaching carefully for his walkie-talkie, he clicked the side button three times.
The weather in and around the Krebs home slowly changed. The lightning intensified, surrounding clouds got redder, wind gusts became more erratic, especially on the upper level, and th
e temperature decreased.
Pike peeked under the crib, sure he had heard something. But nothing was there. Jerking his head to the left, he glanced around the dresser and into the walk-in closet, sensing that someone was watching. But again, nothing. He prayed, only his lips moving. Dear Lord, protect me from the Indian boy and his creatures. Help me get through this night. I beg of you.
Then he heard footsteps coming up one of the staircases. Creak . . . creak . . . creak . . . creak. In perfect rhythm, the steps challenged the warped wood. Once inside the French doors, the footsteps stopped. Pike closed his eyes tightly, careful not to breathe too much.
Quiet.
Then quieter.
Then still more quiet.
“The judge, jury, and executioners are all present,” a loud, firm voice finally said. “Let this court come to order.”
Steven twisted the end of his staff into the floor. Immediately Pike felt small ants crawling on his neck and into his ears. But he refused to slap, squash, or yell out.
“Someone read the charges,” Steven commanded.
A hushed voice spoke from everywhere. “Arson, assault, and murder.”
“Present the evidence.”
Directly in front of Pike, originating from several directions, wet, freezing, hot, then back to freezing air combined in such a way as to create an ice movie. Pike squirmed.
The Krebs place was the first scene. Set to fast forward and back to a time when both mansion and sawmill were in perfect working condition, the movie showed four children playing outside and little lumberjacks sawing wood. A frozen sun even shined. Later, when the children went inside and the lumberjacks left for the day, a figure wearing a round hat sneaked around the property, dropping hatchets, spears, and knives on the ground. On the north side of the mansion, a red crystal fire started, leading to mass evacuation, property destruction, and the lumberjacks returning to help. Buckets and buckets of crystal water were thrown on the fire, each failing to stop the flames.
“Who was that hiding in the shadows?” Steven asked critically. “Who left those Native relics behind? Who started the great fire and blamed that terrible day on an innocent man?”
Pike’s teeth chattered.
“Present more evidence,” the young guardian said, strolling freely within the chamber but always just outside the mayor’s view.
While the sky rumbled, several ethereal mouths sucked away the first scene and then vigorously blew to create another. Here, the movie showed a small house in Westcreek. Led by a figure smoking a cigar, an angry mob went inside and dragged a person out the front door and into a street. The person was thrown down, kicked, punched, and hit with clubs. All the while the figure smoking a cigar watched from a careful distance.
“Do you remember?” Steven questioned. “Do you remember forcing my grandfather out of town? To live alone in the woods for many, many years?”
Pike hid his face in his hands.
A final movie cued. Floating closer and closer to the mayor, the frozen mirage of images portrayed a struggle between three people: Decoreous, with his robe and staff; Sheriff Cullin, on the ground, tugging at Pike’s leg while reaching for his arm; and Pike, his hand outstretched and gripping a pistol. Closer and closer, the scene drifted toward the mayor.
Suddenly the icy scene exploded, and a gunshot echoed throughout the mansion.
The defendant jumped up. “I’m innocent!” he proclaimed, his words rapid and scared. “It was an accident! I didn’t intentionally kill your grandfather! The gun misfired!”
“There are no accidents in Westcreek,” Steven answered.
Steven turned his back and spoke to the air. “What is your verdict?”
One by one, the air at its coldest, spirits in the shape of long bubbles flew into the master chamber from downstairs, the children’s rooms, and cracks and holes in the walls, joining those already present. “Guilty . . . ,” they all proclaimed.
“The jury has spoken.”
Moving closer to Pike, Steven glared into his terrified eyes. “Mayor, I sentence you to death.”
Pike took a hesitant step forward, his voice more controlled. “Please, believe me. I didn’t mean to shoot him. I swear.”
Steven lifted his eyes to the roof. Showing no sympathy, he watched as three earies lowered a thick rope with a noose at the end through a hole. Unbeknownst to Pike, a fourth earie stood on the dresser, placing the noose skillfully around his neck. Soon, though, the twine tangles itched his skin.
“What?” Pike alarmed, grabbing at his throat. “No. You can’t do this!”
The earie on the dresser gave the thumbs-up signal to the other three, and gradually, with stomachs and cheeks inflating and ears fluttering, the executioners raised the defendant off his feet. Pike kicked and screamed until only a hoarse cough was heard.
“Never rest in peace,” Steven said.
Higher and higher Pike went, his legs thrashing.
Suddenly three gunshots rang out. Two nicked the rope while a third split it in half. The mayor fell to the floor with a thump.
Steven turned. Sheriff Cullin stood a few feet away, a gun resting in his shaking hand.
“It’s all over, son,” he said. “Step aside so I can help Rolly.”
“It’s only begun,” Steven said with both surprise and delight. “Sheriff, you, too, must face charges.”
Click, click—BOOM! The hammer of Cullin’s gun pulled back and went violently forward, his finger nowhere near the trigger.
Steven reeled. Clutching his chest, he staggered about the master chambers, eventually falling to one knee in front of the crib. The pain was sharp and radiating. The bullet pinched at his airway, and at one point the young guardian clutched the crib’s upper railing for support. He tried standing but fell; he tried a second time, to the same result.
Finally, Steven’s energy was channeled into his legs. Feeling vulnerable, angrily yanking the crib out of the way, he lunged for the bay window and crashed through the remaining glass, sending his thin, limp body two stories to the hard earth below. Behind, a deafening, cumulative earie scream resonated as his companions followed.
The spirits became confused. Flying in tighter and tighter circles, their facial expressions changed from fear to worry and back to fear. Silently they discussed where to go and what to do next.
Cullin sensed an opportunity. Running to Pike, he frantically removed the noose. “C’mon, we have to get out of here. We may not have much time.”
He pulled Pike up by his jacket, threw one of his arms over his shoulder, and stumbled toward the French doors and staircase.
Court was adjourned.
Outside the mansion, Steven crawled. Seeking the cover of nearby, low-level pine boughs, he inched his way, hand-over-hand, knee-over-knee. Blood sponged onto his already-crimson robe, and his lungs filled with fluid. Near a small cluster of rocks, before reaching the pines, he slumped forward, his face rubbing against dirt.
A pair of earie feet appeared.
Grave looked helplessly down. His forehead wrinkled, and both his lower lip and chin quivered. Rubbing Steven’s hair affectionately, he spoke with dire concern.
“Run with me, run with me,” he said. “Set you free, set you free.”
Grave offered Steven his hand. But before Steven could accept the help, Bleak floated down to Grave and slapped his hand away. Hissing followed, directed at both the human and the littlest of earies. Bleak’s mohawk rattled like a rattlesnake, his brows narrowing and his teeth clinking together. Slashing his claws across Steven’s right temple, the largest of earies grabbed Grave by the ever-more-torn ear and dragged him into the forest. Grave’s watery eyes watched until he could no longer see Steven.
From many points within the Westcreek valley, earie howling reverberated, even more than before. Each howl rose and fell in a sort of round, one creature beginning where another ended, the howls full of anxiety and despair.
Steven wheezed. Processing the events in his mind, he remembe
red something he and his grandfather had discussed during their early morning visit to the Great Rock.
Does the magic last forever? he remembered asking.
Yes, his grandfather answered. As long as one’s strength remains strong. And only—
only if emotions never collide. Otherwise . . . it fades.
Using the close pine boughs for support, Steven stood up. The pain in his chest became numbing but paled in comparison to what he felt deep in his heart. Staggering east, he sought shelter and relief.
One . . . two, three . . . four, he stepped. One . . . two, three . . . four.
/////
“Thank God you showed up when you did, Brewster,” Pike said with a gravelly voice. “I thought I was done for.”
Cullin didn’t respond. Instead, continuing to assist the mayor’s walk, he hurried their pace away from the Krebs property and to the west.
“The others are all gone,” Pike continued. “I tried helping them, but there was nothing I could do. The forest just came alive. They all must’ve died terrible deaths.”
Again, Cullin said nothing. But his face grew angrier and angrier.
“I bet the whole damn Ojibwa tribe was in on it. Couldn’t wait to take over our town. Sent that boy and his black magic to terrorize us all.”
Without warning, the sheriff shoved Pike’s body into a prickle bush. “How long have you been playing me?”
“What?” the mayor said with offense.
“How long have you been plotting? Against me? Our town? Wasin?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were the one that placed Native weapons around the Krebs place. Burned it down.”
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 20
