Betty McMahon [Cassandra Cass A Rendezvous to Die For (epub)

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.I found a narrow, rocky path that led directly to the river and followed it through the brush.In less than a minute, the lodge emerged in a clearing only a few yards ahead of me.It was little more than a dome-shaped hut made of hides draped over a willow-branch frame.The door was merely a flap of deer hide.The lodge would accommodate only four or five adults, who would sit around a pile of rocks in the center.During a “sweat ritual,” they heated the rocks white-hot, then poured cold water on them to create very hot steam.Depending upon the ceremony, participants burned bunches of sweet grass, smoked or passed a “sacred pipe,” talked, prayed, or pursued visions.After they had sweated long enough, they headed for a dip in the river while rubbing themselves with sage.No smoke was rising above the lodge.I figured the ashes must have been left to burn out after the previous evening’s ceremonies.I hurried to the structure and peeled back the hide from the opening to peek inside.Because the hides formulating the lodge were made of thick hides, the sunlight couldn’t penetrate them.It was rather dark inside, but I noticed a few wadded-up blankets near the fire pit.I paused to adjust the lens on my camera and then pointed it at what I hoped would make an interesting picture.The flash went off, illuminating the scene for only an instant.That’s all it took.A second of illumination.I jumped back, trembling, and smothered a scream with the back of my hand.It.it’s not a pile of blankets, I thought.It’s a.a man!I backed up and swung my head in every direction to examine my surroundings.Not a single leaf on any tree stirred.I saw no one.It was unbelievably quiet.I shivered, knowing I was utterly alone.What should I do? Maybe my imagination has gone wild.Slowly, I turned to take another look.God, no! I thought.It.can’t be.But it was.The man by the fire pit was Eric Hartfield.A very dead Eric Hartfield.And a familiar weapon was buried deep into the base of his skull.I had a sick feeling I’d found Marty’s missing tomahawk.Chapter 2MondayThere was nowhere to turn, no place to run from my tormentors.I was penned in by flying tomahawks that swirled around me in a shower of spraying blood.Rhythmic undulations and incessant drumming pounded on my eardrums.I sank to the ground and wrapped my arms tightly around my body, trying to make myself as small a target as possible.One ‘hawk landed directly in front of me, another to my right, another to my left.There was no escaping them.I was doomed.An earsplitting, piercing scream forced me to lift my head.I awakened sweating and shaken, the scream persisting, despite the realization that I had survived an all too realistic nightmare.Why wouldn’t the shrieking stop? I sat up and shook my head.The sound changed to something more recognizable.It was my bedside telephone!“Cassandra, are you okay?”“Anna? You heard—”“Yes and I’ve been worried sick! My friend Willis was at the Rendezvous.” Her voice was unnaturally high.“He just left the store.He told me what he knew about that horrible, horrible incident yesterday.I’m so sorry, Cass.I should never have urged you to go to that event.” She paused.“How are you, honey? Never mind.I’m coming over.You can tell me then.I’m going to bring you something.Coffee? Something stronger? How can I help?”I rubbed my eyes and swung my legs off the bed.“I’m all right, now that I’m awake.Don’t come here, Anna.I’ll come to your shop and see you in about an hour.” I hung up and sat motionless for several minutes.I couldn’t shake the image of Eric wrapped around the fire pit with that ghastly hatchet in the back of his head.Maybe coffee would help.I showered, dressed, ran a comb through my curly hair, and headed toward town.A lot of elements make a town livable, and Colton Mills had enough of them to make me rein in my Jeep, when I first passed through a year ago.Returning from a photo shoot in Duluth, I had decided to take the slow route back to the Twin Cities where I had lived for a couple of years.I still remember how the approach to Colton Mills had taken my breath away.A two-lane paved road passed through a forest of pines and descended a mile or more into a valley cut through by the Oxbow River.Then, suddenly, the town simply “appeared,” like something out of a nineteenth-century picture post card.I couldn’t resist stopping to photograph the downtown area’s brick and stone facades that marked Colton Mills as a once prosperous grain and lumber-milling center.Then, places, such as the wooden grain elevator on the edge of town, which sat by long-abandoned railroad tracks, charmed the photographer in me.I was hooked.It was such a contrast to the traffic-blocked city I wanted to leave behind that, before leaving town three days later, I had rented a second-floor studio.Heading south, I had purposely overlooked the unsightly subdivisions sprouting in the soybean fields and the year-round brick McMansions displacing the tiny summer clapboard cabins around Oxbow Lake.After all, a working photographer had to get her potential clientele from somewhere.Now, and in retrospect, I knew I’d have had to reconsider my decision if it weren’t for The Grizzly Bar.All the town’s qualities wouldn’t be worth the paper the Colton Miller newspaper was printed on, without a decent place to get a real cup of coffee.Although a resistor of trends, I was fully in favor of the Starbucks craze.This morning, as usual, Roxy, a fellow refugee from the rat race, was working behind the counter.“Morning, Roxy,” I said.Roxy and her husband Mel, transplants from Minneapolis, had transformed a building that once housed a machine shop into a coffee shop with a northern Minnesota feel.A six-foot cardboard cutout of a grizzly bear holding a steaming cup of coffee loomed over me as I entered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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