Storming

Four

THE WOMAN’S FOOTPRINTS led Hitch right up to the two mismatched mailboxes. On the smaller one, Mr. Matthew G. Berringer was painted in square black letters. On the larger one, nail heads formed the words JOHN WILFORD BERRINGER, ESQUIRE.

So those two old buzzards were still at it, tooth and claw, determined to outdo one another or die trying. Some things around here hadn’t changed, at any rate.

He shook his head and knelt to look at the woman’s footprints in the thick dust on the side of the road. A set of much smaller footprints had joined them, then veered off down the road behind Hitch. A child’s?

He looked over his shoulder, squinting against the early morning sunlight.

Sure enough, a kid in overalls—cane pole over one shoulder—was tearing off down the road. Late for his chores, no doubt.

Hitch remembered the feeling well.

He stood up and surveyed the lay of the land.

The Berringer brothers lived only a mile or so away from that big lake, and there wasn’t much in between, so it made sense that one or both of the jumpers would have ended up here. From the looks of the footprints traveling on into the green sway of the hayfield, it seemed the woman was now alone.

After some cajoling, he had talked Rick into dropping him by the lake before Rick and Lilla drove on into town to see the sights. Unless Scottsbluff had changed a whole bunch since Hitch had left, they wouldn’t likely find much to see. But he hadn’t told them that. He needed the ride, and no matter what they saw, Rick would be dissatisfied and Lilla was almost sure to be pleased.

Hitch had located the woman’s footprints from the night before and followed them back to the road. In the daylight, he found his bearings right away. This was where he fished trout and hunted coyotes as a boy. The Berringers had always been willing to let him fish their creek as a bonus for his work. They would hire him for odd jobs whenever his old man gave him time off from the farm work. They paid good—outbidding one another to see who would hire him. And if he said so himself, he was pretty skilled at getting them to keep the bidding going.

Of course, looking back, the question was whether they had known all the time what he was up to.

And now here he was again. The rail fence surrounding Matthew’s hayfield looked different somehow, smaller, even though Hitch had been more than full grown by the time he left home. A wave of something—not exactly homesickness, but a kind of sad queasiness—washed through his stomach. He’d left because he had to, as much as because he’d wanted to, and there wasn’t anything for him here now. He’d known that after Celia had died.

He gripped the dry, splintery wood of the top rail. “Home again.” But not for long. Home, with his feet in the cornfields, was a prison. Flying—that’s where his happiness was.

He climbed the fence and crossed the field.

While he was here, he might as well stop in and say hello. The Berringers had always liked him. In contrast to some other folks in the valley, they might be willing to give him a quick job so he could afford those parts for Earl. And maybe they might have noticed a strange woman wandering through their yards.

On the far side of the field, he climbed another fence and started up Matthew’s drive. J.W.’s drive was right next to it, ten feet away. Their houses sat side by side, across the property line from each other. Matthew’s was a modest clapboard, whitewashed, single-storied, with a roofed-in porch across the front.

J.W.’s was a monstrosity, and he’d built it smack-dab between Matthew and the view of the Wildcat Hills to the south. It looked like something some maharajah had rejected: three stories with two jutting towers and four chimneys. It was close to being the biggest house in the county, even though J.W. lived in it alone. Definitely, it was the most outlandish.

Hitch squinted at the sun. Probably only 7:30 or so, but both Matthew and J.W. might already have left for their respective fields by now. Crazy farmers and their early-bird ways.

Hitch took the three steps to Matthew’s porch in one stride and thumped on the screen door. Nobody answered, so he crossed to the other side of the porch and jumped down. The ground was so dry, the dirt puffed up around his feet. He’d almost forgotten how bad the droughts could be here. Without the irrigation, nothing much would grow in these parts—and even then, it was a struggle whenever the weather refused to cooperate.

Around the back corner of the house, the wash on the line flapped into view. Faded long johns, dungarees, and a voluminous blue gown wafted in the breeze.

He stopped short.

The dress was shiny, sateen or something, with black lace up the front. One side of the skirt hung in charred shreds, and the whole thing was about as rumpled and dirty as you’d expect after having been dragged through a lake.

He scanned the yard.

And just like that: there she was.

She wore a white shirt and a pair of overalls, which she must have pulled off the line before putting the gown in their place. They were Matthew’s, of course, so they were about ten sizes too big for her slim frame. She had rolled the sleeves up past her elbows and the pant cuffs above her bare ankles. She stood at the water barrel beside the house, with her back to him. She had a big knife in one hand and was systematically hacking off her tawny hair.

“Hey,” he said.

She spun around, going into a half crouch, the knife out in front of her. “Zhdi zdes.” A charred wisp of hair floated from the blade to the ground.

“Err… what?”

She shook the knife at him. “I…” Her face wasn’t streaked with grease anymore, and her skin was pale, almost transparent under the morning sun. Her eyes were big and wild—with fear or maybe anger. Either way, she appeared more than ready to use the knife.

He raised his hands, trying to appear peaceable. “Look, it’s okay. No speakum English, I get it.”

“I…” she said, “am… having sorrow.” She tapped the coveralls on her chest. “But… need.”

“Okay, do speakum English.” Or something like it.

She sure didn’t seem likely to be part of a flying crew. So what did that leave? That she’d maybe been thrown out of that plane or whatever it was? That maybe that guy from last night had been shooting his flares at her on purpose—and not at Hitch?

“Look, why don’t you give me that knife? Nobody wants to hurt you, and I’m sure you don’t want to hurt me.” He could hope anyway. “Matthew’ll lend you what you need to wear, but he’s not going to be too happy about losing the knife.” He took a step and held out his hand.

She hissed, sort of like an angry cat, and jumped away. “You—back.”

He walked his fingers across his palm. “I followed your tracks out here, understand? I wanted to make sure you were all right.” And satisfy his own curiosity. Which currently was very far from satisfaction.

Her eyes shifted, and he could almost see the whir of her thoughts as she sifted through translations. “Follow me?” She didn’t sound too impressed by his chivalry. “Kill you I will—you follow me! Plohoi chelovek.” She spat to the side and came back up glaring.

He dropped his arms to his sides. “Listen, sister, I ain’t here to cause you any trouble. You want me to go, then after we explain to Matthew what’s going on, I’ll go. But it looks to me like you need a translator if you’re going to go wandering around these parts.”

She stared.

Not only had his plane nearly been hit by a human being out of nowhere, she was a human being whose nowhere sure as gravy wasn’t from around here. The gibberish she was yabbering wasn’t anything he’d run across in his travels around the country. That ruled out Spanish, French, and probably Chinese.

If he went back to camp with this story, Earl would tie him up in the front cockpit and fly him straight out of here. There had to be a sensible explanation to it. Sensible-ish, anyway.

He opened his mouth. How did you ask someone who didn’t speak English if she’d done something that wasn’t possible?

The fluttering dress caught his eye. He pointed at it. “That. Where’d you get that?”

She shook her head, vehemently.

“Is it yours? Did you find it someplace, same as you did the overalls?” He wiggled his own shirt collar.

She sidestepped, past the wash line, into J.W.’s yard.

“Just tell me if you’re from around here. Maybe I could help you get back to your family.”

She almost seemed to get that one. Her eyes narrowed, as if thinking hard. She gave her head half a shake.

Finally, he just bit the bullet. “Where—do—you—_come_—from? Savvy?”

She straightened, and her hold on the knife eased. With her free hand, she pointed one finger straight up.

Oh, that answer was sure going to make Earl think he was sane. “You’re saying you, what, live in the sky?”

She dipped her chin, once, and then her whole body froze. She whipped her head around, eyes scanning overhead, as if she heard something.

Like enough, it was a diversion. Get him to look too and then find a good hunk of muscle to sink the knife into.

But two could play that game. He lunged at her, caught her knife hand by the wrist, and forced it clear of his own body.

She screamed and struck out at his head with her free hand. She didn’t have much meat on her bones, but she was tall and surprisingly strong. He caught that wrist too, and she started kicking at his shins.

“Ow! Just quit, will you? Drop the knife, and you can go. I’ll even pay Matthew for the clothes. You don’t have to stay to talk to him.”

She shouted words at him, and they didn’t sound too much like endearments. Up close, she smelled like engine grease, lye soap, and lake moss. Her eyes locked on his, and in back of all that fury, he saw fear. She was just a lost girl in a strange place, trying to keep her head above water.

Either that, or she was a foreign spy trained to kill people by kicking them to death.

The ball of her bare foot landed another thwack on his shin, just above his boot.

And then he heard what she’d heard: the buzz of plane engines, lots of them, maybe about five miles out. Had her people come back to pick her up? He risked a glance away from her, toward the sky.

That was when the shooting started.

The first shot smacked into Matthew’s water barrel, and the report of a .22 rifle echoed. “Goldurn it, Matthew Berringer! Didn’t I tell you to stay out of my tomatoes?”

Hitch ducked and yanked the girl down with him, barely keeping the knife away from his ribs. All around them, the red gleam of tomatoes peeked from behind brown-edged leaves. He pushed her backwards, tumbling them both behind a steel water tank.

Still hanging onto her knife-holding hand, he cocked his head back against the tank. “J.W., this is Hitch Hitchcock! It ain’t Matthew, so for the love of Pete, stop your shooting!”

Another shot plinked into the tank and sprinkled water over their heads.

The girl tried to pull her hand away.

Hitch caught it fast in both of his. “Stop it, I tell you!”

“Eh?” J.W. said.

Matthew’s back door slammed, and he came tromping out, shotgun under one arm, pulling up his overalls strap as he came. “Why do you have to go shooting everything up this time of the morning? I told you I locked my chickens in!”

“Maybe not chickens, but there’s sure something in my tomato patch! If them tomatoes are ruined, you’re accountable.”

Overhead, the plane engines thrummed louder.

Hitch leaned sideways, trying to stick his head out enough for Matthew to see him around the wash on the line—but not so far that J.W. could shoot it off. “Matthew—”

The girl released the knife and yanked her wrist free. She jumped to her feet and bolted.

Instinctively, he dove after her. “Wait, you idiot. You want to get shot?” He caught her rolled-up pants cuff and brought her down.

She scrambled back to her feet, and he barely managed to snag her waist. With another one of those non-endearments, she turned on him, both kicking and clawing this time.

He caught first one hand, then the other. “Just wait a minute!”

To either side of him, running footsteps tromped through the tomato patch. Next thing he knew, two gun barrels were pointed at him. Not at them. Just at him.

“Now hold up, sonny,” Matthew said.

J.W. prodded Hitch with the .22. “Let her go. Don’t know what Matthew’s got to say about this, but I won’t have no manhandling of ladies on my property.”

Hitch’s chuckle sounded forced even to him. “Let’s all calm down here, shall we? You remember me? I used to work for you when I was a kid.”

Matthew leaned his head back and surveyed Hitch through the round specs perched low on his nose. He was closing in on seventy, but his face was still smooth and hardly jowly at all.

“Well, bless my suspenders, so you did.” He, at least, lowered his shotgun. “Hitch Hitchcock. Never thought we’d be seeing you again. How long has it been?”

Hitch huffed a sigh. “About nine years, I reckon.”

Matthew glanced at the girl. “And who are you?”

She wasn’t fighting anymore. She stared, first at the guns, then at the sky. The planes were almost overhead now.

“Don’t know who she is,” Hitch said. “But she’s crazy. And she doesn’t speak English.”

J.W. gave him another poke in the ribs. “Let her go anyway.”

The years hadn’t been quite so kind to J.W. The top of his head was almost completely bald and peeling with an old sunburn. He still had his mustache, but it was stone gray now and in need of a trim.

“You heard me right enough,” J.W. said. “I won’t have no manhandling around here.” The way he had of jutting his grizzled chin made him look like a badger on the prod.

“I don’t think letting her go is such a great idea,” Hitch said. “She already tried to stab me.”

“Might be she had good reason, eh?”

Hitch glared. “I didn’t do anything. She came in here, stole Matthew’s clothes, and about scalped me.”

“You’re bigger’n her. Seems to me that evens the odds.”

“Let her go,” Matthew said. He looked at her. “You won’t run, will you, miss?” He reached to tip a hat brim that wasn’t there.

She stared at him, then at J.W., then finally at Hitch. She licked her lips and nodded.

“Fine, but you boys are asking for it.” Hitch released her wrists.

She took off like a whitetail deer—but not toward the knife. In long-legged strides, she hurdled the water tank and bounded into J.W.’s yard.

“Watch the tomatoes!” J.W. shouted.

She reached the house and jumped to catch hold of the ornate porch railing that ran all the way around. Like some kind of squirrel, she hauled herself onto the railing, then shimmied up the support post to the porch roof.

J.W. started running. “What do you think you’re doing? Get off my house, woman!”

Hitch and Matthew followed. By the time they reached the yard, she’d already clambered past the second-story balcony’s roof and was half-running, half-climbing up the steep roof to where the third-story gable joined with the jutting tower.

Hitch stopped beside the house and shaded his eyes. “Get down! You want to kill yourself?”

The planes were shrieking into view now—Jennies most of them, all painted red, white, and blue. Little stars-and-stripes banners flew from their wingtips.

Col. Bonney Livingstone and His Extravagant Flying Circus had arrived—just as audaciously as they had all those years ago in Tennessee when Hitch had first worked for him.

His heart gave an extra pump.

“We have to do something,” Matthew said. “She’ll get hurt up there.”

She didn’t seem to share their concern. Wedging herself between the tower and the chimney, she practically bounced up to the tower window. Another second more and she was on the tower roof. She hung off the lightning rod, one foot braced at its bottom, the other dangling into nothing.

The planes buzzed past—over her head, on either side of her. The pilots waggled their wings and waved. Their turbulence whipped her oversized clothes and her chopped hair. She flung her free hand out to them and laughed. It was a crazy thing to do, but she actually didn’t sound that crazy. More like delighted.

Which made no sense at all if somebody in an airplane had tossed her out last night. If it hadn’t been a plane she’d been tossed out of, then… what did that leave?