Night Wind

by Mertz, Stephen

  "Hello again," he said.

  "Hi, Mike." She smiled self-consciously. "I hope you didn't overhear too much of that disciplinary tirade, and I hope I didn't sound like too much of a bitch."

  "You sounded like a mom giving her kid a talking to. I caught plenty of the same from my mom when I was Paul's age."

  "One of Paul's friends told him a tall tale about a murder and a suicide that supposedly occurred in our house. Paul told me, and I guess I let it get to me more than I should have. Then today at school, Mrs. Lufkin told me it never happened."

  "I don't know if it's my place to say this, Robin, but that doesn't really sound like Paul's fault."

  She grinned. "I should've known you'd side with him. But as a matter of fact, you're right. These things that have been going on, this helpless feeling of not knowing what to expect next, of not knowing who's going to be the next victim, not knowing who's committing the murders I . . . guess I'm feeling stressed."

  He reconsidered his plans for the afternoon. Charlie Flagg had given him the afternoon off if he wanted to take it.

  "I could take Paul off your hands for awhile, if you'd like," he said. "He and I could hike up one of those trails. The three of us could, for that matter."

  "That's a very nice offer to make. But your first instinct was right. What I think Mom needs most right now is some down time at home. As for you and Paul . . . Mike, I don't want to impose my troubles on you."

  "You're not. And you'd better let me know what you think, because here comes Paul."

  Her son was walking across the yard, toward them. Speaking in a more neutral tone than she'd used a few minutes earlier, Robin said, "Yes, Paul, what is it?"

  The boy exchanged a brief nod with Mike. "Mom, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for wising off. I know you're upset. I just didn't think I'd done anything wrong."

  "You didn't," she admitted. She placed an arm around him, gave him a hug. "We're pals again."

  "Great." With that settled, Paul turned to Mike. "Hey, dude."

  "Hey, buddy."

  Robin said, "Mike was wondering if you'd like to take off and do something with him this afternoon."

  "Sure!"

  Mike said, "How'd you like to go for that hike we were talking about?"

  Paul brightened as if a switch had been flicked. "Sounds great! Is that okay, Mom?"

  "It's okay." Robin raised her eyes to the overcast sky. "But take a jacket with you." As they watched Paul race back to the house, she said, "Thanks, Mike."

  "Forget it. I could use a little getting-away-from-it-all myself."

  Then Paul was back, radiating enthusiasm. "Ready?"

  "Ready." As Paul climbed aboard the Jeep, Mike told Robin, "We'll be back in a couple of hours. Maybe we'll stop in town for a cone at Donna's on our way back."

  "Have fun, you two. I'll go with you next time."

  "Bye, Mom!"

  Mike slipped the Jeep into gear.

  She waved. "Bye, you guys."

  The gravel road to the highway was washboard-rough in places, bordered on one side by irrigated pastureland where cattle grazed and noisy cicadas prattled ceaselessly. Opposite, the terrain climbed to the tree line and rolling foothills beneath a steep mountain slope. They were less than a quarter mile from the convenience store-gas station at the intersection of the road and the highway when Paul pointed at a figure walking toward them.

  "There's Jared. Can we stop? He's on his way to visit me."

  "Sure."

  Mike braked the Jeep to a stop directly alongside the red-haired boy.

  "Hi, Mr. Landware."

  Paul had introduced Mike to Jared earlier in the week. "Hello, Jared. I hear that imagination of yours has been getting you in trouble."

  Jared looked apologetically at Paul. "When you called a little while ago and told me your mom was having a meltdown about what I'd told you, you sure sounded mad at me. That's why I was coming over. Are you mad at me?"

  "I guess not," Paul groused. "Just don't do it again. Jeez, what a bonehead thing to do, telling that story about the soldier and his wife."

  Jared grinned. "Hey, I don't know. I thought it was kind of funny myself."

  Paul grinned a rueful grin. "Maybe I would too, if it wasn't my mom that was yelling at me."

  The eyes behind Jared's thick glasses shifted uncomfortably in Mike's direction, then he said, "Hey Paul, there's another reason I was coming over. Can we talk? I mean, alone? Is that okay with you, Mr. Landware?"

  Mike chuckled, mostly to himself. "Don't trust anyone over thirty is alive and well, I see. Naw, I don't mind, guys."

  Paul stepped from the Jeep. "I'll be right back." He followed Jared beyond Mike's hearing range, then demanded impatiently, "Well, what is it?"

  "You've got to keep your voice down," Jared said. "I've got something to show you if you want to come see it with me. Something really cool."

  "Jared, you'll just get us into trouble."

  "No, I won't. Listen, this is for real. It's way cool."

  "What are you talking about? I'm not going to sneak around with you and watch people . . . doing private stuff."

  "It's nothing like that."

  "Then what is it?"

  "I, uh, I don't know. It's the army or the FBI or something. I'll bet they're here to investigate those serial killings. They've got a van and electronic surveillance stuff and sentries and everything. You ought to see it. It's up the mountain, but it's not hard to get to if you know the way like I do."

  Paul found his curiosity sparked in spite of himself. "How did you find them?"

  "I told you I like to go up the mountain a lot to find a place to read where no one can bother me. Sometimes I go way up the mountain. That's where they are. I was just walking along a trail when I heard voices. I moved in real slow and I saw them." Jared's eyes gleamed. "So do you want me to show you or not? I know a shortcut from here. I was there this morning, after I left your house."

  "Jared, if you're feeding me a line of crap again like that bit about the soldier killing his wife—"

  "This is for real. They didn't see me, and they won't see us."

  "Okay, but what if they do catch us?"

  "What can they do? They'll call Chief Saunders and turn us over to our mothers and maybe we'll get grounded for a couple of days. Big deal. But that won't happen. I know my way around up on that mountain. You'll see."

  Already Paul was having second thoughts. "I don't know. I think I'll go on with Mike."

  "Well, I'm going back to check those guys out some more. You should see the guns they have."

  "If I do go, I'll have to tell Mike."

  "Tell him we're going to my place. He'll never let you go if you tell him the truth."

  Paul considered this. It wouldn't be right. But it would be fun, going to spy on soldiers and a secret van. Jared was right. What harm could there be? Besides, he reasoned, no one did what they were supposed to do all the time.

  "All right. Just a sec."

  He returned to the Jeep.

  "What's up?" Mike asked.

  "Is it okay if I go with Jared instead?"

  "Sure, Paul, if that's what you want."

  Paul hadn't expected it to be so easy. "Thanks!" He started to turn away. "See you!"

  Of course, it wasn't that easy.

  "Whoa, partner," said Mike. "First we drive to the convenience store and give your mom a call. She has final say."

  "Oh. Yeah. I guess so."

  "I'm assuming Jared would rather you called home. The other option is to go back and ask your mom in person. That way Jared can get his serious talking-to for that tall tale."

  Paul laughed. "You're right." He called, "Hey, Jared! Come on. I've got to call home first."

  The chubby red-haired boy registered no outward response to this. The boys climbed into the Jeep.

  They continued on. The clouds overhead continued to thicken, nearly blocking out all trace of the sun by now, the purple of the cloud-line over the mountains
deepening to black.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the parking lot in front of the convenience store, Mike sat in the Jeep with the engine idling. For a full minute, he watched Paul and Jared trudging off. A random gust of wind blew through the covered Jeep, crisp and cool. Mike rolled up his window. He slipped the vehicle into gear and turned left onto the main road, driving north on the highway, away from town.

  He'd offered the boys a lift to Jared's. They declined, telling him that they wanted to stop on the way there to pick up another friend who lived on the way. Paul called his mother from a pay phone. Cell phones were all but useless in this remote, mountainous area. Mike then spoke briefly with Robin to confirm that the change in plans was acceptable to her. And so he and the boys had parted company.

  He decided to resume his original plan for the afternoon, yet he had to admit that he wasn't driving out to the Indians' property solely to write an article for Charlie Flagg's newspaper. He was making the trip because of a nagging suspicion—a feeling he didn't quite understand himself—that somehow Joe Youngfeather and Gray Wolf might have something to offer about whatever the hell was happening in Devil Creek.

  This time, when he steered onto the isolated piece of land that overlooked the dry creek bed, everything at first appeared much as it had on his previous visit. The truck and the Harley were parked exactly where he remembered them. Once again there was no sign of anyone in or near the small adobe hut. Last time, though, the sun had been shining and birds singing from the juniper trees. Today, the sky had only grown darker since he'd left town. No birds sang today.

  He tapped his horn, two short taps, a common practice in the West when visiting a rural home uninvited. He shut off the Jeep's motor and waited, debating with himself the advisability of turning around and driving away. After three minutes, he stepped from the Jeep, looking around, buttoning his jacket. The wind coming down off the mountains carried a sharp bite in these open spaces.

  "Hello! Anybody home?"

  He couldn't hear the old man chanting as he had last time, or maybe that was because of the wind. He walked toward the outcrop that overlooked the creek bed, recalling that last time, Joe Youngfeather had gotten the drop on him from behind because he hadn't been careful enough. He did not intend for that to happen again. He stood upon the same spot, gazing at the spot below where this time there was no sign of Gray Wolf. He did not see Joe pressed against the ground directly beneath the outcrop until it was too late. Strong hands gripped his ankles and yanked him off his feet. He landed on his backside with a jarring thud, the back of his head painfully rapping the ground. Then he became fully aware of the figure swooping down upon him.

  As before, Joe wore black from head to foot. His black hair was braided. His harsh warrior eyes glowered.

  "Wait!" Mike managed. "I don't want trouble!"

  His words were choked off. He was pinned to the ground. The wide-bladed combat knife, freed of the buckskin sheath Joe wore at his chest, was held to Mike's throat.

  "You were told to stay away from here."

  Mike let his reflexes take over. He brought his left hand up as fast as he could, which was fast enough, gripping the wrist holding the knife. At the same instant he managed to position a knee between himself and Joe. He kicked with enough strength to send Joe tumbling away. Mike leaped to his feet. Joe assumed a crouch, an angry snarl upon his face, the knife held steady. He started to close in. Mike executed a snap kick, an automatic movement, instinctively summoned from his combat training. The toe of his boot connected with Joe's wrist. Joe grunted, the knife flying from his fingers.

  Mike said quickly, "Joe, stop, damn it! All right, I'll leave. I wanted to speak with your grandfather, not you. I'll leave. We don't have to kill each other."

  Joe bent over and retrieved the knife. Mike made no move to stop him. Joe hefted the knife a few times as if testing its balance then returned it to its sheath. "As long as I've made my point."

  "You've made it."

  "You fight well. Where did you learn to fight like that?" Joe asked.

  "Fort Bragg," Mike said.

  "Special Forces?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Nam?" Joe asked.

  "I was there."

  "You weren't hard to take," Joe said, with a slight grin. "I'm a little rusty."

  "I was Special Forces. Two tours in country. And I'm not rusty."

  Mike massaged the sore spot at the back of his head where he'd smacked the ground. "I hear that. So can we be friends?"

  "No."

  "Guess that's clear enough. But why the attitude, Joe? It's been a long time since the war. Why all the stored-up hatred?"

  "It's got nothing to do with Vietnam. My grandfather raised me. My father was killed in a rig accident in the oil fields. My mother died when she was seventeen, when I was three. I don't even remember her."

  These statements caught Mike off guard. He said, "You're a grown man now. What does any of that have to do with hatred?"

  "From before I can remember, Gray Wolf told me stories. Stories from the old days when our people ruled this land. When he was a young man, my grandfather rode with Geronimo. They raided the cavalry posts, stole the horses and ran them south across the border and sold them to Mexican bandits. But within a decade we were driven from our land, driven beyond the fringes of your society with the hope that we'd wither away and die."

  "That was long before anyone living today was even born, Joe."

  "If you were one of us, you'd understand. It's no different today. My grandfather shunned your world and life on the reservation. And after what I saw in the service, I felt the same way."

  "Can I speak with your grandfather?"

  "He may speak to you, but you will never speak to him."

  "What does that mean? Where is he?"

  "He dwells with his ancestors. To you, he is dead."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  "No one knows, except for you. Now everyone will know, but it won't matter. No one cared about the old man when he was here. For sure no one will give a damn now that he's gone."

  "You could be right. Right now most everyone in town has their hands full with whatever evil it was that your grandfather was chanting to keep away the last time I was here."

  "You were skeptical. Are you going to tell me that you've come to believe that there are spirits, good and evil?"

  "I want to get a handle on whatever's going on here. You said Gray Wolf was a magic man. You said he was chanting to drive away evil. The next day a kid goes berserk and blows away several people before he kills himself. Then a serial killer opens shop. I'm not so sure about spirits, but I know evil when I see it. And right now, Devil Creek's got more than its share."

  "And you think there's a connection between that and what Gray Wolf foresaw?"

  "I'm here to try and find out."

  "If your friends in town knew you even thought such a thing, they'd never stop laughing."

  "I doubt it," Mike said. "No one's in a laughing mood. Maybe you're the one who's wrong. You told me, the last time I was here, that nothing could stop this evil. I don't believe that."

  "There's nothing I can do to help you," Joe said.

  "I hoped you might have some ideas."

  "I don't. You're on your own. The town is on its own."

  "Because of what happened between the Indians and the whites before any of us were born?" Mike made a dismissive gesture. "That's crazy, Joe. You're an intelligent man. I can tell you're a good man. But you're letting hate twist your head and your life. I thought magic men were wise men. Gray Wolf didn't teach you to hate, did he?"

  "No, he counseled me to banish my hatred. But I can't."

  "Listen to me. People are dying in Devil Creek. Every night a woman—someone's mother, sister, daughter, wife—is murdered with the kind of savagery I haven't seen since Vietnam."

  "It happened over there all the time," said Joe. "It still does."

  Silence descended, an invisible wall
separating them. The only sound for several moments was the breeze whispering through the juniper trees.

  Mike said, "You can't be this callous."

  "I'm not callous. I'm stating fact."

  "So there's nothing you can tell me that will help?"

  "If there was, I'd tell you."

  "Then I'll have to be satisfied with that."

  Joe's dark eyes glittered like the black waters of a deep well. "Do you think I'm a part of what's happening?"

  "If I thought that, I'd have gone to the authorities."

  "Then what did you think my grandfather could tell you?"

  "You said he was certain that something was going to happen. I wanted to ask Gray Wolf what he knew that made him so sure."

  "My grandfather moved between planes of reality as you or I step from one room to the next. I can only tell you that he knew because he knew. Now get out."

  "Guess I don't have much choice. But before I go . . . may I ask what happened to his remains?"

  The unreadable eyes narrowed. "You are a ballsy, persistent sonofabitch, aren't you?"

  "So I've been told."

  "I broke the law," Joe said. "I'll deny everything if I have to. I'll say he just moved away. No one will give a damn. I didn't report his death. I built a funeral pyre for my grandfather and cremated him, as he wanted me to. Gray Wolf's ashes were carried away on the night wind. Now his spirit soars and he is strong again."

  There was nothing Mike could say to that. He returned to his Jeep and drove away from there.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mrs. Lufkin's house was a modest two-level structure, an older home, well maintained; white clapboard with a peaked roof and an adjoining garage on an acre of land. An ash tree grew in the front yard. Robin parked at the curb, and approached the front porch.

  If her intention had been to relax after Paul left that afternoon, then things had hardly gone according to plan; not after the phone call from the convenience store only a few minutes after Paul drove off with Mike. She would've preferred that her son had stayed with Mike, but she hadn't felt like getting into a battle of wills over who Paul should or should not spend his time with, at least not as long as he and Jared were at Jared's house playing video games.