Night Wind

by Mertz, Stephen

  "You had Devil Creek wired, but you needed the human factor," Charlie said. "Someone who could take the pulse of the community, monitor the feelings and emotions that your cameras and your telephone taps couldn't pick up. Well, Doc, I've been keeping an eye on things for you, like you contracted me to. What better front than as owner of a weekly newspaper? That's how you played it and I've been playing ball right along with you. But I'm here early today to advise you that what I've been observing has made me sick. That's right. I'm calling in sick, Doc. I'm bailing out."

  "It has already been explained to you—"

  "Yeah, right. The Caldwell kid blowing the town to hell. Some pervert running around killing women. Yeah, it's been explained to me. It's all one big unfortunate coincidence. It's got nothing to do with this government project of yours, right?"

  "Correct. We are here to observe and document the day-to-day life of a small, isolated rural community. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing sinister, I assure you now as I have in the past."

  "Why is this study being conducted? Tell me again."

  "I suspect such a study will be useful in everything from preparations for crisis management in the event of a national catastrophe like a terrorist attack to such prosaic matters as budgetary allocations for municipalities. Certainly you by now appreciate that individuals, not to mention an entire community, behave differently when they know they are being observed. Once again I reiterate, these are matters well removed from my sphere. Need to know, Mr. Flagg. Remember? Need to know. I am merely the man on the ground, charged with accumulating data for this study."

  "Uh huh. Well, I'll tell you, Doc. I don't think I've slept more than two hours a night for the past week. I've done some thinking. Another woman's just been murdered and I'm starting to have trouble with the way this thing smells. I believed what I wanted to believe about you and your 'project,' and now four women are dead, butchered, and I haven't been able to sleep because something tells me that, God forgive me, I'm a part of it."

  "You were to be an impartial observer," Bittman said, with obvious disapproval. "Instead, you became involved even before the project commenced, the day you observed the Caldwells interacting with that new teacher and her son. You chose to intervene, counter to your instructions."

  "They were hassling that poor woman. What was I supposed to do?"

  "You were supposed to obey my orders."

  "I'm going to start obeying my conscience," said Charlie. "I was stupid to sign on with this crazy whatever-it-is, government or no government."

  "Mr. Flagg, you're becoming hysterical."

  "No, I'm not. I'm just getting pissed off. The people in this town are my friends. This insanity has got to stop."

  Bittman assumed the air of a superior, not without sympathy, whose patience has run out. "Believe me, sir, when I tell you that we are wholly committed to doing everything we possibly can to avert the atrocities taking place in your town. We are of course routing every report, every piece of data gathered, to the proper authorities. Surely you cannot truly believe that our government has anything to do with the violence that is occurring here. That wretched Caldwell boy and what he did, these unfortunate serial killings, they are coincidental. They have absolutely nothing to do with this project. If anything, they will most likely render our findings utterly useless. These are hardly normal circumstances under which to evaluate human behavior."

  "God knows I want to believe you," said Charlie. "I want to with all my heart and soul. This is driving me crazy."

  "What do you intend to do?" Mace asked quietly. "These local yokels find out you're with us after what's happened, they'll run you out of town."

  Bittman concurred with a nod. "The fact that your accusations against us would be proven groundless would hardly soften your fall from grace in the community, I daresay. No one likes a spy."

  "If it comes to that," said Charlie, "I'll take my chances."

  "Of course, Mr. Flagg. Of course. But then, this conversation is strictly academic, is it not?"

  "I hope so. You tell me."

  "Very well, I shall tell you. Would your mind be sufficiently set at ease if I were to supply you with irrefutable, verifiable authorization of this operation from a higher source than you could ever imagine?"

  "That would help. How high a source?"

  "The White House. The President's Cabinet. Would that be sufficient?"

  "Doc, you'd make me the happiest man in the world if you could pull a rabbit like that out of your hat."

  This time it was a gasp that Jared quietly sounded, and Paul's clamp upon his arm tightened. Jared was starting to realize that this grand lark had turned into something else, something ominous. These men were discussing things that were a lot scarier to Paul than watching the Caldwell brothers beat on each other.

  The corners of Bittman's gash of a mouth had crinkled in what could have been the trace of a smile.

  "I will arrange it, then," he told Charlie, "and have such authorization when you arrive here to report tomorrow. And now, Mr. Flagg, you may as well file the rest of today's report."

  Charlie hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it upon the ground before he got around to saying, "Not much to report. And what there is, it breaks my heart to see."

  "Save the editorializing for your newspaper, sir. I want only facts."

  "These are facts. Until not long ago, this town was a mighty fine piece of paradise, off the beaten track with the same problems you'd find in any town, gossip and the like. But yeah, a piece of paradise where life was good and simple, and people got along."

  "It's changed, has it?"

  Charlie nodded. "With every murder. The people, they don't know what to think or who to trust. They watch each other instead of seeing each other. Yeah, that's what it is. It's like what China or someplace must be like, with everyone spying on their neighbor. Everyone's afraid. Afraid to be friends, to interact with each other. It's a paranoia you can smell in the air; a cancer eating away at this community. They've all got good reason to think that one of them is a mass murderer."

  "I see."

  "As a matter of fact, Landware is checking up on that crazy old Indian and his grandson that you wanted me to keep tabs on, damned if I know why."

  "This too has been explained to you. There are few variables in the demographic composition of Devil Creek. Those aborigines qualify, and so need to be monitored."

  "There is something else going on in Devil Creek these days, and I'd draw your attention to it."

  "Truly? And what might that be, Mr. Flagg?"

  "There's a goodness in these people that is refusing to die. Sure, they're afraid. They're paranoid. They're sleeping with the doors locked, which no one used to do. They're not always at their best. But Doc, the basic decency of these people is stronger than anything that could work against it. I'm seeing that, too. I'm not going to let down people like that. They're being held hostage in their own community and they don't like it. They're binding together to get through it, and they're becoming stronger as a community than they ever were before."

  "Inspiring. And have you anything else to report?"

  "No, I guess not. Not at this time."

  "Very well then. I do believe we are finished with you, Mr. Flagg. You see, I regret to say that all of your suspicions regarding this project are in fact one hundred percent correct. Furthermore, I'm afraid that you pose far too serious a security risk to be allowed to leave here alive. I am sorry." Bittman turned away, saying under his breath, "Major."

  Mace, who had angled around behind Charlie, moved with extraordinary swiftness. His knee went to the base of Charlie's spine as his forearms vised Charlie's neck. There was a cracking sound like a branch being snapped, louder than anything Paul had ever heard.

  Paul's senses reeled, and he sensed Jared grow taut with shock and agitation.

  Mace released Charlie's body, allowing it to fall. Charlie's head was twisted into an unnatural position. Mace studied the corpse with detache
d disdain.

  "What a moron. Why'd he come up here and sound off like that? Didn't he think we'd whack him?"

  "He had his doubts," Bittman said, "but he wanted to believe that we were government sanctioned."

  Mace made a contemptuous sound. He kicked the corpse. "Moron."

  It was as if Paul could not breathe.

  Beside him, Jared leaped to his feet.

  "I'm getting out of here!" Jared's eyes were wide circles. If he'd been a child actor, he'd have been accused of overacting.

  "Jared, no!" Paul whispered harshly.

  Too late!

  Jared bulldozed his way through dry underbrush like a frightened rhino with no regard for the ruckus he was causing or anything except blind flight.

  Mace snarled. "Damn."

  He and the sentries, Hickey and Taylor, were already bolting toward the sounds, coming after Paul and Jared.

  "Get them!" Paul heard Bittman's command. "Whoever they are, they saw everything. Do not let them escape. Kill them."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Paul would remember the loud, sharp snap! of Mr. Flagg's neck breaking for the rest of his life. His life! The full realization of their predicament smacked him between the eyes with the same abruptness as the snapping of Charlie Flagg's neck.

  The men in the clearing were racing uphill, straight in their direction.

  Paul followed Jared as fast as he could away from there. But he'd lost sight of Jared. He slipped, in his panic his ankles becoming tangled in the undergrowth and he almost fell, but managed to maintain his balance and keep running. Behind him, he heard shouts, the men scrambling from the clearing in hot pursuit. Then he caught sight of Jared, up ahead. He sprinted faster. He'd never run so fast. Then one of the sentries emerged from a break in the trees up ahead, having left the clearing at an angle to intercept Jared. The man held his rifle as if ready to fire.

  "Jared, look out!"

  It was all Paul had time to cry out before he realized that the other sentry was rushing at him. And for one instant Paul could not believe his eyes. This sentry was aiming his rifle directly at him! For one horrific instant, fright and confusion rooted Paul to the spot. The man fired a short burst.

  Angry flashes flickered and spat from the rifle's muzzle. Bullets slapped into trees, severing branches close to Paul; very, very close. He threw himself to the right, running away deeper into the forest. The ground sloped downward. The rifle fire stopped. He did not look back. He pushed on, angling sideways down the slope, the bottoms of his sneakers slipping and sliding in places, one time badly enough for him to throw out a hand to steady his balance. Dirt and rock scraped the palm of his hand raw. He heard the man coming after him. He thought of the blond-haired commando who had killed Mr. Flagg. Where was that one?

  He heard Jared screaming, "Paul! Paul, where are you?"

  He'd lost sight of Jared again, but the frightened scream carried clearly from somewhere nearby. He started to shout a reply. But that would give away his location. But he could not leave Jared behind. Before he could do anything, there came another hammering of gunfire, muffled through the wall of trees but again extremely close. At first he thought they were shooting at him. No bullets came near him. The gunfire ceased. There was no more sound from Jared.

  Paul reached the bottom of the slope and kept running. Branches clawed at his face. He tore headlong through the forest, knowing only that he was going downhill, that he must get off the mountain. They got Jared! They killed Mr. Flagg. They killed Jared. And now they were after him! The ground funneled down to become a projection of rock that clung like a natural path to the base of a steep incline. Within a foot of the other side, the ground dropped away like a cliff. He scuttled along the outcrop, past juniper trees that seemed to grow from rock, their roots thick and gnarly, deeply embedded where erosion had eaten away at the path over the years. Across the shelf of stone, the ground sloped more gradually with more trees. He could find cover there, Paul told himself. He was halfway across the projection of rock when he heard the man with the rifle rushing down the incline behind him. He did not stop. He did not look around. They were going to kill him. He kept on running.

  Automatic rifle fire stammered loudly behind him. A burst of pain exploded in his right side like a strong fist, striking with enough force to spin him around, sending him off balance. He tumbled from the path, toppling over the edge of the sharp drop.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At first Mike didn't hear the rapping at his kitchen door. He was writing at the table, and the clacking of the typewriter enveloped him. This was the first work he'd done on his novel since Bobby Caldwell had gone nuts. A preoccupaion with that and the serial killings had diminished the urge, not to mention the focus, to create fiction. What were lines of type across sheets of paper compared to the tragic, real, senseless loss of human life? He'd reached the end of a paragraph and stopped typing. That's when he heard Robin tap-tapping on the glass of the door. He let her in.

  She wore a white skirt and a blue sweater and, framed in the doorway, in the fading light of the afternoon with the purple mountains and the darkening sky behind her and the breeze playing with her chestnut hair, she should have been a picture of flawless beauty. But there was a flaw. Her features were drawn taut, a mask of stress and concern.

  "Robin, what is it?"

  "Please, Mike, can I come in?"

  "Of course. What's wrong?"

  She stepped inside. He closed the door against the cold breeze.

  "It's Paul."

  "What happened?"

  "I'm worried about him. He's not at his friend's house. He should have been home by now."

  "Have you spoken with Jared's mother?"

  "Jared's mother is drunk. She's barely coherent. I called a few minutes ago, when I got home. All she could tell me was that she hadn't seen Jared or Paul all day. The last time she saw her son, or thinks she saw him, was when he left on his way to visit Paul. After you left them, they didn't go to Jared's. So I'm worried. It's going to be dark soon and, well," she bit her lower lip, "it's been a terrible day. Did you hear about Mrs. Lufkin?"

  "No. What?"

  "She's dead, Mike. She committed suicide in her home this afternoon. I was the one who found her."

  "Robin, I had no idea. You should have come right over and told me." He instinctively reached down, lightly touched her wrists, giving them a squeeze, gazing into her eyes. "My God, that must have been terrible for you. How are you doing?"

  "The police kept me there for awhile. Chief Saunders was very nice. But it was awful."

  "I wish I'd known earlier. . . ."

  "It was so strange. It was like . . . like a dream I had last week. Exactly like in my dream. I don't understand it."

  He tried fighting off the numbness he felt from this unexpected news. "The poor woman." He knew his words were inane. What could you say at a moment like this, dealing with news like this?

  "I only saw her for a few seconds before I looked away. I couldn't stand to see her like that." Her words came listlessly, numb with shock. "The Chief told me the rest later, when I asked him. There was a mantle in front of where she . . . where she did it. There was a photograph on the mantle. She must have been looking at it for a long time before she . . . hung herself. The photograph was a family portrait. Mrs. Lufkin and her husband and her son, from a long time ago. She'd told me her son was killed in Vietnam. Then her husband died of cancer. She missed them so much. So much. More than any of us realized. She was always so . . . so full of life."

  Mike made himself think clearly, through his emotion. "About finding Paul," he said. "Let's call that video arcade in town where the kids hang out. I'll bet he's with some new buddies and they just forgot about the time."

  Her eyes cleared of their mist. "He knows I'd worry about him. He'd call if he was going to be late. I guess I came over here because I thought—" The forced steadiness in her voice faltered. "Well, I thought you might have heard from him."

&n
bsp; He hated to say, "I haven't seen him."

  "Then something is wrong. I knew something was wrong."

  "Take it easy. We'll take this one step at a time." They were still touching, sort of holding hands. She withdrew from his touch.

  "I didn't mean to bother you. I'd better go home and wait for him. I'm going to call the police."

  "That's a good precaution for you to take. But don't worry, Robin. I'm sure he'll be home soon." The reassurance sounded hollow and phony to him.

  "Thanks, Michael."

  "For what? I'm just being a good neighbor."

  He held the door open for her.

  She paused on his doorstep, looking back. "You're more than a good neighbor. You're a friend."

  "If there's anything I can do."

  "You could keep me company while I wait." Her lower lip trembled. "I am having one hell of a rotten day. I really could use some company. Or does that sound terribly uninviting?"

  He didn't pause to grab a sweater or jacket. "Let's go over to your place and call the police."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Robin was waiting for Chief Saunders at her front door when he arrived. When he stepped inside, the Chief's eyes sharpened when he saw Mike standing there in the living room.

  Robin said, "Thank you for responding so quickly, Chief."

  Saunders stood with his hat in his hands in the manner of a western gentleman. "Got here fast as I could. I'm sorry to see you again so soon under official circumstances. Ma'am, the first thing I have to ask is, are you sure there's reason to be concerned about your boy? I mean, it isn't even sundown yet. You'd be surprised how often children his age take off playing and forget how late it's got and throw a scare into their parents. We get a half dozen calls like that a month."

  "You don't know my son. This is very serious, me not hearing from Paul with night coming on."

  "Believe me, ma'am, I understand. That's why I'm here. When did you last see Paul?"