The Remnant (18 page)

The inexorable weight of sadness dragged her
heart down in her chest until she could barely breathe. She
remembered Carrie and Paulie Jr., the youngest kids. She had played
with them. Gone to school with them. After the
Killing
,
after the survivors had made it to the valley, it was some time
before Ashley would tell her what had happened to the other kids,
to the other families. At first she simply said they were gone.

It tore at Marie’s heart to look at the woman
and children she knew were dead. What must it do to Paulie to see
them every day. She noticed that while there was an almost
invisible layer of fresh dust on the windowsill, there was none on
the dresser top nor any of the frames or photos on the walls. The
glass in each shone without a fingerprint to mar its surface. How
often did he stand there, remembering, maybe crying, as he polished
all of them?

"Paulie?" she called yet again, stepping out
of the bedroom to check the tiny bathroom.

But Paulie was nowhere to be found. Finally a
strange sense of foreboding drew her back to the small den.

There were only two overstuffed chairs there
with an open book laying on the table beside one of them. Something
called
The Confessions of St. Augustine.
The walls were
laden with old climbing gear, brightly colored coiled ropes, shiny
carabiners, a couple of dusty, white chalk bags. Everyone in the
valley knew that in his youth Paulie had been a world class climber
and had missed the sport once he got too old for it. He’d often
told Marie of his adventures on mountains around the world. But
that time had passed him by before Marie was even born.

For the first time she noticed that the door
to the closet was half open, the interior shimmering with a ghostly
light from below.

She jerked the door open wide and cautiously
slid aside the coats and sweaters and yet still more old climbing
ropes hanging there. The light glimmered upward from a square hole
in the floor, and she stared at the shadowy cellar space below and
the rickety ladder leading into it. A strange paralysis gripped her
at the thought of ascending into that mysterious place, but where
else could Paulie be?

"Hello?" she managed to croak.

But there was still no answer.

Now was the time to run for help, but what if
the old man had fallen down the ladder and was lying down there
somewhere, maybe bleeding or something? She might be able to
staunch the flow enough to save him until she could go for help or
find the radio and call for it.

But what if he hadn’t fallen? What if
something else had happened to him? She glanced around the room one
last time. It was less than twelve feet from the closet to the
screen door. All she had to do was run and keep running until she
was on Sparkie’s back and away. Let some adult deal with whatever
had happened here.

But Paulie had always been so kind to her.
More than ever now she suspected that part of his affection was
because she was a link to his past, to his dead family. But part of
it was just the fact that he was a good person to begin with. He
often had cookies or icecream to offer when she rode up, and he
never failed to wave or take a moment to chat or show her one of
the new tricks he’d taught one of the dogs or how to tie some new
knot or tell her one of his old climbing stories. If there was any
chance at all that he was down there and needed her help she’d
never be able to live with herself if she bolted now.

She placed one shaky foot on the ladder,
certain that some unseen hand was about to reach out of the shadows
and jerk her down. But she placed her other foot on a rung and
climbed into the hole that reeked of damp earth and candle
soot.

The cellar was surrounded by giant granite
foundation stones. A wall of them ran down the center separating
the empty little dirt-floored room in which she found herself from
the area from which thin candle light glimmered. Tiptoeing to the
end of the wall she peeked around it. The candle sat in a saucer on
the floor.

Paulie lay face down beside it.

She ran to the old man, and when she placed a
shaking hand on his back she felt a comforting rise and fall
through his thick flannel shirt. But when he lifted himself enough
to turn his head in her direction she jerked back. His face was
white as snow, and his eyes seemed to have sunk back in his head
like marbles in a cup. Even his hair seemed paler, almost as white
as his face.

"Safe," he whispered.

She shook her head.

"Are you badly hurt, Paulie? Can you get
up?"

She knelt to nudge against his side, and he
rolled over onto his back, but his eyes were still glazed, staring
straight up at the cobweb-draped beams overhead. She didn’t see any
blood, and there were no marks or bruises on his face, just dirt
from the floor that she gently brushed away. But his breathing
seemed gaspy, as though he couldn’t quite get the air all the way
down into his lungs. She reached for the radio lying beside him and
noticed that his body had been covering a hole in the floor. It was
square, the width of Ashley’s toaster oven and about as deep, but
there was nothing in it.

She tried the radio, but all she got was
squawking. Glancing around at the thick stone walls she knew she
would have to go back upstairs in order to summon help, but she
didn’t want to leave the old man. The dim candle light made his
skin look like wax, and there was barely a flicker of life in his
eyes.

"Hold on," she whispered, rising to her
feet.

It was then that she noticed a stone square,
leaning against the wall, the perfect size to cap the hole in the
floor. Clods of earth still clung to it, as though it, too, had
been buried. As she turned toward the other room something clutched
her leg and she screamed.

But it was only Paulie. His eyes were open
wide. His head wobbled on his shoulders as he strove to focus.

"I’m going for help," she croaked,
desperately wanting to shake off his skeletal grip.

"Safe," he muttered, his head dropping back
into the dirt as his hand slid down her pant leg. "Didn’t tell
‘em."

Marie swallowed the lump in her throat and
raced for the ladder.

Trace awakened struggling to remember where
he was, unsure whether everything that had happened over the past
hours was a dream. But he could smell the clean scent of Ashley’s
favorite soap still in the air. Suddenly he found himself eye to
eye with a giant dog, and he stiffened. Then the animal licked his
cheek, and Trace sat up, vaguely recalling that Ashley had called
the dog Maxie.

"Hey, boy," he muttered, ruffling the
animal’s head. "Where’s Ash?"

The dog trotted away into the next room, but
Trace sat for a minute, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The
clock on the wall told him he’d slept most of the day away again,
and it was almost dinner time. Across the small den sat a
fully-stocked rifle case, and he stared at the guns, a sinking
feeling in his chest. Finally he stood and followed the dog into
the kitchen. There was a note on the table.

Sandwich food in reefer. Make yourself at
home. Just out for a walk.

Discovering that he was famished he threw
together two sandwiches and poured a tall glass of milk. Then he
made the dog a sandwich as well. Maxie gave him a look that said he
was surprised but that Trace had now made a friend for life, and
there was no need to speak of the transaction with Ashley. Trace
nodded his understanding.

By the time he had washed the glass and plate
and Ashley had still not returned Trace got antsy. He wandered the
small house until he found himself in her bedroom, soaking up the
well-remembered, natural clean smell of her, the sense of her all
around, remembering what a life altering event Ashley had been for
him. Although he had known a lot of women before her, once he met
Ashley his entire life changed.

For one thing he’d never had a woman refuse
his sexual advances after more than three dates. That Ashley was
quite serious about saving herself for her husband was both a
turnoff and a turnon for Trace, and it was most definitely a
challenge. That entire year he spent alternatively investigating
the Brethen-finding more and more reasons to interview the members
even though their pacifist doctrine, devotion to monogamy, and near
hermeticism put them on the far fringe of even Fundamentalist
Mormonism-and dating Ashley he never made it past second base. And
that just made him want her all the more.

He even allowed her to coax him into joining
in at Sunday Service, although he drew the line at any midweek
meetings. He figured that even if there was a God, he hadn’t asked
for more than the Sabbath. But Trace just was not able to keep
quiet about the inconsistencies in the Mormon faith and Joseph
Smith’s own history, and that had been the start of the real
trouble between them.

Ashley at first tried to find answers for
him. When the elders she spoke to fobbed her off with what Trace
explained was circular drivel, he knew she felt intellectually and
emotionally torn. He also knew that if he kept pressing her she was
going to have to make a decision between her faith and what he felt
was the light of reason, and her decision might well not go in his
favor. He had to decide if he wanted her enough to keep his mouth
shut for the first time in his life. He finally shocked himself by
deciding that he did. If the cost of having her was a wedding ring
and allowing her to live in the blind warmth of religious zealotry
he figured he could handle it.

But then she informed him that that would not
be enough. Like all sects of the Mormon faith, the Brethren
believed that every member of a family should be devout Mormons.
While they had allowed Trace access to their meetings
and-reluctantly-even to some of their rituals, he could not marry a
Mormon without converting, and for Ashley to marry him anyway would
result in her being excommunicated from the Brethren.

Realizing that their relationship was on a
very dangerous cusp, and knowing that he could never join a cult
like the Brethren-not even for Ashley-Trace determined that the
only thing to do was to fight, to attempt to de-program her. He
demanded, he reasoned, he cajoled, he even begged, but all to no
avail. Ashley was adamant. Join the church or leave her. They
cried. They hugged. They cried again. But in the end, Trace had to
go.

He had barely made it back home before he
heard about the Massacre.

Now he sat on her bed, running his fingers
over the covers, remembering the touch of her. His hand brushed
something hard, and he shifted the pillow aside, staring at the
pistol there. He pulled the pillow back into place, idly sliding
open the drawer of the bedside table.

Another pistol.

But there was a frame under it. He lifted the
picture out, and studied it for a long moment.

"What are you doing?"

The male voice spun Trace around. A tall,
muscular man in his late twenties stood in the doorway. He wore a
pistol on his belt, and Trace wondered if he was about to reach for
it and what he should do if the man did. His hand slid under the
pillow to the pistol butt.

"I asked you what you were doing in Ashley’s
bedroom?" demanded the man, taking a threatening step toward
Trace.

"Reminiscing," said Trace, anger rising.

At least he said Ashley’s bedroom, not our
bedroom.

This time the man took two more steps until
he was standing directly in front of Trace, and Trace figured the
guy didn’t need a gun. His massive hands looked quite capable of
crushing Trace’s skull.

"I don’t think you belong here, either," said
Trace, still armored in jealous anger.

"Why you-" said the man, jerking his fist
back.

Trace drew the pistol, aiming it at the guy’s
gut. He didn’t want to kill him, but he wasn’t going to be beaten,
either.

"Cole!"

Ashley’s voice froze the men in place. Cole
slowly lowered his hand and turned sheepishly toward the door where
she stood. Trace lowered the pistol and laid it back on the
bed.

"What are you doing in my house?" said
Ashley, the low pitch of her voice carrying an implied threat.

"I... I wanted to make sure you were okay. I
found him in here-"

"How did you get in?"

"The door was unlocked."

She turned to Trace. "Did you unlock the
door?"

Trace shook his head.

"He’s lying," said Cole.

"Get out."

"Ashley," Cole sputtered, "honestly. I was
just...just worried about you-"

She stepped aside, glaring. "Get out!"

He hung his head, but as he started past she
slammed her arm across the door, and he stood there, staring down
at her the way he had at Trace. Only this time his expression was
hangdog.

"It was you in the woods the other night,"
she whispered, "wasn’t it?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Give me the key," she said, holding out her
other hand.

"I don’t-"

"Give it to me!"

He dug in his pocket and handed her a key.
She studied it, then stepped aside, and he disappeared through the
door which she locked behind him.. She turned to Trace, shaking her
head.

"Now," she said, just as quiet as before.
"What were
you
doing in here?"

He lifted the photo toward her. "Just
reminiscing."

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the
door. When she opened them her face softened just a little. He
wanted to go to her, to hold her, but he hadn’t been able to do
even in those last moments before they parted. He had no idea what
changes she had passed through since, who she was, what she wanted,
whether she held any last lingering feelings for him or not.