The Northwoods Chronicles (28 page)

Then he got out of the bank and into the fresh
air, but the air didn’t have that freshness for him anymore. Nobody
else on the street seemed to notice that anything was different,
but Kevin felt as though he were becoming less dense.

He wondered if he could bargain with them. He
wondered if he could bribe them. He didn’t know what they had in
store for him, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want it. He liked
his life. He didn’t want it to change.

He went home to his cottage, not to barricade
himself in, but to negotiate from as much a power point as he knew
how to attain. Perspiration was beginning to dampen his clothes,
and he felt a headache coming on.

Once inside, he put on the teakettle, booted up
his computer, and sat at his kitchen table and stared at it. He
felt breathless as the room began to feel lightly blue, and he got
a sinking, nauseated feeling.

He realized there was nobody to call. Nobody to
save him, nobody for him to say good-bye to, save his mother, and
he’d already done that. He had no girlfriend, no pet. His father
had written him off in a cruel and abrupt way.

He typed in a quick note saying that he was gone
and would never return and left it sitting on the screen in his
computer. He brewed a cup of Earl Gray and turned the stove
off.

Then he sat back to wait.

Maybe they were coming for him for reasons other
than his computer skills. He hadn’t done anything with the
knowledge that he had, little that it was. Maybe there was another
reason he was needed.

Needed.
He liked the sound of that.

He’d always been a computer geek, thin and not
so good-looking, and while not anti-social, not pro-social, either.
He was a misfit, which is why the cottage on the edge of White
Pines Junction way up in the northwoods was so appealing. Everybody
up here was a misfit of sorts. And the fact that it was such a
queer place with such queer goings on appealed to the macabre side
of him. That people would actually raise families up here, knowing
the risk. Well, it was just exactly the place for weird Kevin
Leppens.

And now, for the first time in his life, he was
needed somewhere.

That was kind of a nice feeling.

From somewhere, but not across the street, he
heard children laughing.

He ought to call Bun, to let him know. He ought
to call his mother, so she wouldn’t worry.

Bun would know. His mother would worry
anyway.

Daylight failed as the sun lowered behind the
trees, and the air grew thinner and bluer. He heard the music,
wanted to follow it, follow the laughing children. He wanted to be
one of the laughing children—had he ever laughed when he was a
child? He needed to be needed, he wanted to do things that had
meaning, not just sit in solitude in front of a computer screen all
day long, spending found money.

This isn’t a bad thing, not a bad thing at all,
he thought, what they have to offer. Laughing children is a good
thing. They must need me, need my help. Who am I to deny children
my help? It could be everything I’ve been trained to do, whatever
they want of me.

When he heard the car pull up outside and idle
there, he stood up like a man, grabbed a jacket and went out to
meet his destiny.

It was a black limo, its exhaust pluming out in
the blue air. The back door opened as he neared, but he couldn’t
see inside. It was so black, so dark, it seemed fathomless. He
wanted the promise, he ached to have the fulfillment they offered,
so he got inside, but when he stepped through and the door slammed
behind him, he had a sudden, very bad feeling.

Margie woke up, her vagina
pulsing, the heat of another sex-centered dream flooding her with
inconceivable lust. Her side of the bed was perspiration-soaked;
even her hair was damp. Jimbo snored the sleep of the innocent and
unaware next to her.

This wasn’t sinning. She had no control over her
dreams.

She slipped out of bed, put on her robe and
slippers, and went to the kitchen for a drink of something cool. It
was August, and hot as hell. The streetlight shone on parched
trees, parched and withered grass. Snow had shown up in every
single month some time in Vargas County, and if there were snow
outside now, she’d run and jump into it naked. She could use a
little ice on her body at the moment. It was three-forty-six a.m.
She’d have to get up soon to start the morning shift.

She poured a glass of water and sipped it,
standing in the darkened kitchen, in front of the window. These
dreams were beginning to interfere with her work, with her life.
They were coming almost every night now, and every night she lost
another hour or two of sleep. Her concentration was flagging; her
energy waning. She had too much to do every day; she couldn’t keep
losing energy.

Yet she found herself going to bed early. She
liked the sensations, the feelings, the incredible sexiness of
them. They had nothing to do with Jimbo; their sex life was
satisfactory. He was the only partner Margie had ever had, so she
had nothing to compare, but they were happy together, and she
really enjoyed the closeness of their intimacy.

But these dreams. They were raw, uninhibited,
lose-your-mind kind of lusty things. She was afraid she was being
seduced by a demon—what else could introduce her to something so
deliciously evil?—and it scared her. She was afraid for herself,
her eternal soul, and her family. Because she liked it. God help
her, she liked it.

As always, she wanted to snuggle up to Jimbo and
have him make the kind of love to her that happened in her dreams,
but it wasn’t the same. He was too real, too heavy, his breath too
harsh, and while she always enjoyed the closeness of sex with
Jimbo, it never sent her into the heights like these dreams.

And it made her feel guilty. Like her secret
lover had aroused her and she was just using Jimbo for
gratification. She knew he wouldn’t mind being used, but Margie
couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever this was, it was evil, and
she was playing into its hands, and including her sweet, innocent
husband.

She wiped her face with a dampened dishtowel,
finished drinking the water, and then went back to bed. Jimbo
snored softly on his side facing away from her. He had no idea of
her secret dream life. She never wanted him to find out.

She lay awake for a long time before sleep
reclaimed her, but when it did, it was deep, dreamless, and
satisfying.

~~~

Pamela McCann passed the two-mile mark and
smiled to herself. She felt good. Her gait was smooth and easy, the
track soft under her Nikes, and the morning fresh and delicious,
though it was already warming up to be a hot day. She wore only her
running shorts and a sports bra. Her short, naturally red hair
flopped with every step.

Everything was good in her life. Everything
except two things: Love and money.

She snorted her appreciation of the irony. At
least her body was strong and lithe. She felt good, she looked
good, and she’d have life knocked if she could only get a handle on
her finances and the romance part of it.

Running was a good opportunity for her to clear
her mind of all the garbage that accumulated during the day, and it
was currently accumulating a lot. When she bought the hundred acres
up north with her inheritance, she thought that she had a good
investment for her future, as well as enough left over in the bank
to work on developing parts of it. She had plans to put about
twenty acres into farming ginseng, another twenty into upscale home
lots, another twenty into a forested park and the rest she’d leave
vacant and wild for the moment. The farming and the homes would
keep her busy for a good long while.

But as soon as she signed on the dotted line and
put the deed into the safe-deposit box, the stock market took a
dive in what appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a
generation-long bear market. That left the rest of her money
unavailable, as she was unwilling to sell her blue chips for a
fraction of what she had paid for them mere months earlier. So she
was land-rich and cash poor. And that kind of land required capital
to develop as well as maintain. Taxes never went down.

At least she’d had the running track built
before the crash. It was gratifying to see everybody use
it—running, walking, biking, playing with their dogs. All winter
long, while the rest of the countryside was ten feet deep in snow,
the track could be seen, as people either packed it down by using
it or brought their snow blowers out to keep it visible. It was
even busier in the summer, of course. So she’d contributed to the
community and that endeared her, as much as possible, considering
that she was an outsider.

She rounded the corner, noted the marker and
clicked off mile three in her mind. Still feeling good.

Somehow, the money situation would rectify
itself, she knew. Money was just one of those fluid things that
came and went. She’d had a hand-to-mouth job before her dad died,
and now she had money. If she suddenly didn’t have money again,
she’d survive. But boy, she sure liked having money, even as
briefly as she’d had it. And her soul was already attached to this
land. She didn’t even want to develop the home sites because she
didn’t want to part with twenty acres, even if she did parcel it
out two acres at a time. But, of course she would have to do that,
and do it sooner rather than later. Chances are, she’d have to rid
herself of the whole twenty in one whack to some other developer,
one who wouldn’t take as much care with the development. She hated
the thought, but understood the realities of life.

Money. Money was a temporary problem.

The other problem was more permanent—as
permanent as a child can be. Pamela had been up to visit Wolver and
hadn’t had a period since.

Wolver, who had taken his name from the
ferocious wolverine, lived in a cabin deep in the woods with no
modern conveniences at all. He had a wood stove that heated his
cabin, and an outhouse behind. He used kerosene lamps on the rare
occasion when he wanted light at night, and bartered for staples
with the animal furs he got from his traps and the meat he hunted.
He hunted and fished and lived a solitary life. He’d like it if she
came up to live with him; he’d be thrilled to know that they were
expecting, but Wolver’s lifestyle was not the life for Pamela, and
she knew she couldn’t ask him to come to Vargas County and live
respectable. It wasn’t in him. It wasn’t in her to boil diapers on
a wood stove, either.

She had decided to pay him another visit as soon
as she passed the three-month mark. So many fetuses didn’t make it
to that point, and she didn’t see a need to throw two lives into
turmoil unless there was reason for it.

Three months was tomorrow, by the gestation
calendar she had found on the Internet. But she hadn’t needed the
calendar. She’d known immediately when she was pregnant, because
the dreams had stopped. She’d had the most incredibly sexy,
delicious, slurpy dreams, starring nobody in particular. She’d wake
up panting, shaking, vibrating, she was so hotly aroused. Perhaps
that’s why she went to see Wolver in the first place. And got
herself knocked up.

She had a little morning sickness to confirm her
suspicions. Now, it might be her imagination, but she was pretty
sure she could see a bulge in her normally athletically taut tummy.
It was time to go see Wolver again. Tomorrow.

Mile four.

Pamela slowed to a walk, pulled off her headband
and shook out her hair. She walked the next quarter mile to her
car, cooling off and rehearsing how the reunion would go.

She knew how it would start. He would be
delighted to see her. He would give her a big bear hug, put on a
pot of coffee, and somehow they’d be shed of their clothes, the
coffee forgotten, within ten minutes. She and Wolver had incredible
chemistry.

And then after, as they lay together sated and
smiley, cozy and snuggly in his soft warm bed, she’d tell him. He’d
grin big and say, “Really?” And then he’d hug her and it would all
be so magical, right then, right there. It would, for a moment,
seem possible to be a family. But that’s how Wolver lived. In magic
land. Outside of any normal reality. So Pamela would brighten his
day and then she would ruin it. Because she and the baby couldn’t
live in the woods with Wolver, and Wolver couldn’t live in town
with her and the baby. They needed to talk about what to do.

She got into the SUV, started it and turned off
the radio just as the first raindrops hit the windshield. Good
timing. Then she headed home, making a mental checklist of things
to pack for her trip up to Wolver’s. She wouldn’t need the
condoms.

She got home, took off her wet clothes and
looked at her poochy tummy in the mirror. “Ready to meet your
daddy?” she asked it. Then she smiled, shook her head at herself
for talking to a piece of tissue that was maybe a half inch long,
and jumped into the shower. She’d make an appointment to see a
doctor first thing next week. She’d ask Julia to recommend one.

~~~

Lexy pushed open the diner door and saw Amanda,
her sister, sitting in a corner booth. Lexy waved, then took off
her raincoat and hung it on the coat rack. “Okay, okay,” she said
as she walked up to Amanda. “What’s the emergency?” She slid into
the booth seat opposite, and checked her watch. “I’ve got a shampoo
and cut at nine.”

“I’m going back to Ricky,” Amanda said.

“Don’t be silly.” Lexy signaled Margie and
turned her coffee mug right side up. When she looked back at
Amanda, she saw tears in her sister’s eyes. “Amanda. What’s going
on?”

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Amanda said. “I’m
just so lonely.”

“Join the club. That doesn’t mean you should go
back to that goon.”