Abandon - Crouch Blake (электронная книга TXT) 📗

“But it ain’t but—”

“Al, goddamn it, contradict me one more fuckin—”

“All right, Joss, you ain’t gotta yell.”

Stephen took a step back and regarded Joss with his sad, sweet eyes.

“Merry Christmas to you,” he said, and started for the door.

Stephen Cole stood under a streetlamp, watching the wind build snowdrifts against the storefront of a vacated barbershop. Across the street, on the second floor of the hotel, Molly Madsen sat in the bay window, looking down at him, her face weakly illuminated by the candle in her hands. He waved, whispered a prayer for her.

He followed the plank sidewalk for several blocks, then turned up the side street that led to his cabin.

His mind brimmed with thoughts of his home in Charleston, South Carolina—the palm trees and live oaks and saltwater marshes, the ocean at sunrise, the faces of his father and mother.

He had come west three years ago because he believed it to be the will of God, had felt compelled to minister to those who lived in these harsh environs.

What he had found were a thousand little towns high in the Rockies, built upon debauchery and greed.

I’ve accomplished nothing, he thought. God, show me one life in these mountains that has benefited from my presence.

Overcome, he knelt in the empty street and prayed until his face had gone numb and his body shook with cold.

Stephen rose to his feet and wiped the snow from his hair.

He’d taken two steps toward home when he heard it.

He froze. Forgot that he was cold. Forgot his loneliness.

He just stood there in the darkness and falling snow, a strange warmth spreading through him. Having now heard it, he knew with certainty that all the other times, kneeling at the foot of his bed, sometimes hours in the silence, had been imagination and hoping.

It was simply his own name that he’d heard, but it filled him with such blinding peace that he didn’t question for a moment the source.

When God speaks to you, His voice is unmistakable.

2009

TWELVE

 S

ix tubes of light swung through the fog that had settled in the canyon—a colony of headlamps moving toward the ruins of Abandon. The air carried the steel smell of snow, though none was yet falling. Night had arrived moonless and overcast, with a darkness Abigail had never imagined possible out-of-doors, like they’d all been locked into an im mense, freezing closet. She walked between Emmett and June, with Lawrence a few yards ahead, the two guides relegated to the back, with orders to stay close but quiet. Abigail had brought along her tape recorder and was collecting background information from the Tozers when Lawrence said, “Hold up!” They stopped. Lawrence shone his flashlight into the darkness ahead, the beam passing over a grove of spruce. “Can’t believe I found it in this fog. Here’s what’s left of the cabin of Ezekiel and Gloria Curtice.”

Abigail followed June into the grove. The small woman, swallowed in a red ski jacket, aimed her light at the rubble. Abigail saw a cookstove, cans, rusted bedsprings amid the detritus. Emmett slipped off his camera’s lens cap and began to circle the homestead.

Abigail said, “June, while Emmett’s taking photos, could you tell me how you two got involved with paranormal photography?”

June led Abigail away from the remains of the cabin. They stood apart from the others, separated by a lightning-fried spruce, headlamps off. “Ten years ago, our son, Tyler, was out riding his bicycle in the neighborhood. He was hit by a van. Died in the street.” Abigail found June’s hands in the dark. “Night after the funeral, Emmett and I were in bed, holding each other. We were talking about taking some pills. It’s a pain like you cannot . . .

“So we’re in bed, it’s two or three in the morning, and all of a sudden, I just feel this calm engulf me, like the rush of some incredible drug. The air was thick, a living thing, and I felt like I was being wrapped in it. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. Most intense and unconditional love I’ve ever felt, and I was smiling, and I looked at Emmett, and he was, too. We were experiencing it together, and we both knew exactly what it was. Ty had come to us. I felt my little boy’s presence just as strong as I feel you standing here in front of me, even though I can’t see you. He saved us, Abigail.

“Next morning at our local coffee house, Emmett saw a poster for a paranormal-photography slide show. We didn’t even know there was such a thing, but having just had our experience with Ty, we felt this conviction to go. Unfortunately, the photographer we went to see was a fraud. I could tell that right away. Most people who claim to be psychic are delusional. The stuff they shoot, it’s camera malfunctions, flash problems, dust particles on the film. But Emmett and I were inspired to buy a camera. We shot four rolls in our room that night—infrared film in total darkness. In the corner above our bed, we captured this fantastic pool of light, like this energy was watching over us as we slept.”

“Your son.”

“Emmett and I had always been artists. It’s why we lived in San Francisco. We threw ourselves into paranormal photography, never looked back. And it’s such a beautiful medium—a perfect intersection of art and history and service.”

“What do you mean by ‘service’?”

“See, it isn’t just about taking photographs of paranormal activity for the aesthetic value. These are suffering spirits who, for whatever reason, haven’t passed to the other side. Most important part of our job is helping them move on. It’s not about the thrills for us, or ‘ghost-busting.’ It’s our calling. If Ty hadn’t died, we probably never would have come down this road. Isn’t it beautiful and sad how these things work out?”

June placed something in Abigail’s hand—a small plastic cylinder.

“What’s this?”

“Emmett shot a roll of film on the hike in.”

“Of me?”

“Of you and Lawrence.”

“Well, that’s . . . Thank you, but to be honest, I don’t know that I want this.”

June squeezed her hands. “Do as you see fit.”

When Emmett finished shooting the Curtice homestead, the party moved on, six pairs of boots brushing through dry autumn weeds. They came down a slope, Abigail feeling guilty, convinced the death of the Tozers’ son had turned them out of their minds, yet knowing their story would make the heartbreaking core of her article.

Shapes took form out of the fog. They stood in the grassy lane, Abandon’s ramshackle buildings on either side, tendrils of mist drifting among them through the blaring silence.

“Let’s start in the saloon,” Emmett said, and Lawrence led them across the street, hopped over a few planks—all that remained of the sidewalk—and stepped gingerly into the shack.

“I haven’t been in here in awhile,” he said, “so I’m not sure how sturdy everything is. We’d better just start with the Tozers going in.”

Emmett and June joined Lawrence inside. After a moment, Emmett appeared in the doorway, said, “Would everyone please turn off their head-lamps? I don’t want any outside light getting in here, interfering with the shots.”

All the headlamps went dark except for Emmett’s. Abigail stood on the threshold, watching them explore the interior, the beam of Emmett’s light grazing the listing walls and a gnawed-board floor, littered with pieces of broken whiskey bottles, rusted tin-can scraps. The pine bar had toppled over and punched out a section of the back wall, through which the fog crept in, giving the saloon a natural smokiness.

“You can come on in,” Lawrence whispered to Abigail. “Just be mindful where you step and don’t go near the stove. If you look up, you’ll see a hole in the roof. The boards underneath get rained and snowed on. Amazing they haven’t fallen through yet.”