Night Wind

by Stephen Mertz

  "Let's go, then. But where to start? Do you have someplace in mind?"

  "I woke up remembering a trail Paul pointed out to me last week when we drove past it. It leads up the mountain about a quarter of a mile north from Jared's house. Paul told me that Jared knows those trails. They could have gone up that way, and gotten lost. I know it's not much, but if those kids are lost up there and are trying to find their way back, we can call out to them. They'll hear us."

  He nodded. "It's worth a try. I'm betting Paul found a place to lay low until this weather blows over if they are up there. We talked about wilderness survival. He learned things about it from those western novels he read."

  "It's the only thing I can think of to do. I've left a message on the machine in case he calls while we're gone."

  "I'll get my jacket."

  They took his Jeep. Halfway to the main highway, it began to rain. Not a heavy rain; tiny droplets whipped by the wind. As they turned onto the highway, he switched on the wipers. Their snick-snick was the only sound in the vehicle. The headlights turned the raindrops ahead into millions of cold shimmering diamonds. Eventually, Robin pointed out the spot where she wanted him to pull off the main road. He did, cutting the Jeep's engine and lights. Rain pattered on the tarpaulin roof like tiny drumming fingers.

  "You are a trusting soul," he said, "driving with me out here into the night, without telling anyone, while the whole town is cowering behind locked doors, scared to death of a maniac killer."

  "I told you why I trust you. Don't I make sense?"

  "We can make sense some other time. Right now, let's look for those boys."

  Other than drawing their jacket collars tighter, neither acknowledged the swirling, bone-chilling rain as they stepped from the Jeep. Mike produced a flashlight. Its beam clearly picked out a foot trail.

  Robin said, "Paul told me that this trail branches off into other, smaller ones up ahead. This is going to be like hunting for a needle in a haystack, isn't it?"

  "As a writer, I couldn't have chosen a more moth-eaten cliché." He wanted to lighten her up if he could, so she wouldn't be so wound up that she'd lose it if they didn't find the boys tonight. He was rewarded with an involuntary, barely audible chuckle. Good enough, he thought. "And you were right," he added. "This does beat the hell out of sitting back there doing nothing."

  They followed the trail, the flashlight beam guiding them as the path began to climb. Although tall trees sheltered them in spots, the path cut across open stretches where windblown rain stung them like pinpricks. The wind moaned eerily. They started calling the boys' names, alternating the names and the direction in which they shouted. There was no response except for the howling of the wind. They trudged on, calling the boys' names, over and over. The rain had thoroughly soaked their clothing by the time the flashlight illuminated a spot where the trail narrowed.

  Mike swept the forest around them with the beam. There was no sign of other trails. The one they were on dwindled to nothing.

  The tip of Robin's nose, her ears and her hands were numb from the cold. In the flashlight's beam, she saw something else: the wind-driven droplets of rain becoming windblown flakes of snow. Her heart sank, as it had been sinking in the half-hour since they'd left the Jeep. She should have known from the outset that this was hopeless.

  Mike said, "We're not doing those boys any good. We'll be of far more use tomorrow during an organized daylight search."

  "Michael, what could have happened to them?"

  "We'll find out tomorrow. We have to have faith in Paul. He can take care of himself. I know he can, and so do you. Trust what you've taught him."

  "You're right. I know you're right."

  They started back down the mountain, still calling out the boys' names into the vast, rainswept darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Paul heard the voices.

  Voices from somewhere far, far away, separated from him by miles and miles of fog. There was fog inside his brain, fog from the pain and nausea that came and went. The voices didn't sound real. They called out names. He knew the voices. Worried voices. Real worried. Worried about him.

  He passed in and out of consciousness there in the small space he'd found, where he had dragged himself to escape the wind, the rain that was turning to snow, and the men who wanted to kill him.

  When the bullet had struck him, there on the stone shelf that had formed a path above the drop-off, it had felt like a fist pounding into his side, knocking him from his feet and over the ledge. It hurt when he tumbled down, rolling over and over, the world spinning around his head like a merry-go-round gone berserk. He'd come to a stop in tall grass from where he overheard the men on the ledge above.

  "Did you get him?"

  "Yeah, I got mine. What about yours?"

  "I think so. He fell off here and rolled down there somewhere."

  "I don't see him."

  "He's down there."

  "Better go down and make sure. Mace won't like it if one of those brats gets away."

  The footsteps had moved off. He understood what was happening. They were following the stone shelf to the more gradual slope, intending to work their way down and look for his body. That gave him maybe a minute. He'd been up, lurching away from there, continuing downhill. His right side, where he'd felt the punch, was starting to hurt, so he'd looked down and saw the torn material where the bullet had grazed him. The material around the tear was soaked with blood. Panic had washed over him and he'd almost tripped, but he kept running through the encroaching dusk that began cloaking the forest. He lost all sense of direction, knowing only that he must keep heading downhill, down off the mountain. He'd heard the men calling to each other behind him, trying to determine which way he had gone. He ran and ran until he could run no more, until he had to stop, the pain in his side throbbing, the world reeling and darkening before coming back into focus a little slower each time. He could not go on. He had to rest. The rain blowing against his face was the only thing that kept him barely conscious, kept him going. He felt himself growing weaker by the second. The men behind him would not slow down. They wouldn't stand around trying to decide what to do. They'd killed Jared and they would kill him if they caught him.

  He saw the crevice beneath a large rock; a tight, narrow crawl space worn away by erosion, barely wide enough to squeeze into. A bush of some sort grew in front of the crevice. The fallen branch of a dead tree lay nearby. He found that he could actually lie down against the ground inside the crevice. The rock protrusion angling out above him made it a dry spot away from the rain and the wind. Dragging the branch with his left arm, he positioned the branch lengthwise so that it hid the crevice and the overhang from anyone passing by. Hardly enough to pass close inspection by someone looking directly at it in daylight, but he had some chance of avoiding being found tonight.

  Paul never learned if his pursuers came near his hiding spot because those were his final rational thoughts before the pain and the fog overtook him. He grew dizzy, unsure of sound and sensation. He could not be sure what was real. He lost track of time.

  At one point, he heard the voices calling for him and Jared. Yes, he knew those voices. His mother and Mike. Calling his name. Calling Jared's name. Didn't they know Jared was dead? The voices were not real. He would miss Jared. Jared. Jared had been his only friend in Devil Creek, except for Mike. The voices calling his name faded back into the fog. I'm here, Mom! I'm here! Help me! Something in his brain tried to make him speak. He could not speak. He grew sleepy. The bullet wound throbbed where he pressed his jacket against it to stem the flow of blood. His world was the wind and the cold and the pain and the darkness.

  I'm here, Mom.

  Mike, I'm here.

  His mind slipped into the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mace entered the van, allowing a trace of windblown snow into the warm interior. Bittman was at the computer console. His thin, bony fingers sped dexterously across the keyboard, monitoring
, sorting, and filing data as it was received. He did not look up. Mace drew the door shut behind him, against the elements. As always, the windowless compartment basked in the glow of the computer screens.

  "Report."

  "We've only found one body. The other one, Taylor swears he winged him. The kid's out there somewhere. If he's not dead, he will be soon."

  "The police have been notified that the boys are missing," said Bittman. "Helicopters will overfly tonight."

  "We're covered. They won't spot anything."

  "See that Taylor and Hickey are so advised. What about the boy you did kill?"

  "He's with Charlie Flagg in Flagg's Bronco at the bottom of that lake near here."

  The man in white stopped typing and watching the screens.

  "Two young boys, Major. Not even teenagers, and they breached your oh-so-careful security. When you were hired, I was given to understand that I was buying the best."

  "Those kids were a fluke. You can't foresee something like that."

  "You should have. And now there's a young boy out there on the mountain tonight who witnessed two murders."

  "First off, that brat's not going to make it off this mountain, wounded, with the temperature getting down to freezing. He won't live to tell anybody anything. But just in case, I say we haul out of here tonight. You must have enough by now."

  "Ah, but I don't." Bittman's eyes shone behind his glasses. "And it is just now becoming really interesting, don't you see? What with the children in the equation, this exacerbates everything. It is of extreme importance and interest to me personally, and to the integrity of the project."

  "Integrity. Yeah, right. But what about the search and rescue tomorrow morning? They'll be fanning out from a base camp no more than a couple of miles from here."

  "True, but they won't reach anywhere near here until at least early afternoon."

  "We should withdraw now, under cover of darkness."

  "And risk the boy surviving? Telling everyone what he saw and, more than likely, what he heard? We must proceed on the assumption that the child now knows everything about us. We must take every step possible to insure that this boy is rendered as dead as the first."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Ah, I detect condescension and sarcasm. Admittedly, I am not a very pleasant example of the species. I am a man of science, Major, with little regard for the social niceties that bond the pack mentality of the common man."

  "That makes two of us, so at least we agree on something. But I still want to know what we do about this situation."

  "If you want the remainder of your retainer, which is considerable, you will follow my instructions. That is what we will do, Major."

  "I know the arrangement. The second half goes into my Swiss account at the completion of the mission. And you determine when the mission is completed."

  "Precisely. This may be a paramilitary operation to your mind, Major, providing security, hiring those ruffians who work under you. To me, it is a sacred mission that must be, will be fulfilled."

  "So how close are we to being fulfilled? It'll be dawn in a few hours."

  "At first light, you will instruct your men to reconvene our search. Resume where you last saw the boy. I will accompany you."

  "That's a change."

  "I prefer to review data as it comes in. But the retrieval system is automated. As you quite correctly point out, locating and nullifying the boy must be our top priority."

  "He can't have gone far."

  "We will allot ourselves ninety minutes to search for him."

  "The search and rescue parties, the helicopters . . . it'll be chancy.

  "I thought you and your men were the best."

  "Okay, Doc, okay. We'll find the boy. And if he's not dead, we'll make sure that he is."

  "If we cannot find him, then it is highly unlikely that the search parties will, either. After ninety minutes, we will return here and break camp."

  "We take the same way out as we came in?"

  "Of course. The trail leads to the highway in the opposite direction from where the search parties will be. We'll take the highway to the Interstate. You and your men will have shed those ridiculous paramilitary fatigues you insist on wearing and will be clad in appropriate civilian attire. In the unlikely event that we are stopped, we will pass as representatives of the news media." Bittman nodded to the computers. "There is enough here to substantiate such a cover story. But no one will stop us. We will disappear, and our mission will have been fulfilled."

  "All right, Doc. You're the boss."

  "Indeed. I am the boss. And you will not be paid if anything happens to me; if I do not survive. You do recall that stipulation in our arrangement, don't you, Mace? You getting paid depends on my survival."

  "Don't worry. You'll survive. After some of the hell holes I've pulled duty in, I'm not worried about these country bumpkins."

  The man in white did not respond. Bittman returned his attention to the computer console, his glasses reflecting the glow of the monitors. His fingers danced across the keyboard, as if Mace was not there.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mike steered the Jeep back onto the paved road.

  "It's stopped raining," Robin noted, for something to say.

  "Wind's died down, too."

  She loosened the collar of her jacket, withdrew tissue from her purse and dabbed away the moisture left by the rain across her forehead and around her eyes. The Jeep's tires hissed along the wet pavement. The rich aroma of damp earth and pine was dense on the air. She stared up at the murky shape of a mountain.

  "I wonder what the weather's like up there." Then she realized something. "This isn't the way back to the house. Where are we going?"

  "I'm hungry. How about you?"

  "Yes. Yes, I'm hungry. I haven't thought about food in so long, I can't remember the last time I ate. But I can fix us something at home. What if Paul—"

  "If Paul's there, he'll answer the phone when you call. If he's trying to call you, he'll leave a message on your machine."

  "It's been more than an hour since we left."

  "There's a phone at a rest area three miles from here."

  "That will do, I guess. But where can we eat at this time of night, or morning? Donna's is closed."

  "How about the truck stop?"

  "But that's on the Interstate. That's fifteen miles."

  "That's why I want to go there. I need to make a phone call, too."

  "I don't understand."

  His eyes stared straight ahead as he drove. His knuckles were white, like polished ivory, gripping the steering wheel.

  In a gesture of some intimacy that managed to remain wholly natural, she used a fresh piece of tissue to dab away moisture from his forehead, too.

  He said, "Something's all wrong."

  "I know you work for the newspaper, Michael," she said in a weak attempt to be droll, "but that's not exactly news."

  The dabbing job completed, she withdrew. The gesture of intimacy passed unacknowledged, he was so preoccupied. He said, "Whatever is happening is big and very strange. I don't have any idea in hell what it is, but if it's as big as I think it is, unless I've gone totally off the deep end, I'm not so sure we can trust the phone lines in Devil Creek."

  "What if Paul leaves a message on our machine?"

  He patted the metal dash. "This baby is supercharged. We can be anywhere in or around Devil Creek from the truck stop within ten minutes if we have to. You keep calling home as often as you want. They won't block your calls."

  That got her attention. "They? What do you mean, they?" She studied him. "My only concern is for Paul and Jared."

  "They're my only concern, too. But we do need to eat, right? And I've got to leave town long enough to make a call."

  "Can you tell me who you're calling?"

  "An old friend."

  "And it has to do with Paul? Wait a minute. Did you just say that someone is tapping my home phone?"

 
"I'm suggesting that someone is tapping most of the phone lines in Devil Creek."

  "That's some suggestion. And why would you think that?"

  "Be as skeptical as you want. I'd prefer to see you poke holes in my theory. But I think Chief Saunders is right. It is incredible that so many strange things should happen all at once in such an isolated little community. You and I each moved here because it is isolated. Maybe that isolation is the reason these things are happening."

  "It's strange, no denying that," she said. "But it's a mighty big leap in logic to say that it's all being orchestrated. That is what you're saying, isn't it?"

  "Let's let our logic leap around and see where it takes us."

  "Okay."

  "For the sake of argument, what if there is a connection? What if the disappearance of Paul and his friend has something to do with everything else that's been happening?"

  "Mike, that's cruel. Paul and Jared are lost. That's all there is to it. Stop trying to scare me."

  "You know I'm not trying to do that. Sometimes the truth is cruel and scary. What if it is all tied in somehow, and what if Paul in some way did manage to become involved? Isn't that chance, no matter how slim, worth a telephone call to probe beneath the surface?"

  "But what you're suggesting is so farfetched. The Caldwell boy, the massacre, the serial murders, Mrs. Lufkin . . . to say that these things could all somehow be part of a plan? I don't know, Mike."

  "Neither do I. But there are only two possibilities. Either the occurrences are not orchestrated, are completely coincidental and unrelated to each other. In that case we'll quickly learn nothing. Or . . . there is a thread. And if so, I just might be able to dig up a lead on what happened to Paul and Jared. That's how it breaks down."

  "But who would stand to gain by orchestrating all of these terrible, vicious things?"

  "That's something else I can't tell you . . . yet. I don't have a clue. I couldn't begin to tell you who could be behind something like this. But I want to find out if the quiver I'm picking up has any credence. So Robin, are you in or out? I can understand you wanting to be home, for Paul." He reduced their speed. "Tell me if that's what you want and I'll take you home."