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while I muttered responsive noises, and we both scurried around our separate skulls, like
rats seeking the way out of a trap.
By midmoming, we were back in town. I stopped the car in front of the town hall. The police
station was across the street. We would have to go there first, of course. Missing persons,
runaways, lost in the woods, carried off by a mythi- cal beast, had to be reported, search
parties organized, mo- tions gone through even if they could do no good. Ronny was still
talking, muttering, his skin a cold and clammy white, his eyes glazed. I helped him out of the
car and steered him across the road. I remember being glad he hadn't collapsed while we
had work to do. It would have been a shame to leave all that gear on top of Pork Hill.
Our town's Chief of Police was a heavy-bellied man whose moon face wore a thin
mustache. He was young, about thirty, and as competent as we needed. Most of his
energies were spent on rounding up drunks and vandals, occasional bur- glars, and the odd
con man. He could do the work because the town was small and the crime rate low, but he
could never hope to improve his lot. He would grow old in the job, the gut would sag, the
cheeks jowl and the eyes go piggish. The tattoos on his forearms would fade, and
somewhere along the line we would have to get rid of him. I wouldn't miss him; no one would.
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His sense of social class was far too keen.
MOOD WENDIGO 341
When we entered his office, he rose and said. "G'moming, Mayor! I thought you were going
wendigo hunting yesterday?"
"We did," I said shortly.
"Ah!" He grinned jovially, as if we shared some secret. "Stealing a march on your great
white huntress, hey?"
"Whatever do you mean?" 1 asked. I was irritated by his tone, impatient with what had to be
nothing but nonsense. But his next words sent me back.
"Lydia Seltzer. She didn't go with you."
It didn't sound like a question, but what else could it be? "Of course she did. That's why I'm
here now. She disap- peared last night. She and Keith Hutchison."
The Chief plopped his bulk back into his swivel chair. He looked startled. "But, . . ." Then he
paused, looking at Ronny as if for the first time. "What's the matter with him?"
"Shock and exhaustion," I said. "We were up all night, searching for them. Maybe one of
your men would get him over to the hospital and tell his parents where he is."
"Of course. Mayor." He pushed a button on his desk intercom- Then he said, "Maybe you'll
tell me what happened when ..." A patrolman entered, was given his instructions, and left
with Ronny. The Chief turned back to me. "Now," he said.
I gave him the story. He nodded when I was done. "The shock I can understand," he said.
"But why didn't you get here hours ago?"
"1 didn't think it wise to go stumbling through the woods in the dark. Besides, I hoped we
might find something in the morning."
"Not that it really makes a difference. A search party wouldn't do any good."
"Why not? They could still be there someplace! Maybe they fell in a hole we didn't see, or
got lost in the woods."
"No." He shook his head and rose again. "C'mon, I'll show you."
He led me back to the small cell block. When we entered the narrow corridor, lined with
steel bars, 1 could hear ai noise, a jabbering sound, wordless, random. Or almost ran- dom.
As he steered me toward the noise, I began to pick our
342 Thomas A. Easton
shreds that might hold meaning: "fetal train," "stars and stars," "hopper freight," "take yon
train," and more, though those were clearest. I wondered what madman he was holding
here. And then we faced the last cell in the row. Through the bars, I made out a form
strapped onto the narrow bunk, head tossing, face bruised and scratched, denim and wool
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clothes torn and soiled. It was Lydia.
The Chief spoke. "We picked her up like that yesterday afternoon. She walked into town,
went straight to the school, and tried to get into her classroom, raving all the time, just like
this. The substitute called the principal, and he called us. I'm waiting for the judge to sign the
papers now, and then one of the men'll drive her to Augusta."
AMHI. The Augusta Mental Health Institute. Where they would try to bring her back, perhaps
with drugs and electric shocks. But what else could anyone do? I turned away.
Back in the Chiefs office, I remembered Lydia's camera. Did he have it? He did, along with
everything that had been in her pockets. "Then perhaps," I said, "it might be a good idea to
have the film developed. She could have got her pictures after all, and they could help the
doctors understand what's wrong with her now."
"Of course," he said, and I left. I wanted sleep, but 1 should return the gear Lydia had
borrowed first and tell Keith's family what had happened. Then, maybe, I could begin to
puzzle over how Lydia had disappeared last night and reappeared yesterday. Time travel
was impossible, wasn't it?
The Hutchisons and Jacksons were enraged. With me, with Lydia, with the town, with the
school. One boy tost, another ill, but the lost one most on their minds. Jack Hutchison swore
he would run against me come the next election, sue me for every penny I had, have Lydia
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