Read Footprints of Thunder Online

Authors: James F. David

Footprints of Thunder (5 page)

“Well, we did have a good time after lunch. But we can play cards at home. That has nothing to do with sailing,”

“But we don’t play cards at home. The kids have their friends and TV. You and I have our jobs, and we tend to bring them home with us. When was the last time we played cards? I mean all of us, as a family?”

Carmen was right, Ron admitted. The isolation of offshore sailing had brought them together. Perhaps Rosa would never love sailing, but the experience might help meld the family. That was more important than a sail to Bermuda, Ron told himself. He tried telling himself that again, but still a part of him wanted Bermuda, and it wasn’t looking good. Ron leaned back, looking up into the clear blue sky, and silently hoped nothing else would go wrong.

 

5. Hostages

 

I was awakened this morning by the sound of pounding on my roof. I went to the window to see a most surprising sight. Dried fish were pouring from the sky onto the houses and into the street. When the shower ended the natives collected the fish into baskets. My aide estimated that 3000 to 4000 fish had fallen.


Colonel Witherspoon, India ,1836

Ashland, Oregon

PreQuilt: Saturday, 3:40
P.M.
PST

D
eputy Sheriff Robin Kyle was parked with his feet stretched out on the front seat of his patrol car. He wasn’t asleep but was only about one level of consciousness away, his eyes partially open, semialert for criminal activity. Of course much criminal activity—or even traffic—would be rare on this particular dirt road. That was why Kyle had picked this patrol. He had no intention of ruining a beautiful fall day by actually catching a criminal. He wasn’t lazy, exactly, it was just that relaxation came naturally to him, and since there was very little real crime in Jackson county, he believed he was making best use of his time.

Occasional calls and assignments could be heard over his radio speaker, but he had turned the radio down low enough so it didn’t distract him. A horse clip-clopped past his cruiser, ridden by a teenage girl. Kyle alternated between watching the rider’s and horse’s rears wiggle rhythmically. He picked up his radar gun and aimed it at the retreating behinds. Too bad, he thought, they’re within the legal limit. He was still watching the behinds when he heard his unit number. He ignored it the first time but reluctantly answered it after the second call.

“Sorry to bother you while you’re so busy, Kyle,” Karon, the dispatcher said, as if she knew what he was doing. “But we got a call that only you can answer. Seems they’ve got a hostage situation in the Oregon Caves.”

Kyle pounded the side of his head like something was stuck in his ear.

“You said in the Oregon Caves? What kind of hostage situation, Karon?”

“The usual kind, Kyle! Someone with a gun is holding a dozen people hostage down in the caves. Says he won’t kill them as long as no one interferes.”

Kyle was trying to understand why someone had selected a cave to take hostages in. Certainly it would be a difficult place to assault, and guns would be almost useless. Any wayward shot would ricochet wildly, killing indiscriminately. Still it wasn’t like hijacking a jet. A jet could take you somewhere. Even a bus could do that, but not a cave. And this particular cave was in the middle of nowhere.

“That’s mighty peculiar, Karon,” Kyle cut in. “Someone selecting a cave to hold hostages in! I got a dollar says he wants free transportation to a worker’s paradise somewhere. Have there been any demands?”

“Negative, Kyle. You ready for the strange part? The guy with the gun says he’s saving the people in the cave. Says he doesn’t want to be alone after it happens.”

“After what happens?”

“After the world ends.”

“What do they want me for?”

“They’re looking for officers with cave experience. They heard about your rescue training.”

Kyle winced at the mention of that. He had taken the special training as an excuse to take two weeks off, drink beer with some friends of his, and get a little extra in the paycheck each month. In the two years since the training he had helped recover one dead body from a plane wreck, and helped pull a hiker with a broken leg up a twenty-five-foot slope. Kyle wanted to tell Karon that his training was for rescuing people who want to be rescued, not for going in after some self-destructive nut. Kyle didn’t seem to have a choice, however.

“Okay, Karon, tell them I’ll pick up some gear and head on over, but it’ll take a couple of hours.” Kyle was hoping the situation would be resolved long before he could get involved.

“They know that, Kyle, they said there was no hurry. The guy in the cave isn’t going anywhere.”

 

6. Kid With A Gun

 

Not one will get away, none will escape. Though they dig down to the depths of the grave from there my hand will take them.


Amos, 9:12

Oregon Caves

PreQuilt: Saturday, 3:42
P.M.
PST

E
llen and Terry were sitting down, using each other as backrests. Most of the others in the cave were either lying down or leaning against the cave walls. The initial panic the group experienced had died down. Nothing had happened since the kid had scared off the next tour group, pointing his gun at the members entering the cave as he told them to “get out and stay out.” The kid made no demands or political statements, but it was clear he wasn’t going to let anyone go either. Occasionally his sister would plead or try to reason with him, but each time she was rebuffed. Finally she gave up and sat in silence with the rest of the hostages.

Terry was mentally reviewing what he knew about hostage situations. If they remained captive long enough, and if the conditions were harsh, some would come to sympathize with the hostage-takers. Persistent anxiety, with no control over the situation, causes one to identify with the source of the anxiety, in this case the kid with the gun. Terry remembered one case where hostages were held in a bank vault for three days. The police turned off the air-conditioning, poisoned the food, and provided minimal water while the gang holding the hostages sexually abused the women. Yet, when finally released, many of the hostages expressed concern about what would happen to their captors.

The two boys were throwing rocks in the back of the cave. Terry turned to look at them and noticed something peculiar. The military man was no longer toward the back of the group, but in the middle. The kid was sitting with his knees up to his chest, and staring straight ahead. The gun was still in his hand, although it was pointed toward the ground. Terry pulled his own head to his knees, put his arms on top, and then lay his head down sideways so he could watch the military man.

It took a long time, but Terry could see what was happening. Every once in a while the military man would stretch a leg, or an arm, or arch his back and yawn. And every time his leg came back down, or he finished stretching, he would be an inch or two closer to the front. Terry watched him move an arm and rock sideways. A few minutes later he stretched the other arm and rocked back the other way. He was now two inches closer. It was like watching a clock. It took patience, but if you stared long enough you could see the minute hand move.

The military man’s moves rekindled Terry’s sharp fears; waves of panic swept htm. What if the kid noticed? What if the military man did something? What if he did something that made the kid punish the group? On the other hand, Terry didn’t know enough about the kid’s condition to be certain that he wasn’t a danger.

Terry had once worked with a paranoid schizophrenic named Larry who was high functioning. He lived in his own apartment, held down a laborer’s job, and took good care of a white Persian cat named Katrina. If it hadn’t been for his persistent claims that a group of telepathic Masons were trying to kill him, Terry would not have been treating Larry. Then one day a salesman wearing a Mason’s pin came to Larry’s door. Larry shot the salesman in the chest, later claiming self-defense. Larry ended up in the state mental hospital and Katrina in the animal shelter. Could this kid be another Larry? Did Terry want the military man betting all of their lives that he wouldn’t be another Larry?

Terry gently pushed Ellen into a sitting position, and then cleared his throat.

“What is your name?” he said weakly. Then, in a stronger voice, he repeated himself. “It’s Kenny, isn’t it?”

The kid raised his head, his eyes glassy. Slowly his head turned in Terry’s direction. Terry noticed the gun followed his stare. Even when Kenny was finally facing Terry, he wasn’t sure the kid was seeing him.

“I said no talking.”

The kid said it without conviction. Terry assumed he was as bored as the rest of them, and probably more scared.

“It’s Kenny,” his sister answered for him. “Kenny Randall, the nut case.”

Kenny glared at his sister, but the gun remained pointed at Terry.

“I’m Terry, Kenny, and this is my wife, Ellen.” Terry thought about telling Kenny he was a psychologist. Sometimes troubled people found that reassuring. On the other hand, many people who have had institutional experiences harbor hostility toward psychologists. Terry decided it was too soon to mention his profession.

“Kenny, Ellen and I are scared, and I bet you are too. Are you scared, Kenny?”

Kenny’s eyes were still unfocused, but he seemed to be taking the whole group in. Terry wondered if he was monitoring the progress of the military man.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What don’t you want to talk about, Kenny?”

“About what is going to happen.”

“Kenny, I want to understand this. What is going to happen?”

Kenny’s eyes finally focused on Terry. His direct stare, gun in his hand, twisted Terry’s stomach into a knot.

“I already told you. The world is going to end.”

“How, Kenny? How will the world end?”

“You don’t believe me. No one believes me. I tried to tell people but no one would listen. No one would believe me when I told them. I even tried to show them, but they wouldn’t see it.” Then with bitterness in his voice, and a nod toward his sister, he added, “Even my own family wouldn’t believe me.”

Terry had worked with a number of paranoid patients before and Kenny seemed to have the symptoms. Kenny believed he had secret knowledge, something he had discovered and something only he could understand. If Kenny was paranoid then he was potentially dangerous.

“Kenny, you haven’t told me about it yet. I promise you I will try to understand.”

“I told you, he thinks the sky is falling,” Kenny’s sister said. Kenny’s eyes flamed and his face reddened. “You never really listened to me, did you, Jill? I never said the sky was falling. I said things were falling from the sky. There’s a difference, a big difference. I have the proof too, but you wouldn’t look at it, would you?”

Terry saw Kenny’s anger was welling up and worried it might drive Kenny to lash out—-maybe with the gun. Terry decided to try again to deflect Kenny’s attention from his sister. He could see Kenny loved her, but her comments were provoking Kenny’s anger.

“Kenny, I really would like to hear your story—theory.” Kenny sat silently, breathing deeply and staring at Terry. Terry, afraid that murder was going through the kid’s mind, was relieved when Kenny finally spoke.

“All right, smart man. Can you understand why corn falls from a clear blue sky? Can you understand why people suddenly burst into flame? Can you understand how whole civilizations simply disappear? At first we couldn’t either. But then we found someone else who had seen it, someone a long time ago. Everyone thought he was crazy too. He understood it, and so did we finally. We proved it just as scientists should. We had the data, the theory, and the evidence, and still no one believed us.”

Kenny looked lost in thought for a minute, a pained expression on his face. Then Kenny’s expression changed to profound sadness, and he spoke again.

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