Ch. 2: "It must have been the wind"

"How are the kids?" asked Peterson upon passing the photographer who was snapping a picture of the wall of the trailer.

"Fine, thanks, 'nother one on the way soon enough," he stated heading inside.

"Good for you," Peterson stated with something akin to regret looking around a place where one child had lost everything save her life. He also regretted not having time for anyone special in his life, not that he had found anyone yet, but he also had a soft spot for children who were not doing so well.

"Do you have any idea of what happened to her? Her name or anything whatsoever?" asked the paramedic as he loaded the young girl into the van on a stretcher. He began to move the blanket about for the most comfort.

"No, hasn't said anything since we found her. Look, whatever happens please take good care of her. "

"I'll give her a nice, gentle ride straight into the hospital and be beside her every step of the way," promised the paramedic with a knowing, gentle smile on his face as he gently fluffed up the pillow and tucked in the blanket.

No sooner had he finished speaking than a strange noise became audible. It was a foreign pulsating sound that rose and fell with strange higher notes that chilled the bones down through the marrow and into the soul. Peterson and the doctor stared out into the desert listening but seeing nothing. Unnoticed by both, the little girl slowly sat up and stared out into the desert with a knowing stricken look upon her face. For about thirty seconds it continued and slowly faded into silence being replaced only by the sound of the wind stirring up. The girl silently lay back down still unnoticed by either man.

"No idea what that was but it definitely was not any kind of sound I have ever heard anywhere." Peterson muttered in a low voice.

"It was probably the wind. It gets really freakish out here in these parts especially to those who are alone." offered the paramedic.

"Yeah," Peterson said only halfheartedly. He did not believe that for one minute; but then again, one's mind did manage to play things on one out here after some time.

He rejoined the fingerprint expert at the print, "Have any idea about this thing Cliff?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Cliff gestured towards the trailer. "Any ideas of what went down here?"

"Nothing that adds up," was the only reply. "Better finish that thing before it's gone, looks like a sandstorms kicking up."

The two officers watched the ambulance leave with the now-orphaned child. Hard to believe that more likely than not the girl had a family the previous night as she went to bed and now she had nothing. "Kid can't be more than five or six years old judging by appearances," Blackburn replied to Peterson's inquiry as to her age. "A real tough break for her. She's the only one left and one has to wonder why. How of all those people that were in that trailer was she not one of the victims?"

"I don't know. Best thing we can do now is get down to Gramps Johnson's store and see if he knows anything," Peterson stated. Blackburn had to agree to that statement, if anyone would know anything about the goings-on it would be him.

Gramps Johnson or "Old-Man" Johnson: those titles summed up a lot, especially if you were a resident to this place or newcomer. A newcomer would not know, but anyone else could tell you that Johnson had been the longest resident in this place possibly ever; maybe not born here, but he had definitely chosen to make this place his home for the rest of his life.

He knew about the weather, the animals, everything native to the region so if anything happened and you asked him he could probably give you information which is what drew people to his shop as much as anything. He was perhaps the oldest living resident left in this place and his wisdom guided many an individual whether passing through or there to stay.

The sun was hidden by the time they arrived by the sand and also it was dark enough to tell that the sun was getting low. They were braced against the wind and braced for almost anything when they pushed open the door; almost anything.

The place was full of agonizing detail that something was truly wrong for the normally clean, and quite pristine shop was anything but. Things were smashed and broken, one of the ceiling lamps swung continuously side-to-side and no sign of Johnson. Blackburn drew his pistol and remained at the ready as the two slowly moved through the wreckage of wood and goods. "Gramps?" No answer. "Gramps?" Peterson had called loud enough that he surely would have been heard no matter where in the shop Gramps was.

A noise became audible over the consistent howling of the sandstorm and it came from the direction back towards and behind the counter where the cash register sat. It was coming from the room where Johnson's personal living-quarters were. Peterson cautiously maneuvered over towards the door and, getting an affirmative nod from Blackburn, reached for the knob, pistol unclipped in holster with hand ready to draw. The room proved sadly empty; devoid of any life save the voice which continued its narrative without skipping a beat. The bed was tucked in cleanly, but the light was still on, the kettle rested on the stove unmoved, and food rested on the table only partially eaten as though Johnson had been interrupted; difficult to tell if it was breakfast or a later meal. The radio continued its tale of current news involving the political climate of some country and new breakthroughs in medicine.

"Beats me," was all Peterson had to offer the equally perplexed, blank-expressioned Blackburn. "Best put in a call Ed…wait."

Something behind the counter in the shadows caught Peterson's eye. Amidst the wreckage protruded something long and straight, yet it looked bent at some grotesque angle partly down its length. Peterson's cloth-covered hand brought into the light the object: a Winchester rifle, Johnson's, bent and broken at an unnatural one hundred and thirty five degrees. It was difficult to hide the stunned look in Peterson's eyes, or the stone-cold dread filling his movement as he placed the ruined weapon on the counter next to the register.

The gun had been amidst a bunch of wreckage that traveled behind the counter to the storage area in the basement beneath the shop. Both men treaded slowly to the half-open entrance and Peterson wrenched open the other half and was stricken numb by what the pendulum-like movements of the closest lamp revealed as it swept past.

"Gramps…" Peterson uttered in a voice numb and devoid of emotion.

"Looks like he was dragged and thrown down there," Blackburn observed shakily of the mangled, broken body of the store owner.

Peterson quickly slammed the half of the door he was holding and quickly followed suit with the other and gave Blackburn a pat on the shoulder to get his attention to what had caught his. Peterson's gaze had been moved to the store's other end by the rattling of timber, and now both men strode towards something all too familiar.

"What do you make of this?" Peterson stated gesturing towards the familiar.

"What did you make of the trailer?" Blackburn stated already aware of the answer.

"Yeah. This wasn't pushed in, it was pulled out. Just like at the trailer."

The wall had been forcibly removed and now a gaping hole, from the top to the bottom, permitted the wind and sand some degree of entrance; along with anyone or anything else. It had been pulled out judging from the wood and then Blackburn spied another thing lying right next to the wall; a couple of barrels that had been broken into revealing grains of sugar on the inside. The senior officer shifted through the contents briefly with his fingers, which had ants roaming around the inside, and then promptly strode over to the register and popped it open before again slamming it shut satisfied with his finding.

"No money was taken here either," he stated simply. "Look, Ed, this is another 9-14 and I'm gonna go put the call in myself for the guys at the trailer to come by here on their way in. I want to be there at the hospital when that girl starts talking about what happened at the trailer."

"I'll stay here until they arrive and then I can ride back in with 'em," Blackburn stated with a hopefully reassuring smile to his partner.

"Okay," Peterson replied with a tired smile at the younger officer. "Stay loose and take it easy."

"Yeah," the younger officer replied with a hint of uncertainty creeping into him as the sergeant left. He turned and headed back to the living quarters as he heard the motor growl to life and fade gradually away. He shut the radio off and his ears were shortly greeted with the same pulsating noise that had occurred hours ago at the car and trailer.

The man briefly considered turning the radio back on but knew nothing was wrong with it. His pistol, previously holstered, now drawn again, was turned toward the door and he turned out the ceiling lamp and faded into the shadows before advancing into the doorway. If it was Johnson's killer come to claim the body they would miss the officer in the dark and thus he searched and found the switch for the rest of the lights in the shop and turned them off.

He stood briefly before moving slowly, one hushed step at a time, towards the hole in the wall where the noise seemed to emanate from. It seemed to briefly get louder as he got closer but it was impossible to tell where the source was save that it was outside. Pistol ready and eyes wide open he walked out into the storm hugging the wall. A minute later, shots rang out and the pulsating noise took on a new tone followed by a scream. Soon the only sound was the wind and the strange pulsating cry.