People flowed past them, and Kitra greeted with ease those who greeted her without once making him feel as if he were being ignored.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“No need, Mrs. Baylor. Really, I’m fine.”
“Well, you should have,” she scolded lightly, a shake of her head. “You never know about these things.” She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Lyman is feeling so guilty, I’m hoping you’ll stay a moment and ease his mind. That is, unless you have an appointment?”
He grinned. “No, ma’am, I sure don’t. Not for a while, anyway. I think, though, that—”
He stopped when the Teagues came up in a phalanx behind her. Stump and Cord in front, the third brother behind. Casey knew that one had to be Billy Ray, as tall as Cord but bulldog thick rather than whippet thin. They had the same stringy dark hair that tried pathetically to look halfway combed, the same narrow-eye stare meant to intimidate and cower. They looked enough alike to be twins.
He touched Kitra’s arm to encourage, her to move her off the walk and out of their way, but surprisingly she wouldn’t budge. A simple nod, a simple, “Good day, Mr. Teague,” to Stump, and she turned back to him and said, “Do you have dinner plans, Mr. Chisholm?”
Cord and Billy Ray moved on and waited by an expensive-looking small sedan with a handful of dents in the passenger door and along the rear fender. They folded their arms loosely, arrogantly, across their chests, tucked in their chins, paid no attention to the kids who raced by and stared. Stump, however, brushed past Casey, paused, looked up, and said, “Well, well, well, look what crawled out of his cave.”
Kitra’s face went blank. “Mr. Teague,” she said coldly.
“Didn’t figure you for a churchgoer,” Stump said, showing his teeth. “Thought you’d be stinking by now, you know? Thanksgiving beer and all that?”
“Mr. Teague,” Kitra snapped.
“Ain’t talking to you, lady,” he said without looking at her. “Talking to the big retard here.”
Casey looked over Kitra’s head and saw Reverend Baylor watching them anxiously as he spoke with the mayor’s family. Then, before he knew what he was doing, he took hold of Stump’s arm and pulled the man toward his car. Teague tried to yank free, but couldn’t; tried again, and Casey, still smiling for those who were pretending not to stare, said in a low voice, “Keep it up, Teague, and I’ll pull it out of its socket and beat you over the head with it. Go home, get drunk, I don’t care, just get the hell out of here before someone gets hurt.”
He released Teague just as the man tried a third time to get free, which made him stumble into his brothers. Cord taught him clumsily; Billy Ray straightened instantly, his arms hanging loose and ready at his side.
With a careful shake of his head, Casey warned them not to be foolish. “Gentlemen, this is a real bad time, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He looked straight at Cord, who couldn’t hold his gaze. “Go away, boys. Don’t ruin these nice people’s day. You got a problem with me, you know where I live.”
He turned his back, still smiling, and returned to Mrs. Baylor’s side, softening his expression to tell her everything was all right, there’d be no trouble.
“Mr. Chisholm,” she began.
“I think I’d better leave, ma’am,” he told her. “I’m having dinner with the Nazarios, and I don’t want to be late.”
Tires squealed; someone shouted an angry warning at the driver.
“Please tell your husband that really, I’m okay, no need to waste a doctor’s time. Thank him for his concern. I really do appreciate it.” He shook her hand. “You have a good day. I hope I’ll see you and your husband again soon.”
Without giving her a chance to reply, he cut across the lawn, long strides and swinging arms, clumsily dodging a chaotic game of tag, grinning at a red-cheeked baby in the arms of her mother. Once on the street he kept to the grassy shoulder to let cars pass, was grateful neither Mrs. Baylor nor the reverend tried to catch him.
His chest was tight; breathing didn’t come easily.
You, he told himself, are a goddamned idiot.
“You know where I live,” he whispered, mocking the deep voice he had used, and he grimaced. “Good Lord, man, are you nuts? You think you’re some kind of cowboy?” He shook his head at his foolishness, pushed a hand through his hair, sensed a car pulling up and moved onto the grass.
The automobile, glaring gold in the sunlight, paced him.
He finally looked.
Mandy Poplin gave him a polite smile and a quick wave, while Cutler just stared, the shadow of a smile under narrow watching eyes. If it was a signal or a message, Casey didn’t get it, and didn’t try; instead he nodded, smiled back briefly, and looked away.
The gold car paced him for another twenty yards.
Casey resisted the urge to look again, to demand an explanation; instead, he stopped. Gently massaged his left shoulder. Rubbed the back of his neck. Checked the painfully blue sky, saw a single dark bird riding a current, the shape of its wings telling him it was a hawk.
The car moved on, slowly, Cutler watching him in the rearview mirror until Mandy nudged him and he returned his attention to the road.
See you, Casey thought, sighed, and walked on.
Another hundred yards before the curbs and sidewalks began. He moved off the road, still disgusted at the way he had behaved back there.
you know where I live
Good Lord, what an idiot.
He hadn’t just asked for trouble, he had begged for it, dared it, waved a red flag, thumbed his nose, did just about everything but take a swing at the jerk right then and there just to get things in motion. Hindsight suggested that’s exactly what Stump was after, that he had no intention of taking the first step. A setup a blind man could have seen coming a mile away.
If he were smart, then, he would turn around and go home, prepare as best he could for the company he’d no doubt be having sooner or later—and probably sooner; if he were smart, he’d pack his bag, get on the bike, and get the hell off the island, because any chance of things staying the same now had been reduced from slim to none. He never should have gone into town, never should have butted in at the newspaper; he never should have thought he could live a normal life again.
He couldn’t; not now, not here.
He almost turned around, but with a one-sided smile he figured that no, he wasn’t all that smart. For the time being the threat of crisis was over, and there was no sense worrying about what might come later. This was now, it was a beautiful day, and after all, there was a Thanksgiving meal waiting for him down at Betsy’s, prepared by virtual strangers who had asked him in without knowing who or what he was.
Not smart, maybe, but he knew what was right.
* * * *
2
The sun was warm, the breeze comfortably cool, and his mood lightened considerably as he passed the houses that marked the real beginning of town. Kids on the lawns, grandfolks on the porches, a touch football game in front of the school with boys and men some not yet out of then-Sunday best, leaves scooting along the street, a few birds in the sky.
It was, he judged, almost ridiculously perfect.
When a hand touched his shoulder, however, he stiffened instantly, went cold, and braced himself as he looked back angrily, readying for a fight.
“Mr. Chisholm,” said Whittaker Hull, dropping his hand, stepping back quickly.
Casey cleared his throat, managed an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I was expecting someone else.”
His daughter was with him, her red hair up and bound behind her head, an autumn dress and a sweater, stockings and pumps. He thought, for some reason, the outfit didn’t look natural on her. “Miss Hull.”
Hull waved a long-fingered hand, settled it on his tie. “I never did thank you for your intervention, Mr. Chisholm. It was rude of me. I should have done it sooner. I should have called or come out.”
“You should have beaten the hell out of them,” Ronnie said t
o Casey, her face lightly flushed.
“Now, Ronnie,” Hull said, a touch to her arm. A weak smile. “She has a temper.”
Casey cocked an eyebrow and answered, “So I see,” as he walked on, Hull on his right, Ronnie on his left.
“You should have,” she insisted. “They deserved it.” She frowned at him. “More, if you ask me.”
Hull sighed. “They haven’t scared me off, though, have they, dear?”
“No, but that’s only because you’re too stubborn to take a hint.”
Hull laughed loudly as he sent a playful poke at Casey’s arm. “She doesn’t tell you, of course, that it runs in the family. With, I might add, a few extra notches of intensity.”
Casey, only vaguely aware of what they were talking about, kept silent. Although curiosity wanted him to ask why the Teagues had been in the office in the first place, he said nothing. Curiosity killed cats, not to mention other things. A quick look around, but he didn’t see the young man who had been with them in church. Another question he refused to ask.
Hull slipped his hands into his pockets, suit jacket pushed behind him. He kept his gaze straight ahead. “We don’t see much of you around here, Mr. Chisholm.”
“No.”
“A fortuitous visit, then. The other day, I mean.”
“Yeah. I guess you could call it that.”
Ronnie made a face. “Awfully coincidental, if you ask me.”
“Ronnie, please.”
“Well, Dad, he could have done more than show them the door. My God, they trashed the office, remember? They were going to beat you up.”
“Ronnie, that’s enough.”
“Dad, he works for Cutler. It just seems to me—”
Casey stopped suddenly, and the Hulls moved a few steps beyond before they realized he wasn’t with them. Whittaker lifted a hand in apology for his daughter’s temper and accusations; Ronnie just glared.
“For one thing,” Casey said, keeping his voice low and calm, “I really don’t appreciate being talked about as if I were invisible. And for another, Miss Hull, I’m not much more than a glorified handyman. I hammer nails, I rake leaves, I throw a paintbrush around. Cutler pays my salary, such as it is, yes, but if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you’re way out of line here, if you’re trying to put me in the same company as the Teagues.”
She wouldn’t back down, staring at him as if her expression alone would break him into telling the truth—that he’d gone easy on the Teagues because they all worked for the same man.
“Ronnie,” said Hull sharply, “I think that’s quite enough. Mr. Chisholm extricated me from a dangerous situation and for that, Mr. Chisholm, I am eternally grateful. If there’s anything I can do ... please. Name it.”
Casey only shook his head, and made it clear by his stance that he wasn’t moving until they did. And he wouldn’t be joining them.
Ronnie didn’t seem to care. One last stabbing jut of her chin as if to punctuate her remarks, spoken and unspoken, and she walked away. Hull passed a hand over his forehead, fumbled for something else to say, an apology, an explanation, and finally hurried after her, catching up only when she began to cross the street at the next corner.
Well, Casey thought, you sure could have handled that better, don’t you think?
Maybe he could have ... hell, he certainly could have. The young woman only wanted to protect her father, and wanted his protectors not to stop halfway. It was understandable, her reaction, but he wished she hadn’t picked today of all days to confront him.
He was beginning to regret not going straight home. It seemed as if the world was out to get him, one way or another, either in punishment for leaving the house, or for not leaving it sooner.
Less than a minute later, however, the day and the neighborhood soothed his mood once again. Still, he couldn’t help wondering just what it was he had missed, burrowing himself away out at the end of Midway Road all this time.
In the old days he would have made a pest of himself, asking around, looking for reasons why Stump Teague and his brothers were out to get an old man like Hull; in the old days he would have used his influence, if he could, to find out exactly what Norville Cutler had to do with it—he doubted very seriously that the Teagues were acting on their own. He didn’t think they were stupid, not by any means, but he doubted they left their home in the marsh to hassle and frighten folks just for the hell of it, for free.
Which made him recall that deputy’s reaction to the news of the attack, and that threatened to set his temper off again.
In the old days he would have marched that smug little man by the scruff of the neck over to the newspaper office himself, badge or no badge.
In the old days ...
A noise much like a growl deep in his throat. The old days, he reminded himself sternly, were exactly that—old. Past. Gone. If not forgotten, definitely irretrievable. He was a different man now. He was a nobody, exactly as he’d planned it. Exactly as he wanted it.
Yet he couldn’t rid himself of Ronnie Hull’s disdainful voice, or the sneer that had split Stump Teague’s thick scruffy beard on the church walk. It nettled. It grated. It was, in many ways, a familiar itch he couldn’t avoid scratching.
Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask a question or two once he reached Betsy’s. It wouldn’t be laying the groundwork for interference; it would be a simple information gathering exercise, so he’d know better who to avoid. A way of protecting himself, so he wouldn’t get sucked in.
But it’s tempting, Case, ain’t it, he thought as he pushed open the sandwich shop door; you gotta admit, it’s awfully damn tempting.
* * * *
3
It was a simple meal, just the basics—turkey, mashed potatos, fresh-baked bread, dressing, vegetables. A bottle of inexpensive wine for each table. Portions average, not huge. The food good, not exquisite.
He was placed at a table near the back, Gloria and her brother fussing silently around him, embarrassing him when he finally understood that they had heard what he had done for Whittaker Hull. Treating him, for some reason, like some kind of local hero. Junior apparently wasn’t working today, and there weren’t many other diners, mostly old men and old women who obviously had no desire to stay at home, eat alone on Thanksgiving, and the Nazarios treated them like family. From the greetings, the mild banter, this was evidently an annual tradition.
There was quiet laughter, then, and soft conversation, and it didn’t take long to see that the register had been locked up; today there would be no money exchanged. And though he got the occasional glance, no one spoke to him, which was fine until he had finished his dessert and realized how badly he missed it sometimes—the conversations, the good-natured teasing, the arguments, the debates... the contact.
In the old days.
This, he decided glumly, was turning out to be a really bad idea.
Still, he took every opportunity to do a little shameless eavesdropping and, as Gloria or Hector cleared away the tables, ask a few questions he hoped sounded harmless. It was Hector who gave him the most information once all was done, sitting with him for a while to have a cigarette break, a glass of wine, cool off from being in the kitchen all morning.
* * * *
Bad times, you know? Bad times, Mr. Chisholm. I am speaking only what I hear, you understand. People talk, I can’t help it if I have big ears. But you must see it too, Mr. Chisholm, out where you are. Nobody lives there except you, yes? One by one the houses are sold, and they don’t get sold again, true? A place like this, all the ocean and the beach so close, they could be sold for a lot of money, I think. Even the little ones. But they don’t. They just sit there now, empty, falling apart. Even Junior’s father, they want him to sell, but he won’t. He say he got no place to go, but still they try, always they try. Once, I hear, they came after him with some clubs and things, and he chased them away with a shotgun, maybe a rifle. They still bother him, but they don’t get so close anymore.
Now some people say there gonna be a big casino out there, maybe a hotel, maybe a lot of big fancy houses like down at the Hook. Drain the marsh, you know? Fill it in, that wouldn’t be too hard, it ain’t that big. Nobody knows for sure. The mayor say he don’t know nothing about it, he too wants more people living here to help the business places like ours. But he’s a rich man, Mr. Chisholm, and like all rich men he wants to get richer. Maybe him and that Cutler, they want the island to themselves, I don’t know.
But some people don’t like that, they talk about it, they get hurt sometimes. Mrs. Essman, you don’t know her, I think, they bother her so much she die, but nobody say it’s anybody’s fault. And Mr. Hull and his paper. Mr. Hull, he keep saying we in for big trouble, and they keep trying to stop him, but they can’t do that yet. Some day, maybe, they will. I think it will happen that some day it will come.
Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Page 16
