Page 50 of The Forest of Lost Souls

He switches on his flashlight and carves his way through the night and then through the age-skewed shadow-draped architecture of the sawmill that is being gradually deconstructed by gravity and the weather. Although the night is windless, a draft weaves among the massive posts that support the roof beams, softly rattling loose sheet metal somewhere. The littered concrete floor is puddled with foul-smelling water and no doubt copious quantities of rat urine. On his way to a previous meeting here, Regis once saw a rat as big as a dog. Although Vector, who hadn’t seen it, insisted it must have been a possum, Regis remains convinced it was a fifty-pound rat and that the moldering sawmill is a mutant womb gestating numerous monsters in preparation for some looming Armageddon.

Outside again, at the north end of the main building, he finds Galen Vector waiting for him on the plank-floored bridge spanning the river that tumbles from its origin high in the mountains. When the mill was in operation, water was diverted to the sorting chutes that carried logs of different sizes to the saws most appropriate for them. With no moonlight to silver its whorls and ripples, the rushing water slithers like an oil-black snake, infinite in length, either issuing from or returning to a pit at the core of the world.

Vector splays two fingers across the lens of his flashlight to dim it, and Regis does likewise as he approaches the rendezvous point, but enough light exists to reveal that the crime boss wearsplaid pants with what appear to be snakeskin cowboy boots. As usual, dark glasses screen Vector’s eyes. Regis realizes he doesn’t know what color those eyes are or if they have any color at all.

The center of the bridge on this remote and abandoned property is the mutually preferred venue when Vector and Regis must meet, to ensure that no evidence is produced regarding the nexus where the interests of the Bead criminal enterprise, crooked politicians, and Terrence Boschvark meet. If Vector or Regis were ever followed by an agent with audio gear featuring a powerful directional microphone—or if one meant to betray the other by recording a conversation—the roar of water as it quickens into rapids under the span would foil the plot. They face each other—much too close for Regis’s taste—and speak as softly as possible while still being able to hear each other.

“Something has happened to Nash Deacon,” Regis reveals. “He might even be dead. If he is, we know where. We need your people to investigate—and urgently.”

41

THE BOX

After dinner, Vida takes the box from the shelf in the bedroom closet. Because she has handled the package with great care over the past eleven months, the yellow paper and blue ribbon look pristine.

A free end of ribbon from the bow passes through a paper-punch hole in one corner of a four-inch-square white envelope, securing it with a knot. On the envelope is her name in José’s neat handwriting. The envelope is sealed. She hasn’t opened it because it might have a message revealing the nature of the gift. She means to read the card only when the time has come to open the box.

This birthday gift, which José had intended to give her, was passed along by his brother, Reyes, who had flown in from Miami to attend the funeral, clean out José’s house, and settle the estate.

Now, as on other occasions, Vida sits on the edge of her bed with the box on her lap. As before, an inner voice that’s neither hers nor José’s warns,Every ending is a beginning, but this is a beginning on which you’re not yet prepared to embark.

If she’s to be killed in the days ahead, whether in a forest clearing graced with blue wildflowers or elsewhere, she doesn’t want to die without knowing what gift her lover, her fiancé, intended to give her. However, she’s aware that life is a layered tapestry, with recondite meaning below the surface. Mundane and mysticalthreads are equally strong and essential to the integrity of the fabric. If she opens the package, she won’t be felled by a curse for violating some occult proscription against doing so; the hidden dimensions of life aren’t as portrayed in pulp fiction, neither irrational nor realms of unrelenting menace. But if she ignores her intuition and opens the box, perhaps what lies within might set in motion a chain of cause and effect that will put her in greater danger than she would be otherwise. Her intuition, her ability to see what others can’t and know what others don’t, has served her well, and she is not fool enough to fail to keep faith with it.

She returns the box to the high shelf and tucks it into a corner, concealing it with a spare pillow and a folded afghan, so that an intruder, in her absence, will not see the bright giftwrap and be tempted to open the package.

This has been a long, busy day, and she is weary. She’s early to bed because she must rise at first light. Rise and be ready for those who drink the wine of violence.

The dream of her uncle and the crashed airplane represented more than a prediction; it had been a warning of an inescapable threat. Someone will come for her either tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Her only ally will be the wilderness, nature and all its creatures, which Vida has been told she’s chosen to protect. Chosen by destiny. Which means the shaper of nature, of all things within the universe and outside it. Perhaps the seer at that painted table in that old house was insane. After all, does it not beggar belief to claim that such a solemn responsibility would be conferred upon a girl who works a placer mine and spends so much time learning humble skills like carpentry, backhoe operation, locating wild blackberries, and differentiating between edible and poisonous mushrooms? On the other hand, it is true thatno creature of the wild has harmed her, that foxes often attend her progress through woods and meadows, that deer frequently visit her for hours as she seins the spaded earth for gemstones. And wolves are her friends.

As Vida rests her head upon her pillow and draws up the covers, she puts all doubt and worry behind her when she recalls something the seer said.Although the world is a place of wonders, Vida, what can be seen of it is the least part, and what can’t be seen is the magnificent why and how of the world. Happiness and peace require patient waiting for the sight that at the moment can’t be seen.

And so she sleeps.

42

THE BATS TAKE FLIGHT

Strangely, to Regis Duroc-Jersey, the rapids roaring under the bridge sound less like rushing water than like a fierce fire in a blast furnace where ore is being smelted into iron. Sometimes he is certain that he hears screaming within that ceaseless detonation. He attributes this to exhaustion. Striving to profit handsomely from the slow-motion destruction of the current civilization involves a mental and moral high-wire walk that can fatigue even an exercise enthusiast who meditates faithfully and adheres to a rigorous low-carb diet.

“Deacon was supposed to use a burner phone to call the big guy’s burner,” Regis says, referring to Boschvark, “but he didn’t call.”

“When was this supposed to happen?” Galen Vector asks.

“This morning. No later than noon.”

“Call him about what?”

“About Sheriff Montrose.”

“That prick. What about him?”

“Friday, Montrose said he wants his job back.”

“You’re jackin’ me.”

“I don’t have the energy.”

“The prick retired.”

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