The Spirit

In that moment of stalemate Duane managed to beat the fire out with a rug. He ran into the office to find Martha Lucas sitting up on the floor, her hand holding her chest.

The lodge had disappeared. The lights were out. Jason crested the drive to the parking apron before realizing that the building was almost in front of him. He saw a burst of flame through chinks in the Grizzly Bar window, then furniture thumping around.

He took out his pistol again as the female burst from the shop wall in a flying edge of broken planking and dashed down the parking lot. He gave chase, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the fallen power pole, swerving between Helder’s Cadillac and the overturned Volkswagen, but she was well into the woods behind the bungalows when he reached the corner.

His pistol was empty, anyway. He crouched against the wall and reloaded it. He fired into the woods to light up the trees. Nothing moved. Nothing lived. But she was there.

Jason stood guard at the little blood spot where Helder’s head had lain as Duane Wood­ard moved Martha Lucas into the lounge and laid her on the sofa.

Jack Helder.

A house whose owner has died is the loneliest place in the world. The lodge seemed permanently weakened by his absence, a sort of orphan without whose loving parents the walls would collapse as surely as a house of cards under the slightest pressure.

It was not entirely a delusion. The lounge, kitchen, dining room, everything at ground level was hopelessly vulnerable. It was punctured by weak points which could no longer sustain any attack. The metal shutters would fall if Jason fired.

“Raymond, where’s Moon?” asked Martha.

“He went after the male.”

“Why?”

Jason knew he could not limn in words the details that would describe Moon’s change after seeing the bodies. “Let’s just say he saw the light.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I couldn’t. He walked right past me. He gave me the toe, you see? And I lost it.”

“That’s why you took your time coming back,” said Wood­ard.

“I’m sorry. How could I know you two were alone? Look, this is no good. She could knock on doors and draw fire until we run out of bullets. Is there one solid room in this place?”

“Maybe downstairs. The game room.” Martha coughed at the acrid smoke hanging in the air.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s part of the foundation. The only way through is oak doors. There’s a corridor going in front of it to the furnace and generator room. Jack had to dynamite it out of rock.”

Jason helped her sit up. Something was wrong with her ribs all right. She was in intense pain, both psychic and physical, and trying hard not to show it. Jason found himself admiring her a bit more than objectively.

Something rattled the shutters, freezing them into statues before they realized it was a branch. “We better do something,” said Duane Wood­ard. “We’re all going to go nuts if we don’t do something.”

“Martha, did Helder have a flare gun?”

“No.”

“What about those ski torches they use in the show? Where did he keep those?”

“In the snowmobile shed. He was afraid of spontaneous combustion.”

Jason kicked at a footstool. “Terrific! She’s boxed us up like a present. We can’t shoot flares, we can’t call anybody on the radio, we can’t do anything. All right. Load up, Wood­ard. Let’s take a look at the game room.”

Cozy was the ideal Helder had aimed for with the game room. A quiet, secure place where people could wait out blizzards at pinball machines, card tables, and televisions, or lounge in artfully arranged corners filled with overstuffed furniture. It was a miniature of the lounge upstairs, less spacious, with a smaller fireplace, but a compact little standing bar, low ceiling, and exposed beams. Since they were below ground level, there were no windows. Jason lit the candleholders embedded in the beams and spaced the lanterns around.

They moved pinball machines and sofas to the door. They lifted the machines off their casters. They were heavier than any furniture.

The storm was muted by the plaster-­and-­stone wall to a distant roar. If she gets us in here, Jason thought, she’ll have earned her heads.

Somewhere on a great golden plaque outlining the sins of Man, stupidity was underlined with heavenly forcefulness. Poor, poor humans. They should not depend on their gods so much, because their gods were too much like them. Well, his grandfather had warned him of that, too.

The Indian ran over the snow, following the footprints of the giant, deliberately not using the word betrayal in his thoughts, for he would fall down and cry. All that was left was a chance to redeem himself, some tiny sliver of pride to polish as a shield against the monstrous humiliation he felt.