Ancient Eyes Part 7

The stronger half of her believed Abe was in trouble, and that he only intended to shield her from it by leaving her behind. She knew that his main line of defense in any given situation was to suppress his emotions. Abe almost never spoke in anger. He had soothed her through many long nights of fear and hurt, but he had never shown the same depth of emotion in regard to his own life-until now.

She remembered his eyes when he'd come out of the last nightmare and the way he'd lurched for the telephone, as if allowing her to answer it might usher in something he couldn't protect her from. That was the bottom line of the whole thing. Abe was ignoring whatever danger or pain he faced and using his love for her to distract himself from it. He was afraid he couldn't shield her from his past, so he'd fled into it and left her to wait for him to sort it out.

Kat grabbed a sheet of paper off the computer printer and a pen. She turned on the stove and re-heated the kettle of water, then poured out the dregs of cold coffee and rinsed her cup. Sitting around would drive her insane; it was time to take some action of her own. Abe wasn't the only one with something-and someone-to protect.

When the coffee water was boiling, she flipped off the burner and poured a tall cup of hot water. She mixed in the strong, European instant coffee Abe always kept on hand and went back to her seat. She didn't know much, but maybe she knew enough to find a way to help. Anything was better than sitting and staring at the telephone, wondering who was heavy-breathing at the other end, or watching the windows for some horror-movie freak to plaster his face to the gla.s.s with Abe's head held high in one hand.

Sipping the coffee, she went over the facts she knew in her mind. She was a good listener, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Abe's voice telling his story again. His family lived on a mountain. The mountain wasn't that far away, and there was a town-Friendly? Yes, Friendly California. She wrote this on the paper and continued to sift through her thoughts.

She couldn't remember the name of the general store, but she remembered that Abe had said it was the only place on the mountain that had a phone. Finding the name of that store would be a good start. If she could do that, she could get a phone number, and if she could get directions, she could follow Abe up the mountain. She didn't know where to go when she got there, but surely the man who ran the store could help her. If everyone up there knew everyone else, it should be a simple thing to find someone-anyone-who could tell her where Abe's mother lived and help her find him. She knew he'd be upset if she followed, but it was better than being a raving lunatic waiting for him to return.

The room felt less empty now that she had formed something of a plan. It had felt like an ending, but Katrina shifted it to a beginning. She wrote down all of the names and descriptions she remembered from Abe's story. Next she carried the phone over to her makeshift desk and dialed information. She knew it wasn't going to be easy to track down the number she needed without a city to reference the store to, but it was possible that it would be listed under Friendly, since that was the only town on the mountain.

After a moment, a friendly voice answered, asked her what city and area code she needed, and Katrina began. The sun was long gone beyond the horizon, but the moon was bright and nearly full. As she waited, she tapped her pen on the paper and stared at the silver-crested waves beyond the beach.

The pleasant young operator informed her that there was, indeed, a single listing in Friendly California for a General Store.

"It's called 'Greene's General Store,'" the girl informed her.

"There are only about a dozen phones in Friendly, and half of those belong to county officials. Greene's is the only store."

Katrina thanked the girl and jotted down the number and the address. One step closer. She sat and stared at the phone for a while, gathered her courage, then lifted the receiver and dialed the number. The ring echoed. The connection had a tinny quality, and there was no answer. She let it ring ten times, hoping for an answering machine, but there was nothing. She hung up and rose.

Her suitcase was tucked up in the back of the shelf on top of the closet. It was small. Katrina had left her old life behind in a very literal sense. Most of her clothing, all of the furniture acc.u.mulated over a five year marriage, all of her books and papers, everything-presumably-had ended up in the garbage, or a Goodwill store.

The sight of her bag dredged up memories, and she placed it on the edge of the bed carefully. It would hold enough for a few days, but if she stayed on the mountain longer than that, she'd have to find more clothes. One glance at the closet was enough to show how things had begun to come back together. She had a lot of clothes now, nice things that she'd bought, and that Abe had bought for her.

Danny, her ex-husband, hadn't been one to spend money on anyone but himself. She'd had plenty to wear, but mostly because she could still fit into clothes she'd owned in high school, and they hadn't all worn out. Even the small suitcase was the same she'd left home with after high school.

Now she was taking off again. This time, though, she wasn't going to run away from anyone, or anything. This time she was going to run to someone, and once she was close enough to grab him, he wasn't getting back out of her sight until things were back to normal and they could both return together.

There was a lot to accomplish. She ran down the list in her mind. They had plenty of money to cover a few months' utilities. She would have to put a hold on the mail-she could do that when the mail carrier arrived the next morning.

She packed quickly and efficiently. The bag held more than she remembered, and she chose st.u.r.dy, outdoor clothes, t-shirts and blue jeans. She had a pair of boots that Abe had insisted she buy for hill climbing, and she tucked another of his flannel shirts in on top for extra warmth-and comfort. She had a second bag, much smaller, that held her few cosmetics and necessities.

She returned to her list and wrote down a few names. One was Abe's agent. Another was the shelter in San Valencez where she worked part-time as a counselor, the first steps at recovering her lost direction and career. She added the name of their nearest neighbor. She didn't know what she would tell them when she called, but she didn't want to leave everything as Abe had done. If she intended to help him, one way to do that would be to make certain he had something stable to come back to.

There wasn't anything left that she could think of to do, so she carried the bags to the front door, then returned to the bedroom and slipped into bed to try and get some rest. She had a lot to accomplish in the morning before she could head off up the mountain, and she wanted her wits about her. She was thrilled to be doing something, though it terrified her. With the lights out, and Abe gone, the empty house regained its sinister aspect. Katrina pulled the blankets up around her ears and burrowed into the warmth of Abe's pillow.

It was a long time before she managed to sleep.

Katrina almost missed the turnoff that led up the mountain. There was a sign that said Friendly, 23 miles, but it was faded and tucked in behind a wild growth of shrubs. She pulled to the side of the road and parked just off the pavement. She had a Styrofoam cooler with sandwiches and bottled water in the back seat with her bags. The water was cold, and she drank gratefully. The old car hadn't had air conditioning for years-not since she'd owned it, in fact-and the day was blisteringly hot. She hoped it wouldn't overheat, but if it did, she had also thought to bring a couple of gallon milk jugs full of water.

When the bottle was empty, she slid back in behind the wheel and turned off the highway and up into the mountains. The road wound steadily upward, but it twisted around rocky outcroppings and huge, immovable boulders. It was impossible to get up any speed with all the turns. Katrina gritted her teeth and concentrated on the road. There were some hairpin turns and apparently it had never occurred to whoever had build these roads that guard rails might be a good idea.

As the highway below dropped out of sight, she felt a subtle shift. It wasn't a thing she could explain, but the further up the mountain she drove, the more out-of-place and detached she felt. The trees to either side of the road were no different than any other trees she'd seen, and the road itself, while not well tended, was much like a thousand other country roads she'd driven and ridden over in her life. This was different.

She lost the San Valencez radio station about fifteen minutes off the main road, and no matter how she turned and twisted the dial, she couldn't get anything else to come in. The mountain blocked most of the larger cities, and some oddity in the stone had apparently rendered reception difficult. She drove in silence with the windows down, and that silence grew until it flowed around her.

Twice she caught herself gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles went bloodless and white. More than once she caught movement in the shadowed s.p.a.ces between trees, but when she turned to look, or stopped to get her bearings, there was nothing but sunlight filtering through the upper branches and the road itself, stretching up and away. It was nearly noon when she saw the fork ahead.

In the angle of that fork a post had been driven into the rocky soil. At the top, angled sort of down and away to the right, a sign hung. In simple black letters on a white painted plank it said: "Cotter's Point." Beneath that, in smaller letters, it proclaimed, "Friendly-10." The other fork was unmarked, and it led to the left and up toward the next peak. That road was darker, shadowed by overhanging branches. It curved about a quarter mile in and disappeared. Katrina turned left and started the b.u.mping, jostling climb toward Greene's General Store. She didn't know how far away it was, but she figured it couldn't be too far if the store shared phone service with Friendly. The power poles and the telephone lines that snaked off into the forest looked out of place.

As she rolled down that old road, the sound of her car's engine roared and echoed through the otherwise silent air. She hadn't seen another soul since turning off the main highway, and suspected that she wouldn't. The road showed evidence that others had used it recently, but not often. The further up the mountain's side she went, the deeper the sensation of isolation became.

By the time she rounded the curve that brought Greene's General Store into view Katrina was in a state of near panic. Her hands trembled on the wheel, and her knees had gone weak. What if something happened to the car? What if someone attacked her? Who would know? Once the first such thought reared its ugly head, the others followed in a flood.

Then she saw the store, and she breathed easier. No one was parked outside, but after the solitude of her drive, this didn't seem odd at all. She wondered how often people came to the store, and when they did how often they drove. It was hard to imagine homes up in the hills, buried among the trees, and harder still to picture the people inhabiting them with cars and trucks. Even the small store looked out of place, with its wood planks, stone foundation and paint that had been peeling more years than it ought to between coats. It was tacked onto the edge of the forest and stood out, stark and almost surreal.

Katrina parked in the dirt spot beside the store, and killed her engine. She stared at the old building in silence for a while and gave herself a chance to calm down. She was still shaky from the last part of the drive, and she didn't want to give away her fear before she'd even had a chance to introduce herself. It might be a little hard to explain why driving alone down a country road had frightened her half to death, and she didn't feel much like trying to do so.

Finally, she got out of the car, put her hands on her lower back and stretched, working out the kinks. What she'd taken for silence during her drive had come to life around her. Birds sang in the tops of pines so tall and thick she could only make out the lower branches. The wind sent leaves dancing over the road, and she heard the creak and groan of branches. Off in the trees, something skittered and ran-a rabbit? She turned her attention to the front of the store and started across the tiny parking lot.

Inside, cloaked by the shadows just inside the doorway to his back office, Silas watched her progress with interest. He had heard the phone ringing as he returned to the store the night before, but had not been in time to answer it. He had thought of tracing the call back to its source-no one ever called him-but now he knew the source. He couldn't have planned the day's events more perfectly himself, and he closed his eyes, offering thanks. He felt the comforting weight of ancient eyes, staring from the old church, their sight easily covering the miles, joining with his own in a moment of blending that sent a shiver through his frame. He heard a rustle above his head as shadow antlers flickered, brushed the rafters of the store gently, and then faded to black. Silas opened his eyes, straightened his shirt, and ran his fingers back through his hair.

He was already stepping forward when the knock came on the door, and as he opened it, he smiled.

FIFTEEN.

Abe eyed the path through the woods carefully. He hadn't wandered much beyond the confines of the small yard surrounding the cabin since his arrival. He gathered his firewood as close to the building as possible, and never stayed among the trees for long. He remembered the claustrophobic sensation of the vines wrapping around his ankles. Each time he rounded the corner of the cottage where he'd found his mother, he shuddered and stared into the trees, expecting to see vines snaking out from the underbrush, or a nest of vipers in the shrubs.

The night had pa.s.sed in relative quiet, and he'd slept soundly. He didn't know how this could be, in the face of everything that had happened in the past few days, but the cottage drained the worries and pain of the world away. There was strength in the old stone, and though he had severed his connection with it many years before, it remembered.

The path down the mountain was a different thing entirely. He stared down toward the old church and frowned. The day before he'd struggled through hedges and thorns. His arms bore the cuts and scratches to prove he hadn't hallucinated the experience, but now the path was clear. He couldn't see all the way to the church, because there were twists and turns in the trail, but from where he stood he should have seen the hedges. The trail was a little overgrown, but it was the overgrowth of disuse.

Abe turned to the fresh grave where he'd buried his mother, then back to the trail. The sky was clear, and the sun already reached tentatively through the upper branches of the trees. He gave himself no time to think. He stepped onto the trail and started down, keeping his eyes on the ground before him and watching carefully for any movement. The snake still lurked in the back of his thoughts, and he didn't relish a second encounter with it, even unenc.u.mbered by vines.

The walk was brisk and uninterrupted. He made good time, and soon had the short steeple of the stone church in sight. He was about to break into a quick trot for the last few yards when a glint of light on the trail caught his eye. He stopped, squinted, and leaned down. A round bit of metal lay in the dirt, half covered by mud. It dangled from a chain that was wedged into the 'y' shaped branch of a small sapling. Abe unfastened the chain from the small tree and lifted it into the growing light.

He knew what it was before it broke free of the mud. His mother's pendant dangled from his fingers, and the world spun. His knees weakened, and he staggered. He started toward the nearest tree for support, then stopped cold. He stared at the tree, the vines wound around its base, the shrubs and plants trailing off behind it, and then he turned back to the trail. He gripped the pendant in his hand so tightly its metal edges bit into his flesh. The chain dangled over his fingers.

He descended the last few steps to the yard of the stone chapel and fell on his knees in the dirt. The night before he'd acted numbly, cutting his mother free of the clinging forest and laying her to rest in the rocky soil. He'd done what had to be done, still clutched in the fear and shock of his own ordeal. Now, kneeling before the door of his father's church, the pendant she'd worn since before he was born clutched in one hand, the full impact of what had occurred slammed into him with brutal, undeniable force.

He clasped his hands and bowed his head close to the earth. Tears flowed freely and washed down his cheeks to drip over his hands and the pendant. The sun beat down on his back, but he ignored it. He focused on the image of his mother's face, not the cold, lifeless countenance he'd seen the night before, but the warm, vibrant woman he remembered. He heard her voice as she wandered about her cottage. She was always speaking, chanting, or singing in his memory. He couldn't recall a moment of silence between them.

He shook with sudden fatigue and hunger, and sobs wrenched his stomach into knots of pain. He thought of Katrina, and wished she were with him. He thought of his father, and of his mother, and the years lined up between the memories like dominos. They fell away to the sides, and his universe focused on the shiny metal circle in his hand.

The cross caught sunlight and glowed. He felt it first in his hands, then rolling up his arms in waves. Heat, and strength. His mother's words, vague echoes just moments before, filled his mind. Abe raised his head and saw that the sun shone full on the face of the old church. The white walls gleamed, and for just a moment he thought of the Cathedral of San Marcos, dangling over the ocean above his cottage.

The warmth had reached his knees. Abe rose slowly and walked to the front door of the small church. He pulled it wide and stepped inside. Sunlight filtered in through the windows and striped the floor. Abe walked to the front of the church where the old stone podium stood. It should have been coated in dust and festooned with cobwebs, but it was clean, caught directly in the sunlight from one of the side windows. Abe stepped behind it, looked out over the stone benches, and closed his eyes.

His mother's voice gave way to memories of his father. He remembered the sermons; the words of praise to a power great enough to create the mountain. He remembered the sensation of unity this old, weathered building had brought, the community of spirit. He'd been too young to appreciate it at the time, but the memories were strong and surprisingly clear.

Very carefully, he wiped the last of the mud off of his mother's cross. He cleaned the chain, and then he fastened the clasp. It wasn't damaged, and when he saw this, he frowned. If it hadn't been broken off, then how had it come to be in the path? He knew his mother would never have given it up voluntarily. He'd asked her about it a thousand times.

"It's my protection," she'd told him. After Abe's father died, she gave the matching pendant to Abe, who'd worn it ever since. He hadn't done this out of a need for protection, but in memory of his parents. That, at least, is what he'd told himself. Now he wondered.

He slid the necklace carefully into the pocket of his jeans and stood a moment longer. He'd thought of this many times as a boy and wondered how it would feel to stand at his father's podium. No one returned his gaze, and if he spoke, they would not hear, but it didn't change the sense of something important taking place. The small chapel had grown warm with the morning sunlight. It would be hot soon, and he knew he needed to hurry. He wanted to reach his mother's cottage before noon, and to be back at the other cottage before even a hint of nightfall stained the mountain. The trail was clear enough now, but who knew what might happen in the course of the day? Dust rose from the floor as he headed back down the center aisle and out of the church. There was time to clean up and look at repairs when he returned. Abe turned down the path toward the base of the peak and walked, deep in thought. Behind him the stone chapel glimmered in the sunlight. Somehow it seemed less abandoned.

The trail down from the stone chapel to the lower peaks was less overgrown. The sense of foreboding that emanated from the trees lining the upper trail was present, but lessened as Abe approached inhabited lands. Off to either side of the trail lands claimed by the several families of the mountain stretched on around the peak and down the opposite side. There was no formal ownership, as far as Abe knew, though he was certain that at some point paperwork must have been filed in some government office somewhere. No one had ever come to claim the land as their own-or if they had, they hadn't come back.

His father's family alone had three separate branches. Abe's uncle Bradford lived up past the Murphys. He had two sons and a daughter. Abe remembered them all vaguely. There was another Uncle, Jacob, who had been with those who came up the mountain the night of "the cleansing."

He'd met them, of course, and he'd seen them on weekends at the church, but Abe's mother had caused a rift in the family that was seldom breached. The families on the mountain were so spread out that it was easy to live day to day and forget how many there were, and how widespread the influence of the two churches, and the single road leading down past Greene's General Store actually were.

Abe's childhood had been spent largely in the company of his mother, and his father, working on the mountain. He was one of those fortunate enough to have educated parents, and the home schooling he'd received had been extensive. When there was time to spend with other children, it was a treat, rare enough to be special. He'd had free run of the mountain for most of his life, but for all of that his exploration and adventures had been oddly confined.

You didn't want to wander onto another family's land without permission, or at least properly announcing yourself, and this limited the "neutral" ground severely. The result was that Abe knew most of the people of the mountain by sight, a lot of them by name, but very few of them well enough for more than a polite h.e.l.lo.

The others on the mountain had always been particularly distant with Abe. His father tended the stone chapel, and the set of beliefs and customs surrounding their faith were intricate and intense. It was a.s.sumed from an early age that Abraham would take over when Jonathan pa.s.sed on, that the family would continue into the future, father-to-son, tending the chapel, the graveyard, and the small cottage above.

Jonathan was the first not to make his home in the small cottage above the church, and the first to marry someone from the outside. He had been educated in the city, sent off by his own father, and then returned as he felt the call of the church, and the draw of the mountain. He had been resented for each of these variations from tradition, but despite this Jonathan Carlson was held in high esteem. He was a holy man with a holy cause, and he bore a weight that none of his followers would have shouldered. He alone stood against the white church, and all it represented, and Abraham was intended as his successor.

Both churches had gone empty for a long time, and there was no way for Abe to predict how the people would react to his presence. His father had gone away to school and returned, but he'd returned out of a sense of purpose, and the church was still in the hands of Abe's Grandfather, Malachi Carlson, at the time. In all the recorded generations of families on the mountain, the church had never been left untended-until now.

He reached the bottom of the trail and turned right toward his mother's home. He walked slowly and made no effort to hide his presence. To reach the church in the woods, or the road below that led down to San Valencez, folks had to pa.s.s by the cottage. It was one of the reasons that Jonathan Carlson built his home there. He wanted to be able to keep a close watch on what went on at that other church, and he wanted a high traffic area where he could interact with others as often as possible. Jonathan had believed in being part of the lives of those he served and Sundays alone weren't adequate for this.

Abe swung his gaze from side to side and turned occasionally to scan the trail behind him. He caught site of one old man, standing alone among the trees, and he waved. The man stared at him, but didn't raise a hand in return. A moment later he turned away and disappeared into the trees. Abe shrugged and continued on. He reached the cottage about noon and went inside.

With the curtains open, there was plenty of light inside. Abe moved from room to room carefully. He mentally inventoried his mother's things, separating those he would take back down the mountain when this was all over and done with from those he needed to lug back up to the cottage. His father had come down to be with his family during the week, but Abe had no such ties, and he knew if he wanted the trust and help of others on the mountain it would be a good start if he stayed in the stone cottage, in the old way, rather than living down here.

The white church was too close to this place. Despite the symbol on the door, there was no protection from regular, everyday dangers. The spirit of that place might not be able to enter, or cause harm, but the followers could do as they wanted. A well-placed torch brought to the cottage quietly could catch a man unaware. The cottage was built of wood, and it would burn very well.

He found canned food, coffee, some cooking utensils and other items with no trouble. Some of his father's clothing remained in the one closet, and he picked through this, drawing out extra shirts and a jacket. His mother's books and journals all went into a neat pile, and on top of them he placed the small wooden box with the pouch inside.

The pile was both larger than he really wanted to carry up the trail to the cottage, and smaller than he had wished for. There was so little left of the family he'd left behind that what was important fit into a large canvas bag he found under the bed. His mother's books were the heaviest, but Abe wouldn't leave them behind. They would be among the first things destroyed if anyone decided to vandalize the house, and though he'd paid little enough attention to her when she was alive, Abe wanted these pieces of her preserved.

It took about an hour to finish the packing. He had his own knapsack, emptied the day before at the stone cottage, and he had the blue canvas bag from the closet. It was a good load, but he had plenty of daylight left. Abe closed the door and turned back toward the trail, shouldering the bags easily. He was suddenly glad for the long morning runs on the beach-if he hadn't stayed in shape, this would have ended up being a miserable climb.

Abe had just reached the junction where the trail leading up to the stone church broke off from the main trail when he heard the crunch of footsteps ahead. Taking a break, he lowered the two bags to the ground and waited. A moment later a tall thin young man appeared around the trees. He caught sight of Abe and stopped, staring.

The two stood like that for a few minutes, then Abe, leaving the bags where he'd dropped them, stepped forward and extended his hand. It had taken a moment, but his memory had kicked in. He knew this young man, or had known him when they were both much younger. Just over six feet tall, the man peered out from beneath the brim of a very old Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. He wore filthy jeans that barely reached the top of his socks, a black t-shirt and worn boots.

"Henry?" Abe asked.

The man stared a moment longer, then broke into a sly grin that slid sideways across his face and never quite reached amus.e.m.e.nt. He took Abe's hand in his own and shook.

"Abe Carlson," he said softly. "We figured you'd never be back this way."

"I figured the same thing," Abe replied. "Things change."

"They do," Henry agreed. "They surely do. You back to see your ma?"

Abe considered his answer carefully. As far as he knew he was the only one who knew his mother was dead. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to share, or with whom, but this didn't seem a good time to start lying or holding back. Henry George was old Harry George's son. Old Harry had been Jonathan Carlson's friend.

"I hoped to see her," he replied. "But I was too late. She's dead, Henry. I found her up by the old stone cottage above the church."

Henry averted his gaze, stared into the trees and tugged down on his hat brim. Abe watched him. Then, slowly, Henry lifted his face and met Abe's gaze.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I saw her not more than a week ago.

How ..." The question hung in the air, unfinished. "She was hanging from a tree, Henry," Abe said. He kept the tone of his voice even and steady, stomping on the flood of emotion dredged up by his words. "She was dead, hanging from a tree by a bunch of vines. I don't think it was a heart attack."

Henry shook his head. It was impossible to tell if this was in agreement with Abe's a.s.sessment or over some inner turmoil. He muttered something under his breath.

"Did you say something?" Abe asked. Henry shook his head again. Then he cleared his throat. "I'm really sorry, Abe," he said. "I didn't know. We haven't been up to the old church since..." Henry hesitated, and then continued, "Well, not since your pa died. "

Abe's turn to nod. "I figured as much," he said. "It didn't look like anyone else had been up there in a long time. I don't know what happened to her, Henry, but she called me back. She said things were happening here, and that I was needed. You know anything about that?"

Henry pulled at his hat brim again, dragging it a little lower over his forehead, and Abe frowned. There was something about this gesture that was odd.

Henry shifted his gaze to the trees again and bit his lip. He was on the verge of saying something, and then shook his head again. "Not sure what you mean," he said. "Nothing much ever changes here, Abe. You know that."

"Well, I guess I'll find out," Abe replied softly. "How's your dad?"

Henry glanced up again. "He's fine. He'll be glad to hear you're back."

Abe smiled. "Tell him I'll be at the church on Sunday, if he wants to drop in."

Henry stared at him. Again, the young man seemed poised to say something, but he held his silence and nodded. "I'll tell him," he said.

"I better get going," Abe said, turning back for his bags and slinging them over his shoulders. "I still have a climb ahead, and the place is a mess."

"See you around, then," Henry replied.

He started off down the trail and disappeared into the trees. Abe watched until the man was out of sight, then turned back to the trail and started up. It was nearly two o'clock, and he wanted to be up the last bit of trail before dark. He thought maybe the trail would be clear now, but he didn't want to take any chances by night. He also wanted to be able to watch the trail for snakes.

Harry George sat out front of his cabin in a hand-made rocker. In one hand he held an old pipe. He rocked slowly and let the warmth of the sun soak in through wrinkled skin and brittle bones. His hair was white and flowed back over his shoulders, and he wore a full beard as white as his hair except for a stripe down the left side where the dark black of his youth ran through it like a vein. He squinted as something moved near the edge of his yard and nearly reached for his shotgun.

A moment later his son, Henry, slipped out of the trees and Harry leaned back with a sigh. He wasn't sure if he was glad to see the boy, or if he wished it was a bear instead. Something he could be afraid of without wondering why, and that he wouldn't mind shooting.

The boy was wearing his hat down low on his forehead, and Harry knew why. He'd seen that mark, not just on his son, but on several of their neighbors. He'd seen it before, as well.

Henry stepped onto the porch and hesitated at the door. He looked nervous, like someone was watching him. When he spoke, the words were terse and hurried.

"I saw Reverend Carlson's boy Abe on the trail," he said. "He was headed back up to the stone church. He said his ma was dead."

Before Harry could respond, Henry turned and slipped through the door into the cabin. Harry thought about rising to follow, then settled back and frowned. Abe Carlson was on the mountain? Sarah Carlson was dead?

Harry turned and stared pointedly through the trees toward the white wooden church. He stared, and he remembered. The last time he'd seen Abraham Carlson, the boy had been young, and Harry had never expected to see him again.

He rocked slowly and closed his eyes.