Black Stump Ridge (14 page)

Fred braced himself as Johnny took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. Two words rode the escaping air: “I’m gay.”

The phrase struck Fred like a hammer to the stomach. His first reaction was that he was wrong.
This
was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

Johnny glanced at Fred. “Shut your mouth. You look like a hooked fish floppin’ on the bottom of a boat.”

Fred’s jaw snapped closed. He stared at the forest while he tried to bring order to the thoughts tumbling in his brain like clothes in a dryer. Johnny gay? His mind reeled. He tried to grasp the idea, but the concept stayed just beyond reach.

“How? I mean, when? What?” Fred stopped trying to speak.

“Yeah. It’s kind of a shock for you, too, I guess.”

“Shock? That’s an understatement. I thought you were getting ready to tell me you were having an affair. With a woman. But, this…” He shook his head. “Wow.”

“Wow. Now there’s a word.”

“Sorry. My vocabulary seems to have flown away just now.” Fred shook his head. It was a stunning revelation. No doubt about that. But, there had to be a reason why his friend chose this moment to come out. He pulled his emotions back under control. He could deal with them later. Right now, his friend needed him to be clear headed. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it slowly out. His heart still raced, but he felt calmer.

“Okay. So, you’re gay. That’s a shocker for sure. Why now?”

“What?”

“Why did you choose now – this weekend, this night, this place – for your revelation?”

Johnny hesitated. He’d set the stage. He’d come this far. Did he dare tell Fred the rest? Did he dare not tell him?

“His name is Michael. I was cruising, looking for a little action. I didn’t want a full time lover. The last thing I needed was that sort of complication. He caught my eye as soon as I walked into the club. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like him. His eyes are so intense. He has this air about him. Have you ever read any vampire novels?”

“A few.”

“He’s like that. He has dark curly hair and the whitest skin, kind of like an alabaster statue.”

Fred squirmed. Listening to his friend describe the attractiveness of another male made him uncomfortable although he tried his best to hide it. Johnny noticed it anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “You’re not my type.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Anyway, we hooked up. You don’t need the details. It’s enough to say that my intention for a one-night stand got derailed. I tried to stay away. I really did. But I found that the more I was with him the more I needed to be with him. It became an obsession.”

“How long?”

Johnny thought for a moment. “Just under three years, now.”

“Three years?” Fred was incredulous. “You’ve been having an affair with another man for three years and no one noticed?”

“We were very discreet.”

“I guess so! I don’t think I could have kept an affair with a
woman
a secret for that long. I’m impressed as well as surprised.”

Johnny chuckled. The sound carried relief. “It wasn’t easy. And, now, it’s probably all for nothing. By the time we get home it may be old news.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone’s heard about the mistress who gets tired of being the other woman. The one who threatens to expose the affair to the wife.”

“Yes.”

“Well, straights don’t have a monopoly on that. Michael has always been out. He’s rather militant, too. He feels that gays who keep their orientation hidden are helping the homophobe agenda. He’s been pressuring me to come out, too. I keep telling him that I will once the kids are out of school, but lately he’s been pressing harder. Just before I left he told me that he was tired of waiting. He hinted that if I wouldn’t tell Samantha then he would do it for me. I begged him to wait, but he wouldn’t promise anything. I was so worried about it that I almost backed out of the trip.”

“Why didn’t you? Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I don’t know. I guess it would have felt like I was giving him control. That somehow he would have won something and I would have lost.” Johnny paused. He took a deep breath. “I had a horrible nightmare just before I woke up this morning. It was so bad that when I woke up I was afraid I had screamed in my sleep. I guess I didn’t because no one else seemed to be awake.

“In the dream I was up in a blind. It was a lot like the one you took us to this morning. It gave me a strange feeling when I saw it.

Anyway, this magnificent buck wandered down the mountain and stood in front of me. I sighted in and dropped it with a single shot. Only, just as I pulled the trigger, the buck’s head melted away and it was Michael standing in my sights just before the bullet blew his face apart.”

The silence grew.

Finally Fred finally spoke. “That’s quite a problem. I don’t think I’ve ever run into one quite like it. That dream was pretty disturbing, too. What really matters is what can I do to help?”

Johnny opened his mouth to reply when the sliding door crashed open. Peete stuck his head outside and shouted, “You guys need to see this! Hurry!”

Fred and Johnny looked at each other. They rushed inside behind Peete. The TV in the family room was tuned to the national news. The anchorwoman was reading from a paper in her hand. Below her picture were the words: BREAKING NEWS. Fred barely noticed any of this. What held his eye was the woman pictured to the left of the newscaster. There was no mistaking that face with its cold smile and haughty expression. It was Janine Dobbs.

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Charlie’s first sensation when he woke was that he was very cold. He opened his eyes. At first, he saw only blackness. His cheek rested against something rough. He moved his head slightly. Canvas. He turned his head the other way. His breath caught. So many stars! The hard white points filled the sky in numbers beyond anything he’d ever seen.

A familiar urgency grabbed his attention. He had to pee – badly. He tried to remember where he was. He felt hard wooden boards beneath him. Two by four rails – barely visible in the starlight – crossed his field of vision from left to right. He was in the blind. He crawled to the edge and used the rail to pull himself up. Something rolled across the platform behind him as he quickly unzipped his pants. He stood for what felt like an hour as the steaming stream arced out to splash on the ground below. The relief was nearly orgasmic.

Finished, he closed his trousers and turned around. With his eyes adjusted to the meager light he could see the tree trunk rising above the blind. Closer to him was the rolled tarpaulin. Next to that lay his shotgun and the open cooler. An empty beer can nestled against one of the uprights on the opposite side of the blind. He stepped toward it, intending to pick it up, but it rolled back across the blind, slipped between two uprights, and disappeared over the edge of the platform.

He looked at his watch. At first, he had trouble making out the faint luminescence. His eyes focused. It was nine-thirty. He hadn’t meant to stay out this long. Fred and the others were probably worried. Maybe they were already looking for him. He needed to get back to the cabin.

He picked up his shotgun. He slipped the sling over his shoulder, looked down, and debated grabbing the cooler. He finally grasped the strap and dropped the cooler over the edge. It landed softly at the base of the tree. He felt around the tree trunk until he found the makeshift ladder. Carefully, he eased down the rungs. His foot slipped once. The sling slid down his arm. The barrel moved perilously close to his face as the sudden shift in weight threatened to pull him from the ladder. His breath caught as his foot groped for the narrow board. When his footing was again secure, he eased the shotgun back into position and continued his descent.

Safely on the ground, he stopped to catch his breath and consider his next move. Which way to go? He tried to remember which side of the tree the ladder was on when he first saw it. He walked around the trunk but in the darkness everything looked the same.

He should stay put until someone came for him. That’s what all of the books said. If he stayed put, however, hypothermia would become a problem. It was cold and getting colder. He had to find his way back. What were the chances of his getting lost in these woods? People lived out here however sparsely they might be scattered. Even if he went the wrong way he’d eventually find his way to someone’s house. Once there, he would explain his plight. They’d either take him to where he belonged or they’d give him shelter for the night.

Charlie took two steps away from the tree and stopped. He thought for a moment and then went back to the ladder. After making certain that the safety was on, he leaned his shotgun against the tree. He climbed up to the platform. He found the rolled tarpaulin, pulled it towards him, and then let it drop to the ground.

“That might come in handy if I do get lost,” he muttered.

Back on the ground, he slung his shotgun over his right shoulder and grabbed the tarp. He checked the empty cloth cooler hanging from his left hip. He debated leaving it behind but decided to hang on to it. It weighed almost nothing and might come in handy. He took a deep breath, looked around one last time, and struck out in the direction he hoped led to the cabin.

The ground sloped upward for a short distance. He frowned. His memory and logic insisted he should be headed downhill. He considered reversing his course when the ground leveled and then began to slope downward. He relaxed. Surely he was going the right way.

He trudged on for what felt like an hour. He looked for lights or some other sign that he was nearing habitation, but all he saw was more darkness. The trees drew closer and the brush more dense until he could no longer move forward. He leaned against a tree, his chest heaving, as he tried to decide his what to do next.

Suddenly, his head jerked up. He turned this way and that as he tried to locate the noise. He strained his senses. There! It sounded strange, and yet, familiar. His heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to hear. There it was again. Fiddle music from somewhere to his right. He turned his head. The music faded. He strained but heard nothing more. Just as he thought he’d imagined it he heard it again as if floating on the barely tangible breeze. It was definitely fiddle music. The notes came fast. The style was familiar. Charlie searched his memory. Breakdown! That’s what they called that kind of music. It was a breakdown.

Relief washed over him. He really didn’t care what kind of music it was. Music meant people and people meant shelter from the cold and dark. He shifted the shotgun from his right shoulder to his left. Holding the tarp tightly under his right armpit, he struck out once more, this time following the elusive music.

Before long, the ground sloped upward. With each step it grew steeper until Charlie struggled to put one foot after the next. Each time he stopped to rest, however, the music sounded louder, closer, and, somehow more insistent. He pushed onward and upward. The music played faster. The tune grew ever more compelling. Branches scratched Charlie’s face and hands but he ignored them as the music pulled him onward. Thorny vines tore at his clothing and added their marks to his exposed flesh. Just when he felt he could go no further he stumbled into a clearing. The music grew suddenly louder, almost deafening, and then stopped. The silence seemed louder than the elusive fiddle.

Charlie looked around. Ruined buildings filled the clearing. Somehow, despite having only starlight for illumination, he could see the partial walls clearly. Pale phosphorescence outlined each crumbling edifice. Slowly, as if in a dream, he shuffled into the clearing until he stood amid the ruins. To his right a path traced an irregular course through the rubble. He turned. The path led upward. Charlie started walking, following it like a sleepwalker. The music had to come from somewhere. Perhaps the path led to the source.

A dark, irregular shape loomed before him. The path branched to pass on either side of the obstacle. Charlie moved closer. It was a stump. The jagged top, slightly higher than Charlie’s own six feet, pointed at the sky like some giant fist giving the finger to God. Charlie shook his head. Where had
that
blasphemous thought come from?

He reached out and touched it and then drew back his hand. Instead of wood, his fingers touched stone. Petrified wood, perhaps? He walked around the stump. Behind it, a long narrow hole lay open to the sky. Charlie looked down into it but kept his distance. In this darkness he couldn’t be sure of the edge or the footing. It was bad enough to be lost. He had no interest in falling into a hole and breaking his leg. Or, maybe, his neck.

He turned and followed the path further up the mountain. Blackness deeper than the night’s darkness loomed before him. He stopped in front of it. The rectangular-shaped darkness rose about two feet above his head and stretched a few feet on either side of him. He stretched out his left arm and leaned forward until his fingers touched the side. He felt wood this time – old wood, rough and splintery to the touch. He stepped closer, exploring it with his fingertips. It was a beam of some sort – very thick and solid. Suddenly he understood. This had to be the deserted mine that the storekeeper had mentioned; the one he told them to stay away from. He yanked his hand back and looked around as if expecting — what? A nun’s yardstick, perhaps? He shook his head again. Where were these religious and sacrilegious thoughts coming from? He’d not thought of nuns or their punishments for more than thirty years.