Darkly The Thunder (8 page)

“Why . . . no. I guess I'll go on back to the motel.”

Husband and wife exchanged glances as thunder cracked sharply. Sunny noticed that both the man and woman seemed to be listening for something more than the thunder. A message, perhaps? But what kind of a message could the thunder contain?

“You'll be safe for this night,” Richard told her. “But when you come back in the morning, and make it early, bring a change of clothing and some toilet articles.”

“Yes,” Sunny's reply was drily given. “I noticed that most of the articles in the bathroom were years out of date.”

“We wondered if you'd notice.” He looked at Robin. The girl was stretched out on the couch and appeared to be sound asleep. “When the house was . . . well, reconstructed, so to speak, nothing could be changed. It is not permitted. Although I don't believe you're quite ready to understand that.”

“Mr. Jennings, I don't understand anything about you or this place, or your wife, or where I went flying this afternoon.”

Robin sat up on the couch. “Flying?” she laughed. “What have you been smoking, Sunny?”

 

 

Gordie stopped by the Ingram house. He was met by a grimfaced father.

“Sheriff Rivera. You want to tell me what in the hell is going on in this town?”

Gordie sidestepped that. “How are the kids?”

“Fine. Angel is watching television, and Howie is in his room, working with his computer.” He stepped out onto the stoop and closed the door behind him. “When I left my business this afternoon, I was told by a deputy that no one is allowed to leave town. Is that correct, Sheriff?”

“That is correct, Mister Ingram.”

“Next question is why?”

“You know, of course, about the murders and the explosions?”

“I'd have to be any idiot not to.”

“Mister Ingram, keep your wife and children inside this evening. Warn them not to go outside tomorrow. It would probably be best if you did not open for business until further notice.”

“Is that an order?”

“No.”

“That's good. Because I intend to open for business as usual.” The men locked glances. “All right, Sheriff. I suppose you have your reasons for behaving in this totalitarian manner. Howie and Angel think you're a really neat guy. Personally, I can't see it.” He turned his back on the sheriff and walked back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Gordie grimaced and muttered, “Well, at least he didn't ask me why I wasn't dressed for gym.”

He drove to all six checkpoints leading into and out of the town. He was stalling on going home and knew it. All checkpoints were manned, and his personnel was stretched thin. About a third of his people had not shown up for work on the first shift. He didn't want to think about where they might be, or what had happened to them.

He thought he knew.

He decided not to go home. Pam was probably still over at a girlfriend's house, moaning the blues about their crumbling marriage.

Either that or screwing somebody.

Gordie went back to the office.

“What do the punks have to say?” he asked Lee.

“Oh, they're having a big time locked down. Singing and laughing and cussing us – mostly you.”

“Who's watching them?”

“Bob.”

“How many of the second shift went 10-8?”

“About half of them.”

“The military people?”

“Went back to the motel to clean up. Said they'd all be right back. I'm glad they showed up, Gordie. Couple of them are Special Forces types. Airborne rangers. I believe they'll stand solid – all of them.”

SPECIAL FORCES! BAH! WHAT A BUNCH OF SISSIES. RADIO ANNOUNCERS AND QUEERS.

Gordie and Lee exchanged glances, Gordie thinking: It doesn't know about Special Forces. It's confusing Special Forces with the old World War Two unit called Special Services. That's why Howie looked so funny when it made the comment about a P-38 – a World War Two plane. The thing knows nothing from about nineteen-fifty-eight to this point.

WHY ARE YOU SO QUIET, GREASER?

“I'm trying to figure out a way to destroy you, you big-mouthed glob of whatever.”

Wild laughter ripped the late afternoon, booming throughout the office. YOU ARE A BALLSY BASTARD FOR A SPIC, RIVERA.

“Actually, I'm only half-Spanish, but very proud of it. My mother was Irish.”

IRISH! the tone was contemptuous. WHY THOSE SILLY FOOLS HAVE BEEN FIGHTING EACH OTHER FOR CENTURIES, AND DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY THEY'RE STILL FIGHTING.

Gordie ignored the voice and walked to his office, closing the door.

The voice followed him. I SUPPOSE YOU'RE GOING TO TELL ME THAT YOU WERE IN SOME SUPER-DUPER MILITARY UNIT, EH, GREASEBALL?

Gordie leaned back in his chair. “I was a groundpounding grunt in Vietnam. An eighteen-year-old infantryman.”

SO THIS COUNTRY REALLY DID GO IN AFTER THE FROGS GOT THEIR SILLY ASSES KICKED OVER THERE, EH? HOW ABOUT THAT. WELL, IF THIS CESSPOOL YOU CALL AMERICA HAD KEPT ITS AGREEMENTS WITH HO CHI MINH, THERE WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN A WAR, AND VIETNAM WOULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF YOUR BETTER ALLIES. DID YOU KNOW ALL THAT, DANNY-ME-BOY?

“No, I didn't.”

IT'S TRUE. I WAS THERE.

“Thanks for the history lesson.”

YOU'RE WELCOME. I HATE TO SEE SOMEONE DIE IGNORANT. DID YOU KNOW YOUR WIFE, PRETTY PAM, IS SCREWING SOMEONE RIGHT NOW?

Gordie didn't know. But the news didn't come as any great surprise. Her affairs were known countywide.

WHEN YOU SEE HER, GIVE HER A GREAT BIG JUICY FRENCH KISS. THEN YOU'LL KNOW HOW CHUCKIE-BABY'S DICK TASTES!

Howling with laughter, the voice faded away.

Not a soul kiss, not openmouthed, but French. You have a thirty-year-old weak spot, Voice. If I can just figure how to use that against you.

Gordie couldn't even dredge up the oftentimes-soothing emotion of anger toward his wife. He didn't feel anything for her except contempt. They had slept in separate bedrooms for over two years.

The sheriff easily pushed his wife out of his thoughts. He listened for a moment. Something was wrong. Then he realized what it was: the singing and laughing from the cell block where the punks were housed had stopped.

He stepped out of his office and walked to the door leading to the basement cell block. The smell hit him hard. Steeling himself, he walked down the steps to the cells and stood for a moment, fighting back a sudden rush of nausea.

Deputy Bob MacGregor was spread all over the cell block. His head had been placed on a bunk in an empty cell. The mouth was open in a silent scream, the eyes wide and pain-filled. His guts were twisted around the bars. The walls were splattered with blood.

“Lee!” Gordie called.

The chief deputy paled at the sight. “I was out front talking with that Ricky-what's-his-name. The one that goes with Robin Jennings. He can't find her. Says he's looked all over town. Jesus, Gordie, I didn't hear a thing from back here.”

“Nor did I. The voice was giving me a history lesson when it happened. Obviously, it can split itself. But I have another question.”

Lee looked at him.

“How in the hell did the punks get gone?”

When Sunny left the Jennings' house, she felt a myriad of emotions. She felt both depression and elation, a sense of excitement and of physical exhaustion. She could not understand the latter.

She could not understand any of her emotions.

As she backed her rented car out of the drive, she once more experienced that odd sensation of feeling the earth shift – although she knew it was all in her mind.

She hoped.

As she drove back to her motel, the best of the two in town – the hotel was about a hundred years old and in pretty sad shape – she noticed how deserted the town was. Then she saw several men standing on a corner.

One of them gave her the finger, and another one rubbed his crotch and grinned at her. The third one called out some very obscene things he'd like to do to her.

Her face red and her jaw set in anger, Sunny drove on. “This is the weirdest damned town I have ever been in,” she muttered.

Passing an intersection, she saw, far down the way, a police car blocking the street. On impulse, she braked, backed up, and drove to the blockade, intending to tell the officer about the rude behavior of some of the town's citizens.

That went out the window as the deputy raised his hand, indicating that she stop. She stopped, lowered her window, and waited as the deputy walked up. “What's the problem, officer?”

“No one is allowed out of town, Miss.” He studied her for a moment. “You're not from around here, are you?”

“Ah ... no. I'm not. What do you mean, no one is allowed out of town? What's happened?”

“Sheriffs orders, ma'am. No one is allowed in or out of Willowdale.”

Sunny instantly smelled a story. “What's happened, officer?”

The deputy stared at her. She noticed how tired he looked. “Where have you been all day, ma'am?”

“Why . . . visiting here in town.”

“You don't know about the explosions and deaths?”

“I am aware of the murders yesterday.”

The deputy shook his head. “No, ma'am. I'm talking about the . . . incidents that occurred today.”

“I don't know anything about them. I've been interviewing some people on a story I'm doing. I'm a writer.”

“I ... see. I guess. And you really didn't hear the explosions?”

“No. Nothing. And neither did any of the people I was interviewing.”

“Strange,” the deputy muttered. “Where are you staying, Miss?”

“At the newest and nicest of the motels.”

“Who are you interviewing for this story?”

Sunny was growing tired of the questioning. “Am I under arrest?”

That brought a smile to his face. “No, ma'am. You are not under arrest. I'm just curious as to where you've been. You see, the whole town was rocked by the explosions. Everybody in town poured out into the streets. Well, almost everybody – you didn't.”

Her anger faded. His questions were legitimate and deserved an answer. “I spent the entire day at the Jennings' home, interviewing Richard and Linda Jennings. Their daughter Robin was also present.”

The deputy stared at her. “Jesus!” he whispered. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

“Are you all right?” Sunny asked.

“Oh. Yeah. I'm fine. Been a long day is all. Ma'am, would you mind waiting here for a moment – please?”

Sunny was really looking forward to a hot bath and something to eat. And she wanted desperately to go over the tapes. She sighed. “Deputy, if you tell me to wait, I'll wait.”

“Thank you, ma‘am. It won't take long, I promise you. Couple of minutes. And, ma'am,” he smiled, “you are not in any kind of trouble.”

Sunny sat in her car for much longer than a couple of minutes. She grew impatient and got out to stretch her legs. It was almost completely dark when another car pulled up. She watched as a stocky, rather handsome man got out and walked up to her.

He smiled. “I'm Sheriff Gordie Rivera, ma'am. And I apologize for this inconvenience, and thank you for waiting. We're talking with all strangers in town, and thought we'd spoken to them all. May I see some identification, please?”

Slightly miffed, Sunny dug in her purse, found her wallet, and held out the clear plastic case to the sheriff.

“Take it out of the wallet, please?”

She complied and waited, watching his face as he inspected the license. She expected him to say something coplike ... “Let's run it,” ... or something like that. They always do in the movies.

He handed the license back to her. “Sunny Lockwood. And you have been interviewing Richard and Linda Jennings all day, is that correct?”

“Yes.” What about, Miss Lockwood?”

“That, Sheriff, is none of your business.” She braced for a hassle.

She got another smile. “You're right. It isn't. But I can ask you where you're staying.”

“I told the deputy”

“Tell me.”

“I believe it's called the Lodgepole Inn.”

“That's right. Thank you, Miss Lockwood.”

“I'm free to go?”

“Certainly. And I'm sorry for any inconvenience we might have caused you.”

She looked at him. He was a handsome man. And, like the deputy, he looked tired. “Sheriff, we talked about a local – well, rebel, outlaw – I don't know yet just how to describe him. His name, his nickname, is, was – Sand.”

“Saunders. Yes. I'm familiar with the case. And what did you learn about Sand, Miss Lockwood? And you do not have to answer that question.”

“Not very much, Sheriff. We just got into the interview. What do you know about him?”

Gordie shrugged his shoulders. “I was about five years old when all that went down. I'm not from the area originally. Perhaps you should talk with Al Watts. He's retired head of the Colorado State Patrol. He's the man who killed Sand.”

“Yes. Yes, I would very much like to speak with Mr. Watts. Where can I find him?”

“I can have him in my office in about an hour. I imagine you would like to freshen up a bit. It's probably been a rather trying day for you.”

That last bit was spoken very drily, and Sunny picked up on it, wondering about it. “Yes. It has been. And I would like to freshen up. That's very considerate of you, Sheriff Rivera.”