Demon Shadows Read online

  McClain took out the key. “You’ll love it in the daylight. The lake’s not too far from here. You can see a little of it through the trees. It’s the spot where the Thorburn party—most of them—built their cabins that winter.”

  “Really?”

  “But the Thorburn/McClain cabin,” he continued, “wasn’t all that far from here. Just up Leanna Creek, Paul, that’s where my ancestors spent their first months in the Sierras.”

  Paul nodded. “Interesting.”

  McClain seemed absorbed by his recollection as he unlocked the door. Looking around, Paul suddenly realized he felt cold. Being dressed warmly and having been afoot for a while carrying his things, he hadn’t noticed it before. Perhaps because the darkness was now total…

  Dragging his suitcase, Paul followed Walter McClain into No. 11.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "So, Paul, what do you think? Almost as fancy as the Hyatt Lake Tahoe."

  The associate director smiled as he switched on the light, bathing the room in a soft fluorescent glow. Actually, Paul thought, the light fixture might have been the most impressive thing there. He looked over the interior of No. 11, not time-consuming, considering its size and paucity of appointments.

  “It’s fine, really,” he told McClain.

  A narrow, tubular brass bed, an old high chest of drawers, a wood and steel desk with a swivel chair, and a lamp on a nightstand comprised the furniture A worn but serviceable rug depicting embroidered thunderbirds in bright colors covered a portion of the wood floor. The wallpaper, torn or curled in places, was a nondescript solid color, sort of beige, but darker. No curtains hung on either of the two full-sized windows, only rust-colored blinds that had not been fitted well and covered more than was necessary. The single wall ornament hung above the mantel of a small brick fireplace: a print of Olaf Wieghorst’s Apache Renegade in a weathered wood frame. Paul liked Wieghorst’s work.

  There was a bathroom—proportionately small, but nevertheless it did exist. Paul wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d had doubts. Once he had read that the writers’ quarters in Yaddo, the renowned colony in upstate New York, were originally built without toilets. It seemed that writers and artists were otherworldly beings who didn’t have the need to perform bodily functions as the lower order of human creatures did. A Zappa song about yellow snow had been stuck in his head.

  McClain sat on the bed. “Soft, like I told you.” He indicated a floor grid in one corner. “The vent from the furnace. If you’re not used to that kind, you’ll figure out quickly not to step on it barefoot. There’s the thermostat. I had it turned up earlier so you wouldn’t walk into an icebox.”

  “It’s comfortable,” Paul said, but he still felt cold. He glanced at the Wieghorst again. “I’m glad to be here, Mr. McClain. This might be what I need.”

  The man smiled as he stood. “Call me Walter, please.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go. Almost dinner. You want to walk with me?”

  “I’d like five or ten minutes, then I’ll be over. Thanks for the tour.”

  McClain walked to the door. “Don’t be much later,” he said fussily. “Harriet Thorburn likes to start things on time. Oh, here’s your key, although you really don’t need to lock things up here.”

  He put the key on the desk, then left. Paul stood alone in his aptly described spartan accommodations. A claustrophobic writer wouldn’t stand a chance here, he thought. But he hadn’t been lying to McClain. He felt positive about getting back to work.

  At six-fifteen—a quarter past six, on his old Baby Ben travel alarm with the round face—having only managed to unpack a couple of things and set up his typewriter on the desk, Paul put his down jacket and gloves back on. He had finally gotten warm and wasn’t excited about another bracing walk in the chilled night air. But Big House—and food—awaited. He locked the door and started for the Thorburn mansion.

  The crisp mountain air felt surprisingly good, probably because it was so still, no wind knifing it into his flesh. Even with the frequency of lights along the path, his vision was limited. Yet he could feel the quiet majesty of the alpine woods that surrounded him. He looked forward to seeing it on display with the next dawn.

  As he passed No. 12 it occurred to him that, without the luggage in tow, he had made it there quickly. Maybe Walter McClain was right about it being no big deal getting to and from Big House. But this was mild weather, no challenge yet. December kin bring some nasty storms, the man had said, and December would be here tomorrow.

  Farther down the path, Paul caught the smell of smoke from the fireplace in No. 13. He could make out the silhouette of the cabin just ahead. A brief sliver of light appeared; the front door had opened and closed. Now he was nearer and could see someone stepping off the porch. The figure wore a gray warm-up suit with the hood up. Paul couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman.

  The person saw him; Paul had no doubt of that. He waved and walked more quickly. In response the other turned, jogged rapidly along the path, and was swallowed by the trees.

  “O-kay,” he murmured, and slowed.

  Leanna Creek, just off the path on his left, could not be ignored. Kneeling at the bank, he thrust a hand into the cold water—incredibly cold. Sooner or later, Paul figured, its flow would be clogged by ice.

  The trail now snaked between the pines; the creek veered off and was soon a distant sound. Paul remembered this part, where the trees pressed in against the footpath: a narrow passage, with strewn brush and leaves covering possible obstacles on the ground. The jogger must have known the way well to have passed through so quickly.

  One of the lights had gone out. For a short distance Paul could barely see a thing. He stumbled once over a rock wedged in the ground, caught himself, and went on. The path curved sharply ahead. He could see a faint glow from the next light.

  He heard a sound and froze, listened. Rushing water, as in Leanna Creek. But the tributary was too far away. Still, that was what it sounded like…No, different now. A continuous sound, as of something coarse slowly brushing against…what? Not from one direction or another, but everywhere around him.

  “Someone there?” he called, turning in a circle.

  It stopped, the ensuing stillness almost as unnerving as what had come before it. Paul waited a few moments then started off, shaking his head.

  Just an animal of some kind, he told himself. Get used to it, boy. These are the outer limits of civilization. What happens when squirrels start walking on the roof?

  The footpath squeezed between a few more trees, then ended abruptly at the edge of the parking area. Paul hadn’t realized he’d been that close. A few residents were just pulling in, Sherri Jordan among them. She parked the Volkswagen near the last outbuilding, as far away from Big House as she could get. Paul angled across the asphalt to meet her.

  “Hello again,” he said.

  She had been preoccupied but then recognized him. “Hi…Paul, right? You settled in now? Had Walter’s informative tour and everything?”

  He nodded. “Did you find what you were looking for in town?”

  Sherri tossed up her hands. “Not a single one! I don’t think they know what a rubber is here. Amazing they don’t have ten thousand kids swarming around!”

  He grinned. “Are you on your way to dinner?”

  “Where else? Come on, walk with me.”

  Someone had just opened the service door. The aromas of the kitchen teased Paul’s senses across the distance.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  “The food’s not half bad, I gotta admit,” Sherri replied. “Chef’s a weird guy. Arthur Tyler. Old Lady Thorburn’s always saying, ‘If you enjoyed the dinner, please make sure you let Arthur know.’” She mimicked a shrill voice. “‘Tell Arthur how good the apple pie was and he may give you extra ice cream the next time.’ I swear to God!”

  They reached the door. The warmth of the corridor felt good. Sherri peeled off her coat as they walked. She looked stylish in an oversized bl
ack and white cardigan sweater with rugby stripes and a pair of black knit pants that hugged her trim hips and legs.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “it’s not the food that’s the problem, it’s the company. You wouldn’t believe some of these people! David Van Ness is one of the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet. And there’s this composer, Allan Kroll? The man wakes up drunk in the morning, I’m not kidding! I don’t know why they let him stay.”

  Given time, Paul might have heard the biographies of every artist-in-residence. But they were at the end of the corridor, where they hung up their coats. Once inside the main central hall they joined others on their way to the dining room. Most, it appeared, had been in the day room, unless there was somewhere else they could have poured drinks.

  While Sherri called out greetings, Paul stared across the hall at Nancy Thorburn’s painting. The piercing eyes of one dominant figure, a woman, followed him along the hardwood floor. He wanted to spend more time studying the work, but he couldn’t now. A spirited din meant they’d reached the dining room. Reluctantly, he turned away from the painting.

  The room, well lit by two wagon-wheel chandeliers, was as large and impressive as everything else Paul had seen in the mansion. Four long tables, each covered by a frilled linen tablecloth, stood on ornate wooden pedestals. Two sideboards were a century apart in their construction. An ample fire crackled in a large stone fireplace. Indian artifacts lined the mantel: a black stone pipe bowl in the shape of a nondescript animal, and a bird mask with a movable beak. More pieces hung on the oak-paneled walls: twined bags, ceremonial shields, colorful blankets, as well as western art, including a number of Albert Bierstadt’s magnificent portraits of Lake Tahoe.

  “That’s the queen’s throne, in case you couldn’t tell,” Sherri said above the noise, indicating a high-backed maple Brewster chair at the head of the last table on their right. Most of the other seats at the table were already filled.

  “Do they all try to sit by Harriet Thorburn?” Paul asked.

  “Actually, I don’t think anyone would if they had a choice. Seating is—you ready for this?—assigned! See the little name cards?”

  Paul noticed them now, blue rectangles of heavy construction paper, each folded in an inverted V. Names had been carefully written in cursive letters with a red marker pen.

  “It changes every night,” Sherri continued. “You never know where you’re sitting. But sooner or later you’ll be at Harriet Thorburn’s table. Come on, let’s find you.”

  The Paul Fleming card sat on the fourth table. Sherri discovered it. The place on one side was not set, the other was, for Thea Douglas.

  Sherri frowned, shook her head. “That won’t do at all.” She picked up the card and palmed it. “Wait here.”

  Other residents took their places. Moving quickly, Sherri found her card on the second table and made the switch. No one appeared to notice, or care.

  “That’s better,” she said, placing it on the table.

  A man in a dark blue turtleneck sweater sat down across from Sherri. He looked to be in his mid- or late twenties; handsome, with thick blond hair and wide, curious blue eyes. He appeared ashen, as if ill. A curled lip left him with a transfixed sneer.

  “You’re Paul Fleming, aren’t you?” he said, extending a hand across the wide table.

  “That’s right.” The man’s handshake was weak, his hand withdrawn an instant too quickly.

  “Heard you were coming. I’d like to talk to you sometime. I’m curious about how a writer, if one can call himself that, justifies the creation of commercially lucrative but intellectually meaningless crap.” He turned to another man, who had just arrived. “Robert, how’re you doing?”

  Paul stared at him and shook his head. He felt Sherri Jordan’s hand on his arm. “That is David Van Ness.”

  “You were right,” Paul said.

  “I’ll save you from his bullshit. Anyway, he’s gay and has the hots for Robert Kingsley there. Maybe he’ll forget about you during dinner.”

  For the first time Paul noticed a woman at the far end of the table. She must have sat down while Van Ness was talking. What caught his attention was her gray warm-up suit. Unless there were others similarly dressed, this had to be the person from No. 13. The hood was down, revealing reddish brown hair tied in a ponytail. Her round face was attractive in a natural sort of way, cheeks ruddy from the jog to Big House. Paul guessed her age in her thirties. Her expression seemed vacant; she stared at the place setting in front of her. Then she looked up and he nodded. She quickly averted her eyes.

  He noticed something odd: none of the last two places on either side had been set for dinner. The woman at the end of the table sat isolated.

  Sherri noticed his interest. “Forget that,” she said. “Believe me, Paul.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know—”

  A grandfather clock in one corner struck the half hour. As if on cue, the room quieted. The double doors opened; Walter McClain entered with Harriet Thorburn holding onto one arm. The woman was small and incredibly thin, almost emaciated, her face a hodgepodge of sharp angles, her wispy gray hair pulled tightly in a severe bun. She walked with a dignified, almost regal bearing. Her clothing appeared old and elegant, a white satin dress with black lace flounces and a silk shawl thrown loosely over her shoulders. She glanced around the room once then kept her eyes straight ahead as McClain led her to the table. No one spoke during the procession.

  When Harriet Thorburn was in her place, McClain went to his own, on her right. He waved benignly at the room, smiled, and said, “Good evening, everyone. I hope you all had a productive day. There are a few things I wanted to mention.”

  “He always does this,” Sherri told Paul.

  “First of all—”

  Harriet Thorburn’s hand went up, silencing McClain. She had been looking around and now seemed agitated. “The seating arrangement has been altered,” she exclaimed in a shrill voice. Sherri’s impersonation had been perfect, Paul thought.

  “What’s wrong?” McClain asked.

  She looked around again. People fidgeted in their chairs. Finally she announced, “Miss Douglas and Miss Jordan, would you kindly exchange places? Thank you.”

  “Oh, shit, do you believe this?” Sherri muttered. “See you later, Paul.”

  She picked up her card and left. Thea Douglas, a fiftyish mannequin of designer clothes and too much makeup, made sure she passed Sherri on the way.

  “Nice move, dear,” the woman hissed.

  Sherri stuck out her tongue behind Thea. There was an undercurrent of laughter, quickly silenced by Harriet Thorburn’s icy glare. Thea Douglas sat down hard beside Paul.

  Satisfied that everyone was in place, McClain began again. “First I’d like to welcome a new resident, Paul Fleming. Paul, show yourself.”

  Paul half stood to acknowledge some applause and a few greetings. Glancing down the table, he noticed the woman in the warm-up suit staring off to the side.

  “The next matter,” McClain went on, “is the generous amount of scotch that someone poured into the Chinese fan palm in the day room. We can only hope the plant will survive.” Again, muffled laughter that threatened to erupt, but didn’t. “If such a prank is repeated, I will close the bar for a day!”

  Paul couldn’t believe what he’d seen or heard so far. It was like summer camp for adults.

  “And finally,” said the associate director, “there’s an item that Ms. Thorburn would like to share with you.”

  The old woman cracked a brittle smile. “One of our residents has had a breakthrough. The gallery exhibiting Robert Kingsley’s work in Portland reported selling one to a knowledgeable patron for a fair sum of money. Congratulations, Mr. Kingsley.”

  David Van Ness waxed boisterous in his praise, but otherwise the response was polite and low-key. Paul understood. Creative people, even those caught up in the camaraderie that a place like the Thorburn colony could produce, were sometimes env
ious of the success of their peers. Prior to his own breakthrough Paul had stayed away from writers’ workshops and conferences, book trade shows, any situation where his own envy could erupt. He had even avoided reading interviews with other authors. Nothing to be proud of, he knew, but it was a fact.

  “Congratulations,” he said across the table. Kingsley smiled and nodded.

  “That’s it,” McClain said. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  A door from the kitchen swung open. Two men and two women, all Mexican and similarly dressed in white, wheeled out serving carts. They worked efficiently; within minutes everyone had a bowl of soup and a salad in front of them.

  “I’m Thea Douglas,” Paul’s new neighbor said, “but you probably knew that from our embarrassing little scene. Nice to meet you, Paul.”

  “Same here.”

  “Sherri the juvenile always goes for the new ones right off. Watch out for her.”

  “I will. Thanks for the warning.”

  People began talking. This was what Paul had dreaded most about being there. He’d always been a loner, seldom socialized. It was one of the things that stood between him and Jeannie, who enjoyed the company of others. He had sworn to himself it would change, but he hadn’t begun to make the effort prior to his arrival at the Thorburn colony. So with no choice, this seemed a good place to start.

  “What kind of work do you do?” he asked Thea Douglas.

  She smiled theatrically over a forkful of lettuce. “By vocation I’m a fashion designer. But that’s not why I’m at Thorburn, is it? I’m a writer too. Oh, not like you. I write plays. One of them, Idle Fortunes, was commissioned by the North Shore Rep in San Diego and produced there earlier this year. It received wonderful reviews—for the most part. I’ll show them to you sometime.”

  “That’s great,” he said. “So you’re working on a new play now?”

  “Well, what else is there to do here? Yes, I am, and it’s coming along quite well. Even wrote a part in it—a small one—for myself. I do some acting too.”

  How come I knew that? Paul thought.