Night Wind

by Stephen Mertz

  What else lurked on out there in the dark, so close to home, he wondered, that no one knew anything about?

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Another beer, Robin?"

  "No, I think two should be my limit. As you may have noticed, I'm sort of a cheap date."

  "You don't look tipsy to me."

  "I'm glad it doesn't show. And I should say that I don't think I've talked this much since I left Chicago. I'm giving myself a sore throat, and I'll bet you've got a sore ear."

  "Not even numb. I wouldn't want you to break any self-imposed curfew, but I do have Coca Cola and 7-Up."

  "I'll have a 7-Up. Thanks, Mike. And no, I'm not breaking a curfew. I decided before Paul and I came over tonight that I wouldn't have any preconceived schedule and right now, sitting here talking with a man who exhibits good taste in movies, books, music, and hamburgers seems exactly right. Thanks for a wonderful evening. And thanks for being a friend to Paul."

  He opened the sliding screen door and stepped into the kitchen. "My pleasure. And believe me, it's been my pleasure having both of you over tonight. Thanks for accepting the invite."

  "I'm sorry if I appeared stand-offish when we first met."

  He returned carrying their soft drinks. "A woman has to be careful. And you have been busy."

  She accepted a drink. "Until I gave myself this chance tonight to slow down, I didn't realize how much I needed a break." They clinked glasses."To new friends."

  "To new friends."

  He'd been the perfect gentleman. An easy back-and-forth, give-and-take conversation had ensued after Paul left them to themselves. Among the topics discussed had been relationships. They spoke of the value of trust and how, if that was gone, everything was lost. Discussing that subject, Mike had referred to himself at one point as a one-woman man. She told him that she was divorced and that it had not been pretty, as divorces rarely are. She did decide to tell him about Jeff's two bizarre phone calls when she'd first moved in.

  Mike had frowned upon hearing her relate the gist of the calls, permitting her to complete her narrative without interruption. When she was finished, he stroked his chin in a gesture she found appealing.

  "So he didn't tell you where he was calling from?"

  "That's right. I wish there was a way I could find out."

  "Maybe there is," he'd said without further comment on the subject.

  Now, as he returned to a patio chair facing hers, Robin said, indicating the soft drinks and in the spirit of their good-natured banter, "And I thought all newspaper men were heavy drinkers."

  She knew she was prying, but she couldn't resist. During the evening she'd told him that she and Paul were from Chicago, and that this was the beginning of a new life. Yet while his conversation was substantive and open, Mike hadn't spoken of his own past. Nothing indicated that he was a heavy drinker. He'd only had soft drinks during her visit. She only hoped to get him to open up a little bit by turning the conversation in his direction.

  He said, without inflection or hesitation, "Some reporters drink a lot, some don't. I did, but I don't anymore."

  She instantly regretted saying anything. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to tell me anything that you don't want to tell me."

  He sipped his 7-Up. "I was married to a woman up in Albuquerque," he said. That subtle, elusive sadness, which hadn't been present this evening, returned.

  She regretted even more initiating this line of conversation. "Mike, really, it's nothing we have to talk about."

  "You've told me about yourself. You have a right to know something about me. There's nothing I've been through that I can't talk about with you. I promised Carol that I'd give up drinking. That was her name. She pulled my life together when I was slipping over the edge and all she ever asked in return, the only real thing she ever asked me to do for her, was to climb out of the bottle and never climb back in."

  "You still love her. I hear it in your voice."

  "She's dead."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. Mike, you don't have to go on."

  "I want to. I'll admit to having been curious about you and Paul. So here's my story, the condensed version anyway. Carol's death is what brought me to Devil Creek. We were both teaching at the University in Albuquerque, but I couldn't stay around there after it happened. It hurt too much, being around the friends and the places we'd known together. Our friends did their best to help me heal. They meant well and it was good to have them around. But they couldn't help with the hardest part, when the only one you really want to be with is the one who's gone. I had to get away. I'd worked for a newspaper in Denver, but that's where I started the heavy drinking. There were too many old ways to slip into if I went back there. I looked around and I found Devil Creek. The cost of living is low, the scenery can't be beat and I've saved enough to spend a year on the book I'm writing. I guess it seemed like a good place to put the past behind me and start a new life." He stared into the night sky. "The West has always been like that. A place to start anew. A place to start again." He smiled—sheepishly, she thought—and his mood lightened. "So now you know the life story of Michael J. Landware."

  "I'd hardly say that."

  "I hope you know enough about me to feel safe in accepting another invitation."

  Uh-oh, she thought. She finished her 7-Up and rose from her chair.

  "Mike, I really did have a wonderful time, but I have stayed later than I'd planned. I'd better be going."

  He stood with her, flashing an unexpectedly good-humored grin. "Relax, Robin. I assure you that I was not about to ruin a perfect evening by coming on to you. What I meant by another invitation is that Charlie Flagg's been telling me about some hiking trails into the mountains outside of town. I thought maybe you and Paul and I could think about packing a lunch and hiking a few miles in sometime. Do a little exploring, maybe this weekend if you happen to be free."

  She laughed, feeling like an idiot for so misreading him. "I think that would be very nice. Mike, I'm sorry. I . . . I thought—" She faltered.

  "All is forgiven. I'm a gentleman even if I am a writer, and I can certainly see where an attractive woman like yourself would have trouble with guys coming on too strong."

  "It happens." She extended a hand. "Thanks again, Mike. Let's talk later this week about this weekend. Unless my workload from school is too heavy, I'm sure Paul and I would love—"

  The ringing of his telephone interrupted her.

  Mike frowned. "Kind of late for anyone to be calling. Excuse me."

  He returned to the kitchen, where he took the call. She couldn't hear what was said. He returned in less than a minute, looking somber.

  She said, "I hope that wasn't bad news."

  "Not for me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That was Charlie Flagg."

  "Don't tell me there's been more trouble."

  "No, not yet. Apparently things are happening down at the Town Hall. Charlie wants me to drive over and check it out for the paper. I'll walk you over to your house, Robin. Then I'm heading into town."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben Saunders was trying to squeeze water from a rock, and he knew it. Tobe Caldwell could tell him nothing that Ben didn't already know. They were alone in Ben's office with the door closed. It was twenty minutes short of midnight.

  Tobe was a mess. His stubbly beard was caked with dried spittle. His orange jail coveralls were soiled with sweat and he reeked. His hair was like a dirty wet mop. He sat slumped in a wooden chair.

  "I tell you I don't know why Bobby done it. He just went plain nuts, Chief. Like out of nowhere. I was afraid he was going to shoot me next. That's why I got out of Dodge so fast, soon as he started shooting at them officers. We woke up this morning and he was all surly for no reason, and dressed up in them fatigues, Dad's M-1 locked and loaded and Bobby with all that ammo." The words poured from him, a torrent of traumatized shock.

  "Tobe, how often did Bobby handle that rifle?"

  "Aw, Chief, we're country bo
ys. We'd shoot at tin cans or squirrels and rabbits maybe once a week, and uh, Bobby did get a little crazy when he heard that new teacher was coming to town. Uh, he used that rifle to shoot out her front tire that first day when she was driving into town so we could fun with her. But this morning, he looked kill crazy and I didn't know what to do about it. I was scared. He told me to drive him into town and I always done what Bobby told me to do, but I never thought in a million years that he'd go berserk like that. That's all I know. It don't make no more sense to me that it does to anyone else. Swear to God."

  Tobe had been picked up by the Highway Patrol a few miles from town, as if he really thought that every cop in the state wouldn't be looking for him after he'd been seen speeding away while his brother went about his shooting spree. Ben had cleared it through the state authorities to have the prisoner brought to him for questioning when they were finished. The state and county cops had taken their time before finally packing up and leaving for the day. The curiosity seekers and the regional media people were also gone.

  Ben sat on the corner of his desk, leaning forward, staring straight into Tobe's face from only inches away.

  "Two of my men are dead, Tobe. I want to know why. You've got a triple count of Murder One staring you in the face. I'm sure you're aware of that. Since you drove Bobby into town this morning, you're an accomplice and will be charged with homicide. That's what those state cops have on you."

  Tobe eyed him warily, a cornered, injured rodent sensing a possible way out. "I couldn't stop him, Chief. I yelled for him not to do it. But that brother of mine wasn't listening to nothing but what was inside his head." Tobe wrung his hands. "Jesus. Bobby wasn't much but he was all I had. Jeez. First Pa offs Mama for cheating on him, then they execute Pa. Now this. Bobby goes berserk and now I don't have nobody. Who's going to take care of me? Bobby, at least he did the cooking and took care of stuff. Now I don't have nobody." His pleading eyes sought out Ben's. "I'm telling you everything I know, Chief."

  The office door burst open. One of Ben's deputies appeared. Ben looked around irritably.

  "Dammit, Roy, didn't anyone ever teach you to knock? I left strict orders not to be disturbed."

  "I know, Chief. Sorry. That's why me and the boys held off coming to get you." Roy Rinehart was the most recent addition to the force, a local kid of twenty-two, fresh out of the Marines. At the moment his face was flushed.

  "Get me for what?"

  "Uh, we've got an . . . escalating situation on our hands outside."

  "Say what?"

  "Uh, you better come take a look. There's a crowd forming. They've, uh, got themselves an attitude—an ugly one."

  Ben stood from the corner of his desk. "Okay. Let's see what you've got."

  Tobe made a yelping sound. "Hey, what about me?" Now that the office door was open, crowd noises could be heard from outside. "They're here to get me because of what Bobby did, right?" His eyes swept the unbarred windows. "You ain't going to just leave me here, are you?"

  Ben unloosed a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Don't worry, Tobe. You'll stay put."

  He held Tobe's arm. With a double flick of his wrist he handcuffed Tobe to a pipe next to the chair. Tobe's urgent protests followed them, echoing down the corridor. Ben briefly flashed back on trotting down this same corridor that morning, wielding a pump shotgun, seconds before discovering Perks and Chavez.

  When he and Rinehart pushed through the double glass doors onto the parking lot, louder, angry shouting swallowed up Tobe's cries. It wasn't much of a crowd, but they were making plenty of racket aimed at his deputies who stood side by side, blocking access to the Town Hall. When the crowd saw him, he was met by a show of angrily raised fists to the accompaniment of displeased grumbling. Ben saw no weapons. He strode forward without hesitation, inserting himself into the center of this confrontation, positioning himself squarely before his deputies, facing the men who led the small mob. The parking lot was well lit by vapor lights, allowing him to clearly identify those closest to him. He addressed these men directly.

  "Hello, Tal. Hello, Jay. A little late for you boys to be out carousing, isn't it?" These were men he saw in town nearly every day.

  Tal Watkins was a small time rancher who usually dressed the part of a country gentleman, though at present one shirttail hung outside of his slacks while the other remained almost tucked in. "This ain't no party, Chief. We're here to see that justice is done."

  "Don't tell me you're here to string somebody up."

  Jay Seavers, standing next to Watkins, was a burly handyman and shade tree mechanic. He wore beer-stained bib overalls. "We're not here to lynch anyone," he said.

  "I'm glad to hear that," Ben replied, his hand resting on his holstered sidearm.

  Seavers said, "We just want to make sure things get done right."

  There was muttered agreement from the men crowded behind him.

  "So it's almost midnight, and you want to make sure that I do things right," said Ben. He shook his head. "The bunch of you should be home doing the right thing. You should be home with your wives and children. The bunch of y'all smell like a distillery. What did you do, drink out the stock over at Ritchie's and now you want to raise some hell?"

  Seavers replied, drunk and surly, "Told you what we want. We want justice. What's the difference if we had us a few? That don't change nothing. It sure don't change right from wrong."

  "Slow down, Jay. Slow down. You boys are fixing to bite yourselves off a whole mess of trouble."

  Watkins said, "Our gripe's not with you, Chief. Yeah, we had us some lubrication. Then we started thinking over what happened today. The more we thought about it, the madder we got."

  "Drinking and thinking is kind of like drinking and driving, Tal. It don't mix."

  "Everyone here knew Bill Perks and Sonny Chavez. We knew them and their families."

  Someone in the rear shouted, "We want charges brought!"

  Ben spoke to all of them. "Bobby Caldwell killed those people today. Then he killed himself. He's laying over there in the Garrett Funeral Home right now. You boys asking me to file charges on a dead man? That's pretty damn silly, don't you think?"

  "We want charges filed against that idiot brother," said Seavers. "Everyone saw Tobe there when the shooting started."

  "I was discussing that very thing with Tobe before I was so rudely interrupted," Ben said. "You fellas think I don't have a mad-on about what happened this morning? I worked side by side with Chavez and Perks every day."

  "Then why aren't you doing something about it?" someone wanted to know.

  "Like I said, friend, I was doing something about it. I was in the middle of interrogating Tobe just now when a bunch of peckerwoods interrupted me because they couldn't hold their liquor."

  Watkins blinked. "Chief, that's no way to talk."

  "Y'know, maybe you're right about that, Tal. And the way you fellows are behaving is no way for grown, responsible men to act."

  Someone demanded, "Are there going to be charges filed against that punk or not?"

  Ben ignored that. "I'm going to leave you gentlemen now," he told them. "I'm going back inside to do my job. Now, I know you boys. Some of you even came to my wife's funeral when Helen passed. So what say we forget this little bit of unpleasantness. The lot of you go on home and sleep it off and maybe your womenfolk won't give you too much hell about where you've been at this hour. Go on. There's nothing you boys can accomplish here tonight except to get yourselves in trouble."

  The raised fists had been lowered. The angry muttering had ceased.

  Watkins said, "I reckon maybe the Chief is right."

  Ben nodded encouragement. "Now you're talking. You men go on home. It's natural enough that you should be grieving and worked up over what happened today and want to do something about it. But this is the wrong thing to do."

  Watkins said, "We appreciate you understanding our side of it, Chief."

  "Like I said, I feel the same way. It's tearing my guts
out, what happened. But Deputies Perks and Chavez lived to uphold the law. This isn't the way to honor their memory or what they stood for."

  Watkins turned to the others. "All right, men. Let's break this up. We were wrong, coming down here like this. Let's let the Chief get back to work, what do you say?"

  This time the muttering was embarrassed agreement and apologies. They began dispersing without further conferring among themselves; shadowy figures ambling away in twos and threes in different directions.

  "Good work, Chief," Rinehart said when the parking lot was again empty.

  Ben told his deputies, "Handling them was the easy part. Getting anything I can use out of Tobe Caldwell will be a might tougher. I'd best get back to it."

  Then he noticed someone standing nearby. A man partially emerged from the shadows as the deputies drifted back into the building.

  The figure said, "Uh, you don't know me, Chief—"

  "I know who you are," Ben said. "You're the writer fella who rented that place from Mrs. Lufkin. Charlie Flagg told me he hired you to write for his newspaper."

  The man paused some ten feet away, half in and half out of the shadows, projecting nonchalance as he stood there with his hands in his pockets.

  "You keep close tabs on your town."

  "Not close enough to my way of thinking. Not after today. I'm a busy man, Landware. What do you want?"

  "Charlie called me. He asked me to come down. I'm wondering if you have any comment for the press on what just happened here."

  "Frankly, I'd just as soon you didn't write anything about it. Fact is, I was glad the media was gone for the day and wasn't around to see what happened. And here you are, lurking in the bushes."

  "I wasn't lurking, Chief. I was observing."