Welcome to Windmill: Book One of Windmill, Indiana

By Daniel Cross

Pick a card. Any card.

With this trademark phrase, along with a wink, a winning grin and a handful of entertaining card tricks, Mr. Mercury Ecks has come to town. Windmill, Indiana, to be exact. And while the citizens of this 1950s Midwest farm town are naturally wary of strangers, they soon fall prey to the drifters principal charm.

For Mr. Ecks knows things . . . Things about the people in town: Things that can help them: Help solve their problems. Relieve their fears. Remove their obstacles. And all he asks in return for sharing what he knows is a fee, a small fee. Or so at seems at first.

But the small fee turns out to be much larger. Too late do the towns citizens learn Mr. Ecks secret purpose: The destruction of lives. The destruction of communities. The destruction of Windmill itself.

For Laura Connerson, newly returned to Windmill, Mr. Ecks gift of mind-reading is especially tempting: Her young daughter has recently gone missing, and the stranger seems to know something about it. Or more specifically, seems to know something hidden in Lauras mind about it: Some bit of evidence, lost in the depths of her memory. A memory, a clue, waiting to be retrieved by him. For a price.

The grinning, prancing drifter offers to help Laura probe her memory for the clue to her daughters disappearance. But what he asks in exchange for his service is more than she is willing to pay. Unless she can beat him at his own evil mind games . . .

I am going to penetrate you, Laura. First your mind. Then the rest of you.

Welcome to Windmill is the first book in a series about quaint but luckless Windmill, Indiana: A town that misfortune seems to favor, but whose citizens nevertheless manage to survive, and even thrive.

Three years after Mr. Mercury Ecks disastrous visit, another stranger, Nathan Devlin, arrives with an old chest full of curious objects for sale . . . Curious and, some would say, magical. But once purchased, these seemingly-innocent curios begin to work more than magic on the good citizens of the town . . . And trinkets that seem quaint at first turn dangerous. What is behind their power? And why has this stranger brought them? In Rabbits Foot, a mans bitterness and confusion over an old heartbreak wreaks new havoc on Windmill . . . Until an ordinary rabbits foot reveals the truth of Nathans lost love Julia . . . And leads the two aged lovers to each other for a final reconciliation.

Yet three years later, another stranger, Norma Swann by name, sets up shop in Windmill: A tea shop, to be exact, called Sweet Dreams. The citizens of Windmill, by now weary of strangers bearing strange gifts, try to avoid her shop with its tempting assortment of tea, cookies, candles, and bright knickknacks. Norma, however, will not be ignored: She has a special Gift, and she plans to share it. For Norma can send dreams to you in your sleep. Be nice to her, buy her tea, chat with her, and you will get good dreams, happy dreams, sweet dreams. But if you should happen to offend her . . . Well, prepare to be driven sleeplessly, horribly mad.

Read all about Mercury, Nathan, Norma and the people of
Windmill, Indiana
Where bad things happen to a good town.


Write to the author at [e-mail]

Cover photograph by Judy Butz. Cover design by Bill Ferguson, Judy Butz and Anne Shepherd.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450230735

Daniel Cross

Daniel Cross is the pen name of J. V. Shepherd, an author living in Indianapolis with his wife Anne. Among Daniel Cross's novels: A detective trilogy, Lou Baltimore, P. I. A. set in Indianapolis. The first book of the series, Falling Objects, appeared in 2009. The following novels, Blues for Lefty and Tea for Three, are in manuscript and are scheduled to be published in 2019 and 2020. A suspense trilogy with elements of fantasy, Windmill, Indiana. The first book, Welcome to Windmill, appeared in 2010, followed by Rabbit's Foot in 2016. The third book, Sweet Dreams, is in manuscript and is scheduled to be published in 2021. A trilogy of story-novels titled The Cooper Trilogy. The first book, Coopers Hollow, appeared in 2011. Its main story continues though a sequel, Coopers Crossing, to appear in early 2019. A third-and-final volume, Coopers Valley, is in planning. All three books offer a continuing story of mystery and revenge incorporating shorter related stories, all with a "Twilight Zone" taste. All Daniel Cross books are set in Indiana.

Book preview

Welcome to

Windmill

BOOK ONE OF WINDMILL, INDIANA

DANIEL CROSS

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Copyright © 2010 by J. V. Shepherd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-3072-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-3073-5 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 05/25/2010

Contents

1.

June 12, 1928

A field outside Falcon, Pennsylvania

2.

June 12, 1928

A field outside Falcon, Pennsylvania

3.

June 13, 1928

A hospital outside Ludlow, Pennsylvania

4.

Wednesday afternoon, August 20, 1952

Windmill, Indiana

5.

June 14, 1928

A diner in Ludlow, Pennsylvania

6.

Wednesday night

Windmill, Indiana

7.

Thursday morning

Windmill, Indiana

8.

June 14, 1928

Westbound from Ludlow, Pennsylvania

9.

Thursday morning

10.

Thursday afternoon

11.

July 11, 1941

New Amsterdam, Ohio

12.

Thursday afternoon

13.

Thursday afternoon

14.

Thursday afternoon

15.

Thursday evening

16.

Thursday night

17.

Friday morning

18.

Friday afternoon

19.

Friday late afternoon

20.

Friday evening

21.

Friday night

22.

Friday midnight

23.

Saturday morning

24.

Saturday midmorning

25.

Saturday early afternoon

26.

Saturday afternoon

27.

Saturday noon

28.

Saturday noon

29.

Saturday early afternoon

30.

Saturday early afternoon

31.

Saturday early afternoon

32.

Saturday midafternoon

33.

Saturday midafternoon

34.

Saturday late afternoon

35.

Saturday evening

36.

Early Sunday morning

37.

Sunday evening

38.

Sunday night

39.

Monday morning

40.

Monday noon

41.

Tuesday morning

42.

Tuesday afternoon

43.

Tuesday night

44.

Tuesday night

45.

Tuesday night

Epilogue

Other Windmill, Indiana

novels by Daniel Cross

Rabbit’s Foot

Sweet Dreams

Woman in the Rain

Principal Characters of Welcome to Windmill

Mercury Ecks, drifter

Laura Connerson, homemaker

Tony Glass, sheriff

Sarah Glass, homemaker

Martel Wall, high school student

Ginger Yardley, high school student

Eddie McCoy, high school student

Kenny Ackerman, high school student

Raymond Lutz, real estate dealer

Flora Lutz, homemaker

Henry Lutz, real estate dealer

Eugene Van Dyke, grade school student

Mac Steinmetz, grade school student

Venus Ecks, Mercury Ecks’ sister

Mars Ecks, Venus Ecks’ son

1. 

June 12, 1928

A field outside Falcon, Pennsylvania 

The lightning struck suddenly, without warning or mercy. The huge oak sheltering them from the pounding rain cracked from the bolt. Above them, the boy saw the electricity dance through the branches, heard the sap hiss to explosion, smelled the wood cooking, felt the steam burst from the trunk like a dragon’s breath.

The wood exploded into flame, hissing in the rain. The mighty trunk clove in half with a groan like a train wreck. Then it began to topple above them, while the flames sprang from limb to limb and the thunder rolled across the pasture.

To the bridge! Run!

Twenty-four years later

Wednesday morning, August 20, 1952

Windmill, Indiana

Laura Connerson

Pick a card. Any card.

In her doorway Laura Connerson beheld a man in a pale yellow shirt and rakish tie, clad in a shapeless, vaguely green sport jacket and faded denims. A straw hat angled itself on his head. Cheap sunglasses glinted in the morning sun. Over his right ear a lighted cigarette perched. In his outthrust hand was a fan of playing cards, face down.

I beg your pardon?

I said pick a card. Any card.

What’s this all about? Who—?

Mercury’s the name, ma’am, just like the planet. Mercury Ecks. Pick a card.

But whatever for?

Why, just for fun. You pick a card, and I’ll give you a little tip.

Tip?

He nodded and smiled, showing a row of small, even white teeth.

Laura spoke into the receiver of the phone she had brought to the front door. Bill, hold on a minute, please. She put the receiver against her hip. With a feeling of curiosity mixed with slight distaste, she carefully drew a card, then turned it over.

The Queen of Hearts! the man exclaimed. And indeed, ma’am, with your beauty, it is a fitting choice.

Look, Mr. Epps, Laura said coolly, handing him the card, I’m in the middle of a phone call, and I really don’t have time—

"Ecks, Laura. Mercury Ecks. Like an X. He glanced past her. And she’s a fine-looking young thing, too, Laura."

Laura glanced behind her at the framed picture of her recently-missing daughter.

How do you know my name?

He pointed to the mailbox, from which a hand-addressed letter protruded.

Laura snatched the mail out. I see. Well, Mr.—Ecks, I really have to go.

But don’t you want to know where the papers are? He closed the fan of cards, tucked the deck neatly in his pocket, and took off his sunglasses. She saw a pair of piercing blue eyes.

What papers?

Why, your father’s papers. The quitclaim deed to the north pasture.

Speechless, Laura stared at him through the half-closed door. How in the world does he know—?

She covered quickly. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Now good day to you. Once again she started to turn away.

Laura, I will give you a tip. He leaned uncomfortably close to her and whispered, "Boleros."

What?

"Boleros."

Good day. She shut the door.

Through the door he spoke. Laura, you forgot your card. You picked it. It may come in handy. It is your destiny.

She saw the card slip under the door, then heard his footsteps on the porch, going away.

In spite of the warm morning weather, she felt a chill. She picked up the card, then glanced out one of the windows flanking the door. She saw the man proceed down the sidewalk. Next door, at the Wilsons’, he turned and grinned at her, then headed up the Wilsons’ walkway, drawing the cards from his pocket and fanning them as he mounted the porch.

Laura regarded the card in her hand, then pitched it into the wastebasket nearby.

What a bizarre man, she said to herself. Then, into the phone: Sorry, Bill … Any news?

No.

Laura sighed.

Her husband Bill, calling from Indianapolis, went on to say that the police had made no progress in the apparent kidnapping of their daughter from their home there six days before.

Okay, she whispered, wearily. They ended the daily call.

Laura started back to the dining room where she had been working, but thoughts of their daughter drew her eyes to the photo of the winsome ten-year-old. She took the picture down from the mantel and gazed at the image of her daughter: Brunette, wide-smiled, face spangled with freckles.

Laura glanced up at the mirror and remarked the resemblance—except that Laura, who had always considered herself youthful-looking, seemed to have aged ten years in the last week. Everything seemed to happen at once …

First, her father, a widower who had lived in this house all his life, passed away unexpectedly, barely two weeks before. The burden of arranging for the funeral, then sorting out his estate, fell to her as only child. She prepared to drive to Windmill, a small farm town where she had grown up, some 80 miles west and south of Indianapolis, where she now lived.

Then further disaster: The very day she was packing her car to leave, their daughter Tierney disappeared coming home from the neighborhood grocery store in the rain. Vanished, the soaked sack of groceries lying in the gutter, barely a block away.

In shock, she and Bill called the police. Life in hell began that day. The police canvassed the neighborhood. They questioned Laura and Bill about motives, or some clue as to who might have done the deed.

Two men came to mind: One was a door-to-door salesman; the other was a handyman. Of the two, the salesman seemed more suspicious: He seemed to have paid an inordinate amount of attention to Tierney. So much so that, on his third visit, Laura began to feel uncomfortable, and bought the goods just to get rid of him.

Laura gave a description, the police continued their search, and the sad, long waiting began.

But after two days, the man still hadn’t been found. Meanwhile, Laura’s father’s estate in Windmill needed settling, fast: Creditors were claiming that her father owed them money; and a neighbor now claimed some land that her father had been farming for years.

In the end, three days ago, she and Bill decided that he would stay in Indianapolis and continue to work with the police in the investigation, while she would come to Windmill to settle her father’s affairs.

So now she had been in town barely a day, still unpacked. She had undertaken to sort through her father’s finances, which were in shambles. It was not that he died poor: He appeared to have prospered, and saved. But his papers were in such disarray that some of the land thought to be his was now, at the moment of bequest to her, called into question. Where were the deeds? Where were the tax records? Where were the land surveys?

A father dead. A daughter gone.

Dear God, please: Not dead, too. Alive. Alive somewhere, waiting to be found …

Laura replaced the picture, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and marched herself back to the big table where her father’s stout cane still leaned. There stacks of faded documents awaited her under the big crystal lamp.

Tony Glass

Ten minutes later, Sheriff Tony Glass lugged two heavy suitcases over the threshold and set them down in his front room with a grunt. He looked up at his wife with a grin. What’s in those? Did you take up bowling while we were apart?

She laughed wanly. It’s just stuff.

He looked around the room, regarding all the boxes they had just brought in from her car. Your stuff. That sounds good, Sarah. Your stuff. And you. Back here where you belong. He went to her and hugged her. It’s been a long time.

I know.

We can make it work this time, honey. I’ve changed. I really have. Okay?

He heard her whisper against his neck, softly, Okay.

He kissed her. Gotta go. I’ll bring you back a big bunch of posies.

He heard her say Okay softly again as he headed out the door and went down the walkway.

He really had changed, too, he reminded himself. No more gambling. And no more alcohol—not for nearly four months now. Of course, he told himself, she was still a little skeptical: That would be natural. After all, he had been wild and irresponsible the first few years of their marriage. But when he turned 30 last year, he finally got his head on straight. By then, of course, they had been separated once again, this time for six months. But since then, he had wooed her with his new improved self. And she had finally agreed to come home.

Some things about their marriage neither of them could change: He knew that. Their inability to have a child, for example. But they both seemed to have come to grips with that over time.

Things, Tony felt as he headed down the sidewalk toward his car, were on the up and up. His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger in sunglasses.

Excuse me, Sheriff. Good morning.

Morning. Do you need help?

The man reached into his jacket pocket, and Tony had a fleeting thought that he might be pulling a gun: It had happened before. But what emerged instead was an ordinary deck of Bicycle brand playing cards. The man fanned them deftly and held them forth with a broad grin.

"No, Sheriff, but you might. Pick a card. Any card."

Sarah Glass

Sarah Glass watched her husband depart, then shut the door against the morning’s coolness. She drew on a sweater and sat wearily in a familiar chair.

She looked around at the boxes and had an odd, chilling thought: Now, with everything still packed, is my last chance to escape. It’s not too late to call this off. It’s not too late to back out.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her head back on the worn bolster.

What in the world am I doing here?

Martel Wall

Twenty minutes later, her arms loaded with schoolbooks, Martel Wall stepped onto her porch just as Ginger Yardley and Eddie McCoy walked by, heading for the high school.

Hi, guys! she called, starting down the steps, hoping to walk with them.

She saw Eddie spontaneously turn and smile, giving her a wave back. Hi.

Ginger strode on without looking.

Martel hesitated, then lagged back: She would walk by herself. It’s what you did when you were new in town, and the queen of the clique shunned you. That meant the whole clique shunned you, as well.

Her one consolation was the knowledge that she had much bigger breasts. That was what bothered Ginger. Ginger was flat as a board, and even falsies didn’t help. Ha.

Eddie McCoy

You could at least have said hi to her, Eddie said to Ginger as the two went on down the street.

I don’t like her. I don’t trust her. She’s a conniver.

How can she be a conniver, for God’s sake? Eddie asked. He realized that they were slipping into the same conversation—better to call it an argument—that they’d had repeatedly since Martel arrived. She’s only been in Windmill two weeks. She seems nice enough to me.

Of course she seems nice enough to you, Ginger shot back. "It’s because she is nice to you. Too nice. She wants to get her hands on you. The little witch."

Easy, will you? God, you’re jealous.

You do your share of flirting with her, I notice.

It’s not flirting. It’s called being friendly. If you paid attention, you’d notice that I’m that way with everyone. Not just her.

Ginger stopped and turned. Eddie saw the familiar, flaming red triangle just between her eyes. He called it the Ginger Snap, and it was a sign that her famous temper was about to blow.

You’re mine. Just remember that.

She turned and strode on ahead, but Eddie managed to say to her back, Yeah, you like to remind me about that a lot.

Ginger kept going. Half a block ahead, Eddie saw a stranger with sunglasses approach her from the opposite direction. The man seemed to engage Ginger in conversation, and to offer her something. But Ginger pushed past the man so rudely that she seemed to knock something, or things, from his hand. As Eddie came up to him he saw the man picking up playing cards.

Can I help you? Eddie knelt and helped the man gather the cards. Did she knock you down?

The man laughed. Just about. Fiery little thing.

Eddie gave the man the cards. They stood. Yeah. My girlfriend, he said ruefully.

More like your keeper, seems to me.

Eddie laughed. That, too.

In a matter of moments the man had arranged all the cards face down, shuffled them, and fanned them.

Pick a card, Eddie.

How did you know my name?

The man grinned. Because your name is on her notebook, and he pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the departing girl.

Oh. Eddie picked a card. He turned it over.

Ah, an excellent choice, the man said. The Jack of Clubs. You keep that card, Eddie. It’s going to be your destiny card. And it’s also my way of introducing myself. New in town. Mercury’s the name, just like the car. The man offered his hand. Eddie shook, not sure what this whole ritual was all about.

Well, Mr. Mercury, Thank you for the card, but I’m not sure what it is you do.

The man stepped closer to him and tipped his glasses down over his nose. Two blue eyes appeared. He grinned. Why, I tell things. He nodded, then winked. I tell things, is what I do. He turned to go, then turned back. Oh, Eddie. Watch out for flying objects.

Eddie nodded, perplexed and a little amused. As a baseball pitcher, he made an art of flying objects: It would be hard to avoid them. He tucked the card in his Algebra book and watched the strange little man abruptly cross the street.

At the same moment, he saw Martel approaching him quickly from behind. He debated whether to turn and head on, thus avoiding being seen with her, and probably offending her; or wait and walk with her, doing the considerate thing, but invoking the further wrath of Ginger up ahead, who would surely see them over her shoulder.

He decided to wait. Martel came up beside him, and they walked together, a little faster now, since school was about to start.

What happened just now? she asked. I mean with Ginger?

Eddie looked at her. She was pretty, and seemed to have a lively personality. Still, he did not feel anything romantic or sexual toward her: He had told Ginger the truth: He wasn’t interested in Martel. But …

Oh, she just got a little upset, is all.

"O-kay," Martel said, pronouncing the syllables separately and distinctly, as if to say, I don’t believe it.

They walked along, soon joined in haste by Kenny Ackerman, Eddie’s friend and fellow pitcher.

What did you do, man? Kenny asked Eddie as they entered the schoolyard.

What do you mean?

Ginger. Wow. She’s in a state.

Eddie nodded wearily. She’s always in a state, Kenny. As they passed through the double doors, heading for their lockers, Eddie added, to himself, under his breath, I just wish it wasn’t Indiana.

What did you say? Kenny asked. He grasped Eddie by the arm and brought him around.

Eddie turned, shook his head. Nothing.

Kenny regarded him. Don’t say things like that about her.

I was just kidding.

Kenny stepped closer. I said don’t say things like that about her. You may not love her, but I do.

I never said I didn’t love her. Eddie drew his arm away, then raised his voice to match Kenny’s. Ease off, man. She’s not your— Eddie stopped.

The bell rang.

Not my girl. Anymore. Is that it?

I never said that. Eddie turned away, took two steps, and felt himself whirled around again by the arm. Reflexively he shoved his friend away, hard. Kenny staggered back and slammed against an open locker door. A few other kids stopped to look before heading on to class—late.

Drop it, Kenny. Eddie turned and walked down the hall.

Kenny regarded him with steady eyes.

Flora Lutz

"No."

With the single, barked word, Raymond Lutz’s thick index finger came straight down to the kitchen table, emphatic as a landing rocket.

She had seen the gesture a hundred times in their married life.

Flora Lutz sighed. "Think about him, Raymond."

Raymond heaved himself up from the breakfast table, poured himself more coffee, and sat heavily. I am thinking about him. Mainly, I’m thinking that he’s not got—whatever it takes. He glanced at the clock: 8:25. He drained the cup, then started to get up, but his wife’s surprisingly strong arm brought him back. Sit.

He sat.

I know we’ve had this conversation a hundred times, she went on, but he’s 30 years old, Raymond. Today. He’s too old to continue to be some—lackey in the business.

He’s not a lackey, Mrs. He has responsibilities. It’s just that every time I give him something a little more demanding to do, he scr—fouls it up. I can’t trust his judgment. Not with our livelihood, my business.

An interesting use of pronouns, she came back, looking at him levelly. "‘My business,’ you say."

You know what I mean. You’re twisting my words.

I am quoting you directly. The business is actually one-fourth mine. And furthermore, she went on, putting her forefinger on the table in fond but pointed mimicry, "your father founded the business. And gave it to you. Think about that."

You think about this, Mrs. My father had no choice. He didn’t want to, but I was his only heir. I think he would have given it to the first stranger he met on the street, if the law would have allowed it.

That’s my point, Raymond. Don’t treat your son the way your father treated you. He’s a good man. He may never be the businessman you are, but he can learn. She leaned forward, putting her hand on his arm. He has feelings. He has talents. Let him express them. Give him something meaningful to do. Make him a vice president or something.

He laughed, and she saw his beefy face grow red. The world is full of vice presidents.

Then what’s one more?

He stood heavily. You make a case for him, though it’s mostly emotional. I’m still inclined to think that Dorothy can do it better.

But she has already told you she doesn’t want the job, Raymond. Aren’t you listening to anyone? She has her own real estate practice in Indianapolis.

She doesn’t understand how much the business is worth. I need to lay it all out for her. That would change her mind.

Her business is probably bigger than ours.

He cleared his throat. I have to go.

That’s it?

I’m late.

She rose and crossed to him. Supper is at six. We are celebrating Henry’s 30th birthday. Be on time. And give him something more than a striped tie this time.

Flora heard Raymond grumble something like an acknowledgment. Then he grabbed his cane, stalked to the front door, and flung it open.

There stood a man, sunglassed and grinning, his index finger poised at the bell.

Who the hell are you? Raymond snapped. Flora went up beside him.

I the hell am Mercury Ecks, Mr. Lutz. The stranger lowered his sunglasses. And you the hell are in a hell of a hurry.

I am. I don’t know what you’re selling, but we don’t need any. Good day.

Flora saw a deck of cards appear in the man’s hands. In the blink of an eye they were fanned, face downward, like a peacock’s tail.

Pick a card. Any card.

I don’t play cards, Raymond shot back. Now go on."

You don’t play cards, but you do take chances. The man winked. It’s all the same, Raymond. So pick a card. It could be lucky.

You and your cards can go to hell.

Raymond abruptly brushed past the man and went down the steps, supporting his substantial frame with the cane and porch step rail.

Flora saw the man bow with mock courtesy to her departing husband. Oh, I have already been there, sir.

Raymond proceeded to his car.

The man turned to Flora and removed his sunglasses. He peered at her with sharp blue eyes.

Would you care to pick a card, Mrs?

She blinked. What did you just call me?

I called you ‘Mrs.’ I believe that’s what Raymond calls you. Is it not?

Flora struggled to understand this knowledge. How would you know that?

Ma’am, I just do. He gave a broad smile and winked at her. I just do.

He held out the cards. She drew one and turned it over.

The three of diamonds, the man said, with a tone of satisfaction. "A worthy card, a very worthy card. It bodes travel. And new wealth. And soon."

Flora regarded the man for a very long time, then burst into laughter. I will take a trip? And come into money?

Exactly so, ma’am.

Why, I read that every week in my horoscope. She could not resist laughing further, though it was not a laugh of ridicule as much as amusement. She handed the card back. Thank you for a good laugh. I needed it.

He shook his head. The card is yours. And so is the prediction.

She took the card and regarded it a moment. Very well. Thank you. I’m not sure what your business is, or what you’re selling. Vacuum cleaners perhaps, or aluminum cookware. But in any case, I have enjoyed our little diversion. Good day. She made to close the door.

With a flash his free hand shot forth, gripping the door, holding it open. He leaned toward her. She could smell his cigarette breath.

I may be many things, madam, but I am no diversion, he said slowly, his cool blue eyes steady on her. Nor am I purveying anything as lowly as appliances and pots. And as for your horoscopes—I use them to wipe my ass.

Instantly the hand withdrew, the smile reappeared, the head nodded graciously.

Good day to you, ma’am.

Eugene Van Dyke

The bicycle lay askew on the sidewalk in front of his house, its rear wheel deformed, its handlebar bent, its seat askance.

Eugene Van Dyke looked up from the wreck and saw the boy who had just dropped it there, Mac Steinmetz, fleeing north on Jefferson St. toward school, laughing.

Eugene sat down beside the remains of his bicycle. It was an American Flyer, red, with streamers on the handlebars and a rear-view mirror. Its fine big basket was now gone altogether. He heard his teeth grind together, felt his hands clench, felt the sting in his eyes, tasted the salt from his tears.

You fucker. You son of a bitch.

He was late for school. It was nearly 8:30, but now he didn’t care. What was the good of going to school, even late? He would get a mark for being late: And then he would have to face Mac coming home.

It was an old story, and this was just the latest chapter. Mac had singled him out last semester, and had persecuted him ever since. Eugene didn’t even know why; all he knew was that he was smaller than Mac, and that was reason enough.

His parents had already left for the day: There was no one home now to make him go to school. Maybe he could stay home and avoid Mac altogether, at least during school hours. Maybe he could sneak over to Mac’s house and tear his crummy old bicycle up, to get even. But then that would only make matters worse.

Anyway, his parents were bound to notice his own mangled bike. He would have to make up a lie, tell them he fell, messed up the bicycle. He might get yelled at, by his mother, for breaking the bike, but he might get sympathy, from his father, that he might have been hurt. In either case, he could at least prevent his father from going to Mac’s house and complaining, which would only have brought more punishment from the other boy at school later.

He closed his eyes, and sat beside his fallen friend, and pondered what to do.

Fourteen. Twenty-nine. Three.

Eugene opened his eyes and looked up at a man he had never seen before: A short man in a yellow short-sleeved shirt and tan pants, and a corny hat. A lit cigarette burning over his right ear. And weird sunglasses.

What?

The man sat down beside him. I said 14, 29, 3.

Eugene stood up and backed off a bit. What does that mean? Who are you?

Two questions. Answer one: It’s a sort of tip, Eugene. Answer two: Mercury Ecks.

How do you know my name?

The man smiled. Why, it’s written all over your face, son. He removed his sunglasses and regarded the broken bicycle a moment. American Flyer. That’s a fine bicycle, that is. Fine. He looked at Eugene. Wrecked. You didn’t do that. Did you?

Eugene sat back down. No.

Somebody else did.

Yeah.

What are you going to do about it?

Nothing. He’s bigger than me.

Son, you’ve got to do something. The man leaned toward him. Eugene smelled the burning cigarette, and worried that the long ash might fall in his face. You can’t let bullies run your life. I know. I was bullied when I was a boy. But I set about to remedy things.

I don’t know what that means, remedy things.

It means make things right. Like justice. You see?

Eugene nodded. Like Superman?

"Kind of. Or like a Viking god. Only real."

Eugene nodded, only vaguely understanding. So what should I do?

I just told you. Fourteen, 29, 3.

I don’t get it. Eugene suddenly felt vaguely uneasy with the whole conversation, and remembered sermons in church about the Devil coming in many guises. He stood. I have to go.

The man held out some playing cards, face down. Pick a card. Any card.

Eugene drew a card and handed it to the man.

The king of clubs, the man said. A fine card. A good card for getting even. The man handed the card back. Keep that. If you want to know more, I live right up there. He pointed to a house that had been vacant for two years.

Eugene regarded the card with suspicion, then thrust it into his pocket. Thanks, he said, heading off to school as quickly as he could. Some distance away he said under his breath, That guy is creepy.

Arriving late at school, he passed Mac’s crummy green bicycle, bound to a tree with a thick chain and a fine new combination lock.

Mercury Ecks

With infinite care Mercury Ecks brought the tone arm to the edge of the phonograph record, then lowered it lovingly until it dropped into the groove. The needle found the groove, wedded the record, then drifted slowly inward toward the center, toward the grand confusion of sound.

He relished the moment of whispered static before the music began.

There. Now. Ah, yes …

In his front room, leaning over the record player, he admired the worn record jacket, with its gaudy but exciting painting of the Norse gods going to final battle. He turned the jacket over and let his gaze glide over the liner notes, already memorized, but ever newly sweet. Words about the destruction of the old order of things.

He lit a cigarette and sat in the overstuffed chair in the dingy, dark house, relishing the music as he cast his glance around the front room, enjoying, as always, the feeling of new arrival, the sense of possibility …

Not an impressive house, he thought. In fact, it was particularly shabby compared to many others he had lived in … They had lived in. But the setting didn’t matter to him; and he preferred to travel light, considering his particular mission. So he had bought the furniture secondhand after arriving with the others the night before. Three weeks’ rent paid for a decrepit, abandoned house, no questions asked … Three weeks would be plenty of time to do what needed to be done in this town. Already he had appointed the place with old, worn, cheap furniture that had very nearly lost whatever color it had once possessed.

And thus he and the others were moved in, and furnished, in less than a day.

He smiled and looked around. No, this house was not much to look at: In the stuffy, dingy front room, a couch and three overstuffed chairs forming a rectangle around a coffee table. Here and there in the room, a shelf or stand. A rickety card table beside the record player. Down the dark hall—dark even now, in the morning—two bedrooms for them, and a bathroom. Upstairs, a bedroom for him. And through the front room, toward the back of the house, the kitchen, the pantry, and the back porch.

Not a lovely place, he thought. Not intended to be. But cheap, and quickly had. A short stay …

He stubbed out the cigarette: Rest time over. Then, thrilling to the sounds of Richard Wagner’s tumultuous music, he rose and turned his attention to his more worldly duties that morning.

First, he must feed them.

First the woman, then the boy. For both, the same food, given the same way: Cream of wheat. Patiently lading the spoon he fed each in turn, waiting slowly for them to chew and swallow wordlessly. From time to time he had to catch a dribble from the corner of a mouth.

Then half a banana, carefully mashed. Finally, Jell-O: Lime for the woman, her favorite; for the boy, various flavors. Today, it was orange.

The woman took a sip of the coffee, swallowed.

He removed the bibs, washed the dishes checked their diapers: Clear for now. He kissed each on the forehead, escorted them one at a time into the front room, and seated them there: Her in the red chair, him in the green. They faced each other across the expanse of the brown carpet.

There.

Mercury patted his pockets with satisfaction, took out another cigarette, and stepped out onto the porch to enjoy it. Sitting on the steps, he surveyed the row of neat houses across the street, speculating on their inhabitants, and feeling a pang of excitement such as he always felt upon arrival in a new town: Another project begun. He smiled to think back to two days before …

He and his two companions had arrived by truck at the outskirts of Windmill, where he had paused to read a roadside sign aloud to them:

Welcome To

WINDMILL, INDIANA

Pop 975 974

A Great Place To Live!!!

Delbert Hardegan, Mayor

Do you see that? he had said to his companions, laughing and pointing to the sign. Looks like Windmill isn’t a great place to live for Delbert, anymore.

He had then driven on into town, and found the furnished house he had already arranged by mail to rent. Within an hour he had moved his companions, and their meager belongings, into the dark, stuffy house, and they were settled in.

After feeding his companions that first day, he had left them seated in the overstuffed chairs, facing each other. Then he had stepped out for a quick tour of the town, which he liked to think of as his new province.

A walk through the downtown district took barely five minutes: Up one side of Jefferson St. then down the other, then turning onto Center St. and repeating the process.

He studied the businesses. The usual small-town shops and offices: Barbershop. Sheriff’s office. Hair salon. Bank. Insurance office. Five-and-ten-cent store. Grocery. Law office. Drugstore.

Another town, just like all the others, he thought. And yet each one was different.

He had lit a cigarette and smiled with satisfaction as he headed out of the downtown block, into the residential area. Neat, modest bungalows for the most part. Here and there, in a front yard, a plot of flowers in a tractor tire. A fading fern hanging from a porch hook. On the cracked sidewalk, a faint trace of yesterday’s hopscotch game. In the distance, the sound of an unmuffled car and a dog barking. On the breeze, the scent of macaroni and cheese; and through a half-open window, the sound of a radio commercial for razor blades.

A town like all the others, and yet different …

A little girl approached him on a blue bicycle.

Hello, Mercury said.

The girl stopped. She looked to be about eight.

Hello, she said. He could tell her eyes were fixed on the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

Do you live here? he asked.

Uh-huh.

You call this place Windmill?"

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the cigarette.

Well, where’s the windmill? he asked, leaning toward her, and grinning comically.

What windmill? she asked, staring at the cigarette.

The windmill the town’s named after.

She blinked. I don’t know about no windmill.

I see. He straightened up. What’s your name?

Vickie Zorman.

Well, nice talking to you, Vickie.

My daddy don’t smoke, she said.

I do.

My daddy says smoking’s dumb.

Mercury nodded. He knelt, coming to eye level with her.

Well, Vickie, he said, removing his cigarette and winking at her, will you tell your daddy something for me?

What?

Tell him to go to hell. He smiled and gently knuckled her soft chin. Will you tell him that?

That’s a bad word.

Yes, it is.

The preacher says it’s a bad place.

It is.

I don’t want to go there.

Oh, Vickie, Mercury said, chuckling and standing as he tousled her hair, you don’t have to go there.

Good. She rode off, her bicycle chain clacking loosely.

He took another drag from his cigarette. You don’t have to go to hell, when hell comes to you, he said to himself, and laughed at his own cleverness.

Then he had resumed his walk home, satisfied that Windmill would, indeed, be a fine place to ruin.

That had been two days before, just after their arrival. Now, sitting on his porch step reflecting, he took the last puff of his cigarette and cast it aside. He smiled and stood.

Windmill, Indiana, he whispered to the row of houses. Mercury’s here.

He returned to his front room where he started the record again, then sat at the flimsy card table covered with an unfolded newspaper.

He slipped the sheet of newsprint off the table, dropping it to the floor. Humming the music, he regarded an assortment of playing cards, neatly annotated and arranged in rows and columns, as if for some bizarre version of solitaire.

Let the game begin.

He took up a card.

2. 

June 12, 1928

A field outside Falcon, Pennsylvania 

Mercury and Venus Ecks ran across the pasture in the blinding rain, and the lightning seemed to follow: No sooner than they had cleared the gate a bolt struck the abandoned plow parked there, sending sheets of sparks hissing upward.

They dashed on, past the neighbor’s collapsing barn. A solitary cow stood beside the dead walnut tree, lowing in confusion: In an instant the lightning struck the tree, its tentacles reaching to the ground. The cow gave a single abrupt cry.

Mercury and his sister dashed around the barn.

Come on! he yelled, dragging the girl along with him. If we get to the creek, we’ll be safe!

They ran on, slipping and falling in the mud. Behind them, the lightning burst a stump. The thunder rumbled through the ground.

Across the neighbor’s truck garden they rushed, tripping on tomato vines. Then they cleared the mud road.

Some hundred yards ahead, through the rain, the boy could see the train trestle that spanned the swollen creek.

We’re almost there! he shouted. Then he slipped and they both went down in the mud. She pulled him up and they went on, though now she was limping.

The lightning seemed to tarry over the vegetable garden, crackling idly. Then—silence.

The boy and girl reached the trestle. They stopped where the land fell away beneath the concrete structure.

Quick! Mercury shouted over the rumble of the rain. Down the ravine!

Dragging her by the hand, he started down, but she did not follow: His rain-slick hand lost its grip, and he went sliding and rolling down the steep fern-covered incline.

When he came to a stop at the creek’s edge he looked up and could see his sister hesitating at the head of the sloped ravine beside the train track.

"Jump, Venus! Jump!"

He watched as she made to do so. But she did not succeed: As she gingerly prepared to slide bottom-first down the slope as he had done, her feet slipped out from under her. With a cry she grabbed blindly for support. Her hand found and clutched the iron rail of the train track.

At that moment the lightning found its prey. From the sky a bolt of tangled light clutched the trestle’s iron beams, passed down them, and danced along the rail. There it found the girl’s hand. It coursed through the arm and torso, occupying the slender frame of flesh a moment. Then it lifted the frail, limp body like a rag doll and flung it into the racing creek below.

"Venus!"

Twenty-four years later

Windmill, Indiana

Wednesday, August 20, 1952

Laura Connerson

The pain began to weave up her legs almost as soon as Laura Connerson had sat on the black meditation cushion and mat and arranged her legs, one atop the other, the knee of one pressing painfully against the shin of the other.

She sat thus, legs crossed painfully one atop the other, and tried to clear her mind. In the quiet, spacious front room of her ancestral house, all she could hear was the sound of her own breath, and the steady ticking of the ancient grandfather clock. A little after nine in the morning, and time for daily meditation.

Count your breaths, she reminded herself. In, out. Gaze at the carpet, a spot about a foot and a half from your knees. Breathe, and count, and gaze with eyes half-closed, and try to calm the mind. When a thought arises, let it drift away, like a cloud. The mind is naturally clear, naturally free of delusion, like the clear sky. Thoughts and feelings, worries and delusions, are clouds that disturb and cover our original, clear mind. Don’t fight the thoughts: Let them in, then let them go. Thoughts and feelings come and go. Let them go. Breathe in, breathe out. Five. Six. Seven.

But the thoughts would not go. She possessed what her Buddhist friends back in Indianapolis called monkey mind: A mind so active with ideas and feelings that it never rested, ceaselessly leaping from thought to thought, like a monkey in a tree.

Lost count. Damn. Start again.

She settled herself slightly on the black mat. Deep breath. One in, one out. Two in, two out. Three …

She had taken up zen Buddhism years ago through a book discussion club she had belonged to, and had practiced it with surprising diligence. Then, after marriage, and the arrival of Tierney nine years ago, she never seemed to find time. And so she had grown out of practice.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

But when Tierney had disappeared last week, Laura was so overcome with fear and sadness, she found some remedy in beginning again to sit meditate, in zen parlance. Over the last week or so she had turned more and more to this mind-clarifying practice, sometimes four and five times a day for a half hour or so at a time. Some sittings were more successful than others in helping her clear fear and worry from her mind, but all seemed to help her keep her perspective.

They will find Tierney. I know they will find her. She is safe. It was some kind of mistake, that’s all. No one has harmed her—Dear God, please don’t let her be hurt—

Stop these thoughts, Laura. Clear the mind. Fourteen … Fifteen.

Ah: There was a clear moment. It was said that if you truly think of breathing, with each breath in and out—If you completely put your mind on following that breath—then the mind cannot possibly wander to anything else. And indeed, for a few fleeting moments, it was so: Yes.

Twenty. Twenty-one. Tierney-two. Tierney-three. Don’t hurt her, you bastard, whoever you are.

It had to be the cutlery salesman. It had to be. The police will find him. They will catch him. And they will find our little girl. And she will be safe.

The salesman. She remembered to a week before. He was a tall, spindly, talkative man with the curious name of Dingle. At first he had seemed ordinary enough: About what you would expect in a door-to-door salesman. Cutlery. And good cutlery, too, Laura could tell. She had let him in; he had been quite a lively talker as he demonstrated the knives. More than once, during that first visit, he had remarked on the picture of Tierney on the piano. Looks like a pretty little copy of you, he had said. Laura, used to compliments and even flirtations from strangers, took the remark in course.

He had left a set of filet knives for Laura to try out, and made an appointment to return the next day. Return he did. Tierney was home, and the man engaged her in conversation, complimenting her on her beauty, and even patting her cheek gently. Laura hadn’t cared for that.

Laura bought the set of knives, thinking that would be the end of the man. However, he showed up the next day, without an appointment, to see how everything is with the merchandise. Again Tierney was in the house, and the man made a point to ask Laura how the girl was. This question, from a thirtyish man, struck Laura as entirely inappropriate. She answered curtly. The man then remarked, as he headed for the door, what a fine girlfriend she would make some lucky boy someday.

That did it. Laura thanked the man coldly, and nearly pushed him out the door. Peering out the window she saw him head to his car and drive off. For some reason, she made a point to remember the color and make of the car. Black Nash. For the rest of that day, she felt a chill she couldn’t explain, and found herself checking the street outside from time to time.

Two days later, Tierney had vanished. And so, at last report, had the man.

The grandfather clock beside the window struck nine times, and Laura realized that her mind had wandered so far from meditation that she had forgotten to count her breaths.

Damn. Another failed sitting. Her mind was even more jumbled than when she had sat down.

Gingerly she unfolded her legs, rubbing the painful shin, and let her gaze rise from the floor. She arched her back and rolled her head loosely around to relax it. She glanced about the room to give her eye muscles some relief from the long period of fixed gazing.

There she saw the heavy sideboard she remembered from childhood, topped by the big mirror. Here was the roll-top desk her father and mother used to hide Easter eggs in for her and her cousins. Over there was the old washstand they all used before the bathroom had been installed. And close by leaned her father’s cane, an emblem of him. Just looking at it seemed to bring