The Sisters: A Mystery of Good and Evil, Horror and Suspense (Book One of the Dark Forces Series) (22 page)

Nathan awoke beside a bubbling stream. He was on his side with his head resting on his Land’s End jacket, which somehow had been folded up neatly and placed on the moss-covered ground beneath him. It was twilight and the cicadas sang their high-pitched, buzzing song high up in the Aspen trees which towered above him. Night was not very far off and he trembled.

Another of Tipton’s dream-states, he thought. Great. At least the old man could have furnished a tent and sleeping bag. Nathan wondered where he was. From somewhere nearby came the low-throated growl of a big animal. Time to move, Nathan thought. He jumped up and ran, sliding into his jacket as he went. He splashed across the stream, nearly slipping on the rocks that dotted the fast-moving water. He climbed a ridge until he spotted the setting sun far away. He had to find shelter—but where? He jogged down the slope in near darkness, slipping on loose pebbles and scree, dodging tree trunks that were tall and thin, swaying in a rising breeze. He kept moving until a full moon rose.

Wearily, he stumbled out of the trees into what had to be a logging road. Two ruts separated by a weedy middle cut a meandering path away from him toward a rise in the low hills. He decided to follow it. The call of an owl came on the wind as Nathan walked. At least the constant exertion was keeping him relatively warm. He topped the rise and saw a spiral of blue smoke rising into the air from a small cabin in the valley below. At last, he thought. Somewhere to stay for the night. He broke into a run.

He arrived at the cabin’s front porch, puffing and out of breath. He decided to wait a minute before knocking. He didn’t know what kind of reception he would receive. What if the guy opened the door and just blew him away with a load of double-ought buckshot? Oh, wait, Nathan thought with a smile. It’s just one of Tipton’s dreams, right? Nothing bad was going to happen. He raised his fist and knocked.

The cross-timbered door opened. Standing in the opening was a man of medium build and regular features, wearing overalls and a red flannel shirt. He didn’t say anything. There was no shotgun in his hands. Behind him the interior was brightly lit and cozy-looking. Nathan could see the fire burning on a rough stone hearth.

“Um, hello,” Nathan said. “I guess you could say I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in.” It sounded lame, he knew, but what else was he going to say?

The fellow’s features brightened suddenly, as if a light had been turned on behind his face. “Well, that’s just fine! Come on in. I was fixin’ dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am.” Nathan stepped into the cabin, shrugging out of his jacket and pulling the sleeves on his sweater up as he did so. It was a little warm in here. He looked around as the man walked toward the small kitchen. There was a wagon wheel chandelier filled with candles overhanging the main room. Not something you see every day, Nathan thought, but between it and the fire the place was very well lit. There was a long wood-rail sofa that he had his eye on as a possible place to sleep and a sturdy armchair, also made of wood, right next to it. A tall end table stood between them, and a wooden coffee table sat in front of the sofa. It was beautifully crafted, smooth finished, with gently curving legs.

“This coffee table is a work of art. You make it?”

“What?” said the man in the kitchen.

Nathan moved toward him. “I said the coffee table is beautifully crafted. Did you make it?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I did. Not much else to do up here.” He was browning a large steak on a griddle over an open flame on the gas-burning stove.

“What do you do up here—trapping?”

The man paused a minute, then stuck out his hand and smiled. “Paul Robinson.”

Nathan smiled in return. “Nathan Forrest. Um, I’m not from around here.”

“I kinda figured. Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Robinson pulled open the refrigerator and got out two Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans. He handed one to Nathan. “Don’t get much company out here. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

“Sure thing. Actually, um, I was wondering if you could put me up for the night?”

“Are you a heterosexual?”

“A what?”

“It’s not a hard question. Are you queer?”

“No. No, I am definitely not a queer.” Nathan laughed.

Robinson smiled, holding up the steak prongs. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

Nathan popped the tab on his can of beer. “So. Do you hunt and trap up here? Trade skins for money and food?”

“Yep. Beaver, mostly, though I get a few bear now and then. I don’t need much. Hunt deer for my meat and got a garden out back. Even got a still for making moonshine.” He grinned and gave Nathan a wink.

“I’d like to try a little of that after supper, if you don’t mind. Don’t believe I’ve ever had any White Lightning.”

“Sure. Be glad to fix you up. What do you do?”

“I’m a CPA in a large firm in Philadelphia.”

“That so?”

“Yes. And I know this might sound like a strange question, but exactly where are we? I mean what state do you live in and where’s the nearest town?”

Robinson paused as he was in the process of scooping some mashed potatoes into a bowl. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

“I have a touch of amnesia. I took a little fall a ways back. Lost my backpack and all my gear and wandered off the trail. Blacked out for a while. When I came to, I was by a stream not far from here.”

Robinson gave Nathan a strange look. “Well, that’s too bad. Sorry to hear it. You’re a ways from the nearest outfitter.” He finished filling the bowl, took a swig from his beer and flipped the steak over. “Well, you’re in Colorado about four miles from Manhead mountain. Nearest road is Red Feather Lakes Road, which will eventually lead you to the town of Livermore. That’s about a sixteen-mile hike in good weather, which it currently is.”

“That’s good to know.” But inside Nathan bristled. A sixteen-mile hike? Tipton really did have a sick sense of humor if he didn’t transport him back soon.

They had finished their supper—they had split the big venison steak—and Nathan was nestled on the couch while Robinson sat in the big wooden chair with overstuffed green cushions. Both were smoking Macanudo Portofino cigars and had already accumulated about a half-inch of satisfying gray ash on the tips of each aromatic cigar. They also had a tumbler with about three fingers of clear, potent moonshine in it. They clinked three large ice cubes inside the glass.

“Watch this,” said Robinson, reaching for the long match bundle he used to light fires with. He extracted one, struck it on the slate hearth, and touched the tip of the resulting flame to the surface of his drink. Instantly a low blue fire arose and flickered around the edges of the inside of the glass. “If the flame is blue, you know it’s a true brew,” he said with some satisfaction. “Some of the old-timers used a rusty old radiator and a copper coil in their stills and their brew burned red because it was contaminated. ‘Burn red, you’re dead,’ is what they used to say.”

“Here’s to the old-timers and the fine art of moonshining,” Nathan said cheerfully. He already had a pretty good buzz going and a deep, warm glow in his belly. He raised his glass and took another sip. You couldn’t swig the stuff. That was impossible, like taking a tablespoon of horseradish all at once. It would have cleared out Nathan’s sinuses and set him to gagging. But taken in small sips, like Tennessee whiskey, it went down well, a little sweet and almondy—the result, Robinson had told him, of the sugar used in the fermenting process. “Paul, what did you do before you moved out here?” Nathan looked at him closely. The man’s hair was longish, but not down to his shoulders. He was clean-shaven and had greenish-gray eyes.

“I worked in construction as a carpenter,” he said. “Built houses, mainly, in big pricey sub-divisions.”

“Sounds like interesting work. I’ll bet you were good at it. What made you stop and move out here?”

Robinson shrugged and tipped the ash off his cigar. “I couldn’t get along with other people. Kept getting in fights. I don’t mean just when I was drunk and in bars. I mean even in the mornings on the job site. Somebody would just say something and I’d get pissed off.”

“Did you ever see a doctor about it?”

“Yeah. They diagnosed me as bipolar. That’s the new, politically correct term for manic-depressive. Put me on a bunch of pills and shit but I didn’t like the way they made me feel so I quit takin’ ‘em and moved out here.”

“And now you feel better,” Nathan said.

“Oh, yeah. Lots better. I don’t have to deal with all those fuckin’ people anymore. But it does get kinda lonely, so I’m glad you showed up. Can I get you some more moonshine?”

“No, I’m good,” Nathan said. But what he really thought was, how could he get through the next hour or so before declaring he was sleepy, so maybe he could just go to bed and maybe wake up tomorrow back in his own house in Cape May.

It was sometime later that night when Nathan was pulled off the sofa onto the hardwood floor. A knee was planted in his lower back, pushing the air out of his diaphragm, and a hand gripped his hair and yanked his head back.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doin’ in my cabin” hissed a low voice.

“Paul! It’s me, Nathan Forrest. Remember? We had supper last night, then smoked cigars by the fire. For God’s sake, don’t hurt me!”

“I don’t remember any of that, you cock-sucking homo.” He pulled Nathan’s head up further, then smashed it into the broad plank floor. Nathan cried out as his nose broke. The cartilage and gristle moved noisily around in his face and blood began to flow freely over his lips and chin. Robinson smashed Nathan’s face into the floor again.

“That’ll teach you to try to sneak in here and try to suck me off.”

Nathan struggled wildly to get to his feet. He felt he might be an even match for the slightly built Robinson, if he could just get to his feet. He sucked air in and felt a burst of adrenaline bursting through his veins with the fury of a class-five rapids. He rolled to his right and broke the other man’s grip on his hair. He felt the knee slide off his back as he clambered up, pushing Robinson off-balance. Then, he saw it: the eight-inch serrated carving knife Robinson had been using earlier on the steaks. It was in Robinson’s left hand. Nathan got quickly to his feet and jumped out of the way of a vicious swipe across his abdomen. He broke and ran for the front door, Robinson right behind him. There were a series of deadbolts, all fitted for keys, none of which Nathan had. He pulled once on the handle. Locked! Suddenly the knife buried itself in the wood an inch from Nathan’s head.

As Robinson struggled to pull the knife free, Nathan flew to the kitchen to try and even the odds. He looked for a chopping block, thinking knives might be stored in slots nearby. There was a chopping block, but nothing near it. He began frantically yanking drawers open until he found what he was looking for. The knife wasn’t as long as Robinson’s but it would do. He heard Robinson pull his blade free.

“You goddam bastard! I’ll kill you.”

Nathan went into a crouch. He held his own knife point out, clutched in his right hand, a little out from his side. He wore only his boxers and tee shirt. His nose still bled freely. He swiped at it with his left hand, smearing away some of the blood and the mucous. It hurt like hell, but his senses were all now on high alert.

Robinson got his blade free and came in with a high overhand stab directly aimed at Nathan’s heart. Nathan met the knife in mid-stroke with his own, parrying it off to the side. Then, he counterattacked, a quick slash, aimed at Robinson’s face. The blade cut into the other man’s left cheek, carving a path down to his chin. Robinson jumped away, surprised. His eyes were blazing with a manic fury, however, and he seemed not to feel the pain. He bled from the cut like a prize hog in a Fort Worth slaughterhouse.

“Think that’ll stop me? Watch this.” And he threw his leg up and forward, his booted foot connecting with Nathan’s chin. Nathan staggered back and dropped his knife. Robinson came rushing in, roaring like a big new diesel train engine on an open track.

He crushed Nathan in a bear hug, pinning him, and began dragging him over to the counter.

“You won’t even be able to jack off when I’m done with you.”

Nathan, still in a daze from the brutal kick, felt Robinson pull one of his arms over toward the counter. There, he put the hand down carefully and splayed the fingers. He began sawing on the little finger. Involuntarily, Nathan yanked the hand back, but Robinson still held him in a firm grip and now held the big knife across his throat. Nathan began to struggle.

“You’re right. This’ll take too long with a knife. Where’s my cleaver?”

Nathan began to struggle wildly; Robinson just held him firm and pressed the knife in until Nathan could feel the pressure of it against his neck. He stopped moving and stood still.

“That’s a good little homo. Now just bear with me a minute.” Robinson dragged Nathan over a few feet and opened a drawer, pulling out a meat cleaver.”Ah, here we are. Now, hold still.” With the knife still at his throat, Nathan allowed his hand to be flattened onto the counter once again. He watched as Robinson separated his little finger and his ring finger on his left hand from the others, then he raised the cleaver. “Now hold still. This might sting a little.” And with that, he brought the cleaver down. Thwack! Nathan’s two fingers moved a little ways off, while the stumps began bleeding copiously.