‘I know.’
It was Jules’s suggestion that they give her a little ‘thank you’ money. There were ways and means of doing that. Rose imagined a proud and hardy woman like Grace would find a wad of notes in a plain brown envelope distasteful — although she could probably well do with it. It had taken no more than a dozen mouse clicks on the internet for Rose to find how little the National Parks Service paid their wardens; a pittance. They seemed to rely more on the dutiful enthusiasm of their staff to keep things running than on a properly managed budget.
Grace leaned back on her stool and pulled a mug out from a shelf beneath the till. ‘Wanna coffee?’
‘Thanks. Look, Grace. I’ve got a couple of days to kill. I thought I’d fill the time with a bit of research and gather up some local flavour for our story.’
The older woman filled the mug from a Thermos flask and placed it on the counter. ‘Comes already with cream and sugar,’ she said.
‘That’s fine, thanks.’
‘What sort of research?’
She passed a steaming mug over the counter to Rose, who took a sip. It was sickeningly sweet. ‘Well, I suppose I could start with the various ghost stories we’ve heard from people in Blue Valley. There do seem to be a lot of them.’
Grace nodded. ‘Yup, and all very different.’
‘But I wonder whether it’s possible to trace their roots back to something that did actually happen.’
‘You’re thinking some of them might have something to do with that find out there?’
Rose nodded. ‘That’s usually the case, though, isn’t it? I mean, maybe some of the people who ended up stuck in those mountains made it down okay, into this town. They’d have stories to tell, possibly some quite gruesome stories… particularly if they ended up like that Donner party.’
‘It’s possible, I s’pose.’
‘I can imagine that over a hundred and fifty years those could eventually become the basis for the local ghost stories that Julian and I recorded people talking about last week.’ Rose sipped her coffee. ‘I mean, there was one bloke who said — you know how it goes — a friend of a friend was camping up in those woods and saw a walking skeleton…’
Grace laughed. ‘Oh yeah, the Rag Man story. I’ve heard about a dozen versions of that one from my boys over the years, and now my grandchildren scare each other in the play-ground with the same old thing.’
‘Ooh, let’s hear it.’
‘Not much to it, really. It’s just the name for our local boogieman. The Rag Man, a walking skeleton, sometimes in a monk’s cowl, sometimes in rags, sometimes he’s an escaped lunatic, sometimes a drug-crazed serial killer. Some stories have him hacking up lonely teenage girl campers, some stories have him wandering around in town stealing little girls.’ Grace shrugged. ‘Kids round here regurgitate all sorts of rubbish from the crappy movies they watch, and then replace Freddy Kruger with the Rag Man.’
‘Hmmm… what about older ghost stories? Ones that aren’t Hollywood inspired. Do you know of any?’
Grace looked up at the ceiling of the store, trawling for some long-forgotten fireside tales from her youth.
‘What about Blue Valley?’ Rose asked. ‘There’ll be some sort of local archives in the town, right?’
She shrugged. ‘I s’pose. There’s a one-sheet free local newspaper that runs only during the holiday season. You know the deal: a few local-issue stories, some local flavour for the visitors, and a bunch of adverts. An old boy runs that pretty much on his own. Blue Valley Bugle, it’s called.’
Rose sipped her coffee again. ‘Do you know who?’
‘Yeah, Aaron Pohenz. He owns one of the motels in town. Valley Lodge. Know it?’
She nodded. It was a little further down the street from hers. Looked a lot nicer, too.
‘He’s got a printing press in the basement, does it all from there. You could start with him. I’m sure if he can’t give you any more details, least he can do is point you in the right direction.’
Rose made a note of the name, and then finished up the treacle-sweet brew in her mug. ‘Thanks, Grace, you’ve been a great help,’ she said and turned to go.
‘Hey, Rose.’
Rose turned back.
‘You told him yet?’
‘Told who… what?’
The old woman smiled knowingly. ‘How you feel.’
Rose felt her cheeks colour. ‘I… you’re talking about Jules?’
Grace nodded. ‘You know, it’s pretty obvious, even to an old stick like me.’
Oh shit, am I really that obvious?
‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘There was a man I once let go without sayin’ a thing. Long time ago. Hell, he probably would’ve said no. On the other hand’ — she looked out of the store window at the wooded peaks — ‘might have said yes.’
Rose felt her cheeks flush. ‘Oh, you’re mistaken, Grace. There’s nothing between me and Jules; we’re work-mates is all. Seriously, that’s all. He’s not my type — too old.’
Grace studied her and then shrugged. ‘Oops, I’m sorry. I thought I detected a little chemistry there.’
Rose managed a smile. ‘Nope, no chemistry.’
She bid farewell and closed the door behind her, heading back across the deserted camp site towards the road leading back into town. A fresh breeze played with her hair and sent a chill down her neck as she cast a glance around at the empty cabins and the sail dinghies lined up on trailers parked a few yards away from the lake’s edge. Their nylon halyards clattered against the masts with a rhythmic tapping.
CHAPTER 24
13 October, 1856
James Lock lived for three days. I was surprised he lasted that long — the wounding to his head was so severe. The bite crushed the right-hand side of his face and skull, destroying an eye in the process. It would have been merciful for him and his family if the bear had bitten down that much harder and finished the poor man then and there.
Preston, however, appears more promising. There were a series of deep lacerations around his waist, requiring that I sew them closed. My fear is that fever will set in. I cleansed the wounds as best I could with alcohol, and checked that the claws had not proceeded any deeper than opening his skin and had not damaged his organs. It does appear that he was lucky not to have suffered a greater injury. Nonetheless, only time will tell whether the wounds were properly cleaned.
I have been tending to Preston within their church. It is perhaps a tribute to how much I am trusted, or more likely, how much they value him, that I’m allowed in there. These people of Preston’s seem completely lost without him, unable to make the simplest decisions. He seems to be their compass in many ways. Without him they are directionless and frightened. Each time I approach their temple there is always a gathering of people outside the entrance eagerly enquiring as to his condition.
Despite my earlier reservations about the man, I have to admit to admiring his strength and courage standing between his people and the bear armed with nothing more than a stick, whilst I recall myself trembling with fear and rooted to the ground. I envy a man who can stand firm in the face of terror and not yield.
Sitting in their church, I feel I have a clearer understanding about how the affairs of these people are run. Preston has a council, a Quorum of Elders, amongst whom decisions are made. Senior amongst them are two men: Eric Vander and Saul Hearst. It seems whilst Preston remains incapacitated, these two have assumed responsibility for running things on their side of the camp.
Neither man, however, seems to command the same kind of respect and reverence that is freely given to Preston.
Ben leaned over and felt his forehead.
‘Fever?’ asked Dorothy Dreyton.
