Night Wind

by Mertz, Stephen

  Night Wind

  By Stephen Mertz

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2012 / Stephen Mertz

  Copy-edited by: Anita Lorene Smith

  Cover design by: David Dodd

  Cover images courtesy of:

  http://deathwithnolegs.deviantart.com/

  http://celticstrm-stock.deviantart.com/

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Stephen Mertz has traveled the world as a soldier, adventurer, and writer. His novels have been widely translated and have sold millions of copies worldwide. He currently lives in the American Southwest, and is always at work on a new novel.

  Book List

  Novels:

  Blood Red Sun

  Devil Creek

  Night Wind

  The Castro Directive

  The Korean Intercept

  M.I.A. Hunter Series:

  M.I.A. Hunter

  M.I.A. Hunter: Cambodian Hellhole

  M.I.A. Hunter: Exodus from Hell

  M.I.A. Hunter: Blood Storm

  M.I.A. Hunter: Escape from Nicaragua

  M.I.A. Hunter: Invasion U.S.S.R.

  M.I.A. Hunter: Crossfire Kill

  M.I.A. Hunter: Desert Death Raid

  M.I.A. Hunter: L.A. Gang War

  M.I.A. Hunter: Back to 'Nam

  M.I.A. Hunter: Heavy Fire

  M.I.A. Hunter: China Strike

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  Night Wind

  Dedication

  For Joe R. Lansdale

  "The unexamined life is not worth living."

  — Plato

  "Fear of life in one form or another is the great thing to exorcise."

  — William James

  "Break on through to the other side!"

  — Jim Morrison, THE DOORS

  Chapter One

  They left Albuquerque about noon that day, later than she'd planned, taking the Interstate south across a seemingly endless expanse of high desert that was emerald green with scrub brush. Towering, lunar rock formations in the distance shimmered in the heat. It was a clear, sunny day, not too hot. A perfect day for travel. Eighty miles south of the city, they exited I-25, taking a secondary state highway that angled west toward the mountains. Before long the two-lane blacktop began a winding ascent that was as gradual as the change of vegetation along the road that cut through the sparsely populated countryside of ranches and homesites. Scant, low, scraggly trees gave way to more numerous, darker, greener, bushier ones. Then came high, full-foliaged trees, pinions, and junipers and, towering beyond them, thickening, deepening forests of pine that carpeted the sides of the mountains.

  It was minutes after sunset, with the western sky turning from gold to crimson, when the front right tire of the Subaru blew with a bang! that sounded like a rifle shot. The car began wobbling, wildly out of control.

  Robin Curtis had been about to slip a Celine Dion cassette into the tape deck. The tape flew to the floor. Instinctively lifting her foot from the accelerator, she began pumping the brake pedal, the Subaru already veering across the centerline.

  Beside her, Paul forgot about the paperback he'd been reading, his young face pale, knuckles white as he gripped the dashboard, bracing for a possible impact.

  Robin was able to apply the strength necessary to steer the car back into her lane, then concentrated on not overcompensating and going off her side of the road, aware that the ground dropped off sharply only a few feet beyond the gravel shoulder. She worked the brake more gently now, steering the car into a gravel-spewing skid, the moment seeming to extend itself, unfolding in slow motion. The grinding sounds of the skid intensified, enveloping her senses.

  The Subaru slowed, the wobbling decreased, and the skid subsided as she finally regained full control, remaining well clear of the precarious drop. They coasted to a stop on the shoulder.

  Robin switched off the ignition key, and the abrupt silence was excruciating. She switched on the hazard lights and touched her forehead to the cool steering wheel, closing her eyes. Now it was the thumping of her heart that filled her senses.

  "Oh, hell," she sighed quietly.

  "Mom, I hate to say it," Paul spoke matter-of-factly, pure deadpan, "but I don't think teachers are supposed to cuss in front of kids. At least, that's how it was in Illinois. Maybe it's different in New Mexico."

  She looked up to see that the color was returning to his cheeks. He was falling back on that wiseguy sense of humor that could be oh-so-precocious at times, but more often than not had helped buoy and sustain her spirits during the tough times they'd shared. Paul was only twelve years old but he didn't miss much.

  "I believe it's acceptable to say hell when you get a flat tire no matter what state you're in," she said. The adrenaline rush was beginning to subside, her heartbeat returning to normal. "Let's take a look."

  They stepped from the car and once again, the sheer vastness and beauty of the land swept over her. Behind them the highway curved, winding into and out of sight along the base of the mountains.

  She had been unprepared, six weeks earlier, for her first impressions of the wide open spaces of the American West when she'd flown out to interview for her new job. To gaze in every direction and see breathtaking vistas of mountains and sky and prairie, to taste the dry, crisp cleanness of the air, to hear the breeze whispering through trees and cactus and mesquite; these were sensations and perceptions unlike any she had known in the suburbs of Chicago. Western landscapes were something in western movies or on the cover of the Louis L'Amour novels Paul used to read before he began devouring science fiction.

  "We almost made it," Paul said.

  She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the green highway sign:

  DEVIL CREEK

  1 MILE

  "We'll make it," she said. "The town is just around that bend up the road."

  The low rumble of thunder sounded from not very far away.

  She'd made a point of keeping a wary eye on the sky beyond the jutting, craggy mountain peaks, where the golden red afterglow of sunset was merging with a bank of dark, threatening clouds, purple with gray in between. That was another thing about these wide-open spaces, the weather changes could be seen moving in long before they arrived. A cool breeze played with strands of her chestnut hair and the hem of her blue print summer dress. The breeze carried with it the scent of pine, but she did not smell rain.

  Walking around to the front of the car, she and Paul appraised the damage to the tire, which was considerable. The tire had been chewed up, twisted around the metal rim. The pungent stench of burnt rubber hung heavy in the air.

  "I'll get the jack," Paul said, starting toward the back of the car.

  Her son's quick wit was mercifully leavened with a more serious, introspective nature than most twelve-year-olds she knew. A solid "A" student, he was at that awkward age where he was still shy around girls, but in many ways Paul was mature for his age. He was inclined to be a loner, and Robin liked to think that this independence was her positive influence showing through. Paul had her brown eyes, but he also had his father's
sandy hair, and when he was serious about something, as he was now, he reminded her of Jeff.

  She blinked away that thought. Stop thinking about Jeff, she told herself for the thousandth time since leaving Chicago. That life is behind you. This is a new start. The pain is behind you and so are the hard times. This is the beginning of a new life. Everything is going to be all right.

  Another peal of thunder rumbled from those ominous clouds behind the mountains and, for some reason, a momentary chill coursed down her spine.

  Chapter Two

  Paul insisted on single-handedly changing the tire.

  Robin did assist him in removing their bicycles from the carrying rack attached to the rear bumper, then the boy opened the trunk and wrestled out the jack, jack handle, and spare tire. Boxes filled the trunk, crammed with their belongings. The back seat was also jammed to capacity. They were carrying with them everything they owned.

  They'd been living in a furnished apartment in Chicago. She'd held a garage sale to get rid of whatever they couldn't take, donating what didn't sell to a St. Vincent de Paul store. They were only bringing the essentials to start this new life. Except for his bicycle, Paul hadn't seemed attached to any more material possessions than would fit into a few cardboard boxes, which was something else that endeared him to her on this trip.

  She returned with him to the front of the car, where he knelt at the front bumper and placed the jack in position. He went about removing the lug nuts that had been tightened with a power tool when she'd outfitted the Subaru with new tires before leaving Illinois. At first the lug nuts did not want to loosen, but Paul leaned into his work with his full strength and eventually they gave. Physically, he was of average build, hardly skinny but not muscle-bound, either. He went about the task with a quiet strength and purpose that made her proud.

  She loved him because he was her son, of course, but she also enjoyed his company as a friend. He had proven to be a first-rate traveling companion during their four long days on the road together.

  Paul stood after having pumped up the jack. He looked down the highway, behind her.

  "Someone's coming."

  She turned at Paul's observation. A shabby old pickup truck that had been heading in the opposite direction had crossed over to their side of the highway. It came gliding to a halt on the gravel shoulder, stirring up a small cloud of dust. The setting sun reflected off the truck's cracked windshield, making it impossible to see the occupants. The engine was switched off, creating a cacophony of wheezing, rattling noises that seemed to match the pickup's grubby appearance. Both doors swung open. The occupants tumbled, more than stepped, from the cab. She didn't like them at first glance. A strange, momentary sensation of dread coursed through her, similar to the inexplicable chill that had traced its way down her spine minutes earlier when she'd heard thunder. She estimated their age at eighteen or nineteen. Their hair was long, unkempt. They favored denim, and not very clean denim at that. The driver was large-boned and hefty with a well-developed beer belly. The one from the passenger side was smaller of build, but they shared a facial similarity of widely-spaced, squinting eyes and weakly-defined jawlines that could only be family resemblance. The pair both swaggered as they approached.

  Beside her, Paul stepped away from the Subaru, removing the tire iron from the jack. He let it hang loosely at his side.

  The one who had been driving wore a natural sneer. His eyes were mean and hostile, reminding Robin of small, black marbles. He spat a brownish stream of tobacco juice that arced onto the ground close to her feet. He used the back of a soiled shirtsleeve to clean away some of the juice that glistened from his stubbled chin.

  "Well, well." The eyes traveled up and down her figure. At a well-proportioned 110 pounds, Robin worked to keep in shape. His eyes lingered here and there, making her cringe inwardly, although she tried not to let it show. He grinned, showing broken teeth that were the same color as the tobacco juice. "All broke down out here in the middle of nowhere, all helpless like. Now ain't that something?"

  When she spoke she tried to sound natural, even friendly; tried to keep the escalating sense of alarm she felt out of her voice. "Thank you, but we don't need any help. Thanks for stopping, though."

  The smaller of the two cackled. "Thanks for stopping," he mimicked. "Sure is polite, ain't she, Bobby?"

  Bobby spat another stream of tobacco juice, closer to her than the one before. He made a production of studying the Subaru's license plate. "Can't be a local gal. Way too goddamn polite to be one of them hogs from around here. Look at that, little brother. All the way from Illinois." He pronounced the s in Illinois. "Ain't that something?"

  Little brother said, "We ain't here to change no tire, lady. We pulled over so's we could get a better look at you, that's all. And darlin', you're worth a second look. Mighty fine, yes sir. Guess you could say we're the Devil Creek welcome wagon." He thought that was funny, and cackled.

  "Tobe's right," Bobby snickered. The tobacco Bobby chewed formed a bulbous protrusion from one cheek. "Welcome to Devil Creek."

  Paul advanced to stand in front of his mother, placing himself between her and them. She started to step around him. She would let her son change a tire, but this mom would defend her twelve-year-old son, not the other way around! She tried to recall the martial arts defensive posture she'd learned at that night class two years ago. A bird cawed somewhere overhead, an aching, plaintive cry carried away on the wind, and the sound stabbed into her senses an acute awareness of the uninhabited desolation of this lonely stretch of highway.

  Paul raised the tire iron, holding it like a club. "Leave us alone." The boyish voice held a sharp edge she'd never heard him use before. "Get away from us."

  Bobby and Tobe had been ignoring Paul. Now Bobby laughed at him. "Whoa, little dude. Don't make me take that thing away from you or I'll break your head with it."

  Robin forced herself to maintain steady eye contact with Bobby as she said in what she hoped was a calm, self-assured tone, "These are just foolish boys, Paul. They're only trying to scare us. They're going to get back into their truck and leave us alone. Aren't you, Bobby?"

  Before Bobby could respond, a vehicle approached from the direction of town, from behind her. A surge of hope coursed through her. She was about to run into the highway, to wave the driver down, when she realized that this vehicle was already coasting to their side of the highway. She looked around to see a Ford Bronco stop behind the shabby pickup.

  She felt the situation instantly defuse.

  Bobby and Tobe seemed to forget about her and Paul. They lost some of their swagger.

  A man emerged from the Bronco. A burly, red-haired man in his fifties with a weathered, intelligent face. A bright red, trimmed beard was streaked with gray, like his close-cropped hair. The backs of his hands were splattered with freckles. A brown denim jacket matched his slacks and polished boots. He stood beside the Bronco, not stepping forward, taking in the scene. His eyes settled on Bobby, but he spoke to Robin.

  "These boys causing you trouble, ma'am?"

  Paul lowered the tire iron, but still held it like a club.

  Robin rested both hands on her son's shoulders and didn't take her eyes from Tobe and Bobby. "As a matter of fact, they are. Thank you for stopping."

  "Maybe you boys had better pile into that bucket of bolts you're driving and skedaddle out of here," the man suggested to Tobe and Bobby in a quiet voice.

  A car whooshed by on the highway without slowing. Robin barely noticed its passing.

  Tobe was watching his big brother to see how Bobby would react. Bobby faced the man.

  "You old bag of wind. You've let that rag you call a newspaper go to your head. This is a free country. We can talk to anyone we've a mind to. We were just having some fun. Guess this here gal didn't know we was joking."

  Without changing his stance, the man extended an arm into the Bronco. "I've got a .357 on my front seat, Bobby Caldwell, and I've got a cell phone I can use to get Chief S
aunders out here right quick if I need backup. Not that I'd need backup with a runny-nosed little twerp like you. Now are you and your brother going to climb back in that bucket of bolts and get the hell out of here, or are we going to have us a serious tussle?"

  "Aw, hell," Bobby grumbled. "People just flat out don't like other people having fun. Don't have a heart attack, old-timer. We're out of here."

  "I know," the man said.

  Bobby and Tobe got into their pickup without a backward glance. The engine turned over noisily, then the truck sped away in a squeal of tires, leaving a brownish cloud of dust drifting across the highway and derisive howling and hooting from the truck's open windows until it disappeared around a bend in the road.

  The man next to the Bronco removed his arm from the vehicle. There was no gun in his hand.

  Paul stopped holding the tire iron like a club. "Jeez, mister, that was like in a western, the way you faced them down. That was cool."

  The man chuckled. Crisp blue eyes crinkled in the weather-seasoned, leathery face. "Heck, son, those weren't any big bad outlaws, just a couple of juvenile delinquents acting too big for their britches. And I'm no gunslinger. Matter of fact, Bobby was right. I am an old bag of hot air. I don't have any gun on my car seat."

  "The important thing is that you convinced them that you did," Robin said. She extended a hand. "Thank you for stopping. I'm Robin Curtis. This is my son, Paul."

  The red-haired man's hand may have been huge, but his handshake, while firm, was not rough. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I'm Charlie Flagg. Matter of fact, I kind of guessed who you were when I saw those Illinois license plates of yours. Devil Creek's too out of the way for tourists. You'd be the new fourth grade teacher they hired over to the school."