Alex Berenson: The Midnight House

“You wanted to come. I warned you.”

The last half mile the trail turned to scree, loose rocks and boulders. Wells pulled his gloves from his pack and climbed hand over hand. He was cold now, cold through and through, and he loved the gray sky above and gray rock below, loved everything around him. He was free. If he slipped and broke a leg on this mountain, if the weather turned ugly and somehow he died up here, the earth wouldn’t care. He was in a mortal battle, and yet he didn’t have to hurt anyone to win. He needed only to survive.

His legs chilled and lungs aching, he reached the summit and surveyed the mountains around him. To the south, the mass of Mount Washington dominated. To the north, the range fell off sharply, and the narrow path of a river, probably the Upper Ammonoosuc, was just visible through the brown bark below. The trees had not yet budded for spring, and the valleys beneath Wells were almost monochrome, a mix of gray and white and flat dark green from the pines and firs, the only flashes of color coming from the cars and trucks rolling on Highway 2.

Tonka bumped against his legs and whined quietly, telling him that he might be enjoying this communion with nature, but she was cold and wet and wanted off the mountain.

“I thought you were tougher than this, bud,” he said. “You’re the one with the fur coat.”

He reached into his jacket for a PowerBar, gave half to her, swallowed the other half in two ungraceful bites. Still the dog’s tail drooped.

“All right,” he said. “I get it.”

Wells took a final survey of the land. And realized he wasn’t alone. Several paths climbed Mount Adams. Wells had come up the west face, the main trail for day hikers. But the mountain could also be reached from the northeast or the south, on a path that was part of the Appalachian Trail. A hiker had just popped out from a ridge on the northeast side of the mountain, a couple of hundred yards away.

“Just a sec,” Wells said to Tonka. “Let’s see.”

He was surprised anyone else had braved the weather, more surprised when the hiker turned out to be a woman. She was much better equipped than he was. She carried a solid frame pack with a tent attached and wore a red jacket and jeans and boots and a floppy hat to keep the rain away. She was tall and solidly built and moved confidently up the mountain. When she got close, she waved and gave him a friendly gap-toothed smile. He wouldn’t have guessed a woman alone up here would be so confident meeting a strange man and a strange dog. Then he saw the pistol holstered on her hip, half hidden under her jacket.

“Nice day for a hike,” he said.

“Isn’t it, though? ”

“Least you dressed for it,” Wells said. “I was gonna stay out overnight, but the dog says no.”

“You blame the dog? ”

“For everything.”

She reached out a hand and they shook through the gloves. “I’m Anne.”

“John,” he said, using his real name for the first time in months. He nodded to the dog. “This is Tonka.”

She smiled again. Despite the frigid rain, Wells felt a sudden warmth in his groin. He kept holding her hand until finally she let go.

“Hi, Anne.”

“What’s a nice flatlander like you doing in a place like this? ”

“Is it that obvious? ”

“You have all your teeth.”

“Is that joke allowed? ”

“For me.”

“I’ve been living in Berlin the last few months, but I’m from D.C.”

“And came to New Hampshire for the winter. Bold. Stupid, but bold.”

“I got a great deal on a cabin. Frostbite included.”

“I’ll bet.”

She smiled, and Wells realized he wanted very badly to keep the conversation going. “How about you?” he said. “I take it you’re a native.”

“Conway.” Conway was about forty miles south of Berlin. “I like being up here when it’s quiet. No city slickers to spoil the view.”

Wells nodded at her pistol. “Looks to me you could clear the trail whenever you wanted.”

“I don’t shoot anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“Fortunately, that leaves plenty of targets.”

“My ex-husband, for one.”

Now they were flirting, Wells thought. A deliberate mention of an ex-husband had to count as flirting. Though he wasn’t totally sure. He hadn’t flirted in a long time. Tonka let out a growl that turned into a deep bark, and he decided to quit while he was ahead. “She has better sense than I do,” he said. “We should get going.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I could take you for a hike sometime.”

She laughed.

“I’m sorry. Too cheesy? ”

“Much, much too cheesy. How about this? I had a reservation tonight at a cabin past Mount Washington. But the weather’s so crummy I might change my mind. You know Fagin’s Pub? ”

“In Berlin.”

“None other. I might stop by tonight.”

“You might.”

“I might. You should, too.”

“I’ll do that,” Wells said. “On one condition.”

“What’s that? ”

“You leave your gun at home.”

The Accord was hidden behind a Silverado. It backed out fast, its driver as anxious to get home as everyone else, and Mike Wyly almost bashed it. He jammed his brakes and horn, and jolted to a stop a foot from its trunk. Its driver waved, a half hearted apology, and went back to her cell phone. Wyly had half a mind to give her a talking-to, but he’d been speeding, too. And she was cute.

Instead, he waved back and followed her down the ramps of the giant employee parking garage at Universal Studios, six levels of concrete, thousands of cars. He wondered if he’d ever get a pass to park on the lot. These endless left turns were a pain. Especially in a ’67 Mustang convertible without power steering.

Life was strange. If anyone had told Wyly two years ago that he’d be worrying about parking passes, he would have. well, he didn’t know what he would have done. Probably just laughed. Back then he’d been in the middle of the most secret war the United States had ever fought. Now he was wondering if he had enough points to join the Screen Actors Guild.

Wyly eased out of the garage and onto Lankershim. He fired a stream of dip-darkened spit into the Coke bottle in the passenger seat and plugged his iPod into the Mustang’s radio, an aftermarket addition, the only part of the car that wasn’t genuine Ford. The smooth twang of Brooks & Dunn poured from the backseat, and Wyly looked into the warm night sky. Another day done. Eight thirty-eight p.m., according to the iPod. Twelve hours’ work. With the overtime he’d made close to five hundred, pretax. Not bad.

When Wyly quit the army, he figured on staying in North Carolina, his home state. Working security in Charlotte. Then his wife, Caitlin, told him they were moving to Los Angeles. She’d always wanted to be an actress. She was twenty-four now, and if she waited any longer, she’d be too old.

Caitlin certainly had the looks. She’d been in a “Girls of the ACC” spread in Playboy five years before. But she couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. Wyly had seen her try. He told her she would miss her family and friends; she could act in Charlotte.

No dice. She told him she’d divorce him if he didn’t “support her dream, help her reach her potentialities.” He’d always been “an avatar of failure” for her, she said. “Potentialities”? “Avatar”? Wyly didn’t even know what an avatar was, and he was sure Caitlin didn’t, either. He could always tell when she’d been talking to her sorority sisters.

He should have let the marriage come to its inevitable sorry end right then. He’d hardly seen her for two years. Still, he wasn’t ready to give up. And he figured he could work security in Los Angeles as easy as Charlotte. They could live by the ocean. He’d learn how to surf. So off to California they went.