Shades of Cassandra ch2

Chapter 2

         The morning brought her new inspiration as she awoke to the sounds of birds chirping. Kim rose from the bed, her mood an excited one. A dream, she had had a dream where a beautiful white dove soared away from downtown London. Below, in what Kim believed to be Trafalgar Square, she saw Betty Sue Richardson standing by a fountain, dressed in a bright red business suit. Her young, blonde nemesis was holding a cell phone, not talking into it, just holding it. She was watching a bus arrive at the far end of the square, letting out an assortment of passengers and tourists. And as Kim watched in astonishment, Betty Sue pushed the send button on the cell phone, causing the double-decker bus to explode; its passengers immediately becoming an assorted array of burned body parts.
         “She’s an IRA terrorist working for Al-Qaeda. It would be in her nature to blow up a bus.”
         Her bare feet touched down upon the cool wood of the cabin floor, reminding her exactly where she was. She was not in London, or England. She was still in Montana, bivouacked inside her father’s remote hunting cabin. And she was still trying to restart her writing career after experiencing a rather traumatic divorce.
         “But why would she blow up a bus?” She asked herself. Why indeed. Perhaps someone important was on it, a government official on holiday.
         She stood up, walking first to the typewriter and the spiral bound notepad which was sitting beside it. She needed to take a shower, not to mention get rather intimate with the port-a-potty. But this couldn’t wait, not even for personal hygiene. She needed to write her idea down. The Trafalgar square bombing was how the book was to start, not Cassandra’s arrival at Heathrow.
         Betty Sue , Sheila O’Malley, bus bombing at Trafalgar Square, prime minister?
         That was all she dared write. Her bladder was screaming at her, threatening to release its contents right into her cotton panties. She turned away from the typewriter and raced over to the corner of the room, quickly utilizing her makeshift facilities.
         Ten minutes later found her out at her father’s homemade shower stall, lighting a small fire under the hot water tank. Sergio DeFazio was a man of invention. She had to give her father credit for such a crude design. The kettle had an iron plate anchored to its bottom via four L brackets. Kim merely had to load up the plate with kindling and start a fire the way she would start up a camp fire. And once she did that she merely had to stoke the fire for a good ten to twenty minutes, getting the water inside the kettle nice and hot. It was rather ingenious in its rustic simplicity.
         Ten minutes after getting the fire going she was standing naked in the shower stall, lathering her thirty-five year old body with the contents of a tube of biodegradable soap. Kim felt a bit vulnerable standing in the stall, not quite as vulnerable as she would have had she used her father’s idea of an outdoor toilet, but vulnerable. She was visible to the outside world from the shoulders up, and the knees down. Her more private areas were hidden from view courtesy of a green steel door set on a pair of rusty hinges. Still, to anyone approaching, Kim would appear as a head and a pair of knobby knees. And a quick approach to her location would reveal the rest of her to the world.
         She thought of the shadow person, the imagined woman in the petticoat she had pursued the previous night. She could still see the woman in her mind, a flash of a dark form, of a petticoat. If only she hadn’t tripped on that damn tree root, injured her hand on that old flashlight! She paused in her lathering and gazed at her left palm, silently astounded at how the scab wound was already healing. It was barely noticeable. And her ribs no longer ached as they had the night before. But she always was a fast healer. She always mended quickly from scrapes and bruises, even broken bones.
         She made a fist with her left hand a couple of times and reassured herself it was working as it should be. She then turned her attention back to the matter at hand, the revelation which had stirred her awake with such excitement. Sheila O’Malley, self proclaimed terrorist, blowing up a bus in Trafalgar square. Kim closed the water valve which was situated just above her head and picked the towel up off of a hook mounted on the outside of the stall door.
         Shelia couldn’t possibly be the only threat to the duchess. Kim was going to have to invent a male counterpart, someone who had recruited Sheila into Al-Qaeda. She knew enough about Al-Qaeda from news reports and research she had done. The man who recruits Sheila would have to walk a fine line between the Muslim and Christian worlds. He would have to be just tolerant enough to work with a woman, a Christian woman. He would have to be charming and suave; and he would have to be cunning, and deceitful. He would have to be just like Steven.
         She laughed at that simple revelation. Of course, what better way to get over a divorce than to cast your ex-husband as a villain in a romance novel? It was brilliant. If she could cast Betty Sue in a part, then she could definitely cast Steven; damn, deceitful Steven Brice, the scourge of northwestern Montana.
         Kim finished drying herself off and stepped outside the stall, flashing her naked body to the world for a brief instant as she grabbed her purple bath robe off another hook. Steven Brice would be renamed Mohammad Arul. She would have to write a complete background for him, who he was, why he was a member of Al-Qaeda. She needed to know why he felt it necessary to hurt the royal family. The prince had served in Iraq, hadn’t he? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps Mohammad felt he had been personally insulted by the prince when he lived in Basra. Maybe his brother had been killed by the Royal Marines. Yes, that sounded like a better angle.
         Kim spent the remainder of the morning dining on oatmeal and typing the Trafalgar Square scene. She ended up with three-thousand words of good, usable manuscript. By twelve o’clock she actually had tired fingers and a sense of accomplishment. She had written Sheila’s big bang, and she had introduced Mohammad to Sheila. Her new book, London Passions, was finally on its way to becoming a reality. And that small milestone called for a celebration. It called for a relaxing afternoon hike in the woods; just her and her daypack.
         So it was with joy in her heart, and perhaps a renewed sense childlike abandon, that she chose to seek out a new path to explore. Cougar Summit, a jagged peak of granite and limestone, dominated her view to the north. As far as she knew, her father never went up there, never explored it. Sergio was a deer hunter. The only things living past the tree line were mountain goat and cougars, animals he didn’t hunt. But the view would be spectacular from up there, wouldn’t it? Heck, she might be able to see all the way to the highway, all the way to Missoula.
         It was twelve-thirty when she set out for a trail she suspected led up to the summit. The sun was set high in a nearly cloudless blue sky. The grass reflected a brilliant green in the sunlight and there seemed to be butterflies flying about everywhere she looked. The day was gorgeous. She couldn’t ask for a better afternoon. And as she walked up the trail, slowly trudging up a slight elevation gain, she started to whistle. First she started to whistle Pop Goes the Weasel, something to get her lips working right. However, she was soon whistling a Beatles tune; Here Comes the Sun seemed so appropriate. She whistled it repeatedly as she effortlessly climbed several switchbacks, slowly moving up through the tree line.
         Three miles up and roughly an hour later she stopped for water, pausing at the tree line where the spruce and fir trees became scraggly and decrepit looking. Further up the trail the alpine tundra started; continuous fields of low grass and flowering plants whose growth was governed by a layer of permafrost which existed five feet below the ground. Kim shivered as she thought about it. All those poor plants pushing their roots through the soil only to find out there was a frozen wall beneath them. They could never attain the height they wished to, never rise past what they were now. And once winter came they were dormant for nearly six long months. What a miserable existence. And that’s what it would be to her if she were a plant, a sentient plant. She smiled to herself; what if plants were sentient? Now that would definitely make an interesting story. And if she wasn’t strictly a romance novelist she might actually try to write it.
         But she was a romance novelist. Intelligent plants were the makings of science fiction, best left to the Ray Bradbury types. They had nothing to do with affairs of the heart or the splendors of passion. She took a sip from her water bottle and pondered that thought. Passion could be a wondrous thing when given to the right man. She wondered if there ever would be a right man out there for her ever again. At some point she was going to have to consider dating, putting her vulnerable heart back out there and see if anyone wanted to nurture it properly. At some point in time she would have to risk being hurt again.
         “Oh Hank Hammer where oh where are you?”
         Where indeed?
         She was still pondering this thought when something near the summit caught her eye. At first she thought it to be a lone spruce tree which had somehow taken a foothold in a small bowl valley just to the left of the mountain top. However, after extracting her Bushnell binoculars from her daypack, she discovered what she was looking at was a collapsed roof of a building. It was an easy mistake to make, given she was still nearly a mile away from the object.
         Strange, her father never mentioned any old structures existing up on Cougar Summit.
         Kim stood back up, her curiosity now peaked. What kind of old building would be sitting up here? Maybe it was another hunter’s cabin, like what her father had built. But it looked too big for a hunter’s cabin. The building was large enough to be a hotel or perhaps a warehouse. She adjusted the focus on the binoculars, attempting to get a better look at the clay tile roof. To her surprise she spotted what appeared to be a balcony, and there was a weather beaten sign hanging off of it.
         A hotel, she surmised. But what would a hotel be doing up here?
         She didn’t know. But she intended to find out what the building was. She packed up her binoculars and her bottle of spring water and loaded her daypack onto her shoulders. And then she marched further up the mountain, her book and all her creativity momentarily put on hold as her mind focused on a new mystery.

****

Cougar’s Nest Hotel

Est. 1879

         Her first thought was this hotel shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t exist. She found herself standing in a concave bowl which was nestled on a ridge on the east side of Cougar’s Summit. This bowl, for all intent and purposes, would be the worst place to build a hotel. It was above the tree line, situated in an area which would most certainly be prone to avalanches in the winter, and had only a two track cart path leading up to it from the main road. It was most isolated, as was the remnants of the town which the hotel appeared to be a part of.
         She glanced at the town for a mere moment; most of its structures were nothing more than scattered debris. She noted the shattered remnants of a saloon; the building resembling the skeletal remains of some great beast which had crawled onto this ridge and died in agony. She suppressed a chill at the macabre thought, returning her attention to the hotel. The hotel, in contrast, didn’t look cold at all. Despite a partially collapsed roof, it looked warm and inviting, like an old friend welcoming her to stay a while. But that’s what hotels were supposed to do. They were supposed to be warm and cheery, a place that felt like home even when one wasn’t.
         Kim took a step forward, placing one foot up on the old wooden sidewalk, wondering how sound the remaining structure was. And what about the current tennants? There were probably rats running around inside, or marmots, or whatever rodents happened to be occupying the land up here. And God knows, perhaps there was even the odd rattlesnake or two. Still, she felt drawn to the building, to the charms and mysteries it might hold. This was, after all, a remnant of the Old West; a reminder of a time when disputes were settled from the barrel of a revolver, when men and women were born of a far hardier stock; when there were no cars, or cell phones, or televisions. She was immediately in love with the romance of the times, began to envision a series of romance novels based around the Old West.
         She stepped up onto the sidewalk, pausing as she listened to the old floorboards creak under her weight.
         This is a stupid thing to do.
         A slight breeze passed by her just then, pushing the front door ajar. And then, just for a moment, she thought she saw a shadow pass by inside, passing from left to right. A woman? Was that a woman she just saw, carrying a parasol, wearing a petticoat? She felt a cold shiver creep up her spine, tickling the back of her neck. Was there someone in the hotel?
“          Hello?”
         No answer.
         “Hello, is there someone there?”
         No, you silly woman, there’s no one there. You’re alone, standing in a ghost town. Besides, you’re afraid. You should be seeing shadows. Mother always saw shadows when she was afraid, didn’t she? Abigail DeFazio was always remarking about the shadow people, about how they used to creep around the house, watching, waiting for something to happen. Kim never saw the shadows, but her mother always told her about them, about how they would sneak into her bedroom at night and watch her sleep. In retrospect, it was a mean thing to tell a child.
         The shadow people will be watching you tonight, honey. So behave yourself, or they might just take you away.
         She glanced behind her, looking back at the rest of the town. She wondered if perhaps she should turn around and walk back down to the cabin. She was going to be up here for a few weeks. She could investigate the hotel some other day, a day when she was feeling a bit braver.
         She looked back at the door, which was now softly swinging on its hinges. When was she going to be any braver?
“Fuck it.”
         She stepped forward, carefully treading across the old wooden sidewalk. She paused just short of the door, now wondering if she should actually knock. What if someone was inside? Perhaps a homeless person, or heaven forbid, another Ted Kaczynski. Hadn’t they caught the Unabomber just south of here?
         I’m just writing my manifesto, Kim. Come on in and visit for a while.
         “Stop it, Kim.”
         She pushed the door open.
         For a rundown hotel, the main lobby was surprisingly intact. In fact, it struck her odd how immaculate and new the violet colored felt wallpaper looked. It practically shimmered in the sunlight which was streaming in through the windows and the partially collapsed roof. And the floor, she swore it looked as if it had been recently polished. She could actually see her reflection in the floorboards.
         “Hello, is there anybody home?”
         How could the main floor look so clean?
          She stepped to the right, toward what appeared to be a mahogany reception desk. It was set on an angle to the door. That was clean as well, as if someone had snuck up here and dusted it with a can of furniture polish. She reached out with her right index finger and ran it across its surface. There was not one speck of dust.
         May I help you?
         She looked around, still expecting someone to step out from somewhere, inquiring whether she wanted to rent a room for the night. In her mind she could see a matronly woman in an old style dress appearing behind the counter, ready to take her money and hand her a key.
         But there was no one.
         However, there was a hotel guest register sitting before her. It was closed and looked as if it were the original register from whenever this isolated hotel had actually been a thriving business. On impulse she opened it to a random, tattered yellow page and perused the guest entries; John O’Conner, Dirk Stratton … Cassandra Wilcox.
Cassandra Wilcox?
         Kim was now rather intrigued. The name was so eerily familiar to the name of her character; Wilcox instead of Wilson, but still, what were the odds? She ran her fingers over the page, feeling the texture of the paper. Cassandra Wilcox … the old west. Perhaps she could use this name as well, create a story around it. So she happened to steal the name from a long forgotten hotel registry, big deal. Perhaps she could steal the person’s spirit a bit as well, channel some energy into a brand new line of romance novels. On impulse, she closed the registry and carefully placed it in her day pack, wrapping it in the towel she normally used to wipe the sweat off her brow.
         “A little souvenir.”
         Hey, what are you doing?
         She spun around, reacting to an imagined voice, still expecting to see someone standing behind her. But there was no one there. And there shouldn’t be anyone there, just as there shouldn’t be new wall paper on the walls or a beautifully polished surface on the reception desk. She nervously ran her left hand over the desk’s polished wood, her heart racing, expecting to see the Cassandra Wilcox step around the corner and shake her finger at her.
         “Relax Kim, there’s no one here.” She told herself.
         She nervously stepped forward, deciding not to take a tour of the rest of the hotel. On further inspection, the stairs leading to the second floor had collapsed (she didn’t notice that before), and the second floor balcony they led up to was hanging by a few rusty nails. It really was amazing the structure hadn’t totally blown over from a gust of wind.
         “Time to go, Kimmy.”
         She took one last look around, still amazed the violet colored wallpaper still looked so good. She momentarily considered ripping off a piece, something to examine more closely when she was back at the cabin, but then decided against it. Somehow, she felt it was wrong to tear the wallpaper, almost sacrilege. Taking the ledger was enough. With a sigh she turned away and exited the structure, seeking the trail which wound back down the mountain and back to the cabin.

****
         Nightfall, another thousand words pounded out on the old typewriter. Kim was back at her little work table, the kerosene lantern lighting her workspace, And Cassandra Wilson was dancing with a handsome duke while a small orchestra played in the background. It was a rather formal scene she was writing. Cassandra was surrounded by famous sports heroes, foreign dignitaries, and a few Hollywood actors. Kim could picture the event in her mind; envision the beautiful violet dress Cassandra was wearing. It radiated just like the wallpaper in the old hotel had.
         The Hotel.
         She leaned back and rubbed her eyes, feeling fatigue setting in already. Why was she envisioning Cassandra’s dress as violet? She had even envisioned that same wallpaper pattern. It had wrapped around the dress, accentuated Cassandra’s rather healthy bosom like a diamond patterned glove. What the hell?
         Cassandra Wilcox.
         Wilson, her character’s name was Cassandra Wilson, not Wilcox. And why were the names so close? How could there be such an astronomical coincidence? She sat back forward, gazing down at the words she had written.
         Cassandra was dressed in a beautiful violet dress, accentuated by a diamond pattern which seemed to energize her as she twirled across the dance floor, closely followed by the handsome duke. She felt wonderful and free, a goddess in both form and function. For tonight she was a princess, perhaps the princess. Not even the duchess could hold a candle to her.
         How could a dress energize you? She was being silly. It was time she removed herself from the typewriter, give her eyes a rest. She stood up, instinctively picking up the ledger. She would just peruse the entries a bit more; get a feel for the hotel and the town which should not have existed. She picked up the lantern with her left hand and stepped outside, taking a seat on a lawn chair she had brought with her from Kalispell.
         She started at the beginning of the ledger, the first entry, a man named Jebediah Wilcox. He was registered at the hotel from January 15th to (she flipped several pages) July 4th, 1878. Same last name as this Cassandra; were they related? She took out her notepad and made a notation.
         She then moved on through the mid-year of 1878. The entries were rather sporadic. But then who would really travel up to Cougar Summit to stay at a hotel so far off the beaten path? Missoula was really the boom town of the area. Missoula was located directly on a river, allowing for trade and commerce. Cougar Summit didn’t really offer anyone much of anything except for … why was the town built? She flipped another page and found an entry for April 1879. The ledger page was full. Twenty people had registered at the hotel on April 15th. There was a notation at the bottom right corner, big sweeping letters done in cursive. The Cougar Summit Mine officially opened today!
         Gold mine? She didn’t remember seeing a gold mine when she was up there. It would make sense. Gold was the only motivation possible for people to put a town up on that summit. The winters up there must truly be brutal. A Gold mine, where would a gold mine be? She remembered seeing a cave of sorts at the base of the bowl, but she hadn’t given it much notice, except to note a timber frame built up around it. That must have been the gold mine.
         She flipped through several pages, seeing the same twenty names logged into the registry. There really wasn’t anything those names could tell her. They were all common enough surnames; Smith, Carter, Johnson. There was nothing exciting or mysterious about them. Kim marked the page and closed the journal, feeling foolish for bringing it down here. There was no story to be found here. These were merely hard working people attempting to extract a fortune from the mountain. Why did she think she would find something more? What did she expect to find?
         Answers; why was there a name in the registry which so closely resembled that of her main character?
It is a coincidence, my dear Kim, nothing more.
         She stood back up, no longer interested in the ledger. She felt foolish for looking for a story where there was none. She picked up the lantern and stepped back inside, deciding to go to bed.

****
         “I said I wanted some whiskey!”
         Kim jerked up and looked at the room for a moment, wondering where she was. There were tables all around her, and men, smelly men. God, it smelled as if some of them hadn’t bathed in weeks. And the stench of their body odor was mixed in with the pungent smell of cigar smoke. The aroma caused her to gag. She closed her eyes and coughed.
         “God damn it Hank, this is pure fucking gold dust, a good two pounds of it, more than enough to pay for a bottle of whiskey. Now give me a mother fucking bottle!”
         “You had enough, Ben.”
         She looked to her left, noticing a rather disheveled looking prospector standing next to her. He was short, dressed in coveralls, and had a blond bird’s nest for a beard. He looked like one of her new neighbors, the trailer trash she was now living next to, Rick Johnson. Old Rick and Suzanne argued every night, throwing beer bottles at one another. Kim had expected one to kill the other before long. Why was Rick dressed like a prospector?
         “I’ll fucking tell you when I had enough. If I can still stand then I’m too fucking sober!”
         “Go home, Ben.” She heard herself say. “Go back to the hotel and sleep it off, before I fetch my father to come in and carry you home.”
         “I aint afraid of the Sheriff.”
         “That’s good, because my father isn’t afraid of you either.” Her father was the Sheriff? No, that wasn’t right. Her father was a park service ranger in Glacier National Park.
         “That’s just fine, daddy’s little girl.” He took a step closer, practically engulfing her with his body odor. “You’re the sheriff’s daughter. I guess that makes you the fucking queen of the town. You get to tell everyone where they stand and where to sit. Hell, I bet it even gives you the right to tell people who they can fuck.”
         “You’ve had too much to drink, Ben.”
         “But I do know who the Sheriff is afraid of, Cassandra.” Rick smiled at her, displaying a mouth full of gaps and rotted teeth. “The Sheriff is afraid of him, isn’t he?”
         “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And she really didn’t know. Her father wasn’t afraid of anyone, not even mother grizzlies.
         “Yes, you do.” Rick was practically standing on top of her now. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. And the Sheriff has every right to be afraid of him. Heck, I’m even afraid of him. And normally I’m not afraid of anyone.”
         Yes, the Sheriff has every right to be afraid of him … afraid of whom?
         “He’s a comin’ in here!” Someone yelled from near the door.
         “Who’s coming?” She asked.
         “You know who.” Rick replied. He looked toward the front door, a look of fear suddenly sweeping over his glassy blue eyes. “You want me to go home? No problem.”
         Rick limped past her, allowing her to get a full sampling of his aroma. Her eyes watered and she turned away, choosing to look behind the bar where a large mirror was mounted. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, of her attire. She was wearing an old dress, and a corset. She was surprised she wasn’t having trouble breathing.
         “Oh shit, Jeffries is right. Denton be a comin’.”
         Everyone stood from the tables as one, an act she had never seen done before. And then they filed past her and out the door, one by one. Each one had a scared look on his or her face (there were a few other barmaids, or perhaps working girls). It looked like a funeral procession, except there was no coffin at the lead. They were leaving her alone in the bar to face whoever this Denton was.
         “Where’s everyone going?”
         “He’s coming to see you, Cassie.” The bartender, the man who refused to serve Ben, stated. He had hopped over the bar and joined the procession. “There’s no reason for the rest of us to be here.”
         “Why is he coming to see me?”
“          You know why.”
         “No, I don’t.”
         And she didn’t know. She also didn’t know why people were calling her Cassie. Her name was Kim, wasn’t it? Yes, she was sure her name was Kim DeFazio. She glanced back at the mirror behind the bar once more. She normally didn’t dress like this, like she was participating in Kalispell’s Pioneer Days.
         “You should come with us, Miss Cassandra. You don’t have to stay here.”
         She turned her head to the right, towards a man who could have passed for Festus from the old Television show, Gunsmoke. The resemblance was uncanny, right down to the scraggly beard.
         “No, then he’ll tear the town apart looking for me. It’s best I stay here, confront him.”
         “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.” Festus turned and followed the others out the door, leaving her alone to face this … Denton?
         She looked around the saloon, now finding she really was alone, wondering what was going to happen next. She knew she was in a dream; knew she was really Kim DeFazio. And yet it felt so real to her, so true. She was Cassandra Wilcox. She was living in the Old West. A Mr. Denton was coming in through the front door of the Saloon. Everyone was afraid of him, including her father. And their fear was a healthy one.
         The door opened inward, pushed in by a strong breeze which swept through the saloon, whisking paper and playing cards off the tables. Kim pushed her butt against the edge of the bar, her hands balled up in a pair of fists. She now knew who Denton was, what he was capable, where he had come from. He intended to abduct her and take her into the mine. He ….
         She rolled off the twin framed bed and fell onto the hard wood of the cabin’s floor, sweating, shaking. Above her, past the window, a sliver of moon glowed among the stars, taunting her with a mere reflection of the sun, the wondrously nourishing sun. Why did she suddenly feel the need for the sunlight to be on her skin? How long before morning came, before that wondrous glowing ball of fire appeared in the sky? Where was her wristwatch? She had left it on the table, hadn’t she? She stood up and stumbled forward, reaching out with both hands, colliding with the typewriter. It made an angry ding as the carriage return slapped back on her.
         “Fuck.”
         She reached to the left, her hand landing upon the leather band. She pushed a button on the side of the watch and was rewarded with a soft, green glow.
         Four o’clock in the morning. It was only four A.M. What the hell? She had barely slept.
         She looked outside again, attempting to soak in the little bit of sunlight reflected from the sliver moon. She was still craving the sunlight. Perhaps it was just the mood the dream had left her in, all dark and disturbed. She felt as if the dark night would swallow her up if she let it.
         On impulse she walked outside dressed only in a t-shirt and a pair of white cotton panties. Now shivering, she ran out to her old Jeep, unlocking the door. Acting purely on instinct,she started the engine and immediately put on her headlights, the high beams. And then, like some frozen reptile who craved warmth, she stepped in front of those headlights, letting the light nourish her, seeking to chase away the darkness.