by John Dunning
11
THE CABIN HAD EVERYTHING but running water. Somewhere, I reasoned, there was a generator that would start the pump working, but I had no intention of looking for it. There were two Coleman lamps, which threw all the light we needed, and a stove that operated on gas. That was enough for me. The gas bottle was either empty or turned off, but that didn’t matter, because we didn’t have anything to cook anyway. There was a wide double bunk, a couple of rollaways, and an old sofa that probably made into a bed. A bathroom opened from the one large room. Later I could melt some snow and bring in a bucket of water, so we could at least flush the commode. We would be here awhile.
Already Jill had collapsed into the bottom half of the double bunk. She lay absolutely still, and just when I thought she had either passed out or was asleep, the lamplight flashed in her open eyes and she raised her arm to her head. I went to the back door and looked out. There was a woodpile, small but sufficient if we used it carefully. It was covered and most of the wood was old and dry; it had been here since last year, I guessed, and it would burn well. I took several small sticks and a few logs into the cabin and knelt over the fireplace to light them. Jill sat up as the flames began to warm us. “Lovely,” she said.
I nodded. “This cabin is better than the Hilton Hotel.”
“We should pay the owners for the broken window at least.” She came close to the fire and knelt beside me, warming her hands. “Are your clothes wet?”
“Probably. I’m so frozen it’s hard to tell. My ears are really bad.”
She was taking off her coat and feeling the sweatshirt beneath it. “Soaked through,” she said. “God, listen to that wind.”
“I can see why people get lost up here.”
“We were lucky. What on earth made you climb so far?”
“Just got carried away, I guess. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.” Jill pulled off her sweatshirt. Under it she wore a flannel shirt, which almost came up with the sweatshirt. It stopped just short of her breasts, then flopped down over her stomach. She felt the arms and body of the shirt. “It’s pretty damp, but maybe it’ll be okay if I stay near the fire for a bit. How about you?”
I hadn’t even started yet. “I’m still in shock,” I said. I did take off my coat then and moved closer to the fire. I had worn only two layers of clothing, and my shirt was very damp and cold.
“Did you bring any extra clothes in your pack?”
“Just a couple of T-shirts and shorts. How about you?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t plan on spending the week. Maybe you better get out those T-shirts and we’ll put them on. It’s probably best to have something dry next to the skin, don’t you think?”
I did not think anything. I opened the backpack and took out the T-shirts, revealing the unopened bottle of bourbon beneath them. I passed one of the shirts to her and played perfect gentleman while she stood, turned away from me, stripped to the waist, and pulled the T-shirt over her head. My eyes never left the fire, but I sensed every movement. When she turned, so did I, and my eyes moved quickly up her body and met hers. She was smiling with her eyes, that alluring, concealing way she had. I saw at once, and so did she, that the shirt was almost twice her size, and she crossed her arms in front of her breasts as she came close to the fire.
“You’d better get yours on too,” she said.
Mine fit snugly. Jill hung our clothes over chairs near the fireplace. She took a blanket from the bunk and wrapped it around my shoulders, then got the other one for herself. The blankets were very heavy and warm. For a long time we sat like that, without saying anything. Then she said, “Did I see a bottle of something in your backpack?”
“You might have. I packed it for emergencies.”
“Wouldn’t you call this an emergency?”
“I would.” I threw off the blanket and rummaged in the cupboard until I found two glasses. “Water?”
“I guess I better. Scoop up half a glass of snow; that’ll be fine for me when it melts.”
The melted snow made less than a quarter of a glass of water. I poured her a stiff one and made mine even stiffer.
“How long since you’ve eaten anything?” she asked.
“I haven’t even thought of food. I don’t know when it was—last night’s dinner, I guess.”
I saw her point. Obviously she had not eaten during the day; the liquor would affect us both quickly. I savored mine; she finished hers first. She declined my offer of another, but when I had one she had one with me. We began to loosen up and both of us knew it and neither of us cared. She was taking her drink slowly now; I sipped mine steadily. We were feeling good.
“I don’t even care any more,” she said. “I am hungry, though.”
“I wish I had something to give you.”
She smiled and touched my cheek. “It’s all right.”
I poured her another half shot. The stinging taste of the first drink had long since worn away and the liquor was smooth and mellow. Jill was a little dizzy and clearly enjoying it. She laughed easily and her laugh was deep and sensuous. We began to talk about ourselves, but I tired of that because I could never be sure that what she was saying was the truth, and here, tonight, I didn’t even want to think about that part of it. I listened, but when she asked about me I begged off until a time when I was more sober.
“You’re too cautious when you’re sober,” she said.
“Yeah, well, so are you.”
“I know it. I wish I could do something about that. I inhibit men. I really do, really; I always have. Men won’t even tell a dirty story when I’m around.”
I looked at her. “I would.”
“Go ahead and tell one, then.”
“What for?”
“Just for the hell of it. You tell one then I’ll tell one. Then you tell another one and I’ll tell another one. You ever played that game before?”
“What game?”
“It’s called gross. The jokes get worse and worse and you see who grosses who out first.”
I laughed. “You’re high.”
“I think I’m a little more than that.”
I poured each of us a small, final shot and put the cork back in the bottle. We played her game for a time, but in the end she was right: She did inhibit me. The jokes got gross to a point, and did not cross that point. My grand finale was a five-line limerick that I remembered from my college days:
A disgusting young man named McGill
Made his neighbors exceedingly ill
When they learned of his habits
Involving white rabbits
And a bird with a flexible bill.
She threw back her head and her rich laughter filled the room. Her head hit the floor and she was sprawled helplessly, laughing like that, for almost a minute. The shirt was up to her ribs, and it was the simplest, most natural thing at that point to reach over and touch the firm flesh around her navel. I did, and her laughter stopped at once. She looked up at me and her eyes were wet and unclear. She was not focusing well; she was not handling it at all. She covered my hand with hers, and I knew then that it would be all right, that there would be no problem unless one of us passed out. She tried to rise, but it was too much effort; she sank back and her head hit the floor with another dull thump. She giggled and I rolled my blanket and made a pillow for her head. She liked that; I liked her liking it. My hand touched her breast softly and she said, “Do you know the one about the man from Nantucket?”
“Yes, I know that one.”
“Tell it.”
“Not tonight.”
“I’ll tell it, then, except I can’t remember the words. … There was a young man from Nantucket, something something, whose…”
“Hush.”
“I told you I intimidated men.” She rose and kissed my hand through her shirt. “This must be the new Parker Brothers’ game.”
I smiled. “It’s called fondle.”
I tried to carry her to the bed, but the John Wayne bit didn�
��t become me. I slipped, dropped her, and knew that I wasn’t in any better shape than she was. We each made it under our own power. A fitting end for my most strenuous day in years.
Sometime during the night my eyes fluttered open and I was wide awake. Jill stirred, and I felt her warm flesh next to mine and her head under my chin. She was breathing deeply. Across the room one of the Coleman lamps was still burning; it cast a semiglow over our bed. I shifted my body, and my hand dropped, only partly by chance, into her bare lap. I moved my fingers softly but she did not stir again. But before I could begin to think about it my attention was drawn outside by something else. What else? I don’t know. I listened for a long time and the sound, if in fact it had been a sound, did not come again. All I heard was the wind and the unbroken rhythm of Jill’s deep breathing. I decided to look around, though I truly hated to pry myself away from her. She rolled over and mumbled, “Where are you going?” as I got up, but I didn’t say anything and she was asleep again at once. I poked the fire and added more wood and watched the flames lick at it, aware of a dull pain—the early effect of a hangover—behind my eyes. Then I moved to the opposite end of the cabin and put out the lamp.
With sudden darkness inside, I saw a light outside. I moved around the table and chairs for a closer look through the front window, but it was gone. I watched for perhaps fifteen minutes, but it never did come back. I went to the fireplace and felt my clothes; they were still damp. I dressed anyway, pulled on my boots, and went outside. The storm was as bad as ever; I moved a few steps away from the cabin and the snow swirled around my head. My visibility was limited to about thirty yards, though occasionally the snow flurries died away for a few seconds, allowing a good view of the dead buildings below. It was during one of those lulls that I saw it again, a quick flash of light somewhere up the mountain on the other side of town. Just a flashlight, perhaps, but who would be there in a snowstorm at this time of night? I half closed my eyes and peered into the misty gloom, and as it swirled past I saw a very faint glow directly across from me. The glow of a campfire? The mist covered it again, and for a time I considered crossing the valley to check it out. All things considered, that would be a damn fool idea, so I shelved it. But I wasn’t satisfied.
Much later I went inside and undressed. I warmed myself by the fire before crawling in beside Jill, and she snuggled against me, sharing her warmth. But it was a long time before I could doze off, and I woke several times before falling into a heavy sleep just before dawn.
When I woke again Jill was gone. I heard the sounds of water splashing in the bathroom sink, and near the door I saw the dripping bucket she had used to carry it in. I lay still, and soon the bathroom door opened and she came out. She walked naked past the bed and turned away from me as she bent over and felt her clothes. Satisfied, she began to dress. I wanted to reach out to her, but some instinct stopped me. Instead I lay quiet and still while she dressed and went outside. When she was gone several minutes I got up. My muscles were sore, my head throbbed, and even dressing was a pain. I pulled on my boots, opened the door a crack, and peeped out. The sun was just breaking over the mountaintops and the fight was harsh. It actually hurt. Everything hurt. I closed the door for a minute and went around the cabin, looking out of windows. I couldn’t see anything, so I went outside.
During the night the snow had drifted high against the cabin, but now it had stopped and the sun was breaking through. There was still a slight wind and the morning was cold. I pushed through the snow to the rim and looked down at the town. Jill was directly below me, unloading equipment from her jeep. She took out her cameras and a large leather bag, then hiked up to the bluff where I had first seen her yesterday. And she began shooting pictures. I watched her for a few minutes, then stumbled back to the cabin and lay on the bed. My hangover was reaching its peak and I certainly did not feel like solving any mysteries. But the thoughts persisted. Maybe I was wrong; maybe there was a MacDougald and Barnes somewhere in New York. I very much wanted there to be, and that opened a whole new bag of problems. I knew then that I was letting her get too close to me; that couldn’t happen until I knew what she really was. But it was happening, and there might not be anything, at this point, that I could do about it
I fell asleep, still in my wet clothes, and I slept until I heard a thump outside. She kicked the snow off her boots and came in, whipping off her knitted hat and her coat in what seemed like one motion. “Get up, sleepyhead,” she shouted, throwing open the window.
I dragged myself into a sitting position. “Holy Christ, what time is it?”
“Nine o’clock; time to be moving on. I am so hungry I don’t think I can stand it another minute.”
“Where do you get all your energy? Don’t you even have a hangover?”
“I don’t have hangovers. Ever. Hey, come on, get up and let’s get back to town.”
“Oh, listen, I’m not even alive yet.”
“Come on, you’ve already got your clothes on. We can be back in one hour. You can have some aspirin or bicarb and I’ll have some ham and eggs. That’s all I need right now.”
There was a pause while she regarded me and I gathered my wits. “Sleep well?” I asked.
She smiled. “Extremely.”
We put the cabin in order, locked up, and climbed down the slope to the jeep. But leaving was another matter. For me it wasn’t yet finished. Again I felt that magnetic pull, back to the cave, and I knew that once more I would have to play it out. A final try, and even I could not ask any more of myself than that. Nothing about it would be easy; I too was hungry and the temptation to drive away with her and forget it was strong. I knew too that she would argue with me, as she did.
“You must be crazy,” she said; “the lack of food has affected your brain. Maybe it was the alcohol…or something else?”
“The combination of the three.”
She was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“My legs are cramping up,” I told her. “If I don’t walk the crinks out I’ll probably be miserable all day.”
“Well, I’m leaving; you do what you want to do. You know the way down.”
She got into the jeep, started the motor, and gave me one last chance three more times. Finally convinced, she started down the road, pushing snow out of her way as she went. At the bottom of a short ravine she paused and blew the horn, but I did not respond and she moved ahead toward the bottom. I watched her until she was out of sight. The jeep handled the snowdrifts well, and far below, near the long strip of timber, the snow had already melted off and the road was clear. I climbed along the mountain opposite the cabin to a point almost directly in line with my lookout point in the early morning. I moved along in a straight line until I came to a half-concealed mine opening. It was the first one I had seen up close, and just what I expected: a black hole bolstered by roof and wall timbers. The hole became blacker as it went deeper, and I had no intention of going in. But just inside the mouth I saw a sign of human activity; it lured me in just enough for a closer examination. Yes, there were footprints, one clear set made by a man’s shoes, and a concave place in the soft earth where, apparently, he had been sitting for a long time. At the mouth of the mine I saw the ashes of a fire burned so completely that I had walked through them without noticing. I held my hand to them and felt faint warmth. I guessed that they were between five and six hours old.
So someone had been here. But where was he now? I peered deeper into the mine and saw only a number of rocks and the rusted remains of a rail where miners had once driven ore-filled carts. There were no footprints leading any deeper than the makeshift camp. The place gave me a chill and I got out of there. I stood on the hill below the mine and watched the cabin, with no question in my mind that he had been able to see me much better than I had seen him. I felt watched even now. My eyes scanned the slopes around me, trying to pick out any movement; there was none. Quickly I moved down the mountain, and almost blundered into one of those deep shafts.
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p; It was completely concealed by snow, underbrush, and rotted timbers. The first warning came when I stepped on a snow-covered timber and felt it give under my weight. I jumped back in panic, and my buttocks hit a slimy mixture of snow and mud and loose rock just as the earth seemed to open around me. I was sucked toward it; only by twisting around on my stomach and gripping a clump of underbrush close down, near the roots, was I able to save myself. All of the timbers and snow slipped into the hole, leaving my kicking feet dangling over the edge.
That left me emotionally drained. I pulled myself clear and got down the mountain, though later I never could remember how. When I opened my eyes I was sitting in the stone building, with “Jake Walters” cut into the wall just above my head. I was breathing hard, trying to force thoughts of gaping black holes out of my mind. But the gloom of the stone building only encouraged those thoughts, and that forced me again into the sunlight. I began to climb the north face, taking care to stay on the path, and soon I was on the stone-lined walk high above the town. The cold air helped clear my mind. Dwelling on near-escapes and men who watched me in the night would only stop me from doing what I had to do. It was a much longer climb than I remembered; even the trek to the Mission rocks seemed to take forever. Afterward there was still a healthy piece of ground to be covered. But I climbed steadily to the cave, stopping to rest only as I neared the canyon of the rushing stream. I waited there a long time while my eyes scanned the trail behind me. Nothing moved anywhere; even the wind was gone now and the mountains looked like a fine still photograph. The hell with it. I moved boldly into the canyon; if anyone wanted to follow me there he damn well would anyway. The water covering the canyon floor seemed colder today, but I splashed through it and moved straight up to the cave.
I took Jill’s flashlight from my backpack and played it along the walls, crawling through to the big room. I went through the same motions as yesterday, feeling around the circumference of the chamber without finding any crack that might go deeper into the rock. The room was almost a perfect cylindrical chamber; the walls had been worn smooth, perhaps by some ancient water flow, and there was no indication that there had ever been more to it than this. But it followed that if flowing water had formed this cave there had to be someplace for the water to flow from. I moved the light beam across the ceiling. It was, I judged, thirty feet above the floor, and again there seemed to be no imperfections. Near an edge I saw it: a flat-looking rock jutting out from the wall. The rock was so close to the roof that it blended with the ceiling and seemed to be part of it. I took my rope from the backpack, tried to make a lariat, played out a long loop, and threw it up toward the rock. The rope collapsed inward and fell around my head. I tried again, with the same result. I tried perhaps fifty times and never came closer than that first time.
