Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04]

by Charles L. Grant

  * * * *

  “Hey,” Gloria said, giving her brother a playful slap across the back of his head. “You retiring? You clean the oven already? All the dishes done?”

  Hector laughed heartily, shook Casey’s hand, and hustled back into the kitchen, a good-bye wave over his shoulder.

  Casey sensed then it was time to leave. He rose, patted his stomach, and thanked her for her kindness and for the delicious meal. It was, he told her, the most pleasant Thanksgiving he had had in a long time.

  “You just come back,” she told him, walking with him to the door. “And I am very sorry for the way—”

  “It’s all right,” he assured her. “Really. I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  “Maybe,” she answered doubtfully. “You just come back, I’ll be nice next time.”

  When the door hissed shut behind him, he inhaled deeply, smelling the warmth and the sea, feeling the comfortable weight of the meal in his stomach. He walked slowly northward, the streets empty now, a pleasant autumn silence broken only by the sound of a light wind in his ears.

  He tried not to think about what Hector had told him. It was, at the least, none of his business. Land speculation, the little guy getting forced out, big fish in little ponds maybe thinking to get bigger—old story. A very old story. Big city, little town, nothing changed, and certainly, absolutely, nothing to do with him.

  He passed a little gift shop and glanced in the window, at a display of humorous cards touting the approaching Millennium, at a pyramid of books—some novels, some nonfiction—predicting the various miraculous changes or unmitigated disasters the new Millennium would bring. There didn’t seem to be any middle ground. It was either a new Eden or the Apocalypse, pick one and live with it, pick the other and prepare to die.

  He walked on.

  None of it had anything to do with him.

  Not anymore.

  By the time he reached the Landward intersection, the blinking red light pale in the bright sun, he began to wish he had brought the bike anyway. Still a good three miles or so go, and his legs were already feeling a little wooden. As he reached the town hall he glanced over his shoulder, hoping to spot a car heading in his direction. Another block had him praying for a newfound ability to fly.

  A piece of work, Casey; you’re one piece of work.

  A grunt, a self-pitying sigh, and he moved on, passing a wide empty lot thick with trees, although the weeds near the sidewalk had been recently cut down, their stalks left to rot on the ground. He had almost reached the far side, when movement near a low shrub made him pause.

  Soft burbling, like birds muttering in high branches.

  The paperlike rustling of wings.

  Curious, he sidestepped until he could see past the shrub, and it took a few seconds for him to understand— several large black birds stood around something lying in their midst. Pecking at it. Tearing at it. Ripping pieces of it away and raising their heads to slide those pieces down heir gullets. He could see red, some white, and what looked to be fur. When he took a step toward them, they stopped their feeding and looked up.

  Good Lord, he thought, and pressed a hard hand to his stomach.

  They were crows or ravens, he wasn’t sure which, but he was pretty damn sure neither had bright blue eyes like these birds did. Before he could decide whether it was actually true or just the light under the trees, one of them puffed its wings and strutted toward him, cocking its head, ordering him away. At the same time, another hopped backward pulling at something pink and stringy, just far enough for him to see the squirrel’s head. Its blinking eyes. Its trembling mouth.

  He swallowed hard and quickly backed onto the sidewalk, suddenly turned and grabbed a lamppost, leaned heavily against it, swallowed, and gulped air in a desperate effort not to lose his dinner.

  The squirrel was still alive.

  They were eating it alive.

  He could hear the crows’ soft voices, almost as though they were talking to themselves, could hear the flutter of wings, one annoyed squawk, the snap of a beak. He shoved away from the lamppost and nearly ran up the street. Swallowing. Gulping air. Blue eyes and a live squirrel—please, God, it had to be the light.

  When he looked back from the next corner, he couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, and told himself there was no question but that it had to have been the light.

  A few yards farther on, his stomach finally calmed, the taste of acid in his mouth gone when he spit twice into the gutter and wiped his lips with the back of a hand.

  Blue eyes? he thought; oh, brother, what next? They going to wear top hats and tap dance for you?

  He didn’t notice the cruiser until it pulled over to the curb.

  “Need a lift?” the sheriff asked, window rolled down, elbow on the ledge, sunglasses on.

  Casey didn’t think twice; he nodded, and the back door opened as if a switch had been thrown. “Thanks,” he said gratefully as he slid in and pulled the door closed, stiffened when he realized Deputy Freck was in the front, too.

  Oakman pulled away, swinging into the proper lane, keeping to the speed limit. A glance in the rearview mirror: “Hope your friends don’t see you,” he said with a chuckle. “Looks like you’ve been arrested.”

  “A chance I’ll have to take,” he answered with a shrug.

  Freck looked at him through the mesh that separated front seat from back, his sunglasses dark. “Your friends,” he said, “are troublemakers, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You hang around with the wrong crowd, Chisholm. Got to be more careful, you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t hang around with anybody,” he said, suddenly wishing he could see their eyes.

  Freck grunted, faced front. “Good thing.”

  They rode for a few minutes in silence, until the sheriff, smiling tightly, said, “You planning on staying? On Camoret, I mean.”

  Casey didn’t get it, the comments and the questions; he didn’t like them either. “Unless you know something I don’t about my job, Sheriff, I guess I probably am.”

  Oakman nodded. “Good. We like new people, like them to be happy.”

  “I’m not exactly new.”

  Oakman lifted a shoulder. “No, but you kind of keep to yourself, you know? New is when you first get involved, you know what I mean? Meet people, talk to them, visit them, make friends. That’s good. That’s real good.”

  They passed the school, the church; the trees moved in and hugged the roadside, dappled shadows on the tarmac. The cruiser abruptly picked up speed, pushing him back against the seat and didn’t slow again until the sheriff made a sharp, squealing U-turn and parked in front of the house, keeping the engine running. Relieved, Casey left the car as fast as he could without, he hoped, seeming rude, walked around the back, and stopped at the passenger-side door.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking past Freck toward the sheriff. “Appreciate it.”

  “No problem, glad to help,” Oakman said. Still smiling. “Just keep your nose clean, son, that’s all we ask around here.”

  Casey didn’t know whether to be angry or just ignore what he couldn’t help thinking was a not-so-subtle threat. A nod, and he walked away, and stopped again when Freck’s lazy voice said, “You don’t vote, do you?”

  “What?”

  No eyes, just the sunglasses. “You want to be a good citizen, you got to vote. But you don’t.”

  Puzzled, Casey nodded. “That’s right. I don’t. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Freck’s lips parted in a shark-smile. “Yeah. Well, damn, I’m sorry, Chisholm. You know, truth is, I just plain forgot. Ex-cons can’t vote, can they?” He picked at something on his upper lip. “Don’t hardly got any rights at all, the way I understand it.”

  Warm sunlight turned winter cold; Gloria’s meal turned acidic and boiled.

  “Thing is,” he heard Oakman say, “I do like to know who lives on my island, you know what I mean, Mr. Chisholm? Something like that�
��a conviction for robbery and attempted murder, for example—I need to know these things. Keeps me up to date. Helps me in my job.” Oakman leaned over then, to peer around his deputy. “Like I said, Chisholm, keep your nose clean. You done all right so far. Let’s not screw it up.”

  Freck grinned and faced front, still picking at his hp.

  The cruiser roared away, trailing exhaust that lingered before the wind took it.

  Son of a bitch, Casey thought. Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  * * * *

  4

  For the rest of the day he slammed through the house, kicking at air, cursing his shadow, trying to sit and failing, trying to relax and failing.

  How did he know?

  How the hell did he know?

  He’s the sheriff, you idiot, and he has computers, you jerk.

  But it’s been two years; why bring it up now? Who cares? He did.

  He switched on all the lights, turned on the TV and watched the news until he couldn’t stand the sight of fighting anymore, not caring that some of it was as close as Savannah; he grabbed his windbreaker and started for the beach, hoping to walk it off, but before he was halfway there he realized the day’s warmth was gone and the wind-breaker wouldn’t be enough to keep out the cold that would be settled on the beach; instead he walked, practically marching, around the curve toward the marsh, lashing out at stones, picking up rocks and throwing them as far as he could until his shoulder began to ache; he tripped when he reached a depression in the road and nearly went down, his left hand out to stop him, his car-struck shoulder flaring fire into his neck.

  Son of a bitch.

  there’s a great violence within you, a man had told him once; it’s a frightening thing.

  Tears of frustration blurred his vision as he made his way home. He didn’t bother with the road now; he cut through the yards of houses that were empty, some of them for several years, and he yanked at the branches of dying bushes, bulled his way through a rotting wooden fence.

  a frightening thing

  Years ago he had been cold, and hungry, and broke, and lost.

  Years ago he had stood at the counter of an old convenience store, one great fist trembling in the air, apologizing as he demanded the clerk give him money. Just for food, that’s all, he told her; that’s all he wanted, just food.

  The cop who came in just at that moment nearly shot him where he stood.

  He slapped at his eyes with the backs of his hands to drive away the tears, drive away the image of the cop and the girl and the ride to the station and the walk to his cell.

  By the time he reached Draper Street, his rage was so great, his breathing so tight, he felt as if he were going to pass out. He stomped across the blacktop, figuring on cutting through Mrs. Essman’s yard to his own just beyond, when he heard someone calling.

  Scowling, jaw set so hard it was nearly trembling, he looked to his right and saw Senior Raybourn on the sidewalk, a faded racing cap on his head, open topcoat, baggy trousers. One quivering finger pointed straight at him.

  “What did you do?” the old man demanded.

  It was almost too much: anger, frustration, confusion, the need to weep, and the urge to strike out.

  It was almost too much.

  So much so that Casey nearly laughed aloud at the hysteria he felt at the sight of old Raybourn shaking that crooked old finger, his scar-circled eyes squinting myopically, his bandy legs shifting and jerking as if he couldn’t decide whether to get closer or not.

  “What did you do to my boy?”

  Casey shoved his temper down, raised a hand, shook his head. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”

  Raybourn’s voice rose hoarsely. “You did something, damnit! He ... you did something!”

  The street was empty, the only car parked in Raybourn’s drive. There were more stars than light in the sky; only one street lamp worked, and it was halfway down the block.

  Go slow, Casey; go slow.

  “Mr. Raybourn,” he said as calmly as he could, “I didn’t do a thing. He delivered something to me day before yesterday, a package from Mrs. Nazario, and I—” He shook his head again, slowly. “We shook, Mr. Raybourn, that’s all. After he gave me the package we shook hands, and we both got a little shock. Like static electricity.” He lifted his shoulders. “I swear to you, sir, that’s all that happened.”

  Raybourn’s lips worked furiously, and he took a stiff step forward, shook himself hard as though driving off a chill. “You touched him.”

  “Yes, because we shook hands,” Casey repeated, calm beginning to fray. “I took the package, I thanked him, and we shook hands. That’s it.”

  “More. There was more,” the old man insisted.

  “Damnit, no!” Casey said, voice deep and loud in the empty street. So loud, so deep, it backed Raybourn up. It was Casey’s turn to point. “I did not do anything to harm him, Mr. Raybourn. Not one damn thing.” His turn to take a step. “Go home, Mr. Raybourn. Go home and ask him again. Ask him again and leave me the hell alone.”

  Raybourn resisted for a moment, then wheeled about and hurried off, muttering loudly. Casey watched until the old man reached his porch, looked over his shoulder, and angrily pushed the front door open.

  The slam was loud enough to create a faint echo.

  I don’t believe it, he thought as he stomped into Mrs. Ionian’s yard, stomped around the house; I just do not relieve this.

  He kicked and slashed his way through the hedge fence at the back, and strode around the side of his house with one arm swinging, desperately wanting to tear something down, rip something out of the ground and hurl it into the sea.

  He shouted wordlessly, took a shadow-punch at the house, and shouted again.

  He didn’t feel any better.

  Especially when he reached the front and saw Stump Teague and Cord standing on the porch steps, lounging as if they were waiting for an old friend.

  “Well, well, well,” Stump said, hands clenched at his sides. “Evening, retard.”

  Casey glared at them, his shoulders hunching, his head lowered. “Believe me,” he said with a slow shake of his head, “you do not want to do this now.”

  “Yeah, we do,” a voice said behind him. He turned quickly, just in time to see the fist, and the brass knuckles it wore.

  * * * *

  2

  1

  T

  wenty years ago, Magnolia Court was one of the first hotels drivers saw as they approached Savannah from the west. A simple, low, four-story rectangle set beneath ill-grown trees, its sandstone walls looking cool, inviting, peaceful, promising a haven for those who wanted to visit the city but not sleep there. Then the visitors grew scarce, most of the Court’s trees died, stain and neglect discolored the walls, and by the time Savannah had begun its renaissance, it was too late. The Court was already more than halfway in its grave.

  John Bannock didn’t care.

  Magnolia Court was convenient, reasonably clean, and it was cheap and better than staying in some two-bit motel.

  “I think,” Lisse said as they took the elevator down to the lobby, “you’re going to have to talk to those kids today.”

  “I will, I will.”

  “They’re going to leave, John, if you don’t. Cora is, anyway. She’s had it.”

  He faced away from the doors and examined himself in the mirror that was the back wall. His face had become shadows and hollows, his posture more slumped than usual, and there wasn’t a whole lot of meat left on his bones. They hadn’t starved, he and Lisse, but their appetites had shrunk each time their island search had come up empty.

  She, on the other hand, looked as good as ever. She’d cut her hair once—he had thought it made her face and neck look too long—but it was back to her shoulders now, and its deep auburn seemed to flicker tiny flames in the elevator’s indirect lighting. Slender to begin with, her weight looked to be the same as when they’d started out; only the angles of her face had grown slightly sharper.

&nbs
p; She grinned at his examination. “Too late, Prez, you had your chance before we got dressed.”

  He felt heat in his cheeks and turned around. Even after all this time, all that had happened, he still wasn’t used to her being so forward.

  The doors opened.

  The dark-slate lobby floor gleamed with fresh cleaning; the tall potted plants shone with recent misting. Muted voices held a conversation somewhere, but he couldn’t see anyone but a bored clerk at the registration desk.