Night Wind

by Stephen Mertz

  At the sound of Paul's voice, everyone's eyes swiveled momentarily to the boy stumbling toward them, his arms outstretched.

  "Mom!" Paul cried again.

  "Oh, my God!" Robin blurted.

  In that fleeting instant while Bittman and the blond man were distracted, Mike dove to the ground, lunging for the dropped pistol. They caught the movement and swung their weapons on him, but by that time he'd already hit the ground, landing on one shoulder, grasping the pistol, executing a smooth combat roll that he hadn't performed in twenty-five years. He came up on one knee, swinging up the pistol, and fired twice. The bullets smacked into the man like stiff-armed jabs to the chest, kicking him off his feet. Mike started to track the pistol on Bittman.

  Before he could, Bittman fired.

  Mike didn't see the flash, didn't hear the sound of the shot, it happened so quickly. He only felt the sledgehammer blow as the bullet struck him.

  Robin's first instinct was maternal: to rush over to Paul, to protect her child. But something else clicked in her mind at the sight of Mike falling under the impact of the bullet.

  Their lives depended not on her getting to Paul, but on her stopping a madman!

  Bittman was now swinging his gun around on her.

  Robin flung herself at him, seizing his arm with both of her hands, intending to pivot and use a move she'd learned in that self-defense class. She hadn't considered going up against those soldier types, but this small-boned, wiry Sherlock Holmes lookalike was different. She at least stood a chance against him and at this point, it wasn't as if she had a choice. She would use Bittman's own strength against him, unbalance him, take him down, then she would kick at his head as she'd been taught, at the same time twisting his gun wrist to wrest the revolver from him.

  It didn't work out that way.

  Bittman possessed a strength she would not have imagined. He wrenched his arm free from her grasp before she even had a chance to position herself. He drew back his gun arm, intending to strike her in the face with the pistol. She didn't retreat or dodge. Instead, she flung herself at him before he could strike, clutching his arm again with both hands. This time she did get into proper position to use his weight against him. She flipped him with one quick follow-through that surprised even her. Bittman fulcrumed over her bent back, landing with an audible thud! upon the gravel driveway. She grasped his wrist, twisting sharply. This did not cause him to release the gun the way it was supposed to. Instead, he reached out and grasped one of her ankles. With a strong yank, he tugged her off her feet.

  Robin hit the ground with enough force to kick the air from her lungs.

  Bittman sprang upright, the gun again in his hand, his Sherlock Holmes cap somehow remaining perfectly in place. He aimed his pistol at her, his face flushed. He peeped a strange little sound that must have been his version of a shout of triumph.

  Robin became acutely aware of things on the periphery of her vision. Paul knelt next to where Mike had fallen. Mike wasn't moving. He was covered with blood, the way Joe was covered with blood. Her son looked terrible, a ghastly, ghostly pale. Paul's side was covered with blood. The boy's mouth was opening and closing spasmodically. He seemed unable to speak.

  Robin refocused on Bittman. "Now what, Doctor? Please don't kill us."

  "You cannot live," he said simply. "You know who I am."

  Don't plead, she told herself. Don't beg. But she couldn't stop herself. "Why can't you just let us go? The search is still on the other side of the mountain. You have time to get away."

  "I have no choice." He spoke reasonably, almost amiably. "No one must remain behind to identify me."

  He was going to do it. She was going to die. They were all going to die.

  She said in a voice so calm that it surprised her, "You know something, Doc? You really are one crazy son of a bitch."

  "And you, madam, are correct. Unfortunately, I don't see how that is going to do you one bit of good. But I do feel merciful. I will kill you first, to save you from enduring the agony of watching your son die. The parent should die first in any event, don't you think? It is the natural order of things. Farewell, dear lady."

  Robin thought, it must be the little things you notice when you die. The details. This had to be why the only thing she saw at that precise moment was how Bittman's thin right index finger curled as he started to squeeze the trigger.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  A gray timber wolf sprang out of nowhere, attacking Bittman without warning, savage jaws parted, fangs bared in a growling snarl. Robin was certain it was the same gray wolf they'd seen before.

  The animal's powerful body slammed into Bittman from the side, knocking him down. The wolf landed atop him, straddling the man, ferociously going straight for his throat. Bittman raised his arms to try and fend off the snapping jaws, the flashing fangs, dropping his gun under the wolf's onslaught. The revolver landed a few feet away from the struggling beast and man.

  Robin rushed over and retrieved the pistol.

  As she did so, she saw Bittman reach down into his boot. While using one arm and both knees to fend off the attacking wolf, he withdrew a dagger and, in one continuous movement, plunged the blade into the animal. The wolf leaped away but did not make a sound, did not stumble or fall. Bittman sprang to his feet, gripping the dagger. The wolf crouched, poised some ten feet away. Robin saw a speck of blood on its fur. The animal had not sustained a serious wound. The leg spotted with blood was lifted, the wolf favoring it, but the three remaining paws were firmly planted. Eyes luminous. Fangs bared. Defiant. No fear. No retreat.

  She had never aimed a weapon at another human being before, but she raised Bittman's revolver and aimed it at him now, grasping the gun with both hands, sighting down the length of her straightened arms, along the barrel, the way she'd seen men do in the movies.

  "Stop right there, Doctor. Drop the dagger."

  She was surprised at how rock steady her voice sounded. She wanted to glance sideways and see how Paul and Mike were doing, but she didn't.

  Bittman did not drop the dagger.

  "And if I don't?" he asked in a gentle, amiable tone that managed to be every bit as frightening as staring down the barrel of his gun had been.

  "Drop it," Robin said, "or I'll shoot." She would never know how she made her voice sound so ruthless, so determined.

  "I hardly think you will shoot me, dear lady." Bittman spoke in the reasonable, rational, analytical tone of a scientist. "You see, you are not the type."

  From nearby, Paul shouted, "Mom, he's dangerous! Shoot him! Shoot him, or he'll kill us!"

  The injured timber wolf remained stationary, observing, not withdrawing.

  Bittman's lips crinkled in a travesty of a kindly doctor's bedside smile. "Don't listen to the boy. He's overwrought. You're a civilized person. You will not pull that trigger and take my life. We both know that. Now put the gun down."

  She said, in her cold and ruthless voice, "I'll shoot if you don't drop that dagger. Believe it, buster."

  Bittman shrugged. He dropped the dagger. It clinked upon the gravel.

  "As you wish. And what would you have me do next?"

  "Stay right where you are."

  Robin didn't know what to do next. She did not lower the gun she held. Its grip felt slippery in her sweaty palms. Bittman advanced one step, then another. Slowly. Smiling.

  "You see? What can you do? I shall walk away from here, and the only way you can stop me is to shoot me. And you will not do that."

  "Don't count on that. Stay where you are. I'm warning you."

  Bittman continued advancing.

  Paul bellowed in sheer panic. "Mom, he killed Jared. He hunted me down because he doesn't want anyone to know about him! Don't let him get close to you. He'll kill us."

  Bittman halted, no more than six paces from her. "The boy's right, you know." With a movement so fast that she barely realized it was happening, his hand darted into a pocket of his corduroy jacket, reappearing with a small blac
k pistol.

  She'd been aiming at his head. Robin closed her eyes involuntarily and squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked in her hands. The sound of the gunfire was deafening.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Robin was surprised at the power of the recoil that lifted the gun's barrel. She opened her eyes, steadying her aim to fire again in case she'd missed. She saw Bittman sprawled on his back in the middle of the driveway, a red pool spreading beneath him. She dropped the gun. Turning away, she ran to where Paul knelt beside Mike's unmoving body.

  Robin practically tossed herself down across them. An arm encircled each of them, man and boy, hugging them each with an emotion more forceful than she ever remembered feeling, embracing her son, melding herself against the blood-spattered man on the ground.

  "Paul! Are you all right?"

  He nodded, not pausing in his frantic shaking of Mike. "I'm okay, Mom. But what about Mike? Is he . . . is he—" He couldn't say the word.

  She pressed an ear to Mike's chest, smearing herself with his blood. "He's alive. I can hear his heartbeat."

  A weak voice, close to her ear, whispered, "What . . . happened?"

  Mike's voice was racked with pain. She could not respond at first other than to emit one huge sigh of relief and hug him more than before. He returned the hug weakly.

  Paul had no difficulty finding his voice.

  "Mom shot the man who was going to kill us! Jeez, Mike, I'm so glad you're not dead!" He babbled excitedly. "Mom, you were great. You saved our lives!"

  "I had help," she said.

  Without releasing her hold of either of them, she looked across the clearing. The gray timber wolf still had not moved since its withdrawal to the sidelines. With a barely noticeable limp, the wolf now warily approached Bittman's body, sniffing at the ugly gaping head wound, the animal verifying by scent what it had observed. The wolf raised its head, locking eyes with Robin. Its black nose was dotted with droplets of blood.

  Maintaining eye contact, Robin said, loud enough for the animal to hear, "Thank you, Gray Wolf."

  She thought she discerned the wolf return the slightest nod. The wolf turned away then and moved off, not hindered much by its slight limp, and disappeared into the dense wall of pine surrounding the clearing.

  Mysticism versus technology, thought Robin, and damn if the high tech evil hadn't been defeated with help from a reincarnated old Indian shaman! What had happened here? Separate planes of reality? Indeed. More had occurred than met the eye. This was not her imagination. It was fact. She did not understand. Heck, she thought. I don't even understand my own heart!

  She heard a peculiar, dull pounding sound, growing louder as it approached. She recognized the sound.

  So did Paul.

  "A helicopter!" he yipped excitedly.

  And there it was, banking into view at little more than treetop level. She leaped to her feet, semaphoring her arms wildly to draw the pilot's attention.

  They'd already been seen. The helicopter descended toward the parking area. As the chopper's landing rails met the ground, the backwash of the rotors generated a mini-windstorm of swirling dust. The pilot shut off the engine. The rotors slowed and the dust dissipated.

  Chief Saunders stepped from the helicopter. He came jogging over toward them, bringing with him a small metal first aid box. He seemed to take in and assimilate everything he saw at a glance, including the fact that although Paul's shirt was torn and bloodied, it was Mike stretched out flat upon his back who was most in need of immediate medical attention.

  Saunders crouched beside him, snapping open the box. "Appears you folks have gotten yourselves into a world of trouble."

  Robin felt dazed. "Chief, thank God you're here."

  Saunders inspected Mike's wound. Then he opened the first aid box and withdrew the makings for a field dressing. He peeled off two compresses, expertly applied them to the wound, and guided Robin's hand to the compress.

  "Keep the pressure on here."

  Pain rippled across Mike's face, but he summoned up enough strength to speak. "Sorry we couldn't wait on you, Chief. Guess it . . ." He grimaced. ". . . guess it would have made things a lot easier."

  Saunders glanced at one of the bodies. "That's Joe Youngfeather."

  Robin said, "He was helping us. He led us here to rescue my son. He didn't have anything to do with the bad things that have been happening in town."

  "Didn't figure he did, ma'am." Then Saunders asked Paul, "How are you doing, son?"

  Robin spoke first. "We've got to get them both to a hospital!"

  "Aw, Mom," said Paul. "I'll be all right. It's Mike I'm worried about. Is he going to make it?"

  Mike grunted through clenched teeth. "I . . . was about to ask the same question."

  Saunders said, "Looks like the bullet went clean through just beneath the shoulder blade without hitting bone. You'll live." He looked at the boy. "Where's your friend?" he asked Paul. "Where's Jared?"

  "They killed him, Chief." Paul pointed. "His body is somewhere on the mountain. And they killed Mr. Flagg."

  Saunders rose to his feet. "I'll call in a medivac chopper. We'll have the lot of you over to the hospital in Cruces in no time. Sure do wish you folks had called me when you first found out whatever it was that brought you here." He glanced at the man Robin had killed. "That must be Bittman."

  Robin couldn't force herself to look at the body. "It is. It was."

  Mike's breathing was shallow. His face was ashen. "How much do you know, Chief?"

  "We expanded the search," said Saunders. "One of the search teams found a van that was fixed up so it couldn't be seen from the air. They radioed it in and a computer check was run on the plates." He indicated the helicopter where a pilot stood waiting. "All I know is what came over the chopper radio. That's how I know Bittman's name. The plates were registered to some alias he used before he dropped out of sight, is the best I could make out of it. The Feds are all hot to trot. The FBI office in Albuquerque dispatched a team that's due in any minute now." He nudged back the brim of his hat. "And you three are right smack in the middle of it, huh? No one said anything about that."

  Robin said, truthfully, "I'm sorry we didn't contact you."

  "To tell you God's truth, young lady, under normal circumstances I'd be a mite peeved. But I reckon in your case I'll make an exception." And he winked at her. "Just don't let it happen again."

  She watched the Chief jog back to the chopper. Paul snuggled against her.

  "It's over," she said. "Thank God."

  Mike was staring at the sky. "It's not over," he said. "It's my fault Joe's dead."

  "Mike, no—"

  Paul shook his head. "Mike, you're way wrong. A guy can only do what he thinks is right. It's that creep Mom blew away, he's the one responsible for everything that's happened."

  Mike didn't seem to hear. "I should have done like Joe wanted." Each word was a struggle; poignant with remorse. "I should have killed that sentry. If I'd done it right, Joe would be alive. How can I live with his death on my conscience?"

  Robin said, "We both have a lot to deal with, Michael, you and I. I'm the one who urged Joe to come with us. And I've never killed a person before. But we'll deal with these things tomorrow. You and I and Paul will get through whatever we have to get though."

  Paul nodded emphatically. "We'll make it. We're a team."

  Mike closed his eyes, his breathing a shallow rattle.

  In the middle of the clearing, Chief Saunders replaced the microphone inside the helicopter and turned to hurry back in their direction. Robin clearly saw the compassion in his expression, a real concern for their welfare, the humane concern of neighbor for neighbor.

  Never again would she embrace the conceit that a person could survive totally on their own, detached from others, from love, as she had come to Devil Creek believing. To accept this was to embrace a delusion as self-defeating and self-destructive as pretending that the hard times would never come knocking. When she'd come here, De
vil Creek had embodied the unknown. Well, that unknown had been confronted and dealt with. Devil Creek was no longer the unknown. Devil Creek was a hard lesson learned from life. A lesson she would never forget; a truth driven home forever by Michael and Paul, and by Chief Saunders and the people of Devil Creek. And most especially by Joe Youngfeather and Gray Wolf.

  No one makes it alone. Everywhere—Chicago, Timbuktu, throughout life itself—good and bad would always lie in wait, often well-camouflaged, the potential for bad things to happen always there, around every bend in life's road. But she now knew that people are defined by the hardships they endure, and by how they cope with them. In this way do people determine what they are made of.

  She now possessed the sure knowledge that she was capable of anything—even capable of taking another's life—if it meant defending herself or someone she cared for. She had been forced to face and define and accept the stuff she was made of. She hoped that she would never again be called upon to prove this to herself or to anyone else. Once was more than enough for one lifetime, thank you.

  And yes, there would be much, much healing, much soul searching, yet to come. What was their responsibility in what happened to the enigma that was Joe Youngfeather? What lasting emotional scars would remain, especially for her son?

  And what would happen between her and Michael? They would be forever bonded by this experience. His error in dealing with the sentry had been to err on the side of decent, deeply-held convictions. Would they, could they, become lovers? They made a good team. He had risked his life, had literally taken a bullet, to help her and Paul. This man had been invaluable in piecing together what was happening in Devil Creek, and in the rescue of her son. Michael cared, and cared deeply.

  She would not lose her independence with Mike. She would gain independence, independence from having to face and cope with and endure alone the harsh, unexpected hardships of life; those inescapable hard times. They call it sharing, and who in their right mind, man or woman, would want independence from that?