Night Wind Page 8

  Bobby Caldwell emerged from the front door of Merle's, onto the street. He wore polished combat boots and jungle camouflage fatigues. Bandoleers of ammo magazines crisscrossed his chest. He held an M-1 assault rifle. Moans and screams and shouts followed him from inside the hardware store. Without pausing, Bobby opened fire on an old man in coveralls who stood watching from the doorway of Donna's across the street. The old man was thrown backwards into the restaurant.

  Saunders commanded sharply, "Bobby, goddammit, hold it right there!"

  Bobby spun around to face him. He yelped gleefully. "Well there he is! The Chief of Police. Howdy, Mister Chief. How do you like what I done so far?"

  Saunders barely recognized Bobby. The kid's face was twisted out of shape and flushed. His glittering eyes were fiery, insane.

  "Put that rifle down, Bob." Saunders' voice was cool and even. "You're all finished for today."

  "You got that right. See you in hell, Chief."

  Bobby bent down and placed the rifle muzzle inside his mouth, sucking the barrel.

  Seeing this, Ben lowered his shotgun. "So long, you little shit," he said.

  Somewhere across the street a woman screamed.

  Bobby Caldwell fired, blowing off the top of his own head.

  Chapter Fifteen

  News of the massacre reached Robin at school during her second class of the day. She was speaking at the head of the classroom when she heard the earnest, hushed whisperings of adults from outside her open door.

  She assigned a class project and stepped into the hallway to join the teachers gathered there from neighboring classrooms. Like the others, she could hardly believe it at first. Random acts of murderous violence on the television news were always numbing reminders of one's mortality and the random nature of fate. But this bloody horror was far worse, infinitely more immediate, because this psycho had gone berserk with a rifle not in some faraway post office or fast food restaurant, but right here in the remote, small town of Devil Creek. Talk about close to home! And because Robin had chosen to make this her home, the news of the atrocity did bite with the same immediacy that shone on the faces of her co-workers as they repeated for her the first vague reports about what had happened minutes earlier. The details were unclear, only that one of the Caldwell boys, Bobby, had gone berserk downtown and started shooting people. Several were dead, others had sustained wounds when the gunman stormed into the hardware store firing his weapon. Miraculously, no one in Merle's was seriously wounded. Not so lucky were two police officers. Bobby Caldwell had then killed himself.

  It was, quite naturally, all anyone could talk about for the rest of the day. The education of children and the bureaucratic details that are the daily life of a teacher went on, but Connie Silva and everyone else Robin worked with was affected. You could see it in their eyes. Robin felt no different. During a break Connie told her that one of the policemen slain was the brother of a faculty member who had left hurriedly to attend to the family emergency. The most difficult part of the day was explaining to children what had happened. The kids quickly sensed that something was wrong. None of Robin's students had family members involved in the shooting, but she did hear from a student in her class, after the noon recess, that a ninth grader in another homeroom did have a parent who had been wounded at the hardware store.

  When she met Paul after school that afternoon, he acted withdrawn; not nearly as animated and lively as usual. She assumed at first that this was because of the troubling things that had happened that day. The more she reflected on his introspective mood as they drove home, though, the less certain she became that it was directly related to the shootings. It could be something else. He had seemed strangely remote that very morning, before the shootings, when she'd gotten him up for school. Some of his introverted mood this afternoon would be his reaction to the bloodbath. But there was something else. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it was there.

  As she drove them home, the car radio was tuned to a Las Cruces music mix station. The Eagles were playing, one of her favorite groups. But today their music did nothing to either relax her or pep her up, which was usually the case depending on how she felt when she heard them. The Eagles were that kind of group, good for whatever ailed you. But this afternoon, she barely heard "Take It Easy."

  Robin stole a sideways glance at Paul. He wasn't reading. He wasn't commenting on the music, as he often did no matter what was being played. He wasn't commenting on or doing anything, which is why she noticed. He was preoccupied by something he did not wish to communicate with her about. She could tell this even with just a sideways glance.

  As they left the school parking lot, she noted increased traffic on the highway. She'd heard that Chief Saunders was having problems at the shooting scene because of gawkers coming in from out of town. During the short drive downtown, even this late in the afternoon, their Subaru was passed by communications vans from television stations as far away as El Paso.

  "Guess we'll be seeing a lot of news media around here for awhile," she said, an attempt to draw Paul out.

  "I guess."

  "Honey, is something wrong? Is anything troubling you?"

  "Mom, don't call me honey. Please?"

  She had to smile. At least he wasn't behaving totally out of character. "Is it about what happened today, about what the Caldwell boy did? If that's bothering you, we can talk about it. It's natural to be upset about something like that."

  "Yo, Mom, nothing's bothering me. Honest. Okay?"

  "Okay, Paul."

  One end of Main Street was cordoned off near the Town Hall and the hardware store. It had been more than eight hours since the shooting, yet there was still a lot of activity over there. On the outer fringe were people straining their necks for a better view. Next were the communications vans and the news crews, lots of microphones and cameras and hurrying about. Beyond this were at least a dozen official vehicles, many with their rooftop lights flashing.

  She steered the Subaru into a parking space in front of the supermarket.

  "Are you coming into the store with me?"

  Paul picked up a science fiction paperback from atop the stack of textbooks he'd placed on the car seat between them. "I'll wait."

  "Back in a minute," she said.

  Naturally, it took more than a minute. There had been so many groceries and household supplies to buy when they first came to town that she'd managed to forget purchasing several items, and this was the first real chance she'd had to pick up what she'd missed. She'd kept a shopping list that had grown every day.

  Russell's Market was not crowded, though business was brisk with people stopping off after work on their way home. The aftershock of that morning's shooting was palpable inside the store. These were local folk who knew each other. Robin couldn't help overhearing some of their conversational exchanges as she wheeled her shopping cart by. The slaughter on the streets of Devil Creek was the sole conversational topic. While she was in the produce department, she happened to glance out the plate glass window overlooking the parking lot. Mike Landware stood beside her car, talking with Paul.

  When she pushed her cart out the door, she encountered Mike on his way in.

  He smiled. "Hello, neighbor."

  That smile, warm and genuine. A timbre of voice she found enticing, appealing. There was fatigue in the smile, a tightness at the corners of his eyes and mouth. And again she sensed the vague aura of sadness, of loneliness about him that was intriguing, so appealing. Watch yourself, Robin, she reminded herself.

  She returned his greeting in kind with the best smile she could manage given the fatigue she felt. "Hello, neighbor."

  "Paul and I were just talking sci fi," he said. "That's some sharp kid you've got there."

  She looked beyond him to where Paul remained as she had left him, engrossed in his book, apparently unaware of their conversation. "Thanks. I like him too."

  "You've done a good job raising him."

  "It hasn't always been easy. D
o you have kids?"

  "Nope, no kids." His gaze drifted down the street to the congestion around Town Hall. "Quite a day for Devil Creek."

  "Terrible. I imagine it's been keeping you busy."

  He nodded. "The paper's a weekly so most people will know everything about it before they read it in the Clarion."

  "Whenever I hear about something like this happening, I always wonder what could drive someone to do it."

  "Well, as a journalist it pains me to say so, but I've got a hunch that's something we'll never know."

  Robin thought then of something she had intended to ask him at the first opportunity, after last night's dream about the stairs and a hanging, swaying corpse; of staring into her own dead face. . . . So much had happened in the real world since that dream, she'd almost forgotten. Almost.

  "By the way, Mike. You didn't happen to see anyone around my house last night, did you?"

  He frowned. "Why do you ask? Did you see someone?"

  "Not really." She suddenly felt foolish. "I was having a nightmare. I woke up and thought I saw someone against the shade, in the moonlight. It was probably nothing."

  "If there was someone, it could have been one or both of those Caldwell punks. Paul told me they'd been pestering you."

  "I hadn't even thought of that."

  "Look at it this way. If it was Bobby Caldwell, you don't have anything to worry about. As for his brother Tobe, Chief Saunders has him over in the jail right now."

  "Well that's a relief, anyway."

  "I'm usually up late nights, writing. I'm nocturnal by nature, always have been. Anyway, I can see your house from mine. I'll keep an eye on it. If you think you see or hear anything again, call me right away and don't worry about what time it is."

  "I really do feel like an idiot now that I've said anything. I'm sure it was part of the dream."

  "The offer stands just the same."

  "Thanks, Mike."

  "By the way, is something bothering Paul?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I don't know. We were talking about the book he's reading. Asimov is one of my favorites. I've sort of gotten to know Paul since you guys moved in. It's probably none of my business."

  "No, that's okay, go on."

  "It has to be what happened this morning. Everyone in this little burg is having trouble getting their head around that one."

  She decided not to mention that Paul hadn't seemed himself even that morning, before the shooting.

  "I'm sure that's all it is," she said. "Sometimes I think I worry too much about him. But that's a mother's job, isn't it? Well, it's been nice visiting with you, Mike, but I'd better be going. Like you said, it's been quite a day and I do have a growing boy to feed."

  "Robin, I have an idea."

  "And what might that be?"

  "I invited you and your growing boy over for a barbecue that first day when Mrs. Lufkin introduced us. You took a rain check, remember? Natural enough that you'd want to size me up first."

  "I remember," she said, knowing where he was headed and, she hated to admit, pleased.

  "Well, have you?"

  "Have I what?"

  "Sized me up. You must have made up your mind by this time whether or not I'm a jerk or a guy you might like to be friends with in addition to neighbors?"

  She couldn't help smiling. "As a matter of fact, I have made up my mind."

  "Please don't keep me in suspense."

  "I think you know the answer. I think Paul's right about you. Yes, Michael, I think we can be neighbors and friends."

  "Good. I'd like that."

  "I'm certainly glad we got that out of the way."

  "Then I guess the next question is, would you and Paul like to come over for a barbecue tonight?"

  She felt a strong inclination to pull back. She shouldn't have been caught off guard by the invitation, but she was.

  "Oh, I don't know, Mike. That's awfully nice of you but . . . it really has been a long day."

  "I will gracefully take no for an answer, but I do feel compelled to point out that it's been a long day for all of us—you, me, and Paul. Maybe we could all use a little relaxation with some pleasant company, to unwind. Care to reconsider?"

  She liked the way he automatically included Paul in the invitation. She fought down her inclination to pull back. "I wouldn't want to make it a late night. Tomorrow is a school day."

  "Fair enough."

  "Okay then. Sounds great. I'll make a salad. What time would you like us to come over?"

  "Say, sixish? That's a couple of hours from now. How does that sound?"

  "That sounds just fine."

  "One more thing. Please say you're not a vegetarian."

  "I'm not a vegetarian," she said.

  "Then you are in luck. I'll have the coals going and the burgers ready to go. You are in for a culinary experience. See you then."

  "At six," she acknowledged.

  With a wave, he continued on into the market.

  She continued with the grocery cart toward the car, telling herself that she had done the right thing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a perfect night for a barbecue, cool enough to wear long sleeves but still pleasant. There was no breeze. The night was clear and starlit. The full moon emerged from behind the mountains, at first an oversized iridescent globe, every lunar crater seemingly close enough to reach out and touch as it gradually arced into the sky, diminishing in size but not iridescence.

  Paul had a great time. The hamburgers were excellent. Also, he was glad to see that hanging out with Mike was just as much fun with Mom along. He'd come to think of Mike as his buddy. Mike knew a lot about science fiction. He was always fun to talk to. He didn't talk down to Paul just because Paul was a kid, but instead with an awareness of Paul's intelligence, the same way Mom did. But Paul had been concerned that he'd be cut out of the conversation once Mike and Mom started talking. It didn't happen that way, though. The conversation during preparation and consumption of dinner spanned subjects that all three of them had in common: movies, books, and food. It was an easygoing, relaxed time. No mention was made about the massacre.

  At eight-thirty, when Paul said he wanted to go home and watch The X Files on TV, his mother made him promise to wash up and be in bed on time. Paul then left them there, sitting on the patio, Mike and his mom finishing their drinks and visiting. By bedtime, his mother still hadn't returned home. Looking out his window, Paul could see them next door in the light that spilled from inside Mike's house onto the patio. They were still talking.

  Paul had always been glad that his mother and father had gotten their divorce. They'd argued all the time, filling the house, filling his ears, with their rage. The arguments got worse toward the end, right before Paul and his mother moved out of their house. Before that, he used to hide in his room, seeking refuge in a closet where he could hardly hear them. But there was no escape. He'd heard them even there, crouched on the floor of the closet. He'd listened to his mother and father shouting, each cursing the other, and his stomach would tie itself into knots.

  He couldn't recall ever spending time with his father. They'd never gone anywhere or done anything together when it was just the two of them, but Paul didn't care. It was the same way with most of his friends and their fathers. It was the same with their moms, too. His mother was different. Sometimes his friends in Chicago told him that they wished their parents were more like his mom, more interested in what they were doing in school and how they spent their time. As for his father, Paul didn't even like the man. His father was the cause of all the troubles that had torn their family apart and ultimately destroyed it. Paul had never even discussed the divorce with his father. His dad obviously didn't care even a little bit about Paul's feelings or what he thought about any of it. That's what had hurt most. Paul missed some of his old friends, but he honestly wouldn't care if he never saw his father again. The stomach cramps and bad dreams had disappeared soon after he and his mother had move
d out of the house where he'd spent all of his life. But it was Dad's house. Anything was better than living there.

  But today the pain in his stomach, the cramps, returned. He hadn't slept well last night after returning from his trip up the hill with Jared. And tonight, even though he was tired, he had trouble falling asleep.

  He and Jared had spoken in the schoolyard during the noon recess, when no other kids were around.

  "You didn't tell your mother, did you?" the pudgy boy had asked, first thing.

  "No, I didn't tell anyone."

  Jared sighed his relief, as if he'd been holding his breath all morning. "Good." He spoke with conspiratorial disapproval. "I thought I could trust you. I thought we were friends. You're smarter than all those idiots." He indicated the crowded playground. "I thought you'd think it was cool, what I wanted to show you. I didn't think you'd melt down and turn coward."

  "I'm no coward," said Paul. "If you still want to be my friend, don't call me that again."

  "All right, all right. Sorry."

  "And I don't want to talk about last night anymore."

  "Okay, we won't."

  That had been the end of that topic. But it was not okay. What Bobby Caldwell had done that day was frightening, but it had happened in broad daylight. Right now, lying awake in his bed, alone in the silent house, staring at the dark ceiling of his room, Paul thought about something else. He thought about the previous night. It was difficult to believe that it was only twenty-four hours since he and Jared had spied on Bobby and Tobe and that woman. He still hadn't gotten over the impression of watching the brothers, real people—not people in books or movies—violently fighting with each other over a woman who would've let them do whatever they wanted to do to her anyway, to hear Jared tell it. And this had occurred no further away than the other side of the hill, up the road from his house. It wasn't so much the actual violence he'd witnessed that had been bothering him since his mother had gotten him up for school that morning. Instead, it was the dawning awareness of what realities, what dangers, the night could hold even in a supposedly safe community as tiny Devil Creek, out there within such close proximity to his own supposedly safe and secure warm bed. What Bobby Caldwell had done that morning only underscored this dawning awareness.