At first she passed her time alone comfortably ensconced in a stuffed chair by the window, reading her Edward Abbey book on the Southwest, a cup of hot chocolate on the window ledge. But every few pages her eyes would wander out the window at the gathering dark clouds, at the trees across the road swaying in the wind, and she would begin to think about other things. She had to admit in retrospect that it was amusing, the prank Jared had played on Paul with that tall tale of murder and suicide that had been effective enough to give her a nightmare. She decided to go easy on Jared when she saw him again.
A serial killer on the loose, not to mention her hectic week at work, had both combined to overload her, Robin realized. She'd become fond of the chubby red-haired kid with the thick glasses who came over to play with her son.
Kids were kids. She was no angel when she'd been that age. And Jared didn't have the greatest home life. She could not be harsh with him for the joke he'd played.
Children that age naturally formed their own social strata, with its own secrets that were kept from the adult world just as adults kept their secrets from children, or at least tried to. She tried not to be overly protective with Paul. She hardly needed a child psychologist to tell her that a possessive mother rarely had a positive impact on a child's overall development. She had successfully struggled against the impulse to call the Philbin house and make sure that Paul and Jared were there together, safe, like they were supposed to be. She would not be overly protective, she told herself.
Through the window by her chair, she saw Mike return to his home an hour after he and Paul had initially departed. He glanced in her direction as he strode from his Jeep to his house. They'd exchanged a neighborly wave. She had continued trying to focus on reading for another half-hour or so, then decided to drive over and check in on Mrs. Lufkin.
Another matter that kept distracting her from her book was her memory of how pale and fragile her landlady had appeared at the school meeting that morning.
She stepped onto Mrs. Lufkin's porch, next to a colorful flowerbed of snapdragons, petunias, and pansies bordered by sweet alyssum that emanated a fragrant, honey-like scent. She knocked lightly on the front door. There was no response. She knocked again with a little more strength. The door was ajar. It opened inward several inches.
"Mrs. Lufkin, are you home?"
There was no reply. She repeated herself, somewhat louder. No response. The branches of the ash tree scrabbled across the overhang of the porch. The sound was unsettling, scratching at her nerve ends. A big fat bumblebee sailed past at eye level, either wholly oblivious to her or unconcerned, its buzz an industrious drone as it settled on one of the alyssum.
She went around the side of the house. The backyard was a well-tended quarter acre of lawn surrounding a colorful flower garden. No one was there. She returned to the front porch. A pervasive sense of worry consumed her. She'd never been here before, but Mrs. Lufkin had assured her that she would be welcome. She opened the door and stepped inside, into a carpeted, old-fashioned foyer of oak paneling and potted plants.
"Mrs. Lufkin?"
She raised her voice loud enough to carry through the house. She was expected, after all. She called the woman's name again. Again, no response. Complete and utter silence. Leaving the foyer, she moved deeper into the house. For some reason, she wasn't sure why, she left the door open behind her. She passed a sitting room, then a dining room, the kitchen archway, and a short hallway. She reached a set of stairs. The stairway was a lovely piece of work, the stairs and banister of polished mahogany leading up into impenetrable shadows.
Robin froze where she stood.
She had seen these stairs before. Exactly the same. In her dream. In her nightmare.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and she almost let out a startled cry.
But she made no sound. She did not understand this. As in her dream, her body seemed to move of its own volition, without mental command, carrying her toward those stairs as if she were sleepwalking. She started up the stairs, ascending slowly with one hand gliding along the banister, the other hand drawing the collar of her jacket tighter around her throat to ward off a chill. An eerie feeling slithered through her.
Exactly like in her dream, the dark at the top of the stairs was like a magnet, drawing her inexorably onward.
There was a landing at the top of the stairs. A hallway extended the length of the house, with the doors along the hallway closed except for the one directly opposite the top stair where she stood. This door was open no more than a few inches, not enough to allow her to see inside. In the nightmare, there had been no landing. No hallway. Only a dark, high ceilinged room, barren of any furnishings. Dark wood-paneled walls. A body twisting slowly at the end of a rope. . . .
"Mrs. Lufkin?"
Robin's voice sounded faint, weak even to her own ears; sounded fearful, resigned. Slowly, she glided toward that partially-open door, reaching for the doorknob . . . somehow knowing what she would find.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Paul was glad his mom had reminded him to take a jacket. The surrounding forest blocked much of the wind, but the air was growing colder. Sometimes a wayward gust would stab through the trees to where he and Jared lay, stretched flat upon the ground, side by side on their stomachs on a carpet of fallen pine needles. The cold was beginning to numb his nose and ears. He still felt bad when he thought about not staying with Mike, but what Jared had brought him to see really was something. He'd lost his bearings three times during the hike from the road to this spot. There were places where the trees rose so high, their branches formed a natural ceiling that blocked out the sky and any point of reference. Jared knew the way, though. Jared was overweight and gave the impression of being slow and clumsy in town but somehow, up here on this mountain, he moved through the forest with what could only be described as a graceful ease. It was a revelation, seeing how at home he was up here. He'd led them around the small clearing, to their present position where they could look down from slightly higher ground, barely parting blades of wild grass, without having to lift their heads.
Several hundred feet below, a van was parked in a clearing. They'd been observing the van, and the pair of military sentries posted near it, for several minutes now. The van, without markings, was painted green. Camouflage netting was draped across it, making the van, and the sentries standing near it, invisible to airplanes or helicopters. A tent had been pitched nearby, also camouflaged from the air. An antennae dish extended from the roof of the van, aimed at an angle down the mountainside. The dish was aimed in the direction of Devil Creek.
Four men were down in the clearing. Three soldiers wore camouflage fatigues. The two sentries were armed with rifles. They appeared relaxed, as if they had been stationed here for some time and had grown bored and careless. The third soldier sported a blond crewcut and was armed with a pistol instead of a rifle. He and a fourth man had emerged from the van moments earlier.
This fourth man was not a soldier. That is, he didn't wear a uniform, but he was quite obviously the man in charge. In his early sixties, he was lean and wiry with a narrow, angular face highlighted by a pinched mouth that was more of a gash across the bottom half of his face. He had severely close-cropped hair and moustache and rimless glasses. A high, intellectual brow accentuated by a receding hairline, and a white smock made him look like a doctor or scientist. There was an undeniable air of authority about him and even from this distance, Paul detected an air of arrogance about the man.
Jared said, close to Paul's ear, "What'd I tell you? Cool, huh?"
There was no chance of the men below hearing them, thanks to the distance, the precaution of whispering, and the wind cutting through the forest.
Paul nodded. "It's cool. But I've got a feeling they wouldn't like it very much if they caught us up here."
"I bet they've got sensors in places where hikers would pass, coming from town. It's a good thing we live a ways out of town. We came here from the opposite direction. See,
they're not so smart. They didn't expect a couple of nosey kids."
"I wonder why they're here, doing what they're doing."
"That dish on top of the van, that's high-tech equipment," said Jared. "It's a listening post. They're listening in on what's happening in Devil Creek. Maybe watching, too."
"Jeez, what an imagination. You'll make a great writer when you grow up."
"I'm already a great writer."
Paul stared as the men below conversed. Their words did not carry across the distance. The blond-haired one and the one in the doctor's smock did most of the talking. The sentries did the listening.
Paul whispered, "I just don't think they'd be acting so secret if they were up to any good."
"So what do you think they're doing?"
"I don't know. But I think we'd better get back. I don't want my mom to worry. You know, with the murders and everything."
"Stop sounding like a baby."
In the clearing, the blond man issued instructions to the sentries. They nodded and hurried off, disappearing into the dense green wall of trees. The blond-haired man and the man wearing the white smock remained by the van.
Paul said, "We should get out of here." He tried not to sound afraid. "What if those sentries are circling around behind us?"
"They're commandos. They'd charge straight up here and grab us if they knew we were here. What could we do?"
"Grab us?"
"You know what I mean. They'd take us into custody. I'll bet they're Green Berets."
"You're crazy. What would Green Berets be doing in Devil Creek?"
"They're here to take out whoever's causing all the trouble in town because the police can't. These guys are some secret government commando outfit, like in the movies. They're here to catch the serial killer who's murdering those women."
"I guess you're right about them not knowing we're here."
"So why don't we stick around? I bet those sentries won't be gone for long. Let's see what happens."
"Okay. I just hope it won't be long."
It wasn't long before there was movement from the spot in the tree line where the sentries had disappeared, and the men clad in fatigues re-emerged with another man walking between them. White Smock and the blond-haired man stood waiting as the three approached.
Paul studied the red-haired, bearded man being led into the clearing. "Hey, that's Mr. Flagg. Charlie Flagg."
Jared nodded. "The man who owns the newspaper."
Mr. Flagg looked different, nowhere near as confident as he had a week earlier when he'd stopped on the highway outside of town to help when Tobe and Bobby Caldwell were bothering Paul and his mother. That was the first and only time Paul had seen the man. Now Mr. Flagg wore a sullen expression. His appearance was unkempt.
"What do you think he's doing down there?" Paul whispered.
Jared shrugged again. "I don't know. But I'd sure like to find out."
"What do you mean?" Paul knew very well what Jared meant.
"We could sneak in for a closer look."
"Then they'll catch us for sure."
"No, they won't. Just step where I step. We won't make any noise. Then we'll go home."
Without another word, Jared belly-crawled back from the ridge. He crouched and moved away at an angle that followed a drop in the terrain, concealing himself from view of the men in the clearing as he moved closer to them.
"Jared, come back."
It was a whisper, and of course Jared didn't hear Paul. Or he pretended not to. And Paul pretended he did not hear the apprehension in his own voice.
But he could not leave without Jared, and so he followed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They crept in as close as they dared, concealing themselves in dense tree growth and foliage no more than fifty feet from the clearing, allowing them to clearly overhear most of the conversation between Charlie Flagg and the other men.
Paul's throat was dry. His stomach felt queasy. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end and his flesh crawled.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" the man in the white smock demanded of Charlie Flagg without greeting or preamble. He glared at the sentries who had accompanied Charlie into the clearing. "Hickey. Taylor. Was there any sign he was followed?"
"No, Dr. Bittman," one of the men replied promptly.
The other snickered and gestured with his rifle. "Would've taken care of any problem like that, Doc."
The man named Bittman returned his glare to Charlie. "Explain your presence," he snapped curtly. "You were to report tonight at 2200 hours as usual, not before."
The soldier with the blond crewcut stood with his feet firmly planted, scrutinizing Charlie with narrowed eyes, his hand on the butt of his holstered side arm. "He shouldn't be here," he said to Bittman. "It looks bad, him not being in town."
"You may be right, Mace," Bittman nodded. Then, to Charlie, he said, "Report, as long as you're here. Update me on those new arrivals in town, the teacher and the writer."
"There are three new arrivals, remember?" said Charlie.
"She has a son. His name is Paul. You know that from my reports."
Paul felt his stomach muscles spasm at mention of his name, and he heard Jared gasp beside him.
"The child does not concern me," Bittman was saying. "You were instructed that the man and woman were a Class A Priority. Robin Curtis. Does she represent any manner of potential complication?"
"Doc," said Charlie, "I believe that's the basic nature of woman."
A tic caused Bittman's left eyelid to flutter. "The facts, please."
Charlie snorted a humorless laugh. "Okay. Robin Curtis is sharp. She's intelligent. But she's a single parent schoolteacher doing her best to make ends meet and raise a kid. I said it before and I'll say it again. She in no way poses a potential complication for you or anybody else, unless we're talking about that next door neighbor of hers. Maybe they'll fall in love. Heck, maybe they already have. Why should that concern you, Bittman?"
Mace spoke. "The man and woman could be a plant. Having the kid along for camouflage would be a nice touch."
Jared emitted the slightest chuckle, which he did a pretty decent job of muffling. The man below gave no sign of having heard him. Paul reached across and clamped Jared's arm in a silent admonition to quiet his friend.
Bittman was saying to Charlie Flagg, "You will appreciate that there is inter-agency rivalry even at this level, on a project of this magnitude. Especially at this level, I regret to say. On the other hand," he nodded to Mace, "the Major is a born pessimist. Do not concern yourself, Mr. Flagg. As you know, we have accessed every telephone in town. We have the whole of your bucolic little community under surveillance." He indicated the van. "This is a state-of-the-art mobile unit programmed for continuous data collection. You are my eyes on the inside, so to speak. The data you supply is vital to my success. And so, kindly continue. The man, Landware."
"I've got my eye on Landware," said Charlie, "but he's nothing for you to worry about either. If I was you, Doc, I'd worry about me."
"I think I understand," said Bittman. "You have your doubts about this project, about whether it is truly government-sanctioned. You have gone beyond merely verifying my credentials, haven't you, Mr. Flagg? You've taken it upon yourself to investigate me."
"Something like that."
"Indeed, I would wager that you have sought to backtrack this project through by searching for a paper trail in the government bureaucracy. Yes, you see, I know that. I know everything."
"Maybe you do at that. Then you'll also know that I could only check so far back before I hit a solid bureaucratic brick wall and no one would tell me anything, and I think that's because they honestly couldn't. You are connected, Doc. You've got credentials that check out. And yet there's no trace of you beyond a certain point. That's kind of strange."
"You were fully briefed on the Top Secret classification of this project at the outset. You were advised that I am in total contro
l of it. All relevant information is compartmentalized strictly on a need-to-know basis."
"You're right, you did tell me that. I just didn't think I was going to be having those second thoughts."
"I am an accredited scientist," Bittman said sternly. "Major Mace here is attached to a highly-classified government security agency. And you are being well paid for assisting us."
"Yeah, I'm being well paid. I don't sell my soul cheap." Charlie ran his fingers through his hair. "Bittman, I showed up early because I can't take it anymore. I want some answers. I want to know what the hell's going on. Who gave you people the right to use the citizens of this community as guinea pigs? We'll start there."
Bittman's eyes turned frosty behind his rimless glasses. "I was under the impression that everything had been explained to your satisfaction the night you came sniveling to me, so distraught following the unfortunate incident involving Robert Caldwell."
"Unfortunate incident? That little weasel mowed down innocent people!"
As he hid there beside Jared, listening to this exchange, Paul felt his breathing grow shallow. His heartbeat seemed to reverberate, through his clothing, against the cold ground.
"I am a man of science, not emotion," said Bittman. "Forgive my apparent callousness. That was also the night you sent Landware to report on those citizens who showed up at Chief Saunders' office, instead of going yourself. That was exactly the sort of thing you were contracted for, Mr. Flagg. As I explained to you that evening, the government was not involved with that in any way."
"Right. Just like my government's not involved with a serial killer running around town cutting up women."
"Precisely. I do appreciate how it could appear otherwise."
"Could appear? Could? Pal, it does appear otherwise, and I do mean big time."
"And we have discussed that as well, have we not? Really, Mr. Flagg, our background check on you was extensive and, frankly, suggested a far more stable and reliable personality than you have exhibited of late, if you don't mind my saying so."
Night Wind Page 13
