“Well, while you were nursing your sore feet, I was out doing the interviews.”
Someone else bumped against them, almost knocking them together.
“If you ask me, these lights are all a bunch of bullshit,” a man complained to his companion. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming here. It took six hours, for Christ’s sake. If I’d known there’d be this many people…”
Brent faced Sharon again. “Maybe you should try being a reporter for a change. Dig up more stories about rescued cats and the people who love them.”
A man pushed a woman in a wheelchair, nearly knocking Brent off his feet and shouting, “Out of the way! Let us through. My wife needs to see the lights! They’ll heal her legs! Out of the way…”
Brent took advantage of the interruption and turned toward the broadcast truck, which was parked near the Winnebago.
“Mr. Hamilton,” he called to someone inside the truck. “We’re ready for your interview.”
An uneasy-looking man stepped out. Overweight, in his midforties, he wore cowboy boots and jeans with creases down the middle of the legs. His blue-checked shirt had shiny metal snaps instead of buttons.
“I was on the Highway of Death in the First Gulf War, but nothing ever made me nervous like this.” Hamilton’s puffy cheeks were flushed. He grinned at his own candor.
“Going on television? I thought car dealers were used to that be- cause of their television commercials,” Brent said as he adjusted the tiny microphone clipped to the man’s shirt.
“There’s no station in Rostov. Hell, I’ve never seen the inside of one.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask you some easy questions about what you told me this afternoon. I’ve never heard anything more fascinating. All you need to do is forget the camera and talk to me the way you’d talk to a customer.”
“Well, I can sure do that.” Hamilton looked up uncertainly. “But I’ve never tried to sell anybody anything from the top of a motor home, and in the dark to boot.”
Brent leaned inside the broadcast truck. “Harry, brighten the lights up there, will you? There you go, Mr. Hamilton, lead the way. I think you’ll enjoy the view.”
With that, they walked over to the Winnebago.
“I hope you’re not counting on too much,” Hamilton said as he started climbing the ladder.
Only a ticket to Atlanta, Brent thought.
On top of the motor home, he arranged Hamilton so that he stood a few feet away, with the crowd below them and the rangeland in the background.
“I just need to talk to somebody for a moment. Then we’ll do the interview.”
Brent adjusted his earbud so that it wouldn’t be conspicuous. Through it, he listened to the producer, who sat below him in the broadcast van.
“Ready in ten,” the producer’s voice said.
Next to Anita’s camera, a face appeared on a monitor, the craggy features of one of television’s most well-known personalities.
Hamilton pointed. “Isn’t that…?”
Keeping his right hand at his side, Brent motioned for him to be quiet. He was troubled that his hand had a tremor.
The producer’s voice finished counting down.
“Go.”
On the monitor, the CNN newscaster’s thin lips moved, but there was no sound. Brent could hear him through the earbud, though.
“And for the next hour, we have a special broadcast about a story that stunned the nation. Last night a crazed gunman shot twenty members of a tour group near the remote town of Rostov in west Texas. The killer’s rage was evidently set off by mysterious lights that appear almost nightly in that area. Joining us live at the scene of the shooting is Brent Loft, a reporter for El Paso television station…” The famous personality, whose power Brent hoped to have one day, read the station’s call letters.
“Brent, you look as if this story is taking a toll on you.”
“Things are very emotional here.” Brent’s words were picked up by a tiny mike clipped to his dusty lapel. “Believe me, there’s a lot more information to track down.”
“I understand you’re going to tell us more about the mystery of those lights, and why they drove this gunman into a homicidal frenzy.”
“That’s correct. The lights are a local phenomenon that have been here as long as anybody can remember. On most nights, they appear on the rangeland behind me-but not to everyone. Some people see the lights, while others don’t, and that’s as much a mystery as what causes them. In a while, we’re going to aim our cameras in that direction and see if the nation gets lucky.
“But first, you need to understand what the eager crowd below me is looking for. To provide some context, I want to introduce you to Luther Hamilton, a car dealer here in Rostov who probably knows as much about the lights as anyone. He’s one of the few who’ve seen them up close and personal. In fact, his experience with them nearly cost him his life.
“Mr. Hamilton,” Brent stepped toward his guest so that Anita could put them in a two-shot. The crowd milled impatiently below. “In the summer of 1980, you took part in a highly unusual event.”
“It sure wasn’t ordinary, I’ll tell you that,” Luther agreed.
“And it occurred in this area?”
“Exactly in this area. Right where everybody’s standing down below us. There wasn’t any observation platform in those days, just a gravel parking lot at the side of the road. On the Fourth of July, 1980, Rostov had a fireworks celebration. After it was over, we drove out here.”
“How many people were involved?”
“Almost as many as are here now. At least four hundred.”
“And what did you plan to do? Did you have a name for it?”
“We called it the Rostov Ghost Light Hunt.”
35
For the second time that day, Luther described what had happened that long-ago summer, and now he understood that the nervousness he’d spoken about hadn’t much to do with worrying that he’d forget what he was supposed to say on television. It was nervousness about what he’d started to remember. That afternoon, when he’d told the reporter about the hunt, he’d recalled it through a haze of decades, but now his memory was focusing, remembering details with clarity, and he dreaded returning to that time.
I wish to God I’d never agreed to this interview, he thought. He’d hoped that the publicity would help him sell cars, but all of a sudden, he didn’t care.
Rostov’s 1980 Fourth of July fireworks had turned out to be the usual joke. They were ignited on the high school football field: less than ten minutes of skyrockets, some of which had more of a pop than a bang. A few never went off, and the principal made a big show of pouring buckets of water on them. The senior class clown, Jeb Rutherford, burned himself with a sparkler. Bits of burned paper drifted from the sky, and Cal Bailey’s girlfriend got a speck in her eye. Cal had to drive her to the hospital. The big finish was a rocket that burst into the shape of a huge American flag blazing above the crowd. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder drifted everywhere. Eleven years later, Luther would associate that odor with the smell of gunsmoke from artillery in the First Gulf War.
And then the show was over. Rick Chambers, the president of the student council, murmured to Luther that the fireworks had lasted about as long as it took to have sex. Everybody headed toward their cars or trucks, but a lot of them knew that the festivities were just beginning, and it wasn’t just schoolkids who drove out of town to the gravel parking lot. A lot of parents went there, also, and families came from nearby towns.
Johnny Whitlock-the captain of the football team-was the guy who’d thought of it. Johnny was always coming up with crazy schemes, like suggesting that the Homecoming dance should have a Hawaiian theme because nobody ever left Rostov, so how could there be a home- coming? Maybe the dance should be called the “Wish I Could Leave Home” dance. That idea got only one vote-Johnny’s. Another time he sneaked over to the school in the middle of the night and managed to reach the flagpole without being spott
ed by the janitor or a policeman driving past. The next morning, when the students arrived, they found a Mickey Mouse flag grinning over the school. The principal was furious. At a hastily convened assembly, he ranted that somebody had insulted not only the school but also the American flag, and he demanded to know who’d done it. Only Luther and a few other kids had known it was Johnny, and of course none of them said a word-at least not until after that Fourth of July, when it no longer mattered.
“Let’s do something big this summer,” Johnny told Luther and a half-dozen other kids after their final class of the school year.
They were eating burgers at the Rib Palace, and Luther said, “Yeah, like what? You know there’s nothing to do around here.”
Johnny chewed thoughtfully and grinned. “All we got around here’s the lights, right?”
“And that old ranch house where they made that James Deacon movie,” Cal Bailey suggested.
“Who cares about that old dump? The damned thing’s falling apart. No, the lights are the only action we’ve got. How many times have any of you tried to figure out what they are?”
Everybody shrugged. It was a rite of passage that on your twelfth birthday you sneaked out of the house after your parents went to sleep. You bicycled out to the parking lot, where other kids were waiting to see if you had the guts to climb the fence and hike into the field to try to find what caused the lights. That was tougher than it sounded because the field stretched all the way to Mexico, and it was easy to get lost out there in the dark. Not many kids actually saw the lights to begin with, so most didn’t even know what they were looking for, which was why the older kids tried to make things scarier by calling them “Ghost Lights.”
Before the birthday boy arrived, other kids hid in the field. When he climbed the fence and started into the darkness, they raised lanterns, but as soon as he headed in their direction, they covered the lights. That made him look around in confusion. The next thing, he saw other lights-more lanterns-and went toward them. Then they disappeared. The joke ended when the kids with the lanterns couldn’t keep from laughing.
But sometimes the kids who were hiding saw other lights, and it was obvious that those lights couldn’t be lanterns because some of them floated high off the ground. They moved this way and that, and merged and changed colors, and kept getting larger and coming closer. That was another way the joke ended-when it suddenly wasn’t funny and the kids with the lanterns decided it was time to go home. That rite of passage ended after the Fourth of July, 1980. No one wanted to go into the field after that, and when Chief Costigan came to town to replace his father, who’d been shot to death, the field remained off-limits because the chief kept driving out there at night to try to figure out what the lights were.
“Sure, we kidded around about the lights,” Johnny said that June, lowering his hamburger. “But the truth is, nobody knows what they are.”
“They’re nothing,” Jasper Conklin said. “I bet I’ve been out there a hundred times. Never seen ’ em once. People who claim to see ’em are putting you on.”
“Well, I’ve seen ’em,” Johnny said.
“So have I,” Luther added. “And my mom and dad have, too.”
“Let’s make a difference and do something the town’ll remember for a long time,” Johnny said. “Let’s find out what causes them. Let’s have a Ghost Light Hunt.”
That was a typical Johnny idea, but the name had a nice shivery sound to it, and he suggested that they do it after the shitty Fourth of July fireworks and make a real celebration.
“Why not?” Jasper said. “We’ve got nothing better to do.”
They mentioned it around town, and then parents heard about it, and some of them-especially the editor of the weekly newspaper- thought it might be interesting. So the newspaper printed an article, and the next thing, there was a meeting in the high school gymnasium. A lot of people didn’t want anything to do with the hunt-they were happy with the way things were and felt that some things shouldn’t be explained. But most of the people were tired of not knowing what was out there, and a few had their own reasons for wanting the hunt to take place.
“Hell, before he died, my grandfather told me he saw the lights way back during the First World War,” Josh McKinney said. He owned Rostov’s only movie theater. “At the time, the town was afraid they were German spies, sneaking across the Mexican border. The Army came out and couldn’t figure what was going on, so to be on the safe side, they built that training field out there. Then they reactivated it during the Second World War, when the lights made the military nervous again. All these years, people around here have been trying to figure out what they are, and no one’s ever succeeded. Personally I don’t think you’re going to find out this time, either, but I’m all for trying, ’cause when you fail, it’ll only make the lights more mysterious, and we’ll get more tourists.”
“And more customers for your theater, eh, Josh?” somebody joked from the crowd.
“Well, I wouldn’t turn down the chance to sell more popcorn.” The way Josh grinned got a laugh, and everybody started talking at once, but the mayor didn’t bother calling for order because it was clear there was going to be a Ghost Light Hunt. Those in favor would work out the details on their own.
So that Fourth of July, hundreds of people gathered at the gravel parking lot outside town. All those headlights blazing were a show of their own, Luther thought, and the overwhelming rumble of that many engines, mostly from pickup trucks, was awesome. Johnny arrived on his motorcycle. Luther had a 1960 military-style Jeep he’d bought from a junkyard outside El Paso. A natural mechanic, he’d re- built it and painted it yellow. Several cowboys arrived on horseback.
Everybody was talking so much that Waylan Craig-who owned the hardware store-needed to use a bullhorn to get everybody’s attention.
“Shut off those engines!” His amplified voice struggled to compete with the noise of the vehicles.
A few people complied, and then others. Before long, Luther could hear everything Waylan said.
“And shut off those headlights! I didn’t think I’d need sunglasses at this hour!”
A couple of people chuckled, and soon there were only enough headlights to keep people from stumbling around in the dark. Luther looked up into the cloudless sky and saw the stars of the Milky Way stretching brightly across the sky.
“I brought eight sets of walkie-talkies from my store,” Waylan announced, “As soon as you get organized into groups, I’ll hand ’ em out. Naturally I ’d like ’em back when we’re finished-unless, of course, some of you want to buy a pair.”
That got more chuckles.
“You’re supposed to have your own flashlights,” Waylan continued, his words echoing into the dark grassland. “But in case you forgot, I brought some of those from my store, also.”
“And you want them back, too, unless we decide to buy them,” somebody yelled from the crowd.
“This week, they’re on special.”
Even more chuckles.
It wasn’t that Waylan was funny. A lot of people in the crowd had come with a supply of beer, and most of the men were sipping from cans. A few kept going back to their trucks to drink from bottles in paper bags. Luther noticed that some of the teenagers had beer cans, too, holding them close to their sides, trying not to be obvious. A breeze carried the smell of alcohol through the crowd.
As a result, it took more than an hour to get organized. Somebody brought wire cutters from his truck and opened a wide section of the barbed-wire fence.
“We’ll want to be sure to repair it after we’re done,” Waylan said.
“Got any tools to sell us to do that?” somebody yelled.
Four pairs of spotters were placed at strategic areas along the fence, about seventy-five yards apart. Each pair had a telescope, a compass, and a walkie-talkie. People went through the gap in the fence and spread out in a line about thirty yards wide.
Mayor Ackerman took charge of the bullhorn.
&
nbsp; “Once we get started, just keep walking straight ahead. Use your walkie-talkies to tell us if you see the lights. As soon as we get every- thing coordinated on a map, we’ll send trucks in that direction. They’ll get there so fast, whatever’s causing the lights won’t have a chance to slip away.”
“My motorcycle’ll get there faster,” Johnny said.
Luther almost added, “And my Jeep.”
“My horse can get to places nobody else can,” a cowboy said.
“Everybody’s help is welcome,” the mayor assured them through the bullhorn. “Those of you in the line, don’t use your flashlights un- less you absolutely need to. They’ll ruin your night vision. Be- sides… ” His tone indicated he was about to make a joke. “We don’t want to scare whatever’s making those lights. Heck, we may look as mysterious to them as they do to us.”
But it didn’t get a laugh, and Luther decided that some people in the crowd believed that the mayor was right.
Finally, a half hour before midnight, everybody started. Well, not everybody. Some people got tired and cold and went home. Others had too much to drink and fell asleep in their trucks. Lucky for them. But the majority spread out carefully and started walking into the darkness of the rangeland.
“Happy Fourth of July!” someone shouted.
Luther stayed behind with Johnny, ready to drive into the field if anybody spotted anything. For a while, the backs of the people in the line were illuminated by the few remaining headlights. But despite the cloudless sky, the darkness of the field was murky, and when they disappeared into the darkness, it was like a magic trick.
A breeze cooled Luther’s face as he strained to detect any movement out there.
“I see one!” a spotter exclaimed.
“Where?” his partner wanted to know.
“No! I’m wrong! Sorry, everybody! It was just a flashlight some- body turned on and off!”
Another light flickered and vanished. Luther could tell that it, too, was from a flashlight. Then several lights flickered. The temptation to see what was ahead on the ground was evidently contagious. The off- and-on flashlights looked like giant fireflies bobbing and weaving out there.
The Shimmer Page 14
