Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04]

by Charles L. Grant

  Eula nods carefully. “This ain’t the way it’s supposed to be, getting all banged up like that.” She shakes her head in anger, in confusion, brushes a finger across the green felt hat that lies between them. “Ain’t the way, nossir. Not the way it was written.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference how it was written,” Susan answers calmly. “It’s written a lot of different ways. Sometimes they get to fight us, and sometimes they get to win. For a while.”

  “Maybe. But I’ll bet none of them talk about us getting all banged up.”

  Susan grins, suddenly laughs and catches herself quickly before she wakes the boy up.

  The last turn at the bottom is the sharpest, and she slows the car to the pace of a fast walk, is ready to stomp the accelerator to shoot across the valley, when Eula straightens and says abruptly, “Look.”

  It takes a moment, but Susan finally sees, and brings the car to a halt, leans back, and says, softly, “Joey, wake up. Come on, cowboy, rise and shine.”

  The headlights have pushed some of the dead time to the side, and at their farthest reach she can see a lone figure waiting in the middle of the road. He sits on a great black horse, rain dripping from his hat. He doesn’t squint at the light, he only nods and leans over the animal’s neck, pushes a hand through its long mane and sits upright again. The horse bares its teeth, works the bit, and begins to move slowly toward the car.

  Eula fusses with her grey hair, pulls the hat into her lap. “Sit up, boy,” she tells Joey without looking around. “Sit up, now, child. Time to pay attention.”

  Feeling oddly at ease, and just as oddly anxious, Susan stares straight ahead as horse and rider pass the car; she looks in the rearview mirror to watch them turn around, the red glow of the taillights reflected in the horse’s large eyes. When they stop beside her door, she presses a button and the window slides down.

  “Evening, ladies,” the rider says, touching two fingers to his hat brim.

  The boy says nothing; the women nod, mutter, “Good evening, Red,” and wait, paying no attention to the cold rain that bounces through the open window. He doesn’t bend over, they can’t see his face, but they can hear his voice and that’s all that matters.

  Red ignores the rain as well, peering into the dark beyond the headlights. His left hand holds the reins; his right hand rests on his thigh. The horse snorts and tosses its head, steam in clouds from mouth and nostrils.

  “He knew,” Red says, sounding pleased, patting its neck. “Soon as he saw me, he knew.”

  “I want to ride him,” the boy says, his voice loud in the silence.

  “Hush,” Eula scolds.

  “Well, I do,” Joey says, pouting.

  Red swings easily out of the saddle then, and for just a second they can hear the sharp sound of sharp spurs. And the stamp of a hoof. Susan isn’t positive, but she thinks she caught the brief reflection of a single flame in the windshield.

  Red pushes back his hat, and rests his arms on the window’s shelf. A quick grin for the boy, and a shake of his head. “Not now.”

  The boy slumps dejectedly, head down.

  “Sit up,” Eula snaps. “Pay attention, child.”

  The boy does what he’s told, but it’s clear he’s still pouting.

  “Nice automobile,” Red says to Susan, nodding his appreciation. “Good way to travel. If you have to travel this way.”

  The car is an old and long, white Lincoln Continental, with a hood ornament in the shape of a charging silver horse. The engine is nearly silent.

  “I like it,” she answers stiffly. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t want to see his eyes. It’s bad enough she can feel his breath on her cheek.

  “How’re you feeling, Miz Korrey?” he asks. “You healing up all right?”

  Eula purses her lips, unsure, before she answers, “It ain’t supposed to hurt. I still got bruises, you know. Susan here, her face ain’t healed yet either.” She turns her head. “Ain’t written that way.”

  Quick grin, here and gone.

  “No, I don’t guess it is,” he tells her gently, so gently she stiffens and looks away. “But that’s the way it is. That’s the way of it.” A long pause. “You understand, Miz Korrey?”

  “Yes sir, I do,” she answers. A smile of her own. “Don’t gotta like it, though.”

  He laughs and nods. “It’ll get better,” he promises. “Much better.” He steps back from the car, and before they realize what he’s done, there’s the sharp ring of his spurs and he’s in the saddle again.

  And all they hear is that voice.

  “It’s almost time.”

  Susan can’t help herself; she has to know: “How?”

  Another pause; the sound of rain on the roof.

  “We ride in, we take over, just the way it’s supposed to be.” A pause that might have been a silent laugh. “Don’t fret. I’ll tell you when.”

  “Are we alone?”

  “We’re always alone. But no, there’ll be some help, I think. Gotta check that out directly.”

  “Will they fight us? Again?”

  “They’ll try,” he says, a quiet laugh in his voice. “Won’t be much fun, otherwise.”

  At last Susan smiles, confidence returned. “But we’ll win, Red, right? This time we’ll win.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  He rides away.

  Mist on the road, rain skating down the windshield, and she watches him ride away, droplets of scarlet fire splashing from the horse’s hooves.

  * * * *

  PART 2

  * * * *

  1

  1

  D

  eep autumn; Tuesday; just past morning.

  High clouds and a slow breeze and a sun already drifting past its peak; waves and tide are high, the last fierce signs of a hurricane just gone, one that shied away from the coast but left its winds behind; small twigs on the roads, a handful of dead branches, here and there a few shingles trapped in a gutter; a road crew working on the hanging traffic light at Midway and Landward; the sound of chainsaws; the sound of hammers.

  A handful of surfers gather on the beach, gauging height and courage and the size of their boards; two beachcombers with metal detectors, each with a burlap sack flung over a shoulder; gulls swarming the flotsam the waves have left behind, dropping shells onto the jetty rocks, then scrambling for the meat; photographers still and video do their dances for the right angle, an impromptu party ranging across a pair of dunes, a child crouching intently over a tide pool while his father looks on, smiling.

  A dead bird in the woods; still twitching.

  * * * *

  2

  The house wasn’t the smallest that Casey had ever lived in, but sometimes it felt like it. It was a two-story, low-ceiling square of no particular design, with a screened-in porch that faced Midway Road, and a slightly canted chimney above a peaked slate roof. What faded paint was left on the clapboard looked either blue or grey, depending on the sun, on the rain, on the way the trees gave or took away the shade. The yard, while not garden magazine lush, was at least neat—front, sides, and back—and there was a hedge along the road with thorns an inch or two long, thick as a man’s thumb.

  He hated trimming that damn hedge, and he had the bandages to prove it. It was, he reckoned, a continuing test of his resolve, and his threshold of pain. Still, he decided as he stepped back and let the pruning shears swing idly at his side, it looked pretty good. Fairly even along the breast-high top, the corners as crisp as they were ever going to get, and most of the leaves still hung on.

  A point in his favor then: he hadn’t killed the stupid thing yet.

  All in all, a decent morning’s work.

  His free hand reached over his head in a bone-snapping stretch; a satisfied groan, a handkerchief across his face to take the sweat away before he tucked it back into his hip pocket. Several cars passed the house in both directions; he didn’t recognize them, and none greeted him. A police cruiser drifted south with a
quick press of its horn, and he waved without looking, halfhearted at best.

  Discouraging visitors—a skill he wasn’t exactly proud of, but he’d also gotten pretty good at it over the past couple of years, here and elsewhere. He was, and had been for a long time, no longer the local curiosity, just some kind of weird guy who preferred his own company.

  He snorted, shook his head at a major understatement— at most, he went into town once a month, to stock up on groceries for the next three or four weeks ... and spoke to no one; at most, the only people he saw out here were those who drove past or those who rented the houses under his care... and he spoke to them only when courtesy demanded it.

  He knew little of what went on around the rest of the island, and until now, he hadn’t particularly cared.

  Alone was what he had wanted, and alone was what he had achieved.

  He wasn’t sure why, but now that had changed.

  His place was one of a cluster of eight, all the same save their colors, four on either side of the road, and the only one occupied at the moment, which meant his work was pretty much done for the day. He could, of course, hit each house one by one, see what cleaning had to be done, if his latest repairs still held or if something new wanted fixing, but that would imply an initiative he didn’t feel like tapping into just now. It wasn’t that he was lazy, and it wasn’t that he wasn’t a little proud of how he had handled the responsibilities he’d been given.

  It was just that he didn’t feel like it.

  Not today.

  Today was for lazing.

  like hell, Chisholm, give it up, you‘re stalling.

  Today was for hanging out, for appreciating the weather and the scenery and the constant smell of the sea in the air. For laughing at the gulls as they squabbled over nothing, maybe walking over to the marsh to watch the herons strut their stuff in the shallows, maybe hike on over to the beach, sit on Daddy Whale’s head and watch the silhouettes of fishing boats skimming slowly across the horizon.

  Whatever he would do, though, work wouldn’t be it.

  stalling

  It was, all in all, a pretty sweet deal, this job of his. He was, for the most part; his own boss. As long as he did what he was supposed to do, when he was supposed to do it, days like today could be taken without guilt.

  His landlord had proposed the arrangement when Casey had been sent to him to inquire about a rental. In retrospect, it must have looked like a bizarre conversation. Norville Cutler barely came up to Casey’s chin, yet he acted as if he were a good foot taller.

  * * * *

  “No sweat, I think I can help you. Man, you’re a pretty big guy. Handy at all?”

  “I’m no expert, not much good at plumbing, but... I can work, yes. If it matters, I learn fast.”

  “Good. Got some places up on Midway, that’s the main street in case you ain’t figured that out yet, the only one that goes one end of the island to the other. They aren’t much, the houses, but they pay their way. Had a guy, stupid son of a bitch, couldn’t find his ass with a map and a flashlight, he cut out on me last month, the stupid bastard, didn’t even give me notice. So I’m figuring . . . you want to work, keep them in shape, keep the tenants happy, you know the kind of stuff I mean, you can use one for yourself.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “It is, mister. It’s damn good. Better’n most deserve. Best part is, I won’t bother you hardly at all. I’ll know if you’re not doing the work, don’t have time for inspections, but you know what I mean. You do your bit, I’ll stay outta your hair.”

  “I get a choice of places?”

  “Hell, no, I’ll show you which one. Except for the tenants, and that’s only late spring to maybe October, the only neighbors are behind you. Some old lady, a couple of nig—black guys, an old man and his son, they won’t bother you at all, you won’t even know they’re there most of the time. You’re not from around here, am I right?”

  “Right.”

  “Kentucky... no, Tennessee, am I right? You spent some time elsewhere, but I figure ... yeah, Tennessee.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “What do you do?”

  “What?”

  “You made a living before here, right? You didn’t just pop out outta the ground, right? So what do you do?”

  “I... nothing. I don’t... nothing.”

  “The law after you?”

  “The law? No.”

  “Well, Mr. I Don’t Know Nothing, you take care of me, I’ll take care of you. Off the books, the whole nine yards. Just don’t stiff me, pal. People around here, they’ll tell you, I don’t like it when someone stiffs me.”

  * * * *

  A cool breeze touched his face, and Casey was grateful for the slight shiver it caused, and he was suddenly tempted to forget the walking, the beach, and just go inside, take a nap, let the rest of the day slide by. Like all the other days since he had arrived on the island. Let them all slide by and behind him, forget him, make it seem possible that he had never been anywhere else, never done anything else but slap paint on walls and hammer nails into boards and rake yards and replace shingles and wash windows and weave mesh patches into screens torn by age and nosey squirrels.

  And when he awoke, it would be nearly dark, time to begin the process of trying to get a good night’s sleep.

  Without the dreams.

  Without the nightmares.

  of a church bell tolling, no one at the rope

  A process that generally began with supper. Out of a can or out of the microwave. Then, weather permitting, a half-mile hike through the trees to the beach, and another hike along the wet apron. Listening to the ocean, listening to the birds, dodging the waves trying to snare and soak his feet. Once in a while, if the tide was low, climbing clumsily out to the end of a jetty where he could see nothing but water ahead of him, nothing but sky above.

  Where he could be alone.

  Where he could feel small.

  Too small to matter.

  explosions.

  He was close to five inches over six feet, his shoulders and chest broad, arms and legs to match. His hair was thick and long, brushed back and curled black to his shoulders. High cheeks and a dimpled chin, heavy brows and a nose that time had left something less than sharp. A face, all in all, that made no apologies for the beatings it had taken, physical and otherwise, and was all the more imposing for it.

  Or so others had told him. He wasn’t sure about the imposing part, but he had often used the size, and a grumbling voice that sounded born in a deep canyon, to good advantage in his former life.

  the law after you?

  No, but my dreams are.

  maybe so, but you‘re still stalling.

  * * * *

  a ghost-white car gliding out of the fire

  * * * *

  He grinned and shook his head.

  Stalling indeed, and making a bad job of it, too.

  He slapped his leg lightly with the shears, told himself there was no need to rake up the debris he’d snipped from the hedge, told himself there was no need, right now, to oil the hinges on the porch’s screen door, and certainly no need to sweep the porch itself. Or vacuum the living room. Or dust what little furniture he had.

  By the time he was upstairs he was laughing aloud; by the time he had taken a shower and changed his clothes, he was almost excited.

  For the first time since he had exiled himself to this end of Camoret, he was going into town with no other purpose than to walk among the living.

  He stood in front of the low, white pine chest of drawers in his bedroom, hairbrush in one hand, checking his reflection in the slightly warped mirror hanging on the wall above it. He had gotten used to the distortion. Somehow it seemed to fit.

  The idea for the trip had come to him only last week, as he returned from the grocery store with his latest batch of provisions. With virtually all the tourists gone until spring, the only people he had seen were locals. And something about them had sparked
his curiosity: a feeling of tension, unease, behind the faces that either smiled blankly at him or glanced at him with no more than a passing curiosity. For days he had passed it off as his starved imagination; and for days he had been unable to forget it.

  Yesterday he had actually straddled his bike and pedaled a hundred yards down the road before anxiety turned him around in a spray of dust and pebbles.