Holland Suggestions (13 page)

Despite my physical weariness, my mind was now restless and I knew that sleep would be elusive. For a long time I sat in a chair just outside the inn’s front door. Again, Amy’s disappearance was bothering me, and I decided to walk while I pondered it. By this time it was very dark, but I knew the town and I knew where I was going. I crossed the rope bridge and climbed along the trail toward the hippie camp. In the distance a campfire was burning, and I could see the black forms of people moving around it. But that was fully a hundred yards away; if I was careful there was no reason why I should even be seen. I approached the first cabin, where the man with the gray-streaked hair lived, and crept around it toward the rear. A light was burning in the window facing the mountains; I could see its reflection against the trees that surrounded the house. I moved closer and turned the corner. The window was covered with an old burlap sack which was almost transparent when you got close. I got very close, pressing my nose against the cold glass.

The light inside was bad, cast by lanterns which stood in each corner. There were five people in the room; at once I saw that Amy was sitting on the floor, her back against the door, facing the window. The gray-haired man sat next to her; the girl I had seen this morning sat next to him. There were two others, both men, and I had never seen either of them. They were smoking grass, passing the joint from one to another with a clip. Even in the semidarkness I could see that Amy’s eyes were closed. The man on her right nudged her and she took the joint, dragged long on it, and passed it to the gray-haired man without opening her eyes. He passed it on without taking any of it.

I waited a long time for any conversation. When it did come it sounded like a continuation of an argument that had been simmering for days.

“Look, let’s get it over with, okay?” the gray-haired man said.

Amy’s eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

“I’m talking to you,” the man said.

Intense irritation showed on her face. “Listen, goddamnit, I told you I’ll handle it my own way. How many times have we got to go through this?”

“We’re all one here,” the man said; “you knew that when you came. Somebody had to hold up your end while you were gone.”

“Yeah, just get off that crap. I’ll tell you something, Arnie, you are becoming one big fat bore.”

“Amy, Amy, will you ever grow up and stop being a Vassar brat?”

“Up yours, Harris.” She thrust her middle finger up almost to his nose, and for a moment I thought he was going to hit her. But he checked his hand in midair and took the weed as it was passed to him. This time he dragged deeply and settled back against the wall. I waited a long time for more talk, but that was the end of it. Someone lighted a new joint, and the five of them got stoned in silence. Eventually the girl who might have been Amy’s sister got up and staggered into the other room. She moved around in there for a minute, then another door opened and I realized with a sudden flash of terror that she had turned out the Great Dane. The dog began barking, and Arnie Harris, the man with the gray hair, struggled to his feet.

“Somebody’s outside.” He started toward the door. I took off across the clearing, but the dog caught me before I made the underbrush. It tore at my legs with its teeth. I twisted and kicked out hard, crushing the dog’s nose with my foot I scrambled up the hill toward the path, and in the distance I could hear the man yelling, “Get ’im, boy, chew ’is ass!” The dog loomed up in the darkness and its body hurled forward and knocked me off balance. First I tried to cover my head, but its huge mouth ripped away at my arms. In desperation I grabbed both jaws and tried to tear its face apart.

There were some bad moments after that, when the dog’s howling and the cries of the man blended together, and I wasn’t sure where the dog or the man or the path had gone. I was running again. I felt the bouncing rope bridge beneath my feet and I slipped and almost fell into the stream. But I did not stop running until I reached the inn.

I
DID NOT USE
the overhead light in my room, but worked instead by flashlight. I washed and dressed the gashes on my arms and legs and across my forehead that way, propping the flash on the end table and bringing a basin of hot water in from the bathroom. When I was finished the water was a deep red. One leg of my pants was in shreds, so I balled up the pants and threw them into a paper bag for disposal later. All the bloody rags went in there too. Then I turned off the flash and sat in darkness at my east window. Nothing moved outside; there was no flash of light and no sound within the inn. My mind churned actively for an hour, and sometime in the middle of the night I fell into bed.

When I opened my eyes the clock on the dresser said nine-thirty-five. I felt heavy-headed and miserable and sorry I had wasted so much of the day in bed. On the way down I stopped at Jill’s door and knocked, but she was out. I found Gould in the lobby, standing in his customary place beside the register.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“Miss Sargent went with Mr. Max for a walk along the creek. I doubt they’ll be very long. What happened to your head?”

“It’s nothing; I just bumped it. Is there a telephone?”

“Not here. You’ll have to go into town for a phone.”

“I think I’ll do that.”

“Have some breakfast first.”

“I haven’t even bought any supplies yet.”

“I guess you’ll have to raid the fridge then. You can buy some things in town and replace what you take later, if you want to.”

I did have some breakfast, and it brought me back to life. Gould joined me for coffee and idle chatter. I had bigger things on my mind, and possibly Gould could help me fill in the blanks. But I have never excelled at handling multiple problems, and now too many factors were playing hell with my imagination to allow any meaningful talk. And the thing foremost in my mind at that moment was personal. The fact that Jill and Max were out together bothered me; I felt a stupid flush of teenage jealousy that was annoying and at the same time intriguing. No woman had roused that green-eyed monster in me in more than fifteen years. I decided to walk it off. The walk took me along the back streets of Gold Creek, past the crumbled remains of the corral, and along a trail below the mines. I felt like a man under a microscope. Quickly I looked up at the house on the ridge and saw that I
was
being watched. The man was standing in the shadows of the two big trees, looking my way intently. I raised my arm and waved to him, but he did not acknowledge my greeting or move in any way. I hurried along the path toward the ridge, but by the time I reached the top he was gone.

The house stood less than fifty yards ahead. From this perspective it was even more impressive than the alluring glimpse from the road. There had been some obvious recent window work; some of the frames had been painted and the broken panes replaced, and the scaffolding still stood at the sides and rear where someone had been painting. The yard was thick with trees and undergrowth;
good cover for anyone who wanted to get in for a closer look.
I climbed the four steps, which were new, and crossed the porch, which wasn’t. The boards creaked under my weight. The door was ornate and old-fashioned, with intricate carvings and a beveled oval glass in the center. A set of flimsy see-through curtains were drawn across the glass, but a set of heavier drapes remained open. I looked into the hallway. There were no people anywhere in sight, so I tried the large brass knocker set into the door just below the glass. The sound echoed inside but brought no response. I tried again, and when no one came I pressed my face against the glass and peered inside. Beyond the hallway, I saw an old-fashioned room heavily furnished with period pieces and a mantel lined with potted plants. Closer to the door was a flower arrangement. That was all I saw of the inside; I suddenly became uneasy and looked away. I tried the knocker again, not really expecting a response and not getting one. Then I walked down the steps and moved away from the house. At the rim I turned and gave the place a final look, and in an upper-floor window I saw the slight but unmistakable movement of curtains.

It was disturbing, but there was nothing that I could do about it. I couldn’t have the people arrested; I couldn’t even prove that they were my trackers, though I was sure that a close look at that black Oldsmobile would verify it. At the inn I looked around for Gould but couldn’t find him. I drove in to the nearest town and wandered along the streets, looking for a good telescope. There were no telescopes, good or otherwise, so I had to go all the way to Pueblo. In one of the large department stores there I bought a deluxe model which cost me more money than I like to think about. I visited a supermarket and bought some food. As an afterthought I called New York information, who could not find any listing for MacDougald and Barnes under any possible spelling of the name or under book publishers.

I remembered that it was Saturday. No school today. I called Judy from some gas station on the way back, told her where I was staying, that I was having a good time, and would be home in a few weeks. I arrived in Gold Creek in late afternoon. The place was as deserted as I had left it. I took the boxed telescope out of the trunk and hurried through the lobby. I thought I heard Gould moving around in his den, and I crept past the open door and up the stairs. Somewhere on the upper floor a radio was playing; as I reached the second landing I found that it came from Jill’s room. I moved quietly past her door to my own room and immediately set up the telescope in the window facing east. I adjusted the tripod and placed a chair before it. After some experimenting I focused on the house. With the telescope I had about the same view as a man standing at the top of the ridge. I moved it slightly to my right, to the spot where I knew the garage opened from behind the house. The scope was going to work out great. I could probably read the numbers on a license plate, and at least I could tell if it was a Florida plate. But I knew I had let myself in for some long, boring work.

I proved that by sitting down and watching the house for more than an hour. In all that time nothing moved but the grass on the hill, stirred slightly by the wind. I tried switching my surveillance from the house to the garage and back, but that got boring too; by the end of the hour I was wondering if buying the expensive telescope had been a good idea after all.

Footsteps came along the hall and stopped at my door. I jerked open my closet door with the first knock and called, “Just a minute,” while I was grabbing the telescope and pushing it—tripod and all—into the small compartment. It did not fit; the door would not quite close, but I let it go at that and went to answer the knock. Jill, standing alone in the hall, smiled as I opened the door.

“Dinner tonight?”

“Great,” I said. “I bought some things. …”

“Yes, I found them.”

“You seem to be getting stuck with all the cooking. I can’t do anything about it but be sympathetic. I’m a lousy cook.”

She shrugged and smiled. “Come down any time,” she said.

I closed the door and began to change clothes. All the time I kept my eyes on the east window, but my thoughts were on Jill. The telescope would not help me there; that would take action of another kind. I had no idea how to handle it. I had to admit it: She had become far more important to me in a very short time than I had ever expected her to be. Now that I knew she was lying about her purpose here, my uneasiness with her was compounded. Somehow I had to find out. I thought of the balcony connecting our windows, and I opened my window and looked out. It looked very shaky; a few of the boards were missing entirely and some of the others obviously were loose. I sat in the windowsill, swinging my feet over the edge and touching the balcony with my toes. It creaked, like everything else in the hotel, but it might support me if I stayed near the building, where the braces were. I leaned out of the window and looked down the length of the building. A shade was drawn at Jill’s room, but the window was unlocked and in fact was cracked open slightly. It was almost an open invitation, but my nerve failed me. I ducked back inside, finished dressing, and went down to join the others.

I avoided Jill, moving quickly through the lobby and seeking out the men in Gould’s den. But the den was empty. I saw Max pass the window, then Gould came by, and the two of them stood in the little yard behind the inn, talking. I went to the fireplace, which was cold and half full of ashes. Gould apparently had been fussing with it; some of the ashes had been scooped out and there were some papers and fresh logs on the floor. He had done everything but arrange it and light it. I started to do that for him, but some of the papers looked like discarded mail, so I did not. It was mostly junk mail—circulars and advertising, and there was something from a Denver goldsmith—but I did not want to burn it without checking with him first. I looked around for an old newspaper, but in another minute Gould came in through a side door.

“I thought I’d light the fire,” I said, “but I wasn’t sure you intended to burn this mail.”

“Go right ahead,” he said, and I fired it up. In another minute we had a good blaze going.

“Where’s Max?’ I asked.

“He’s got a headache. Went to his room till dinner.”

In a way I was glad that Max would not be around before the meal. That would give me a chance to pump Gould about the high country and some of the mountain legends. Having heard it all many times, Max would only inhibit Gould, as he had the other night. Gould poured my drink, making it bourbon without asking, and joined me at the fireplace.

“Your tales really add something to this place,” I told him. “The other day when Jill and I were hiking, I thought about those old miners all the way up.”

He smiled, trying without success to hide his pleasure. “I always do too—or used to, before my leg went bad and stopped my climbing. Now I have to go by jeep when I go. There is a jeep trail up to Taylor’s Gulch, you know; did I tell you that? I try to get up there two or three times a summer. But you’re right, I never go up without thinking about everything that’s happened here.”