David Morrell - The Shimmer

“A few Indians worked on his ranch. He figured it was safer to keep them close than have them fight him,” Harriett said. “He’d never been in that area after dark, but it was a good bet the Indians would know if any strange lights had ever been seen over there. To his surprise, they told him there’d always been lights in that direction. Their fathers and grandfathers had talked about them. The lights were the spirits of their ancestors, they believed.”

“Superstition’s even less convincing than temperature inversions,” Tori said. “Anyway, I don’t want to have the lights explained. I don’t want somebody to take away how special they are by telling me they’re just ball lightning or ghosts.”

“That’s the way most everyone here in town feels about them, too,” Harriett replied. “When my late husband and I first came here in 1970, we were hippies in an old station wagon that was basically our home. We happened to hear about the lights, so we drove out to where the viewing area is now. We opened the back hatch, sat on our sleeping bags, smoked dope, and ate dry cornflakes. I still don’t know if we actually saw the lights or if the dope made us believe we did.

“But the next night, we watched them without being stoned, and the night after that, too, and, well, we never left. Rostov wasn’t much back then, but we managed to find jobs, and we didn’t need a lot of money to live. Basically, being able to see the lights whenever we wanted seemed reward enough. After a while, we didn’t even need to go out there. Somehow we managed to feel that the lights were out there without actually seeing them.

“Every couple of months, though, we’d want to see them again, the way people feel the need to go to church. A lot of people in Rostov are like my husband and me. They intended to pass through, but the lights kept them here.”

“Or called them back,” Tori said with a hushed tone.

“Most people don’t see the lights at all, of course, let alone react the way I described,” Harriett said. “But many of the people who live here were fortunate enough to have the same experience, and we long ago stopped trying to explain it. The only thing that matters is, the lights make us feel… I guess the word is ‘blessed.’”

“Things weren’t so blessed last night,” Page replied.

The press conference was finished by the time they left the antiques store and glanced up toward the courthouse. The sun was lower, casting the deserted street in a deeper orange.

Page looked at Tori.

“I need to get my rental car from up there,” he said. “Do you want to follow me back to the motel?”

Tori didn’t answer right away. “Sure.”

But as Page drove to the motel, he glanced in his rearview mirror and there wasn’t any sign of Tori’s blue Saturn among the traffic that was heading out of town toward the observation platform. He parked in front of unit 11, got out, and waited. Glancing up, he noticed that there were clouds gathering for the first time since he’d been in Rostov.

Fifteen minutes passed and he still didn’t see any sign of her, so he finally took his suitcase from the trunk and moved toward the door.

The gangly motel clerk came from the office and hurried toward him. Page remembered his name.

“Something wrong, Jake?”

“There’ve been reporters looking for you.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them we’re staying here.”

“Captain Medrano said not to. But somehow the reporters found out the woman at the shooting has red hair, and your wife is the only redhead at the motel. I thought I’d better warn you.”

“Thanks.”

“It was weird.”

“Lately everything’s been weird,” Page said. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”

“The reporter who’s most determined to find you is the television guy from El Paso. You saw him on the TV in the lobby the last time we talked.”

Page thought a moment. “Movie-star jaw. Rumpled suit. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple of days.”

“That’s the guy. He was the first reporter to come to town. He’s figured out a lot of angles on the story-so many that the other re- porters have just been following his lead. I was in the office, watching him on TV. Then the door opened, and I looked over, and by God, there he was, walking toward me. I guess some of what I figured is ‘live’ must be on tape. Seeing him in two places at the same time felt unreal. Be careful of him. You want your privacy, but the look in his eyes told me he’d do anything to put your wife in front of a camera and make her describe how she shot that guy.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Page said. Before he could say anything more, a phone rang in the office.

“Gotta get back to work.” The gangly clerk ran toward the door.

As it banged shut, Page took another look toward the road, hoping their conversation might have given Tori time to catch up. But there was no sign of the Saturn. More clouds had gathered, filling the sky. His side ached when he carried his suitcase into the room.

If things had been different, it would have felt good to shave and shower, to get the smell of the smoke and the violence off him, but all Page thought was that he could bear anything-even what had happened the previous night-if only Tori had followed him to the motel as she’d said she would. If only she hadn’t left him again.

If only she didn’t have cancer.

The bruise where he’d been kicked was larger than he’d expected, dark purple ringed with orange. Trying to ignore it, he put on a fresh pair of jeans and another denim shirt. Kind of predictable, pal. He took the 9-millimeter pistol out of his suitcase, removed the magazine, made sure it was full, and checked to make sure there was a round in the firing chamber. You examined it before you left the house yesterday, he thought, aware that people whose occupation involved carrying a gun tended to display obsessive-compulsive behavior.

Or maybe he just needed to narrow his thoughts.

The gun was a Sig Sauer 225. It held eight rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Not a lot of firepower compared to pistols with double-stacked magazines, but the 225’s virtue was its compact size. He considered it an ideal concealed-carry pistol. The company didn’t make them any longer, and this particular gun had belonged to his father.

He holstered it on his belt, put on a windbreaker to conceal it, grabbed a baseball cap from his suitcase, and opened the door, ready to go looking for Tori, although he knew where he’d find her: the viewing area.

About to get into his car, he heard tires crunching on gravel and looked toward the road, surprised to see the blue Saturn coming through the parking lot toward him. Tori’s red hair was vivid through the windshield. When she stopped in front of unit 11, his knees felt weak.

“I figured you’d left me behind,” he said through the open window.

She showed him a paper bag. “I got this for you.”

Page almost frowned in confusion before he smelled the food.

“You said you hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I hope a burger and fries work for you. Anything else would have taken too long.”

“They’re perfect.” Emotion made his knees more unsteady. “Thanks.”

“You need to keep up your energy. This’ll be another long night.”

“Thanks. Really. I mean it.”

“Get in,” she said impatiently.

He did so, and pulled off the baseball cap.

“Better put this on. Reporters are looking for a woman with red hair.”

She nodded and took it.

As she drove, Page bit into the hamburger and recalled uneasily that this was what he and Chief Costigan had eaten the evening before.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.