Night Wings

by Joseph Bruchac

  When they came out and went back down to the shore, they saw that they had a long walk ahead of them. Their canoe had been torn to pieces, their paddles broken into bits.

  “Look for trouble,” Grampa Peter said, “trouble finds you.”

  Does Darby Field have any idea of the kind of things that can still happen? Or does he think that all those mysteries he’s chasing are harmless? Our stories about monsters remind us that only a fool goes in search of one of our old powerful beings.

  I shake my head. He won’t hurt Grampa Peter while he’s trying to find me to use as leverage. If I want to help my grandfather, I have to avoid being caught, no matter what.

  And there is another thing that I know for sure. This man’s plans—if he intends to continue being the star of his own TV show—don’t include leaving witnesses around when he commits crimes like he’s just committed. Home invasion, assault, kidnapping.

  Once he gets what he wants, he’s going to kill us.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Stay Put

  I’m still under the trailer and they’re still in the living room. All three of them. Not Grampa Peter, though. He was put into the little storage room right next to the bathroom.

  “For safekeeping,” Field said as he shoved my grandfather in there. I heard Grampa Peter sit down hard as if he lost his balance, banging his hands twice on the floor.

  Stay put.

  And now Field’s gang is sitting upstairs in the dark, in case I come home and walk in without realizing they are there. From what they said to each other, they have hidden the truck down the road where there’s a pull-off among the birch trees.

  It’s been surprisingly easy to listen in on what they’ve said and to tell what is going on from the sounds above. I never realized before just how thin the floor of the trailer is. Where there’s no rug to muffle the sound, every noise comes through as clearly as if I were in the next room.

  I hear them moving around, going back and forth to the kitchen area, getting coffee, looking into our refrigerator, just generally making themselves at home. But they’re not watching TV or listening to music, and they’re keeping their voices down. Definitely waiting for me to come back.

  I look at my watch. 4:30 A.M. There’re still two more hours until first light. One of them walks overhead, opens and closes a door. A few minutes later the toilet flushes and water goes gurgling through the pipes six feet from me. I find myself thinking of some of the adventure stories I’ve read in which a hero is in a tight place. But none of those heroes ever seem to have to go to the bathroom! I can’t stay here forever!

  I try to think logically. It’s late and they won’t be nearly as alert now as they were four hours ago when they burst in. And I have to get out of here.

  I have been tensing and untensing my arms and legs to keep from getting cramps, so it’s not that difficult for me to start moving. I lift the piece of plywood and begin sliding it back, a finger’s width at a time. It makes a very soft shushing sound, but I’m sure that I’m the only one who hears it. When the plywood is no longer bearing down on me, I start to move myself. I do it just a little at a time, bending around so that when I come out from under the trailer I do so headfirst. I pause to look around and listen. They’re still up there. No one has heard me.

  It’s dark, but the half-moon that is low in the sky to the west is casting enough light for me to start moving. I stay below the window, hugging the side of the trailer until I reach the edge that I know isn’t visible from inside. I keep low and move like a stalking panther toward the trees and brush that are fifty feet beyond the backyard. There’s still a wood-smoke smell rising from the fire pit, and the scent of burnt cedar gives me courage. I have a plan now. It’s not much of one, but it might work.

  There’s a little trail in the brush and trees. Most people wouldn’t be able to spot it, but I find it easily and begin to move more swiftly. I’m not completely silent, but the small noises of an occasional twig crunching under my feet or a branch brushing my shirt are sounds that blend in with the night. As soon as I’m far enough away, I relieve myself. Then I start climbing the hill. From what Field said, their truck should be parked on the other side where the road bends back. Just before I reach the hilltop, I stop again and place both my hands against my favorite big birch tree.

  Its smooth bark is reassuring to me. We have a special relationship with the birch, which always gave us its bark in the old days to cover our lodges or to make baskets. We call it the blanket tree. By the moonlight I can see the black marks on the white trunk, marks that look like birds with widespread wings. Those are the marks of the eagle whose eyes shoot lightning. Elders say that if you stand under a birch tree when there’s a thunderstorm, you’ll never be hit by a lightning bolt.

  I take a deep breath. “Am I doing the right thing?” I whisper to the tree.

  Of course it gives me the same reply Grampa Peter would: a silence that reminds me to look into my own heart for the answer.

  Go for it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  No Sounds

  I’m at the top of the hill now, looking down toward the road. The moonlight is glinting off something metallic in the pull-off under the birch trees. That has to be it.

  I make my way down the path, stopping every three or four steps to look and listen. Nothing. No sounds, no sign of anything or anyone moving.

  I’m closer now and I can see that it’s the same truck that peeled away from our trailer.

  I sit down while I’m still fifty feet away to run through my options. If the truck is unlocked and the key is inside, I’ll climb in, start it up, and drive the three miles to town for help. I don’t have a driver’s license, but I know what I’m doing. I learned how to ride a mini motorbike when I was four. Then, when I was ten, and tall enough to reach the pedals, Dad put me behind the wheel of a Jeep. It was only on wood trails and off-road in fields, but it was real driving nonetheless. Dad would sit next to me with his hands behind his head saying, “Show me what you can do, Tiger.”

  If the door is unlocked but there is no key, I should still be able to take it. Mechanics is one of Mom’s specialties—Humvees, half-tracks, tanks, it doesn’t matter. Mom can take apart and put together any and all of them. So while Dad taught me how to drive everything from a dirt bike to an extended-cab truck, Mom gave me the lowdown on the workings of the internal combustion engine and every possible package you might put around it. That included certain things that almost no one my age would ever be taught by their parents—like how to hot-wire a car.

  Yes, we are truly an unconventional family. Now it’s time for me to repay the trust my parents put in me by taking charge and rescuing my grandfather.

  I feel inside my pocket for my miniature Maglite and my Leatherman utility tool. The Leatherman prepares me for my third option—if I can’t get into the truck or I can’t get it started, I’ll use the fold-out lock knife to flatten all four tires. Then I’ll head for town on foot.

  Should work. But I’m hesitant to get up. There’s no sight or sound of anything threatening, but I have a vague feeling of disquiet. Something is not right, but I can’t figure out what it is.

  I’m trying to be calm the way Grampa Peter always is, the way Mom and Dad tell me you have to be when you are in a combat zone. I’ve heard stories about people who lost their cool in a firefight and emptied their guns in the air or ran around in circles when the enemy was about to overrun the perimeter. If not for one or two clear heads taking charge, staying calm and knowing what to do, all would have been lost.

  I take a deep breath. I look at my watch. 5:15 A.M. It may feel as if I have been sitting here for hours, but it’s been only forty-five minutes since I climbed out from under the trailer. From my perch up here I can see the road and there’s been no one on it. There’s no other way any of them could have gotten back to the truck without taking the shortcut I took through the woods. And from what I have seen of that crew, none of them are terribly comfortable in the fo
rest. They would have stuck to the paved road for sure.

  It’s now or never. I get up and make my way to the truck. Still quiet all around. I reach for the door handle. As I pull it, I hear the click of the latch opening.

  And just like that, with that sound, it comes to me. As I open the door and the light inside the cab comes on, I realize what is wrong: the silence.

  No sounds of crickets or little animals stirring in the brush, no call of an owl from the woods. The kind of quiet you have when something big is lurking nearby.

  I’m an idiot! I let go of the door handle and turn to run, but it’s too late. Something grabs me from behind and lifts me up into the air.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Catch

  Well, I got my wish. I’m in the truck, though not at all in the way I imagined it. I’m propped up in the passenger seat with my hands and feet secured by duct tape and another strip firmly over my mouth. A very large man with shoulders like a gorilla is sitting behind the wheel. He was businesslike in his efficiency as he wrapped me up. Rough, but not brutal about it when he saw that I wasn’t going to fight. When he turned me around and I looked up into his face, I saw that resistance would be futile. Plus—and this is another lesson learned from a military family—when you are in a situation where overcoming your enemy isn’t possible, don’t waste your strength. Don’t give up hope, but wait. Sooner or later, there may be a chance to escape.

  “Hold out hands.”

  His accent was like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s and his face was covered in scars and set in a big square head topped by a shaved dome. It was what Mom jokingly calls a Dieter face. Like a map of Germany. There was no anger in this Dieter’s expression, but also no more pity than a cat would show to a mouse it just caught.

  I held out my hands and he pinned my wrists together with one paw that was at least as broad as that of a bear. He treated taking a hostage like it was an everyday thing, which I suspect it was before he joined Darby Field.

  I look over at him now, trying to see what else I can figure out about him from the way he looks. Not much beyond his obvious military past. I suspect that what you see is what you get with Dieter—or Otto or Bruno or whatever this guy’s name is. Former East German army maybe. A mercenary soldier now, for sure. I should have figured that Field would have at least one person in his entourage who was an experienced head basher.

  The funny thing is, now that I am a captive myself, I no longer feel frantic. Like my dad used to say, you never know how you’re going to react to combat until you have your first real encounter with the enemy. Some people just can’t handle it. But others, even though they’re nervous before it happens, are fine once the firing starts. They find the calm in the eye of the storm.

  I almost smile.

  Yes, I know that’s weird, seeing as how I have failed in my first mission and I am about to be put in the one role I didn’t want to play. If this were a movie, I’d be the stock figure who gets held captive and threatened with death or torture by the bad guys in order to make the hero do their bidding.

  “Open the safe or we’ll cut off another one of his fingers.”

  “Give us the secret code or we’ll break his other leg.”

  “Show us where you’ve hidden the map or we’ll push him into the snake pit.”

  But none of that scares me now. Part of it is that I was never afraid of getting hurt myself. I was afraid of what would happen to Grampa Peter.

  Now that the weight of being the sole hope for my grandfather is gone, I’m finally thinking one step ahead. I’m seeing things not just through my own eyes but through those of Grampa Peter. It’s as if I can hear his voice in my head. And maybe I can.

  I think of how Dad once explained to me why Grampa Peter was always so quiet. “He believes what our old people believed. Not saying much out loud makes talking without words stronger. You have to listen to him with your heart, Tiger.”

  So I listen with my heart and I begin to hear it. It’s softer than a whisper, but strong.

  It’s all right, Grampa Peter’s silent voice says. Now they will think that they have us where they want us. They think we are caught. And we will let them think that. Then, together, we will find a way to catch them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Bucket

  The big man who caught me unclips the cell phone from his belt, flips it open, and thumbs a number.

  “Stazi here,” he says. “Got him.”

  He clicks the phone shut, slips it back onto his belt, and starts the truck.

  By the time we pull onto the drive, the first light is starting to show. The catbird that lives in the blueberry bushes behind Grampa Peter’s trailer is singing its greeting to the new day. And there, sitting at the picnic table in front of the trailer, is my welcoming crew.

  It’s not a pleasant sight. I’d seen Darby Field before, but not with the wide grin he’s now wearing. It’s not a friendly smile, but a fang-bearing threat.

  The anticipation in his look worries me. As does the array of things he has laid out on the table. It’s half the contents of Grampa Peter’s tool chest. Grampa Peter is a master craftsman. He carves, does flint knapping and woodworking, and makes baskets. He also knows how to make things like survival shelters and snares—give him four feet of rope and he can catch anything in the woods from a rabbit to a bear. But I don’t think that craft work or carpentry is what Darby Field has in mind for the hammer, the nail gun, the power saws, and the drills spread out in front of him. My fingers tingle as my imagination goes to work.

  The two people with Field don’t make me feel any more comfortable. Tip, the guy with the South Boston accent, is a little smaller than I imagined him to be. Probably no more than five feet nine and not that bulky, with jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail. He has one of those port-wine birthmarks on his left cheek, the shape and size of a potato, and his nose looks as if it’s been broken a time or two. His eyes stare into mine as I am pulled out of the truck.

  Louise is actually worse. There is something positively predatory about this woman’s expression as she looks me up and down and licks her lips. Whatever unpleasant stuff Field has in mind for me and Grampa Peter, Louise is ready and waiting for it.

  I look at Grampa Peter, who has been tied to one of the bentwood chairs he crafts to sell at the shops in Conway. His mouth isn’t taped shut like mine, but he still doesn’t speak out loud. He just gives me the smallest nod and presses his lips together.

  I’m sorry this is happening to you.

  It’s okay, Grampa. I’m okay.

  Stazi hooks one arm under my right elbow, drags me over to the bench that has been placed in front of Field, and sits me down.

  Field reaches out and rips the tape from my face. My mouth burns and I suck in my lower lip and taste the blood. I’d cut my lip while I was rock climbing four days ago. The scab was just beginning to heal over.

  “Hell-lllooo,” Field says in his irritating accent. “How nice of you to drop in, young Paul.” He makes an expansive gesture toward the top of the picnic table behind him. “As you can see, we have been expecting you.”

  I bite my tongue. I’m not going to say anything.

  “Oh my, are you as mute as your grandfather? Fear not, lad, we have our little ways of eliciting a response. But we don’t need you to talk, we just need you to scream.”

  His open hand whips out like a rattlesnake striking as he slaps me across the face. I turn my head to look back at him. I won’t give him the satisfaction of showing how scared I really am.

  He chuckles. “Made of stern stuff, eh? I do like a bit of a challenge.”

  Field turns back to look at Louise, who is now leaning over his shoulder and staring at the blood dripping down my chin as if she wants to drink it. “Remember that chap in Colombia?”

  “‘Quest for the Forbidden City of Gold,’” Louise whispers.

  “Was his name Martin?”

  “Yes, it was.” Her emphasis on that last word sends a
chill down my back.

  “He insisted that he knew nothing. But it turned out that he knew quite a bit more than he said.” Field picks up a pair of needle-nose pliers and taps them against his palm. “It is truly amazing what losing a few fingernails does for one’s memory.”

  He looks at the pliers and then shakes his head regretfully. “But we don’t have time for that, do we? And I have found that sometimes the most effective methods are the oldest ones. No need for modern tools at all.” He tosses the pliers back onto the table and snaps his fingers.

  “Tip!”

  Tip leans over to pick up a big white plastic bucket, one of the empty ones that Grampa Peter has stacked up behind the trailer.

  You never know when you’re going to need a good bucket, I find myself thinking.

  But the bucket is not empty now. It’s filled to the brim with water.

  Tip sets the bucket in front of me. Stazi places one of his huge hands on top of my head, and the other goes on my shoulders. He pushes down, bending me forward until my nose is almost touching the water. A single drop of my blood falls from my cut lip, strikes the surface, and then disperses in a circling red cloud through the water. I take a deep breath.

  “No!” Grampa Peter says. It’s probably his first spoken word since being taken captive.

  Field chuckles.

  “Now,” he whispers.

  And my head is thrust under the water.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Drowning