Demon Shadows Read online

  Highway 89 paralleled the Truckee River on its way north, passing the Olympian-ringed road to Squaw Valley. Until now he had been driving along the western shore of Lake Tahoe. The beaches along the jewel of the Sierras had been mostly empty, except for an occasional hardy local jogging alone or walking a dog. Tourists were filling up the surrounding ski areas, as well as the casinos and nightclubs on the Nevada side. Paul had almost detoured to the north shore for a couple hours of blackjack, a passion of his. But he figured there would be plenty of time to come down during his four weeks at the colony. No one was going to expect him to work all the time, seven days a week. This wasn’t the Beverly Hilton, but it wasn’t San Quentin either.

  At the old picture-postcard town of Truckee the highway briefly joined Interstate 80. Paul could have taken 80 all the way from Sacramento but had chosen the slower route through the gold country. When the four weeks were done, the interstate would hardly be fast enough to get him to the Bay Area—to Jason and Bree.

  Plenty of daylight remained when he saw the first turnoff for Stillwell, at Indian Creek Road. He had planned well, not wanting to drive unknown back roads at night. Low mounds of snow lined both sides. Although the sun had been shining brightly all day, only a few filtered rays reached the ground through the dense, overhanging branches of the surrounding pines.

  Other than a single van, the narrow road belonged to Paul for three miles. He would have missed the last turnoff had it not been for a small sign nailed to a tree. Thorburn Lake, it read, with an arrow pointing to the right. As slow as he drove, Paul went ten yards past the sign before hitting the brakes and rolling back.

  The narrow asphalt road was badly rutted. Some potholes were deep enough to cause damage for a careless driver. Paul never went faster than ten miles an hour. The road remained in disrepair for its entire length and was by far the longest two and a half miles he had ever driven.

  Finally the road, which had been climbing gradually, emerged from the trees, revealing—impressively—Thorburn Lake. He’d read it was extremely deep in places, as most high mountain lakes were, its water like blue crystal. Paul admired its majestic stillness as much as its awesome beauty. Steep bluffs comprised part of its shoreline, although most of the frontage was high alpine woods. The lake covered more than a thousand acres, with many small inlets. Paul understood how someone could become inspired there.

  The road sloped down then crossed a one-lane steel truss bridge over Aspen Creek, which flowed strongly ten feet below. Straight ahead, the town of Stillwell was nestled between pine-covered hills. Paul passed a city limits sign that had no population total on it.

  Stillwell, California, looked even smaller than Paul had imagined. Washo Street, which the road had become, ran three blocks long through downtown. But it was wider and better paved. It ended at the lakeshore.

  The information brochure was specific about dinner being served promptly at six-thirty. But that was over two hours away, and Paul was hungry. He’d had breakfast early, nothing since then. He pulled into the first angled parking slot on his right. Only two other vehicles—dusty pickup trucks—were parked on the block.

  Without the paved road and the one flashing traffic light at Alpine Street, Paul might have thought he’d stepped back a hundred years in time. Stillwell’s buildings were the once proud works of stonemasons and bricklayers. Wooden signs, weathered but readable, denoted either a historical landmark or a current enterprise: Nugget Bar; Stillwell Gazette; Keats & Morris, Civil Engineers and Surveyors; Fry Mercantile; Mule Deer Cafe. Down Placer Street two buildings were linked by an overhead conservatory. There was a whitewashed schoolhouse surrounded by a picket fence, and a boarded-up barn topped by a dovecote.

  The windows of the Mule Deer Cafe, farther up the street, were so thick with grime that Paul doubted it had been open for decades. But the smell of food had to be coming from somewhere. As he watched, the door swung open. A burly, middle-aged man stepped out into the growing cold of the day. The Mule Deer Cafe was open for business.

  Pausing near the curb, the man spat noisily into the street. He lit a cigarette, glanced sourly at Paul then started for his pickup, parked beyond the Cutlass. His gaze remained on Paul as he passed.

  “Afternoon,” Paul said.

  The man slowed and touched the brim of his Stetson. “‘Lo,” he said.

  “How’s the food at that place?”

  The man spat again. “Depends. How strong’s your stomach?”

  He climbed into the cab of his pickup and worked at turning over the engine. So, Paul thought, to heed the restaurant critic’s review, or not? He glanced at the Mule Deer Cafe and decided he wasn’t that hungry. Just a bag of chips or a Hershey bar to make it to dinner.

  Fry Mercantile looked as if it would have almost anything. The windows were not dirty. Inside, a rack crammed with bags of Laura Scudder snack foods was flanked by one containing assorted hardware items and another with household cleansers. An eclectic display.

  Paul glanced at the pickup again. The man rolled down his window, spat a final time, and backed out of the spot. He pulled away so slowly, Paul wondered if he had a problem with his truck. By the time the man reached S. Lakeshore Drive, at the end of Washo Street, Paul had already gone into the store.

  A disconcerting cowbell on the door nearly caused Paul to start a chain reaction of toppling snow shovels. These were stacked upright and rather precariously just inside. Carefully circumventing them, he went to the Laura Scudder rack and unclipped a bag of corn chips. That and a candy bar, he decided, should be enough.

  Candy was often found near the checkout counter. He didn’t see any, but he did notice the woman working there—about twenty-five, of medium height, thin. Blond hair hung limply to her shoulders. She looked pale; a faded yellow blouse and no makeup enhanced this anemic image. Her expression remained blank as she watched Paul approach. She had green eyes, he noticed, and he was thankful she had done nothing to diminish their appeal.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Is there something I can help you find?” she asked in a low, dull voice.

  “Yes, where are you hiding the candy?”

  “Hiding? I’m not hiding anything. Oh, candy!” This was louder, with feeling. “A heart-shaped box of candy for a lady. And some flowers too. How romantic!”

  She closed her eyes and for a moment went somewhere else. Strange, Paul thought. Still, he felt guilty about intruding on her journey.

  “I was just looking for a candy bar,” he said.

  She returned from the other world, raised a limp finger. “Two aisles over, halfway down on the left.”

  As he followed her directions, he realized that she walked a step behind him. Too close, it seemed. He would have passed the display had she not pointed frantically.

  “There!” she exclaimed. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He grabbed a milk chocolate Big Block, no nuts. “How much do I owe you?”

  “My name’s Jenny Fry,” she said, holding out a hand.

  Paul shook it, surprised by her firm grip. “Nice to meet you. I’m Paul Fleming.”

  She nodded vaguely. “Paul Fleming. We have some of your books for sale on the rack over there. I read one of them. It was about the Third World plan to kidnap both first ladies at the superpower summit conference. Found the plot implausible, but was impressed with the depth of characterization, especially the non-condescending strength and intensity of the female lead. You’re staying at the colony, of course.”

  Paul was speechless. He didn’t know what to make of Jenny Fry. In the front of the store the clanging of the bell heralded another customer. Jenny continued to stare at him.

  “Uh, no…yes, I will be,” he finally responded. “I just got to town.” He grabbed two more Big Blocks.

  “A dollar-fifteen,” Jenny said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was going to tell you that the chips and candy are a dollar-fifteen. But now you’ve taken more.” S
he seemed flustered. “Give me a minute.”

  “Look, here’s three dollars,” he said. “That should cover it.”

  “No, no,” she replied, taking the bills. “It’s only two-something, I know—Walter? Oh Walter, come and meet Paul Fleming.”

  She addressed a small, jaunty man of about sixty, wrapped—almost comically—in an oversized tweed coat. Waving to Jenny, he smiled at Paul and stuck his hand out.

  “I thought it might be you when I saw that Olds outside,” he said. “Only vehicle in town I wouldn’t have recognized. I’m Walter McClain.”

  Paul shook his hand. “You wrote the letter that came with the brochure. Then you’re the director of the Thorburn colony?”

  “Associate director,” McClain said. “Been that for thirty years. Harriet Thorburn’s the director. She’s run the colony for almost half a century now.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “Well past eighty, Harriet is,” McClain continued. “You’ll see her every night at dinner. Not so much at breakfast anymore. Sleeps later these days. Still does some writing, like all her family. She’s John Thorburn’s great-great-granddaughter.”

  “Two dollars and twenty-five cents!” Jenny exclaimed. “Wait here, I’ll bring you the change.”

  She hurried off to the counter. Paul shrugged as he watched her go, then immediately regretted doing it. Walter McClain smiled.

  “Our Jenny is a…unique girl,” he said. “Been burdened with some pretty sickly parents for a long time. Mother died a year ago, the father’s still hanging on. Would you believe she’s only been away from Stillwell three or four times in her life?”

  Paul believed it and didn’t respond. Jenny Fry returned and handed him six dimes. He pocketed the coins, saying nothing about the discrepancy.

  “I’ll see you again, Paul,” she said. “Come by sometime and well talk about books. I read a lot. Anyone can tell you where the Frys live. Walter, was there something you wanted?”

  McClain held up a box of finishing nails. “Already got it. Put it on the tab, Jen, okay? Good girl.”

  The two men went outside. McClain’s Bronco stood alongside the Cutlass. More cars than before were parked on Washo Street; a line of three others caravanned up from the lake.

  “This is Stillwell’s rush hour,” McClain said, laughing. “The official day at the colony ends at four. Dinner’s not till six-thirty. Some of the residents come into town for one thing or another, mostly . . .”

  He pointed across the street half a block down, where five vehicles were parked tightly in front of the Nugget Bar. A Coors sign crackled on and off in the window to the left of the saloon’s double doors.

  “The favorite watering hole,” Paul said.

  “The only one,” McClain replied. “Listen, I would’ve been giving you the grand tour when we got to the colony anyway. Why don’t I ride up with you and start now? I’ll get a lift back to town later.”

  “Sure, fine.”

  Directly across the street, a vintage Volkswagen was parked in front of the Mountain Apothecary Shoppe. The bug had once been painted a bright purple, probably a ninety-nine-dollar special. Now the color had faded, peeled in places, with rust spots that had spread over larger areas. The tires were mismatched and needed aligning. Lambskin seat covers—or imitations—hid what likely was a devastated interior.

  The owner of this vehicle emerged from the drugstore. Bright costume jewelry, excessive makeup, and blond-red hair cut in a short punkish style made her look like a rock band groupie. Contrasting her car, she wore an expensive-looking fur coat that swept around her ankles. She tossed a small bag on the front passenger seat, slammed the door in apparent disgust, and started across Washo Street. The heels of her white fringed boots clicked loudly on the asphalt. As she neared, Paul upped his estimate of her age from twenty to thirty.

  “Believe it or not,” Walter McClain muttered, “that is one of the most talented sculptors to do residency at Thorburn in years.”

  Before Paul could respond, the woman hopped the curb and faced them. “Hi, who’re you?” she said bluntly to Paul.

  “This is Paul Fleming,” McClain interjected, which annoyed Paul. “I mentioned him at dinner last night. Paul, meet Sherri Jordan.”

  “Hello,” he said. “That’s a great coat.”

  She nodded. “You didn’t bring any rubbers, did you?”

  McClain groaned. “Jesus.”

  “What?” Paul asked.

  “Rubbers. Condoms, for shit’s sake!” She shrugged, holding up her hands. “This town! That drugstore’s been out of ‘em for a week. The biddy in there keeps saying, ‘They’re due in, they’re due in!’ Doesn’t even like to talk about ‘em. You got any, Paul?”

  He smiled. “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “My luck.” She glanced at Fry Mercantile. “Maybe I’ll check with the space cadet in there. Might have some hidden behind other stuff she forgot about ten years ago. See you at dinner.”

  She hurried off before Paul could respond. He grinned as he tried to imagine the conversation between Sherri and Jenny Fry. Seeing Walter McClain’s exasperated look, he shielded his amusement.

  “I suppose some people would find Ms. Jordan delightful,” McClain said, shaking his head. “Speaking for the staff, I’m glad she’s leaving us the day after next. Shall we go?”

  With his passenger still grumbling about the eccentricities of Sherri Jordan, Paul drove to the end of Washo Street. A weathered sign on a telephone pole read Colony, and under it, Thorburn Lake Marina, with arrows pointing in appropriate directions. He turned left onto S. Lakeshore Drive, and within a hundred yards the road was rutted again. There seemed to be more patches of snow.

  “How far is it to the colony?” Paul asked, aware that he was interrupting Walter McClain’s muttered complaints about Sherri Jordan.

  “About a mile-and-a-half, on the west end of the lake. See where the trees are dense?”

  “Where they come down to the water?”

  McClain smiled. “That’s an illusion, but they’re not too far from the edge. Most of the grounds, and all the facilities, are within that forest. By the way, I’d like to formally welcome you here. I don’t think I’ve done that yet.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I know some things about you. Had a couple of nice chats with your agent, Mr.—Parks?”

  “Gary Marks. What did he tell you?”

  “That you were having some…ah, trouble, that a change of scenery might do you good. That’s what Thorburn is for, Paul. Creative people like yourself are often victimized by the constraints of everyday life. Here, the artist has only one thing to do: work. The outside world doesn’t exist, especially from eight to four. We provide this wonderful setting; we feed you, give you a workplace, and take care of it. We make certain that nothing interrupts you. There’s no television in your room, and no phone.”

  Paul smiled at McClain’s words. The man had either written the information brochure or read it a few times too many.

  “Mr. Marks probably told you,” McClain continued, “that there’s a nominal fee for your stay at Thorburn, because of who you are. You’re a rarity, actually. Most of our residents haven’t had their first big breakthrough yet. For them there’s no fee at all. There’s even some grant money available. That is often the only way they would be able to break away from their mundane but necessary jobs for a month and not have to worry about surviving. We nurture their talents by providing them this freedom. And it works, Paul, it really does! Successful careers might never have been started had it not been for a residency at Thorburn!”

  Paul felt the man’s enthusiasm. “But why do you do it? I mean, how is something like this supported?”

  “Look out, there’s a nasty one!” McClain warned, indicating a pothole. “To answer your question, we do it because it’s what John Thorburn wanted. The colony, and all that it has done to encourage creative ability, is his legacy.”

  “I’ve heard of John Thorburn the wri
ter,” Paul said, “but what was the whole story on him?”

  McClain glanced at him admonishingly. “You didn’t read the biography in the brochure?”

  Paul kept his eyes straight ahead. “I…guess I missed that part.”

  “John Thorburn was a great man,” McClain said, reciting obviously familiar words. “He lived most of his life in Philadelphia, where he had a lucrative career as a merchant and investor. He did some writing then, but nothing of note.

  “In 1845, deciding he had done all there was to do back home, he and his family headed west. Trails of Promise—The Way to California, his diary of that journey, is one of the finest works on the subject.”

  “I remember reading some of it back in college.”

  “For a number of reasons,” McClain continued, “they were delayed in reaching the Sierras. By the time they got here, late in the fall, the snows had started. The pass was blocked. They were forced to stay and build shelters to try to survive the winter. Many of them didn’t.”

  “That sounds like the Donner party.”

  “The Donner incident happened a year later, down by Truckee. It became more…notorious, not just because of the courage of the people, but because some of them ate their dead. Also, the Thorburn party was half the size of the Donner train.”

  “How did the survivors make it?” Paul asked.

  “In December John Thorburn sent a couple of able-bodied men out to find a way through the pass and down to Sutter’s fort. One died in the mountains. The other made it. He was a sixteen-year-old boy, Georgie McClain.”

  “McClain?”

  The man nodded. “My great-great-uncle. They found him, nearly dead, in the foothills. He told his rescuers about those still trapped up at the lake. Eventually he was taken to Sutter’s, but they couldn’t save him.

  “Sutter sent a rescue party, but a blizzard drove them back. Another group tried a week later; same result. Then, in January, some mountain men were able to make it through. At Thorburn Lake they found sixteen graves—that’s the cemetery there, by the hill—but many people still alive. Seems that an Indian had shown up a couple of days earlier. He brought them food and blankets. If not for him there’s no telling how many more bodies the rescuers might have found.