Demon Shadows Read online

  “So after Thorburn and his people were taken off the mountain, some of them came back here and settled.”

  Walter McClain turned and stared at the road. He was silent for a moment, then said, “It took a while, but all the survivors from that terrible winter returned to the lake.”

  Paul glanced at him. “All of them?”

  McClain nodded. “Every one.”

  “Why? What was it that brought them back?”

  McClain shrugged. “No one really knows for sure. With all the writing he did afterward, John Thorburn hardly mentioned returning to the mountains. Different stories were handed down, of course. But I have my own theory.”

  “What’s that?”

  “First of all, you should understand something about the survivors. The Stillwell brothers and their families had been poor dirt farmers. Same with the Hardmans. Jordy Fry was a peddler, Noah Tyler a teamster and his wife a cook, both in Thorburn’s employ. Patrick McClain was a rancher. He started out the journey better off than the others but lost all his cattle and had his cash box stolen. Aside from John Thorburn, these were not people of means.

  “What I think happened, Paul, is that while they were stranded at the lake, they found gold in these creeks. Maybe just traces, but enough to tell them it was here. Remember, this was 1846. Just two years later Marshall’s discovery would bring half the damn world to California. The Stillwells were back that summer; then the Tylers. Before the first snow they were all here, except John Thorburn. I believe it was gold that brought them back. Not the mother lode, nothing big, but more than any of them had ever seen before.”

  “It makes sense,” Paul said. “But if they found gold and had money for a new start in California, why stay here?”

  McClain pointed ahead. “Take the right there. That’s the colony road.”

  Paul turned, and they were immediately engulfed by lodgepole pines. The Cutlass bounced over the rutted path; Paul slowed even more.

  “As far as why they stayed,” McClain continued, “that might’ve been John Thorburn’s doing. He showed up in the spring of 1847. Stillwell wasn’t much more than the homes the families lived in. Good homes, though, since they’d already spent a comfortable winter in them. Learned their lesson the hard way. He told the others that for the past year he’d been sending word back east about this particular route across the Sierras to California. It hadn’t been used much till then. The Thorburn party had tried it on the advice of a mountain man at Fort Bridger. It was a good, time-saving route. Thorburn believed it would become important.

  “He was a prophet, as well as a good businessman. Later that summer wagon trains began heading for Thorburn Pass through Stillwell on their way to California. They found a place where they could buy food, drink, lodgings, anything they needed. All of the original settlers prospered, especially when the gold seekers came.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain why Thorburn returned,” Paul said. “He didn’t need the money.”

  “Maybe it was the challenge of making a place as isolated as this significant,” McClain replied. “That might have brought him back. Or maybe it was because this civilized man hated civilization. On the other hand he loved the Sierras, like John Muir—whom he once entertained. He built Big House and lived in it till the day he died. Had guests all the time, mostly artists and writers, whose company he enjoyed. It was toward the end that he came up with the idea for the colony. Left a huge endowment to make sure it was carried out. John Thorburn belonged here, and he accomplished exactly what he wanted.”

  Paul nodded. “I’ll say.”

  “Over there, Paul, that’s Big House!”

  The day had turned grayer. Paul could barely make out the main building through the trees, a quarter-mile away. A ten-foot-high wrought-iron fence on three sides enclosed the colony grounds. Thorburn Lake’s rugged western shore was the other boundary. The dirt road passed through a wide gate.

  “I’ve rambled on, haven’t I?” McClain asked. “Didn’t mean to bore you.”

  “You didn’t. It’s an interesting story.”

  “About the colony: we have fifteen rooms in Big House that are used by residents, and twenty guest cabins. You’ll be staying in one of the cabins. A real nice location; sits on a creek. It’s warm, comfortable, plenty of hot water. The bed is soft. There’s a desk also. Not much else. I can get you a typewriter.”

  “Thanks. I brought my own.”

  “Any other supplies you need—typing paper, pencils, things like that—are available to you. As far as the rules for artists-in-residence at the Thorburn colony…”

  Walter McClain was a storeroom of information, Paul thought, but his administrator’s way of speaking grated on his nerves. Paul endured it as he continued to concentrate on the road, which had become smoother.

  “Breakfast is available until seven forty-five,” McClain went on. “After that you’re out of luck, unless you’ve made friends with our chef or have change for the vending machines. The formal work day begins at eight and ends at four. Our non-fraternization rule is strictly enforced during these hours. No one, not staff, not other residents, disturbs you, or vice versa. You understand that, Paul?”

  “What if I get a phone call, from my agent or someone?”

  “Unless it’s an emergency, a message will be taken. If it’s in the morning it will be brought to you with lunch, which is left by your door at noon. Otherwise, messages will be in your mail slot in the day room.

  “As I think I mentioned before, dinner is at six-thirty. Harriet Thorburn wants everyone to be prompt. After dinner your time is your own. There are things to do in Big House. And there always seems to be an informal party in progress. Of course, you may want to get back to whatever it is you’re working on…”

  Paul tuned out Walter McClain’s voice as they approached Big House. The trees thinned as the road first dipped, then curved and topped a rise to some open acreage, where John Thorburn’s magnificent home stood.

  “Good Lord,” Paul exclaimed.

  John Thorburn had seen the Greek Revival style that dominated architecture in the East during the early nineteenth century. Big House—an appropriate name—reflected his fondness for that style. The perfectly symmetrical mansion, three stories tall, was fabricated primarily of burned brick and redwood. Twin stone chimneys rose above either end of the gambrel roof. The impressive centerpiece of Big House was a gleaming portico that rose the full three stories on six Doric columns. Beneath the portico, a massive oak double door stood flanked by carved wooden friezes, the relief figures representing pioneer families, gold prospectors, and the animals and conveyances that brought them west.

  A broad lawn fronted the entire width of Big House, eventually sloping down to Thorburn Lake. During other months of the year Paul guessed that they kept it well manicured and brilliantly green. Now the earth was frozen, the lawn brown and dusted with snow. A circular gravel driveway curved around two towering, denuded oaks. No vehicles were parked anywhere along the drive.

  The road had become the driveway without offering an option. Stones crunched under the tires, although the way was better than before. Hardly able to take his eyes off Big House, Paul drove to within thirty yards of the portico. Only then did he become aware of Walter McClain’s excited voice.

  “Here, Paul, stop here!” the man exclaimed. “Back up a little. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “What is it?”

  McClain pointed to another gravel path on the right, running along the side of the building. “Turn here,” he said. “The main parking area is in back. Actually, it’s the only parking area. There are footpaths to all the cabins.”

  Paul guided the Cutlass off the circular driveway. “You mean I walk between Big House and the cabin?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Even in the snow?”

  “The footpaths are kept fairly clean most of the time.” McClain laughed. “Don’t worry, Paul, you won’t be stranded out there.”

  “Tha
t’s good to know,” he said dryly.

  Behind the mansion—strategically concealed from view in front—stood six wood and stone outbuildings, among them a smokehouse and a stable. Some looked old enough to have been erected prior to Big House itself. Between them and the rear of the mansion was the parking area, a broad asphalt rectangle, cracked in many places. Once there had been lines painted, but they had long since faded away. The area offered plenty of room for vehicles, however, regardless of how their owners chose to park them. More than twenty were scattered about, some covered by tarpaulins, most near a back entrance to Big House. That made sense to Paul, who eased the Cutlass between a Hyundai and a covered sports car shaped like a Karmann Ghia.

  “Are we going right to the cabin?” he asked McClain.

  “Not yet. Well stop back for your things. Let’s go inside first and sign you in.”

  The service entrance opened into a long narrow corridor, which led past the kitchen. The aromas were good, reminding Paul of how hungry he was. The snacks he had bought at Fry Mercantile remained in the car. With McClain in tow he had not eaten any. Nor would he now, dinner being so close. The hallway took a turn and passed between rows of coat racks before ending at a wide door. McClain reached for the knob, paused for dramatic effect then opened it with a flourish, like pulling a drape to reveal a masterpiece.

  “Welcome to Big House,” he said, ushering Paul through.

  They were inside an octagonal-shaped main central hall. From this side the door was framed with bottle-glass panels. The oiled hardwood floor gleamed. A magnificent crystal chandelier, hanging halfway from the beamed twenty-foot ceiling, lit the hall brightly.

  There were a few freestanding columns topped by classic sculptures, and artwork in ornate frames hung on velvet-covered walls. The centerpiece: a huge portrait of a wagon train struggling along through an unrelenting assault of snow, people buried up to their waists, horses lying on their sides, defeated. The faces of the pioneers had not merely been painted, but imbued with anguish, as if the artist had known firsthand what they experienced. A single unmarked headstone rose from the snow in the foreground. Even from the distance at which Paul viewed the work, he found it unnerving, yet fascinating.

  McClain guided him to a door near the foot of a graceful, carpeted colonial stairway that led to the upper floors of Big House. Paul continued to be mesmerized by the painting. Passing closely, he noticed a signature in the lower right corner. The letters were wavy, but easy to read: n. thorburn.

  “It was done by John Thorburn’s wife, Nancy,” McClain said, seeing Paul’s interest.

  “Incredible. I’d like to see more of her work.”

  “Most of Nancy Thorburn’s early work was lost on the trail. And after this, she never did another one.”

  The colony’s associate director started off briskly. Stunned, Paul glanced at the painting a final time and followed. McClain gestured up the stairway.

  “This is used by Harriet Thorburn and some of the staff. That’s all. You’re not staying in Big House, but should you have reason to visit another guest you’ll use the stairwell in back. I’ll show you where it is.”

  Next came the day room. McClain called it that, but it was a misnomer, since for the most part it stood empty during the formal work hours. The comfortable room had mortared stone walls and a thick brown shag carpet. A fire crackled in a large brick fireplace, the mantel of which was lined with bronze western statues. There was an antique billiards table near the door, a newer pool table toward the opposite wall. Two men who Paul assumed were residents sat on a sofa, one of a few overstuffed pieces of furniture, watching a newscast on a big-screen television. Each held a drink; a mahogany wet bar stood against the same wall as the TV. Newspapers and magazines lay scattered on coffee tables.

  “It gets quite…ah, energetic in here after dinner,” McClain said, smiling. He looked at his watch. “Speaking of dinner, we’d better get you settled before then. We’ll go through the library; there’s another way out. You can see the rest later.”

  The message slots, like those seen behind almost any hotel front desk, were near the door. A map of the colony grounds hung on the wall next to them. McClain pointed to one slot, which already had Paul’s name on label tape. He also indicated a thick, leather-bound book, the only item on a narrow wooden stand.

  “Our guest register,” he said, handing Paul a pen. “Please sign.”

  The book, quite old, had pages like parchment. Paul wondered what names from the past it contained. He signed where McClain indicated.

  “Congratulations, Paul,” the associate director said, “you’re officially a resident of the Thorburn colony for the next four weeks!”

  He led Paul across the main hall again, to the library. Largest private collection west of the Rockies, the brochure had said. Paul believed it. The number of volumes was staggering.

  “There isn’t much you won’t find here,” McClain said with pride. “And there are more in some smaller rooms. Magazines and newspapers are on microfiche. Jane Tyler’s our chief librarian, and she has an assistant.”

  A lone resident, deeply involved in her work well past the four o’clock hour, sat at one end of a long table with a pile of books. She never looked up as the men passed. They exited in back through a plain-looking door, which Paul mistakenly thought led into a closet.

  Once again they walked down a long corridor, which looked the same as the first, although Paul believed they hadn’t come this way before. He knew one thing: given the opportunity, he could become hopelessly lost in Big House.

  “Here’s the stairwell I mentioned,” McClain said, indicating a door on the right. “It goes up to the residents’ rooms, which are on the second floor.”

  They arrived quickly at the service door, where they’d started. More cars were in the parking area than before, and others pulled in as the last gray-blue streaks of light faded beyond the western peaks. Riding along the hazardous lakefront road in the dark was probably not favored by anyone.

  Paul took a garment bag and his briefcase from the car and locked it. He opened the trunk, which held one large suitcase, a shoulder tote, and his typewriter.

  “I’ve seen cars arrive pulling U-Hauls,” McClain said, “loaded with enough things for the owner to start a lifetime residency. Others come without much more than a toothbrush, as if we’re supposed to clothe them too. You look to be packed just right.”

  Paul smiled. “You may not think that when you lift the big suitcase.”

  McClain picked up the typewriter and the tote. “That’s why I’m not going to! Follow me.”

  They crossed the parking area to a path that ran between the smokehouse and a small, boxlike building. A few residents waved and called greetings to McClain. Paul did not see Sherri Jordan or her purple beetle anywhere. A vision of the woman desperately going from door to door trying to borrow a condom made him smile.

  “There are six paths like this,” the associate director explained, “three or four cabins on each one. The numbers don’t make much sense. That’s because three of the paths were cut later on. I figured you needed extra inspiration, so yours is number eleven. It sits right on the edge of Leanna Creek.”

  “That’s a nice name,” Paul said.

  “John and Nancy Thorburn’s daughter, Leanna was. Took ill suddenly in San Francisco and died before they came back up here.”

  The forest quickly engulfed the footpath. Pines hugged the twisting trail so tightly that in places Paul had to squeeze through with the large suitcase held in front of him. The way was well lit by lamps that shone down from the low branches of trees, each about fifteen feet apart on alternating sides. There were few traces of snow on or near the path.

  A faint murmuring sound grew more distinct as they walked farther. Paul soon knew it to be the unmistakable sound of water rushing along a tributary. Before long the trail paralleled the clear, icy Leanna Creek, beautiful but unimposing. From the roar, Paul had expected something bigger.
r />   The creek curved away from the trail as the first cabin appeared. No. 13, about the size of Sears’ biggest storage shed, sat along the tributary, partly hidden by trees. Pungent smoke wafted from a narrow stone chimney on the side. A small storm window overlooked the path.

  Struck by the idyllic beauty of the setting, Paul slowed down. Looking at No. 13, he noticed a sliver of light in the previously dark window. Someone peered out between the blinds. The crack closed abruptly, the watcher probably embarrassed about being caught. Paul stared at the window for a few seconds more then followed McClain.

  “Number eleven is the farthest out on this path,” the man was saying, “about, oh, a hundred and fifty yards from Big House. That’s as the crow flies…but then, the crow doesn’t fly along this path, does he?” He smiled at his own joke. “So it’s, ah, a little farther. But actually, number eleven is hardly the most remote cabin at the Thorburn colony. There are some even farther away. We reserve them for composers, singers…the music makers, you know. They’re usually pleased with the isolation.”

  No. 12 appeared. No smoke, no lights there. Paul put the suitcase down and switched hands. It had gotten heavier.

  “I almost gave you this cabin,” McClain said. “It was vacated yesterday. But there was a problem with the plumbing and we haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet. Anyway, number eleven is nicer.”

  A minute later Paul thought about leaving the bag on the trail and coming back for it another time. But finally No. 11 loomed ahead. The path, which had narrowed to almost nothing, passed within a yard of the front step, while the rear of the cabin touched the rim of the creek’s sloping bank. Branches of Jeffrey pines brushed the roof. Paul was pleased.