Run (17 page)

He reminded her, somehow, of Nathan.

But, at the same time, John was nothing like her husband had been. 

The sport utility vehicle jolted.  She looked over at John, a bit alarmed at the sudden jump.  He was already looking at her, a sheepish grin on his face.  "Rock," he said.  "Sorry."

"It’s the mountains," she replied.  "Don’t apologize for rocks."

He shrugged, apparently embarrassed in spite of her words, then turned back (with difficulty? she wondered) to watching the road before them.

Ten minutes later they were at the end of the road.  Literally.  The dirt track turned around a sheer wall of rock and ended abruptly with only a sheer drop-off in front of them. 

Fran looked out her window.  It was dark outside, the deep dark of the country, but she could make out several hulking shapes, machinery of some kind.  Beyond that, she could discern no details.

John got out, and Fran leaned over to open her door, but before she had a chance, it was already open.  He held the door for her; held out a hand to help her exit the Pathfinder.  And as before, when he had opened her door, she didn’t get the sense he was doing it because he thought she was dainty and unable to open the door for herself, though.  It was respect. 

She looked around again.  The nearby shapes were machinery, all right, though she had no idea what their use could be.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"Resurrection."

"What?"

"It’s a mine." 

John pointed over her shoulder.  She turned and saw what must be the mine shaft entrance, locked up tight.  A bright bird was painted across the wooden slats that shut off the mine from the outside world.

"It’s a phoenix," said John.  "Every 500 years it burns itself in a pyre, and a new one is born from the ashes.  I guess the original owner of the mine hoped that would happen with the mine."

"It’s a real mine?"

"Yeah.  Silver.  It’s been operating since 1897.  In fact, if it weren’t real, Loston probably wouldn’t even exist.  Most of the people here are dependent on it for work, in one way or another."

"Have you ever been in it?"

John nodded.  "Couple of times.  They ask for volunteer help with the digging once in a while, so I go in and make like a jackass.  There are a couple of miles of tunnels crisscrossing the mountain.  I guess I’ve been in about half of them."

"Wow."  Fran was giddy with excitement.  She was standing outside a mine.  Just like Tom Sawyer, who’d been lost in a similarly deep and dark cave shaft and forced to hide from Injun Joe, the crazy murderer.  It was like a piece of literature coming to life and glaring at her, a bit of dream that was locked away behind a plywood door, but still closer than ever before.  She pulled her attention from the closed shaft and looked around.  "I don’t see the flowers.  Where'd you get my bouquet?"

"They’re not here," said John, and pointed at a trail near the shaft that led even higher up the mountain.  Fran followed it with her eyes until it disappeared in a thick copse of trees.  When she looked back at John, he was grinning.

He had such a beautiful smile.  Not movie star perfect, not a pinup smile.  He had a couple of slightly crooked teeth, and a lopsided grin.  It was a real smile, packed with life.

Fran wanted to kiss him.

"You up for a walk?" he asked.

In answer, she turned and began making her way up the trail.  She heard the soft scuff of his hiking boots as he followed her up the trail.  Other than that, he was silent behind her.  Fran thought it was odd. 
She
certainly made enough noise for both of them, huffing and puffing her way up the slope, her feet scrabbling for a hint of purchase on the loose silt of the path.  It must be the altitude, she thought.  Not used to it yet. 

Suddenly she slipped, her foot coming down on a pile of apparently solid rock that disintegrated suddenly, leaving her feet scrabbling wildly for purchase before she fell backward.  John caught her, one arm around her waist, one hand locked onto her wrist.  His grip was tight; secure.  It was like being held by something more than a man, something with the solidity of iron, something safe.

He pulled her easily back to her feet, and then she felt his arms leave her waist.  Before he could completely disengage from her, though, she swiveled her hand around and took his.  He seemed surprised, and perhaps she saw a glint of something like dismay.  But he did not try to take his hand from hers, and he smiled again.

The smile propelled Fran the rest of the way up the trail, where she spotted the flowers he’d picked, tight blue petals clustered around a dark core of pistils.  She clapped in delight, dropping his hand in a moment of girlish exuberance, then bent over and began picking bunches of them.  She stopped after a moment, though, laughing at herself.

"I already have a quite a few of these at home, don’t I?" she said.

John, still smiling, said, "There’s more here than just flowers, you know."

"Really?" she asked.  "What else?"

Again, rather than answer with words, John pointed.  Up.  Straight up.  Fran’s gaze followed the line of his arm and she gasped.

"Oh, wow.  You don’t see that in California."

"You don’t see it anywhere with an altitude of less than ten thousand feet."

The stars hung in the heavens, but they were no stars that Fran had ever seen.  Stars to her were the pale pinlight flickers that occasionally broke through the clouds of methane and smog that shrouded Los Angeles.  They blinked and twinkled as their rays of light fought against some of the highest pollution levels in the world, ultimately failing to penetrate, or simply being overwhelmed by the competing glare of the city below.

Here, the stars were enormous: luminous patches that didn’t flash or twinkle, but blared forth in a symphony of pitch and wave, of beam and ray.  Each one seemed to be separated from the next by a thick blanket of deepest velvet that circled and curved around the bright radiances that formed a celestial orchestra of brilliance.

John pointed at different groups of stars.  "That’s Orion, and Cassiopeia, and the Bear...."

Fran followed his gestures, closing her eyes at times to imagine the mythical battles that were still being fought above them, the hunters seeking prey, the lovers who would always yearn, but never know the touch of those they wooed, separated by eons of time and distance.

She shivered.  It was a pleasant trembling that reflected her sense of wonderment and pleasure at being in this place.  But John immediately took off his coat and wrapped it over her light jacket.  "Sorry," he said, "I didn’t even think to warn you that it’d be cold."

"That’s okay," she answered.  "Won’t you catch a chill?"

"No.  I’m used to it.  It’s practically summer here."

They stood a moment in silence, looking at the grand dome above.

"What’s winter like?" asked Fran.  To her surprise, John laughed, a coughing chuckle that came from somewhere deep within.  "Did I say something funny?" said Fran.

"No," he said, shaking his head.  "I just remembered something funny.  Something that happened to...someone I know."

"What?"

She watched as his laughter died.  She saw a struggle play itself out within him, visible as a mouth that suddenly straightened and a shimmer in his eyes.  He wanted to answer her, she was sure.  But he was also keeping something hidden.

"Come on, Johnny," she said, "let’s not start keeping secrets already."

And just like that, he won the struggle.  Or perhaps lost it, she didn’t know for sure.  All she knew was that he took a deep breath and began to speak.

"A friend of mine got set up on a blind date about six years ago.  So he shows up at the girl's house, not very excited because he’s just a shy guy, and lo and behold, this goddess opens the door.  Most beautiful woman my friend had ever seen."

"What happened?" asked Fran. 

John looked away from her as he spoke, retreating into a world that was his, apparently unable to maintain contact with her while he was there.  "It was winter - that’s why I remembered this story just now - and so my friend decided to take her up to the mountains and go sledding.  Nice date, no pressure, just a little safe, harmless fun."

"Sounds nice."

"That was the plan.  But he forgot chains, and the sled broke, and it started to blizzard and they didn’t get along at all and it was probably the most miserable day of his life.  So he’s taking her home and she says she has to get out of the car."

Fran giggled.  "In a blizzard?"

"That’s just what he said, too.  So she said she...well, she had to...."

John made a helpless little movement with his hand.  One that Fran had seen from hundreds of students requesting a hall pass in the middle of class time.

"She had to pee?" asked Fran.

"Yeah.  She’d been holding it all day and she was about to have an accident.  So he pulled over and let her out."

"What happened?"

"Well, my friend waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And then he heard a noise.  The girl was shouting for him.  So he got out of the car, went around back, and there she was.  Sitting on the bumper."

"What was she doing?"

John almost laughed then, but bit it back.  "You know what happens when you lick a light pole in winter?"  Fran nodded.  "Well, it turns out that if you have to pee and you decide to sit on the metal bumper of a 1968 Chevy, the same thing happens."

Fran erupted in laughter.  "Oh, no!" she barely managed to form the words.  "She was...."

John nodded, laughing now as well.  "Stuck tight.  She would’ve ripped off half her behind if she’d tried to move."

They both doubled over then, howling and clutching at their stomachs like a couple of happy lunatics dancing below the full moon.

"What did they do?" said Fran when she managed to stop laughing long enough that articulation was again possible.

"Well, he had to unstick her somehow, but there wasn’t a whole lot of warm water around.  He opened the radiator, and it was still warm, but there was no way to get the water inside it out to her.  So he went back and tried spitting melted snow on her butt."

That line was enough to send them both into another torrential fit of hysterics.       "It didn’t work," continued John.  "So finally...," he laughed more.  "He unzipped his pants and peed on her until she defrosted!"

Fran laughed so hard that this time she
did
fall, losing her balance completely.  Her arms pinwheeled and she grabbed John’s shirt.  John, laughing in no small way himself, followed her right down.  He kept laughing until Fran rolled over on top of him, arm half wrapped around his broad chest.  His laughter caught and died instantly, and she worried she might have gone too far.  She wondered if she should move her arm and pull away from him.

Why? she thought, and stayed put.  "I guess they never went out after that," she said.

John's eyes got that faded look again, and Fran knew he was remembering something beyond special.  It was the look Nathan used to get when he was walking through his memories, a quiet, almost pained expression that bespoke love and tragedy together.  "They got married about three months later."

"What?"  She was surprised at that answer.

John nodded.  "I guess their thinking was that the worst was behind them."

"And were they right?"  Fran drew in close to John, almost laying completely on top of him, nose to nose, mouth to mouth.  "Did they live happily ever after?"

John’s face became even more serious, if possible.  Solemn.  Sad.  "They lived very happily.  Maybe the happiest ever.  Until she got cancer and died."

Fran almost started to cry for the pain she saw in his eyes.  She moved forward quickly, because she knew he’d pull away if she did it slowly, and kissed him on the cheek.  Then she rolled over, laying beside him now.  A moment later she pulled his arm under her neck, using it like a pillow. 

"Which one is Cassiopeia?" she asked.

John pointed.  "And the Bear?" she said.  Another point.  Fran asked him about all the stars, it seemed, through the hours until the sky began to brighten in the east.  It was the sun, and John took her home in the burgeoning light of a new day's dawning.  And for the first time in a long time, Fran could look at the day and know that Nathan was still gone, but perhaps she would no longer have to be alone.

DOM#67A

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

3:30 PM MONDAY

Over one full day. 

The sign that hung on the door upstairs had one word scrawled across it: "CLOSED."

No one had come.  No one
would
come.  Casey was a man who liked his privacy, and none would think to intrude with inquiries as to why he had closed his doors for the first time in well over a decade.

No one would come.

And no one would hear him scream.

Malachi leaned in close to Casey.  The blood that streamed from Casey’s nose and ears oozed in sticky rivulets down his neck, joining the darkening pools of brown and crimson that already stained his shirt.  Tears dripped their own salty paths down his face, mixing with the blood into a thin streamlets of sickly pink: small tributaries of the larger rivers of pain that tracked their paths over his body.

Casey had been crying for hours, and bleeding for more, under the terrible attention of Malachi.  But still hardly a sound had escaped his lips, though he’d prayed to God and Jesus and the Holy Virgin and all the Saints and every other person he could think of, asking them all to let him die or at least let him tell the crazy man what he wanted to know.

Malachi pulled out a small box, and Casey wanted to shriek but of course could not.  Malachi had withdrawn several implements and instruments in the past hours.  Each had been unfamiliar to Casey, but each had brought new and unimaginable pain. 

Malachi touched a button, and out popped a thin spear about ten inches in length.  It looked like a surgical tool.  Malachi touched the button again, and a low hum began.  It originated at the box and traveled in tight reverberations up the length of the metal spire and seemed to hover in a dark mass around the deadly point.