The Night Wanderer (16 page)

“Hey, do we know you?”

“Yeah, do we?” contributed Chucky.

The only response was a big moth flying into Chucky's face, making him shout briefly, ruining their intended ominous approach. Dale decided to ignore his idiot cousin for the moment.

“Hey, did you hear me? I asked you a question.” Again no response. By this time, Dale was getting annoyed. This guy wasn't acting the way he should. He should be trembling, stammering, trying to find a way to escape. Hell, Dale would even accept the man peeing himself. But instead, the man just sat there. Almost like he wasn't afraid of them. “Looks like maybe you lost the power of speech, buddy. Hey, Chucky, why don't you help the man look for it?” Smiling, Chucky hopped up on the first level of the bleachers, now only two levels away from and a little to the right of the seated man. He put his foot on the next row but didn't commit his full body weight just yet. Like other similar times, he might decide to use it as a spring board in case the guy tried to get away.

“Do you know . . .” The man finally spoke, his voice calm and cool, as even and smooth as the bark on a poplar tree. “. . . this place right here was where the sweatlodge was built. Far enough away from the main village to be private, but still easily accessible. Sometimes there would be two, even four set up, depending on how many people came to the village. It was a powerful place once. Now it's a baseball diamond. I could barely find it. I'm sure there's some sort of irony involved. But that's probably of no interest to you.”

Dale was trying to figure out what relevance the man's speech had with what they were there to do. The man didn't make any sense. There were no sweatlodges here, never had been. Before it had been a baseball diamond, it had been an empty field full of abandoned cars. And that was a good twenty years ago or so. That last line also sounded like he was making fun of him. Somebody needed to be taught a lesson.

Or maybe, thought Dale, he's crazy. They were always good for a laugh. Chucky, on the other hand, was developing a different idea about their prey, having a different view, from a different angle, of the man atop the bleachers. For some reason, and he couldn't figure out why, Chucky was sure he could see the man's eyes glowing, but he knew it wasn't possible. The moon was to the man's back, and their car headlights were off and no other cars were coming. Maybe because he was so close or something . . . but even that didn't make any sense. Whether you were closer or farther away shouldn't matter. Eyes don't normally glow. At least none he'd ever seen.

“Hey, Chucky, our friend here thinks there's a sweatlodge on second base. Maybe one in right field too.” As usual, Dale laughed at his own joke. Then he joined Chucky on the first level of the bleachers.

He spoke to the man again. “Do you know there's an admission fee to this baseball diamond? Basically everything you got in your pockets. That might make us more agreeable. Huh, Chucky?” He looked over at his cousin for backup, but Chucky was acting strange. His head kept shifting back and forth from the stranger to him, as if trying to figure something out. Then, for a second, he caught Chucky's eyes. Normally they had a confident, nothing-can-bother-me, I-read-a-book-once type of glaze to them . . . but tonight, right now, they looked very un-Chucky. It was almost as if he looked scared, or close to it. And not a lot of things, other than snakes and tapioca, scared Chucky.

“Chucky, what's up, buddy?”

“Dale, his eyes!” Chucky hissed the words as he pointed to the stranger. Dale turned his attention back to the top of the bleachers, as did Chucky. The man was gone. There was nothing sitting on that top row. The man had disappeared. Disappeared quickly. Dale ran up to the top to scan the diamond. But it was as still as a graveyard. Chucky stayed where he was, turning around and around in a slow circle, making sure nobody was sneaking up on him.

“Where the hell did he go?” Dale was angry. He didn't like it when things went wrong. He was used to being the dominant force in any encounter. People were not allowed to disappear on him. “Chucky, do you see him?”

By now, Chucky knew there was a different set of rules in effect. Though most of Otter Lake considered him the least intelligent of the two, he did have a protective instinct, something similar to when a dog or horse feels an earthquake coming.

“Dale, let's get out of here. This ain't right,” said Chucky in a tremulous voice.

Then the lights on their car came on. And then the engine. “There he is. Come on, Chucky.” This was now personal. Racing down the steps, Dale leapt over the short fence. Chucky, however, was not as confident.

“Uh, Dale . . . Maybe we should—”

Dale didn't hear him, as the music from their radio suddenly came on. Another leap and he was over the first-baseline fence and directly in front of his car. Breathing heavy, he was ready to do battle with the man who had momentarily unnerved him. But there was nobody there to teach. The car was empty. The door closed. Dale flung the driver's side door open, hoping the man was hiding on the floor. Instead, all he found was McDonald's wrappers and Kraft Dinner boxes.

Okay, thought Dale, this is getting a little weird. Let's cut our losses before this ninja dude really takes a dislike to us. He turned off the radio and looked out toward Chucky. “You're right, let's get out of here. Get in the car.”

Silence.

Dale straightened up, every hair on the back of his neck standing just as straight. He was alone.

“Chucky?” If Dale had ever in his life sounded weak, it was now. Much like the man before him, Chucky wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. The far bleachers were deserted, the batter's cage and the diamond, the same. The laws of nothing interesting happening in Otter Lake had been violated. And it was just Dale's luck that it was on his watch.

In a small voice, Dale summed up his decisive action regarding his missing cousin: “Bye, Chucky. You're on your own.” With his foot on the accelerator, and his hands locking the doors, Dale and his Honda Civic left the baseball diamond as fast as Japan's best mechanical engineers could allow them. The car turned the corner with a squeal and went up the hill. In forty-five seconds, the baseball diamond had disappeared completely. Just like the stranger and Chucky.

Dale was confused. What should he do in a situation like this? Call the police to report a suspicious character and a disappeared cousin? Dale was too used to
being
the suspicious character. He was sure the police would be just as a confused as him. As for Chucky . . . he didn't want to think about that. Not till he himself was safe somewhere.

He turned onto Joplin's Road and tried to coax a little more power out of the outdated engine. He topped Gooseneck Hill and was rapidly obeying the laws of gravity on the other side when he noticed something. His rearview mirror, with the dreamcatcher hanging from it, was missing. It had been there when they'd stopped the car at the diamond. Dale reached up and touched the broken metal stub that remained. How strange, he thought.

“You must be Dale,” said the cold, emotionless voice from the backseat. Dale was not having a good day. Neither were his pants and underwear at that particular moment.

SEVENTEEN

I
T WAS DIFFICULT to say who was more angry, Tiffany for having her room invaded by her father, or Keith for discovering the hidden progress report. Accurately put, they were two storms in one room, both blowing very hard.

“Why didn't you tell me you were failing?”

“I'm not failing. It's a progress report, not a report card. And why the hell did you go ransacking my room?”

“I wasn't ransacking it. I was looking for batteries. And don't swear! Why didn't you show this to me when you brought it home—” Keith looked at the date. “—ten days ago!?”

“Because I knew you'd flip out. I'm handling it. I can't believe you invaded my privacy.”

“You're not old enough to have privacy. When were you going to show me this?” He waved it in the air.

“When I got better marks. That way you wouldn't have a coronary. Have you done this before? Come snooping around my room?”

“What if I did? What would I find then?”

“What do you care anyway? You can quit pretending, Dad.”

“Pretending what? What are you talking about?”

“You driving Mom away. Wanting to put me in the basement. Breaking into my room. You just don't care about any of us. About me.”

The silence hung in the air. Then, for the first time that evening, Keith spoke to his daughter in a calm, measured voice.

“If I didn't care, I wouldn't be this angry. You're grounded.”

“Grounded!? What am I, a kid?”

“Yes you are. Except a kid would have more sense.”

“Grounded for how long?”

“Till I see some better results. Eat your dinner, then go to your room. I believe you have homework.”

Again, the silence was deafening, until Tiffany turned away, mumbling under her breath, “This sucks.”

That had been two hours ago. Dinner had been a chilly though tasty adventure. Neither Keith nor Tiffany said much. Granny Ruth had tried half-heartedly to start some conversation, including the news about poor Rachel Stoney. But it took at least one other person to maintain such a conversation and neither of the warring parties seemed willing to participate. Instead, only the sound of fried chicken, boiled potatoes, and overcooked green beans being eaten could be heard.

After eating half her meal, Tiffany had excused herself to go work on a school project. Keith lost himself in his evening television shows, those endless reruns of Hollywood sitcoms that he found so funny. Tonight, though, he wasn't laughing. The progress report sat on the coffee table in front of him, where he had thrown it

As expected, Mr. L'Errant was absent, out doing his business, Granny Ruth supposed. So thin and pale, if it was possible for a Native man to have a pallid complexion. Probably growing up in Europe, she thought. She was quite sure that she had heard that it rained a lot over there.

A car was driving by and out of habit she took a quick glance through the window to see who would be coming up their lonely road. It looked like the car that belonged to that Dale and Chucky, up to no good, she assumed. They were going awfully fast and she hoped nobody was walking the roads tonight. She even said a silent prayer for any local animal life that might be crossing the road. God knows those two wouldn't have any sense to care.

In her room, Tiffany debated her options. One was do what her father had told her. That would involve homework, which was an unpleasant thought. The other possibility was more interesting.

“Tony, is that you?” whispered Tiffany. Tiffany had decided that most of today had been a good day, and she shouldn't let the rantings of her father wreck her night. When in doubt, go to Tony.

“No, I'm his father. Who may I say is calling?”

Immediately Tiffany put on her professional voice. “Uh yes, could you please tell him it's Tiffany Hunter. Thank you.” There was a brief silence on the other end.

“One moment.” She could hear the phone being put down and Tony's name being yelled. Tiffany listened intently and could make out a few seconds of hushed conversation before the receiver was picked up.

“Hello,” came the familiar voice.

“Hey, Tony, it's Tiffany. It's Saturday night. Want to do something?”

There was another pause at the other end of the phone. Then, “Tiffany? It's ten o'clock. It's a little late to be making plans, isn't it?”

Keeping her voice low, Tiffany tried to sound enthusiastic and energized. “It's never too late. Come on. I've got to get out of this insane asylum. The night is young. Let's go do something.”

Again, there was a pause. “Uh, yeah, sure. I guess now is as good a time as any. Want me to pick you up at your place then, in half an hour?”

“No, not here. I'm grounded. Pull over near the wood fence down the road from me. I'll meet you there.”

“If you're grounded, how are you going to meet me?” Again logic was daring to interfere with her life. Tiffany would teach it who was in charge around here.

“Leave that to me. I got a few tricks up my sleeve that my father doesn't know about.” She hung up the phone, put on her still-damp Nikes, and grabbed her jacket. For about two years now, Tiffany had been able to remove the screen frame in her window with a little gentle prodding, making a quiet and discreet exit from her room possible. Evidently some of her father's handyman chromosomes had found their way into her DNA after all. It was an eight-foot drop to the ground, causing her to release a very unfeminine grunt when she landed. She would head out by the backyard path and be gone through the garden and into the woods before anybody knew. And hopefully back into her bedroom before anybody knew. She could always do her homework tomorrow. That's what Sundays were for.

From the top of a large pine tree, some distance away, the man watched her leave. He even managed to smile a little. The more things changed, the more things stayed the same. He knew he was observing one of the truest laws of the universe—a need for young people to escape the presence of their parents. Usually clandestinely. What Tiffany was doing had in one way or another been done by the youth of every culture in every part of the world, ever since windows had been invented, and before. He himself had not been immune to its cry.