Where’s Jimmy?
A keening gale is in the treetops, a harbinger, sending the branches into a frenzy of snapping wooden screams as they claw at one another, tossed about in the unforgiving wind. And as I watch, the tempest falls upon the mountain, breaking over the dome and spilling down its slopes, chewing snow and rock and tree, turning the slate-blue giant into a boiling sea of gray.
The body remains, neither noticing the storm, nor caring.
I can’t see him from where I’m standing, but I know he’s there, this young boy of eight. How do I know that? Jimmy? How do I know he’s eight? The boy is tucked under the snow-covered log twenty feet in front of me, his small body curled into a fetal position, huddled against the cold. I know he’s there because I saw the remnants of his last breath only moments ago, a weak white smoke in the dark; just a puff, and then it was lost in the wind.
Eight years old; he’s too young to die alone in the woods at night.
He lies still now, without breath, without life.
Where’s Jimmy?
I want to run to the boy, to wrap him in my coat and blow warmth, blow life, into his lungs, but my legs are frozen, my feet immobile, trapped. I can do nothing for him but watch and wait.
I am the eyes in the woods; he who waits.
There’s a change in the wind, a change in the howl and the roar of its blustering temper tantrum, something hidden within the cacophony. I strain to hear, leaning forward, then back, twisting my head from side to side to find its direction. It’s elusive because it’s all around me. There it is again, more distinct, separate from the wind if only for a second, but what was it?
Wolves?
It sounded like the remnant of a howl, just a scrap of sound: there and then gone. My eyes turn back to the log, to the hollowed-out snow and to the soil beneath it, to the darkness over and around the body. I feel like I’m waiting for something, trying to understand something, but it’s just beyond the edge of remembrance.
There it is: a howling or baying, louder this time. It comes from behind me, where the trees march off into miles of darkness, through valleys and up hills, across rivers and away from mountains.
Where’s Jimmy?
A blanket of shadow presses in on me and I should feel fear, but I don’t. I should run from the wind, away from such sounds and such sights and such horrors, but I don’t. I should feel cold … but I can’t.
The wolves are near.
I hear wailing, howling, barking.
Barking?
Not wolves—dogs!
Jimmy, if that’s you, hurry.
There’s still time.
The dogs are closer now and coming on fast.
I hear voices muffled in the wind, and shouts snatched from the throat and tossed high among the branches. There are at least four distinct voices, but the wind continues to murder their words as they draw near. The dogs are baying constantly now, louder and louder. The voices follow behind, urging them on, and there’s something else, something I can’t make out. The dogs break through the underbrush and race past me, finding the log and the cold hollow tomb below. They pace back and forth before the fallen fir; their tone is now different, more urgent.
The voices are close: yelling, shouting, calling. I finally see them as they emerge from the forest behind me, seven, no, eight men, exhausted, struggling forward, calling. There’s that word again, only this time I hear it.
“Maaagnus.”
The man in front is shouting my name; again and again he shouts it. “Magnus. Maaagnus.” As he nears I wave my arms and yell, “I’m here, Jimmy, I’m here!” but he runs right by me without seeing.
I recognize his face as he passes. His features are hardened by fear, desperation, and fatigue; still, he’s younger than I remember. It’s not Jimmy, though.
“Dad!” I shout as he passes, but he doesn’t hear. He’s at the log now, pulling the snow back with shovellike hands. He reaches in and pulls the small body out, pulls the young boy from the darkness into the night, and cradles him in his arms.
“I’m here, Magnus. I’m here.”
I remember the cold, the wind, the dark.
I remember I was eight.
I remember I was dead.
Wake up.
At first I think the forest is speaking, but then I recognize my own voice.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up.
I’m sitting up in bed, my right hand trembling ever so slightly; it’s barely noticeable anymore. Nineteen years have passed since that night in the forest. The eight-year-old boy is long gone, replaced by a twenty-seven-year-old man. The dream is the same, though, always the same. As time passes, it visits less frequently, maybe once every month or two.
I tell myself it’s because I’m finally getting over it. The truth, I fear, is that there are now too many nightmares competing for my sleeping hours. The bodies are stacked like cordwood outside the door to my dreams, each with its own horrid tale, and each with its own monster.
Now there’s a new monster among the woodpile.
CHAPTER NINE
June 22, 9:35 A.M.
The hangar appears deserted when I pass through the outer cipher door, but so often appearances are deceiving. I’ve barely stepped inside when I hear them from across the open expanse of the cavernous hangar. Two voices—female—having a raucous good time, it would seem, laughing, squealing, and talking back and forth faster than a Wimbledon tennis match.
Stranger still, this cacophony is coming from Diane’s office.
As I cross the hangar floor and skirt around Betsy’s right wing, I can just make out someone’s head as she leans back in the chair facing Diane’s desk. More laughter, and then the head is gone again. The overgrown ficus tree just inside Diane’s door and the elevated deck outside our row of second-story offices obscure the view.