The Night The Devil Rode Free

By Lou Mehok

Tormented by years of drug abuse and the horrific memories of war, a displaced Vietnam Veteran attempts to get his life back on track.  He's successfully kicked his drug addiction and scared away most of his other demons. Now, all he wants to do is get back home to the love of his life, who has been faithfully waiting for him, and start a new life with her.  But his journey will be anything but easy.  Along the way, he stumbles upon a crime spree committed by two ruthless men and now they want to hill him!  Will Bart Windust ever make it home to Windsor and the girl he loves?  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Jan 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781634137485

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

Roaring down the highway, the glaring headlights of the farmer’s cattle truck flashed on the rain splattered road sign at the edge of town and reflected back the word: PEACEFUL. Wild, splashing rain peppered the sign and slid off like melted butter. It distorted the black letters into drunken fuzzy lines that took only a blink to read it, and another blink to drive through the whole town.

Peaceful’s dark streets at 12:30 in the morning were laid out like a corpse in a mortuary. Not a living soul was out. It was a dead town and the streets were all pulled in for the night. Lying quietly back off the main stream of traffic, Rest in Peace was an epitaph more appropriate for this town as it lay in wake of a big autumn storm blowing over the Allegheny Mountains.

The rain beat a loud, steady drumming noise on the cab roof of the truck. Suddenly, the truck’s brakes slammed on, sending the sliding hissing wheels skidding over the wet black macadam. The truck shuttered and trembled over the road, slowing down and abruptly it swerved off the road and bounced to a halt on the gravel near a leaning, metal RFD mailbox.

The sudden squealing noise destroyed the illusion of tranquility conveyed by the sign, and the absence of people in the dark dreary streets indicated to the two men sitting silently in the truck cab that everybody in town was tucked in for the night, totally dead to the world, comfortably wrapped up under a blanket of rural serenity, oblivious to the coming siege of rain.

Helluva night out, ain’t it? the tobacco chewing driver nodded solemnly toward the rain splattered windshield, squinting intently at the raging storm outside. I hate to leave ya out here like this, but this is where I turn off, he apologized, sorrow deepening the wrinkles in his face.

His lop-sided jaw, packed with tobacco, swelled out like an abscessed tooth. He grinded up a mouthful of spit, cranked down the window, and sprayed a big glob of brown juice outside. He ducked away from the spray blowing in and quickly rolled up the window. The wind splashed water against the thin blue jacket he wore.

He blew on his cold fingertips. He removed his cap and scratched vigorously at his long, grey shaggy hair, then jauntily he cocked the brown, ear-flapped hunting cap over his wide forehead, furrowed now in a deep frown.

I hope you have some luck hitch hiking another ride frommeer, he said, directing his conversation to the hitchhiker slouched over against the door. The hitchhiker looked like a bundle of wet rags casually tossed aside in the corner, having about as much spirit left in him as an empty fifth of whiskey thrown in a junk pile. Drops of rain dripped slowly like dirty tears down from his black matted hair, down over a pleasant, young face darkened by bearded stubble that a razor hadn’t touched in two days, obscuring his twenty-two years with antiquity far beyond his totaled summers.

The driver noticed, in the dim darkness of the cab’s dash light, black stenciled letters that spelled out the hitchhiker’s name above the pocket of the his green army field jacket: BARTON WINDUST. His face was visibly tired and etched with weariness as he eyed the yellow metal road sign on the corner that read: SHELTER AREA – 1 MILE.

Windust squinted his eyes, barely able to read the black letters blurred by the falling rain. He heard the hushed voice of the farmer droning on in the closed tightness of the truck cab. The fetid smell of cow manure, motor oil, and sweat mingled in with the hot air blowing in from the heater. Half-heartedly he listened to the farmer’s voice, but in the back of his mind he was thinking and planning his next move. He decided that if in the next fifteen or twenty minutes no car came while he was in town, he would head for the shelter up the road and stay there for the night, then, in the morning, he would try to hitch hike a ride over the mountain to his hometown in Windsor. He had to get there before the real estate office closed tomorrow evening to finalize the deal on the restaurant business he and his girlfriend were buying. They needed two hundred dollars more for the down payment. If they didn’t have it together and ready, the real estate agent would sell the business to another party who was eager to buy it.

His girlfriend, Deidree Reade, was his high school sweetheart. Twenty years of age, a pretty, black haired beauty who’s flashing dark eyes had the look of a dancing gypsy. She was the same girl he loved since their days of puppy love in grade school. It had blossomed into maturity as they grew older.

He recalled how she had helped him through a sorrowful time, shortly after his graduation from high school when he had lost both parents in a period of two months within the same year.

He remembered how she had come to his side, consoling him in his grief, pulling him back from the edge of despair over the loss he suffered. She had encouraged him with her love and devotion to face the emptiness he felt in his bereavement.

She was a supportive crutch to him. She was a cool, level-headed woman who had come to grips with his unimagined failings and the confidence he had lost in himself. She was always there, always trying to help him when he was down and out, like when he was in Frisco, just released from Alcoholics Anonymous for his drinking problem. She had sent him a letter with money to get him out of debt so he could come home.

He had some pressing bills that had accumulated during his drinking period that forced him to use most of the money to pay them off. With the little he had left over, he used on the road, hitchhiking home.

Hungry and broke, he made it as far as Chicago. He stayed there for a few months, working as a cook to save up a stake so he would have enough money to use on the trip home.

While living at the YMCA in Chicago, another letter caught up with him from Deidree, telling him about the business opportunity available in Windsor and what a good deal it was. Since she knew he always wanted to have his own restaurant, she wrote that now was the perfect time to buy it. In the letter she had also written that this was an opportunity Windust couldn’t afford to let go down the drain like all the other opportunities he had wasted with his drinking and drugs. He could put the Mai Lai incident and his physical and mental suffering behind him with this one big break. It was a chance to get him together again and she urged him to take it.

Windust felt he had to give it a try. He had the down payment money all saved up and wrapped around his waist in a money belt, and if everything worked out alright, by tomorrow he would be with his girlfriend and finally home.

This was earlier, when the farmer had picked him up.

My home’s just down the road frommeer, the farmer’s bearded face jutted out towards the secondary road that cut a black swathe across the highway. I’ve lived here all my life, he explained, his voice rose above the howling wind as he waited for Windust to gather up his gear. It’s funny, this town never changes, he gazed sadly out at the rain. He chewed up another mouthful of tobacco juice and rapidly cranked down the rain speckled window, spatting the glob out the window. The wind gusted and sprayed tobacco juice onto his grey bearded face that needed a shave about as bad as the hitchhiker’s. He caressed the stubble slowly, musing almost to himself. You know, I find myself missing this town every time I leave here. Not only my family or my farm…this town… he jabbed at the steering wheel for emphasis. …and I ask myself…why? It isn’t much…just a couple thousand people and there’s not much work around here anymore. But…why? he flicked a look over to Windust.

I’m like that, too, with the place I was born, Windust replied. There are things we always remember, like our childhood home…and other places that gave us comfort, Windust answered watching the clacking wipers making cone shaped arches over the windshield. Thinking of the small coal mining town where he had grown up as a boy, his youthful, halcyon days of carefree play, wiped away by the adult years of responsibility that suddenly came with the Vietnam war that thrusted upon him bitter memories he wished he could wash away just by standing in the rain.

Lightening flashed white over the buildings outside and briefly lit up the wrinkled face of the farmer next to him.

I guess everybody does… the farmer said. People born here, I mean. And roots around here, besides farming, go deep with the people, he answered himself; his head rotated in a panoramic view of the town. A gnarled hand shot out and he gestured toward the rain blurred window.

See that old red brick building over there on the corner? Over here on my side, and that field stone Baptist Church next to it? It’s hard to see in this rain, I know, but it’s across the street over there where the waters collecting by that stopped up sewer drain…well my father and grandfather built those buildings and most of the houses going up on both sides of the street that lead out of town, he said proudly, looking over at Windust to see if he was listening. He leaned over and nudged him slightly. You see over there on your side that white house on the corner where the porch light’s burning? Right next to that faded old Chevy parked at the curb, he paused, caught his breath and continued. Well, I helped build that place and the poolroom next to it. I poured all the concrete for the diner over there on the other corner, too, and damn near built it all by myself in my spare time, he paused and spat out the window again. Then he rolled up the window, shutting out the noise of the rain. That gas station across the road over there… he pointed, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, …the Esso Company built that…they had their own laborers then…but…the rest of this town, I’m proud to say I helped build. Along with my father and grandfather, and like I said…it ain’t much…but, it’s home here.

You’re right, Windust nodded. He knew the feeling. He knew he would feel a lot better, too, like the farmer, once he got home.

Getting himself together would be the main thing and his girlfriend’s letter that he got at the YMCA in Chicago couldn’t have come at a better time than now, when he needed it the most. She was always good for a spiritual up-lift when he was down on himself. Her encouraging letter made a big difference and his future looked a little brighter than it had in a long time.

Well, I want to thank you for the ride, Windust said, grabbing up his backpack from the floor of the truck. It was a helluva lot of help to me.

Don’t mention it, the farmer’s hand waved aside the benevolent gesture. Glad to help ya.

No, you did more than you think.

Windust’s wet, soaked pants screeched on the leather as he slid over to the door.

I’d like to think you’ll be lucky and get a ride out of town this late, the farmer said, checking the rearview mirror, preparing to pull out. Cars don’t often come this way this late at night.

That’s alright, Windust replied towards the man’s reflection in the mirror.

Boy, it’s a helluva night out to be hitchhiking, the farmer nodded out at the storm. The lightening cracked a dazzling flash that lit up his face and the interior of the truck with a bright white explosion of light. A loud clap of thunder followed and rumbled over the silver painted water tower behind the gas station and rolled across the black sky, fading in the distance towards the mountains beyond.

Worst storm I’ve seen ‘round here in November in a helluva long time, the farmer said. You’d expect it during the summer.

I’ve been in some bad storms over in Nam. They got the monsoons over there.

The helluva thing is dat tomorrow it’s calling for some probable snow on top of this rain. You can’t tell tho…

Windust stared ahead. Clutching the door handle he hesitated, not wanting to leave the warmth of the truck; hating to go back out into the rain again. Wishing the ride had been a little closer to home, and deep down he hoped the farmer was wrong about the snow.

How long were you in this damn shit before I picked you up? the farmer asked.

CHAPTER ONE

About an hour ago, Windust was standing alone in the rain at the Pennsylvania Turnpike Interchange in Bedford when the farmer’s rattling cattle truck swung off the exit ramp. He was at the lowest depths of his confidence about getting a ride home when the kind-hearted farmer pulled over and offered him a lift. Without hesitation, he accepted and quickly climbed up inside.

Where you headin? the driver asked as Windust settled in.

Up over the mountain, Windust mumbled, slamming the door. He threw his backpack down between his knees onto the truck floor covered with hayseeds and wispy bits of straw. His wet, black army boots crunched down on empty Styrofoam coffee cups strewn on the floor. He kicked aside the car jack and some smelly oil cans to make room for his long legs. Moldy straw and gas fumes wafted back off the humming motor pinched up his nostrils and he felt the truck trembling at the strain of waiting under the driver’s hands.

Just kick that junk outta da way, the driver said, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. Ain’t gonna hurt nuttin.

Thanks for stopping, Windust wiped his face with a handkerchief he yanked from his back pocket. How far up the road you going?

I’m goin’ as far as Peaceful, the driver roughly shifted gears and carefully guided the truck back out onto the highway.Good enough for me, Windust nodded, leaning back in the leather seat, getting comfortable.

You traveling far?

The truck settled back onto the highway.

Yeah…I did, Windust answered hesitantly, not wanting to be unsociable. I first started out in California. I got my Army medical discharge out there. Then, as an afterthought, he further explained, I’m from PA originally, from up around Windsor. No work there so I went to California and worked out there in a restaurant, and at nights I went to a gourmet cooking school and was doing pretty good until I got drafted. So I just enlisted, thinking I’d get my choice of theater. But, after my basic training was over, I got sent to Nam anyway.

That’s the Army for you…

Well, anyway, I bummed around in California for a while after my discharge, working here and there, screwing around, you know…then I decided to head back home.

Was it bad in Viet Nam?

For me, it was, Windust said, his mind deep in thought as he stared out the side view mirror, watching the white line on the highway disappear in the dark behind the truck, disappearing into the dark recesses of his memory to another time and place; to a place of flames, death, and degradation that he tried so many times to erase from his memory. Some guys had it made, he continued, reluctantly remembering. "I was in a line company in the Infantry when I got hit in the leg on a Search and Destroy mission. I got sent to a hospital