‘‘I brought you here to show you something,’’ Emmons told them. ‘‘Wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.’’ He retreated into one of the bedrooms.
‘‘Look at this,’’ Brian said, pointing.
Next to a bound set of
Man, Myth and Magic
, Carrie saw a thick book with gold embossed lettering:
George Washington: A Cannibal’s Story.
Before she could say anything, Emmons had returned. ‘‘I want you to read this.’’ He handed them a Xerox copy of what looked like an old manuscript written with quill and ink. ‘‘It’s by Meriwether Lewis, part of the censored Lewis and Clark diaries. A friend of mine who works for the Smithsonian got it to me. Read this part here.’’ He pointed.
Carrie squinted at the smudged archaic lettering while Brian read the words aloud. ‘‘We Encountered yet another One by the Bank of the River. Our Guides Knew of It and Bade Us stay away, yet We Watcht as It had Its way with a Woman of the Tribe. Its Organ be of exceptional Size and admirable Shape, though That alone could not Account for the Hold It Had upon the Woman. Afterward, the Sand on which They Lay Bloomed with Flowers that Had Not been There previously.’’
Brian stopped reading, and the two of them looked over at Emmons.
‘‘There were many encounters with these beings, not only by Lewis and Clark, but by other explorers and settlers who lived at the edge of the wilderness. In many accounts, people report that they traveled or lived in packs, and both males and females mated freely with humans.
‘‘They also killed many individuals in particularly brutal ways.’’
‘‘You think this is what’s happening now?’’ Brian asked.
‘‘I think they live among us, yes. Disguised, perhaps. Adapted. I’ve thought so for some time, although it has never been more than a hunch, and there has never been any proof or even indication that this is the case. Until now. I must commend you not only on your investigative skills and your tenacity but on your boldness of thought. It is not everyone who would have seen these facts and come to such a conclusion.’’
‘‘Wilson,’’ Brian said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘It was mostly his doing. He was the one who put most of it together.’’ He paused. ‘‘And I think they killed him for it.’’
‘‘That could very well be. It would not be in their best interest to be found out.’’
Carrie’s pulse accelerated. ‘‘Maybe we’re next.’’
‘‘Maybe,’’ Emmons agreed. ‘‘But Lew Haskell didn’t harm you.’’ He looked at Brian. ‘‘And you’ve been jetting about California, stirring things up for some time after your friend’s disappearance and nothing’s happened. My guess is, you’re safe.’’
‘‘My dad,’’ Brian said softly.
‘‘That could be the reason. But in this business, we don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Now, you said that all of the men involved in the murders were deformed, had animal characteristics. It’s what made me think of these creatures. Because the beings Lewis and Clark and others wrote about were also described as having snakeskin or wormskin, as well as devil tails and other varying attributes. There are a lot of contradictory stories. The historical record is like that. But, as you saw, there’s also the flowers, the plants. That, too, ties in with what you’ve said.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ Brian nodded. ‘‘So what else do you know about these . . . whatever they are?’’
‘‘Some Native Americans thought of them as demons.’’
‘‘What do you think?’’ Brian asked.
‘‘I don’t know. I’m not saying I disbelieve in demons, but I’m not sure these things fit the qualifications. Although,’’he added, ‘‘bringing back a forest overnight is pretty major.’’
‘‘No kidding,’’ Carrie said.
‘‘It seems, from everything I’ve read, that they
spoke
to certain people. Not ‘spoke’ like we’re speaking, not in words, but to particular individuals who were somehow receptive, they called to them, enticed them to leave their villages or their settlements and . . . that part’s not very clear. Maybe they ended up slaves; maybe they ended up food.’’
She thought of Brian’s father, and she could tell from the expression on his face that he was thinking the same thing.
Emmons said it aloud. ‘‘When you told me about your dad, that’s the first thing that occurred to me. It would explain to some extent the anomalies.’’
‘‘You think he’s
working
for them?’’
Emmons shrugged. ‘‘Do you think he’s
one
of them?’’
Carrie could tell that he didn’t know what to think, and she wondered if she would be dealing with things this well if one of her parents had somehow been at the center of a horror like this. She probably would have been a basket case, and she admired Brian’s ability to remain focused with this emotional tornado spiraling destructively all around him.
‘‘They also seemed to have a propensity for recording their atrocities,’’ the writer said, ‘‘be it through cave paintings or carvings or—’’
‘‘Videotapes?’’ Brian said. ‘‘Or messages scrawled in blood?’’
‘‘Perhaps.’’
‘‘But if this
is
what our millionaires are,’’ Brian wondered, ‘‘why are they murdering their families and going on killing sprees? What’s the point of that?’’
‘‘I don’t know. And I have to admit that the fact that this has happened before, that other rich men went on earlier rampages is news to me. I never noticed that or picked up on it in any of my studies. Again, I commend you.’’
‘‘Still Wilson,’’ Brian said. ‘‘And did I mention that all of those other killers were from California?’’
‘‘Interesting.’’
‘‘Yes, it is,’’ Brian said. ‘‘But what does it mean?’’
‘‘That I can’t tell you,’’ Emmons admitted.
‘‘You said those . . . things that Lewis and Clark encountered killed people in very brutal ways,’’ Carrie stated.
‘‘That is true. But from what I can determine, they slaughtered invaders in order to preserve and defend the vanishing wilderness in which they lived. It was a protective measure. Which I suppose ties in with the regrowth of the forest. How it relates to Stephen Stewart and Bill Devine and all the rest . . . ?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘It’s anyone’s guess.’’
Brian handed back the Xeroxed paper. ‘‘The question is, what do we do about it? What
can
we do about it?’’
Emmons shook his head. ‘‘History is silent on that subject. This is one of those stories that exist in the margins, that I’ve put together myself from scraps of information collected here and there. Like I said, some of the Native American tribes had stories of demons that seemed to jibe pretty closely with what the settlers and explorers wrote about, but to my knowledge there were no prescriptions for exorcising or getting rid of those demons. And none of the pioneers mentioned anything about killing these beings.’’
‘‘So what do we do?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘Who does?’’ Carrie asked.
He sighed. ‘‘I honestly have no idea.’’
‘‘Then that’s . . . it?’’ Brian asked.
‘‘I’m afraid so. I’ve given you all the help I can. I mean, I can provide you with other texts, point you toward other descriptions, but you have the gist of it, and unless you’re planning to write a thesis, you probably don’t need that many background details.’’
‘‘I’m writing an article,’’ Brian said.
‘‘Are you?’’
That seemed to stop him.
‘‘Forgive me for saying so, but this quest seems personal to me. And I seriously doubt that the
Los Angeles Times
or any reputable newspaper is going to publish an article linking murderous millionaires to early American demons unless concrete proof is not only corroborated by witnesses with the impeachability of the Pope but captured live on film as well. And speaking as someone who’s been around the block on this a couple of times, that doesn’t happen.’’
‘‘
The Weekly Globe
would print it,’’ Carrie said.
‘‘My point exactly.’’
‘‘Then maybe I won’t write an article,’’ Brian said. ‘‘Or I won’t write
that
article. But I need to know.’’
‘‘I do, too,’’ Carrie said.
‘‘So, are you in with us?’’
Emmons shook his head. ‘‘I’m more of an armchair detective. Besides, there’s something else I’m working on, something else I need to do.’’ He looked from Carrie to Brian. ‘‘What’s
your
next move?’’
If they had a plan, Brian hadn’t told her what it was, and she turned to him for an answer to the question. But he was already looking at her.
Both of them shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Brian said.
‘‘One bit of advice?’’
Brian nodded. ‘‘Sure,’’ he said.
‘‘Be careful,’’ Emmons said grimly. ‘‘Be very, very careful.’’
Twenty-five
Another hike.
The last of their vacation?
It was supposed to be, but Andrew wasn’t sure. Despite the fact that they were scheduled to head home the day after tomorrow and he and Robin both had to be back to work on Monday, he seemed unable to entertain the idea of leaving. There was still so much to do here.
Although when he tried to think about it logically, he did not know
what
exactly there
was
to do.
Robin, of course, wanted to leave yesterday. She’d grown more and more uncomfortable here even as he had come to feel more and more at home. Their scare at the fair notwithstanding, this had been a wonderful trip, and he wished it could last forever.
Alyssa grabbed his hand as they started up a steep section of trail. ‘‘I’m tired,’’ she whined. ‘‘I want a piggyback ride.’’
‘‘You’re too big for that now,’’ he told her. ‘‘Just keep walking. We’re almost at the top.’’
Last night, he’d had a dream that he’d met a beautiful, sexy woman on a hilltop above Oak Draw. Only she wasn’t exactly a woman. And probably, by conventional standards, she would not be considered beautiful. But there was something incredibly erotic about the way she looked, the way she stood, the way she moved— everything about her—and he’d awakened with an erection so powerful and close to the edge that it had taken only a slight shift of position to send him spurting into his underwear.
He didn’t want to admit it, but that was probably the reason he’d wanted to come up here this morning.
They were hiking up a different trail this time, heading in the direction opposite the town. Robin had stated flatly that she would not go on another hike. He’d understood why, and that was fine, but she’d glared at him as though that should be reason enough for
him
not to want to hike either. She was already mad at him for the mess he’d made in the bed—some of the stickiness had gotten on her nightgown and hardened on her thigh after he’d fallen back asleep and rolled over—but he wasn’t about to let his vacation be ruined by her hang-ups, and he’d told her pleasantly that he’d take the kids and she could lounge around and catch up on some of her summer reading.
They reached the top of the hill. It was not flat, as the crest of the other hill had been, but rocky, wedges of broken stone that looked like the ruined walls of some ancient civilization winding about the irregular ground. Once again, though, there was another path, an offshoot, and once again it either led to or passed by an adobe hut that could be seen peeking out from between boulders. He didn’t want to go that way—not with the kids—so they continued hiking straight, toward a stand of tall pines that towered over the rough rock formations.
The trail ran alongside a granite wall, through an opening in the stone, next to a protruding rock shelf. It really did look like an eroded fort or the ruins of a city, and Johnny suddenly stopped, pointing. ‘‘Look!’’ he said excitedly.
There were strange, almost hieroglyphic symbols displayed on several boulders that lined their path. They’d been carved into the rock but had then been traced over with white paint that was now chipped and faded. Andrew bent down to examine the symbols. He didn’t recognize them, had no idea what they meant or how they had gotten here or who had made them, but he suddenly wanted to learn them, wanted to be able to read them, write them. He stood, looked around, glanced back at where that adobe hut was, though it couldn’t be seen from this vantage point. Something here seemed to be calling to him, and he wished the kids had stayed with Robin at the cabin, wished he had come here alone.
Ahead, through the trees, he saw movement and caught a glimpse of something white and shiny that resembled wormskin and for some reason reminded him of the woman in his dream.
‘‘Dad?’’ Alyssa said, tapping him on the shoulder.
He tried to press down on his erection before standing, hoping neither of the kids would notice. ‘‘What is it?’’ he asked.
‘‘Could we go back? I don’t like it here.’’
Glancing over, he saw the same look of worry on his son’s face. ‘‘Sure,’’ he said. He stole a quick glance at the trees, but whatever had been there was gone. ‘‘Let’s turn around.’’
They spent the afternoon touring a winery a couple of miles up the highway from Oak Draw and then a small volcanic tunnel misleadingly called Gargantuan Caverns.
After dinner, Andrew walked onto the porch alone. Robin was doing the dishes and the kids were watching television. Outside, the night was silent, the cicadas that had been buzzing earlier in the day now quiet, last night’s cricket symphony nowhere to be heard. It seemed darker than usual, and Andrew realized that that was because two of the other cabins were dark. The middle of the week was never as crowded as the ends, and he assumed that some of their neighbors of the past few days had moved on while their replacements had not yet arrived. He breathed deeply, smelling pine, smiling. He liked the feeling of being alone here.
And then he saw the cat.
It was standing on the path in front of the cabin, looking up at him, and the way the moonlight fell upon its face made it look as though its eye sockets were empty.
Maybe they were.
The animal
was
dead.