Hamilton pointed. “Isn’t that…?”

Keeping his right hand at his side, Brent motioned for him to be quiet. He was troubled that his hand had a tremor.

The producer’s voice finished counting down.

“Go.”

On the monitor, the CNN newscaster’s thin lips moved, but there was no sound. Brent could hear him through the earbud, though.

“And for the next hour, we have a special broadcast about a story that stunned the nation. Last night a crazed gunman shot twenty members of a tour group near the remote town of Rostov in west Texas. The killer’s rage was evidently set off by mysterious lights that appear almost nightly in that area. Joining us live at the scene of the shooting is Brent Loft, a reporter for El Paso television station…” The famous personality, whose power Brent hoped to have one day, read the station’s call letters.

“Brent, you look as if this story is taking a toll on you.”

“Things are very emotional here.” Brent’s words were picked up by a tiny mike clipped to his dusty lapel. “Believe me, there’s a lot more information to track down.”

“I understand you’re going to tell us more about the mystery of those lights, and why they drove this gunman into a homicidal frenzy.”

“That’s correct. The lights are a local phenomenon that have been here as long as anybody can remember. On most nights, they appear on the rangeland behind me-but not to everyone. Some people see the lights, while others don’t, and that’s as much a mystery as what causes them. In a while, we’re going to aim our cameras in that direction and see if the nation gets lucky.

“But first, you need to understand what the eager crowd below me is looking for. To provide some context, I want to introduce you to Luther Hamilton, a car dealer here in Rostov who probably knows as much about the lights as anyone. He’s one of the few who’ve seen them up close and personal. In fact, his experience with them nearly cost him his life.

“Mr. Hamilton,” Brent stepped toward his guest so that Anita could put them in a two-shot. The crowd milled impatiently below. “In the summer of 1980, you took part in a highly unusual event.”

“It sure wasn’t ordinary, I’ll tell you that,” Luther agreed.

“And it occurred in this area?”

“Exactly in this area. Right where everybody’s standing down below us. There wasn’t any observation platform in those days, just a gravel parking lot at the side of the road. On the Fourth of July, 1980, Rostov had a fireworks celebration. After it was over, we drove out here.”

“How many people were involved?”

“Almost as many as are here now. At least four hundred.”

“And what did you plan to do? Did you have a name for it?”

“We called it the Rostov Ghost Light Hunt.”

35

For the second time that day, Luther described what had happened that long-ago summer, and now he understood that the nervousness he’d spoken about hadn’t much to do with worrying that he’d forget what he was supposed to say on television. It was nervousness about what he’d started to remember. That afternoon, when he’d told the reporter about the hunt, he’d recalled it through a haze of decades, but now his memory was focusing, remembering details with clarity, and he dreaded returning to that time.

I wish to God I’d never agreed to this interview, he thought. He’d hoped that the publicity would help him sell cars, but all of a sudden, he didn’t care.

Rostov’s 1980 Fourth of July fireworks had turned out to be the usual joke. They were ignited on the high school football field: less than ten minutes of skyrockets, some of which had more of a pop than a bang. A few never went off, and the principal made a big show of pouring buckets of water on them. The senior class clown, Jeb Rutherford, burned himself with a sparkler. Bits of burned paper drifted from the sky, and Cal Bailey’s girlfriend got a speck in her eye. Cal had to drive her to the hospital. The big finish was a rocket that burst into the shape of a huge American flag blazing above the crowd. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder drifted everywhere. Eleven years later, Luther would associate that odor with the smell of gunsmoke from artillery in the First Gulf War.

And then the show was over. Rick Chambers, the president of the student council, murmured to Luther that the fireworks had lasted about as long as it took to have sex. Everybody headed toward their cars or trucks, but a lot of them knew that the festivities were just beginning, and it wasn’t just schoolkids who drove out of town to the gravel parking lot. A lot of parents went there, also, and families came from nearby towns.

Johnny Whitlock-the captain of the football team-was the guy who’d thought of it. Johnny was always coming up with crazy schemes, like suggesting that the Homecoming dance should have a Hawaiian theme because nobody ever left Rostov, so how could there be a home- coming? Maybe the dance should be called the “Wish I Could Leave Home” dance. That idea got only one vote-Johnny’s. Another time he sneaked over to the school in the middle of the night and managed to reach the flagpole without being spotted by the janitor or a policeman driving past. The next morning, when the students arrived, they found a Mickey Mouse flag grinning over the school. The principal was furious. At a hastily convened assembly, he ranted that somebody had insulted not only the school but also the American flag, and he demanded to know who’d done it. Only Luther and a few other kids had known it was Johnny, and of course none of them said a word-at least not until after that Fourth of July, when it no longer mattered.

“Let’s do something big this summer,” Johnny told Luther and a half-dozen other kids after their final class of the school year.

They were eating burgers at the Rib Palace, and Luther said, “Yeah, like what? You know there’s nothing to do around here.”

Johnny chewed thoughtfully and grinned. “All we got around here’s the lights, right?”

“And that old ranch house where they made that James Deacon movie,” Cal Bailey suggested.

“Who cares about that old dump? The damned thing’s falling apart. No, the lights are the only action we’ve got. How many times have any of you tried to figure out what they are?”

Everybody shrugged. It was a rite of passage that on your twelfth birthday you sneaked out of the house after your parents went to sleep. You bicycled out to the parking lot, where other kids were waiting to see if you had the guts to climb the fence and hike into the field to try to find what caused the lights. That was tougher than it sounded because the field stretched all the way to Mexico, and it was easy to get lost out there in the dark. Not many kids actually saw the lights to begin with, so most didn’t even know what they were looking for, which was why the older kids tried to make things scarier by calling them “Ghost Lights.”

Before the birthday boy arrived, other kids hid in the field. When he climbed the fence and started into the darkness, they raised lanterns, but as soon as he headed in their direction, they covered the lights. That made him look around in confusion. The next thing, he saw other lights-more lanterns-and went toward them. Then they disappeared. The joke ended when the kids with the lanterns couldn’t keep from laughing.

But sometimes the kids who were hiding saw other lights, and it was obvious that those lights couldn’t be lanterns because some of them floated high off the ground. They moved this way and that, and merged and changed colors, and kept getting larger and coming closer. That was another way the joke ended-when it suddenly wasn’t funny and the kids with the lanterns decided it was time to go home. That rite of passage ended after the Fourth of July, 1980. No one wanted to go into the field after that, and when Chief Costigan came to town to replace his father, who’d been shot to death, the field remained off-limits because the chief kept driving out there at night to try to figure out what the lights were.