Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04]

by Charles L. Grant

  The judge, an elderly man whose robes were obviously meant for a man twice his girth, rapped a pencil idly on his desk. “Crawford, save the fancy talk for the courtroom, would you mind? I’ve got a kicking mule ulcer going here and I want to go home before I die.”

  “Okay, it’s a stupid idea, Judge.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Then you agree.”

  The judge shook his head. “Not so sure about that, Crawford.” He leaned back and tented his fingers under his chin, the pencil clamped between his palms, tip aiming at his lap. “Mrs. Harp, I’m going to ask you one more time to find yourself an attorney. Granted, what you’ve done thus far is first-rate, but being a lawyer in your own country doesn’t really amount to a hill of beans over here. The systems are too different. You’re a solicitor, not a barrister, if I understand the distinction correctly. You’ve never argued a case in court. You’re treading on awfully thin ice here, ma’am, and I don’t want to see your client pay for your mistakes.”

  Beatrice smiled. “Your Honor,” she said politely, “if we could stick to the matter at hand, please?”

  The judge’s chambers was a small room, bookcase-lined, the desk old and scarred between the areas of high polish; all in all, not very imposing. But then, as Judge Trueax had explained earlier, it didn’t have to be.

  Beatrice wore a simple grey suit, and what she had told the girls were sensible shoes. The only jewelry, a small gold pin on her lapel, in the shape of a winged bird.

  “Your Honor,” she said, “may I assume you have... seen Mrs. Levin?”

  Judge Trueax nodded gravely.

  She gave him points for not wincing.

  “Then where would she go? How could she hide? Her veil is on at all times, and without it...” She spread her hands. “I don’t see the harm, and the children miss her. They need her, Your Honor.” A self-deprecating smile. “I am not exactly the motherly type, and they need mothering right now. Now, more than ever.”

  “Your Honor,” Crawford Marlbone protested mildly, “I admit this is an unusual case here—as far as the accused is concerned, that is. However, she has—” He stopped when he saw the look on the judge’s face. “She’s killed a man, Judge.”

  “Saving me,” Beatrice reminded him.

  “Doesn’t take away from the killing part, ma’am. The public deserves—-”

  “From what I read in the local paper, Your Honor, the public thinks Mrs. Levin has done the world a favor.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” the judge answered, “but that’s not for us to decide.”

  “She’s not going to run,” Beatrice insisted. “In point of actual fact, she has nowhere to go.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said the prosecutor.

  “In her condition, it matters quite a bit.”

  “Judge, we’re talking precedent here. You want to start something you can’t stop down the road?”

  The judge leaned forward, let the pencil drop to the desktop. He pulled a tissue from a box, blew his nose, tossed the tissue into the overflowing wastebasket beside him, pulled out another, and mopped his brow. “We got Christmas barely around the corner, it ain’t all that cold outside, why the hell do they keep the furnace blowing like this? I swear, I’m going to catch pneumonia before the year’s out.”

  “When the year’s out,” Marlbone said with a laugh, “it won’t matter. We’ll all be dead, remember?”

  “How could I forget? Every damn TV show and magazine’s been telling me the same thing ever damn day— damned, no matter what the hell I do.”

  “Then perhaps,” said Beatrice quietly, “you ought to listen.”

  The two men looked at her carefully, not sure if she was serious. Neither, however, was sure enough to smile.

  “One night,” she said, as if making a final offer. “The motel’s two blocks away around the corner. An armed guard—”

  “Judge, this isn’t Mobile. We haven’t got—”

  “At the door. There is no exit, you can seal the bathroom window if you wish.” She. looked at Marlbone. “No one has to know, Mr. Marlbone.”

  “Trust me, Mrs. Harp—they’ll find out.”

  “By then it’ll be too late. It will be tomorrow and she will be back in court, and back in her cell afterward.” A corner of her mouth pulled slightly. “It’s not as if we’re Donnie and Clyde, you know.”

  The judge fumbled with his pencil, then leaned back and aimed a loud laugh at the ceiling.

  Bea frowned until Marlbone leaned over and tapped her knee. “That’s Bonnie and Clyde, Miz Harp. Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, the point is the same, you see. We’re not a gang. We are two women and two children. I hardly think we pose a serious threat to society. At least,” she added as the judge wiped tears from his eyes, “not for one short evening. As I understand the procedure, the trial may not even begin before Christmas. One night, now, could absorb a lot of the sting.”

  “I must admit, I’m tempted, Crawford.”

  Marlbone puffed his cheeks, rubbed his jowls thoughtfully, hooked a thumb in his vest pocket. “Judge, if word of this gets out before we pick the jury ... I don’t know. Mrs. Harp here is a clever woman. Accused murderer of a scum-of-the-earth bastard allowed one night with her children because she won’t be home for Christmas, said scum-of-the-earth bastard killed while trying to rape the accused’s lawyer.” He shook his head. “You really think I’ll be able to find a fair jury after that?”

  “Then don’t let it get out,” Bea said reasonably. “I’m certainly not going to say anything.”

  Judge Trueax pointed the pencil at her. “One word, and you’re in a cell with your client.”

  Marlbone rolled his eyes.

  “You have my word on it, Your Honor.”

  “If we work this right, Crawford, there’s no precedent.”

  “If we work this right,” the prosecutor said sourly, “it’ll be a damn miracle.”

  “Well,” said Beatrice with a sly tilt of her head, “it is the season for it, isn’t it?”

  The judge opened the center drawer and dropped the pencil in. “See to it, Crawford, will you? And Mrs. Harp, you make damn sure I see you both here first thing in the morning. I will not be made a fool of, do you understand? Be grateful you found yourselves in this county, not somewhere else. We’re small, my dear lady, but small doesn’t mean we’re stupid. One wrong move, and your British ass is mine.”

  * * * *

  The room, Moonbow thought, was much nicer than that other one. The TV worked, the beds were comfortable, there was no smell in the bathroom, and they couldn’t hear anyone in the adjoining rooms. It would have been a lot nicer if Momma would talk, but all she did was sit on the edge of the bed, her head down, her hands still in her lap.

  Star wasn’t much better. She spent most of the time in the bathroom, like always, trying to make her hair look good. That was impossible. The way she’d cut it, it’d take weeks for anything to happen so she didn’t look like one of those orphans in the old movies.

  “Lady Beatrice?”

  Beatrice stood by the bed farthest from the window.

  She was packing.

  “Lady Beatrice?”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s quite simple,” she answered, keeping her voice low, staring pointedly at the door so Moonbow would do the same. “We’re going to leave as soon as we can.”

  “But how?” She pointed at the door. “There’s a—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Bow,” Star said from the bathroom door. “Will you can it, huh? You’ve been yapping all night, you’re giving me a headache.”

  Moonbow stuck her tongue out at her sister; Starshine did the same and sat beside their mother.

  “Momma? Momma, you ever going to talk to us again?” She winked broadly at Moonbow. “Are we going to have to learn sign language?”

  “Oh, no,” Moonbow declared in mock horror. “I can’t
learn that. I can barely talk good as it is. Momma, please don’t make me learn that finger stuff. I’ll make all kinds of mistakes and Star’ll make fun of me.”

  “Will not.”

  “Will too.”

  “Girls,” said Beatrice softly.

  Jude looked up then, and Moonbow could sense the smile behind the veil, could see it in those large dark eyes. Her mother was in one of her long loose dresses, the kind that flowed and danced like water when she walked. Her hair had been braided, and it hung down to her waist, so thick that Star had said she could have clobbered the guard with it and run away.

  The smile vanished.

  “You must never forget, girls,” Jude said, “that I’ve killed a man.”

  “Momma,” Starshine said angrily, hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. “Momma, that man was trying to rape Lady Harp. He threw me against the wall, and could have broken my neck.” She touched the side of her head where the edge of bruise crept out from under her hair. “He would have killed you, Momma. He would have killed you.”

  She clapped her hands and rubbed them together.

  End of story.

  Moonbow watched her mother’s eyes, but for the first time in a long time she couldn’t read them, couldn’t figure out what she was thinking or what she would say.

  Then Lady Beatrice closed the suitcase and snapped the locks in place, slapped the lid, and said, “Get your coats, don’t forget whatever money you have left.”

  Moonbow lifted her hands. “But—”

  “Now listen to me, child,” Lady Beatrice snapped, “I’ve no time to argue, and certainly no time to explain. Just do as you’re told and we’ll soon have your mother out of here.”

  “But—”

  “What are you,” Starshine said, “a billy goat? We’re gonna bust outta here, see? We’re going over the wall. Ain’t that right, Lady Bea? We’re hitting the road, leaving the narcs in our dust.”

  Beatrice opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged defeat. “Whatever you say, Starshine. Just be ready when I come for you.”

  “What?” Jude twisted around sharply. “What do you mean? You’re not leaving?”

  “Yes, dear, I am. Just for a minute.” She beckoned, and the girls came close. “Now listen to me—and no questions, Moonbow, just listen—I want you to make noise. Happy noise, as if you’re so glad to see your mother you can’t stand it. Not too loud, but loud enough that the gentleman outside will hear and be pleased. You understand? While you’re doing that, you put on your coats. Jude, be ready to take the suitcase.”

  She crossed the room and put on her coat, buttoned it to the neck, and put her hand on the doorknob.

  Moonbow saw her take a deep breath and close her eyes, and would have sworn she heard her whisper, “Sir John, this is crazy,” before she opened the door and went out.

  Starshine immediately began singing a nonsense tune, and her mother laughed. Not loudly, but loud enough.

  Once the door closed, they kept up the noise while scrambling into their coats, kept up the noise while they sat side by side on the bed and stared at the drapes that covered the window.

  Holding hands.

  Waiting.

  Moonbow thinking that unless Lady Beatrice had a really really big gun, this was going to put them all in jail for the rest of their lives.

  When the door opened again, they shut up instantly.

  Lady Beatrice poked her head in, nodded her approval, and said, “Time, ladies. Please don’t dawdle, I’m not as good at this as my husband was.”

  The next thing Moonbow knew she was outside, and it was dark, the fog as thick as it had been the other night, and the cold felt good on her face as she followed her mother and sister along the front of the building to the parking lot on the side. She wanted to look around, to spot the cops she just knew had to be watching, had to have them all their sights, but she didn’t dare. She just walked, and prayed, and, when Lady Beatrice opened the doors of an automobile Moonbow had never seen before, she didn’t hesitate—she climbed right into the front seat, closed the door, put on her seatbelt, and hunkered down as low as she could.

  It didn’t occur to her until Lady Beatrice had started the engine that she hadn’t seen the guard who was supposed to be stationed outside the door. She turned and stared, and after a moment she saw his fog-dimmed figure—sitting in a chair on the far side of their room, hat down over his face, hands clasped across his stomach.

  “Is he dead?” she asked fearfully.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Lady Beatrice answered as she pulled into the street. “He’s just very tired and needs a good night’s rest.”

  The fog spun whorls and webs as a light wind pushed down the street ahead of them.

  Traffic lights and streetlights and store lights were smears of white and color, and when she looked over her shoulder she couldn’t see the motel anymore because the fog had swallowed it.

  “Thank you,” Jude said from the backseat.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Lady Beatrice said. “We still have a long way to go, and we don’t have much time.”

  “They’ll come after us, you know.”

  “Then,” Lady Beatrice said as she pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor, “they’ll have to learn to fly.”

  * * * *

  Moonbow dozed, woke up once, and looked at the woman who drove the car. “I know you,” she said sleepily.

  “Do you now?”

  “Yes. You’re an angel.”

  * * * *

  3

  Rick Jordan hated driving in a storm. His boat was more predictable than the handling of this damn pickup, and by the time he reached Hawkins Island he was ready to pull over and wait it out. The problem was, there wasn’t anything on this miserable piece of rock to protect him, so he took to the next causeway stage and made his way slowly to St. James, gripping the wheel so tightly his fingers threatened cramps.

  The last time, he thought sourly, he’ll do a favor for someone he hardly knew. Next time, the guy can drive his own damn self.

  A huge wave slammed into the rocks on his left, shaking the roadway, making him hold his breath and pray the structure would hold. A few seconds later another one struck the northside barrier, and a sheet of sea water slapped the pickup into a sideways skid. He yelped involuntarily, prepared himself to get out in case the truck toppled, and didn’t relax a whit until the causeway touched St. James. Immediately, he pulled over into the Last Stop’s parking area, and sat there, trembling, sweating as hard as it was raining outside. He would have stayed until the storm passed, but the engine decided it had had enough and conked out, leaving him without heat or the radio.

  “Well, shit,” he muttered. He supposed it could be worse; he supposed he could be stuck in the Tower, exposed to every drop, every ounce of wind, plus the thing would be swaying a little, enough to make a man seasick.

  It wasn’t much consolation.

  He slid over to the passenger side, yanked his cap down tight and zipped his jacket up to his neck, then shoved open the door.

  “Shit!” he yelled when the cold rain hit him, and he ran for the entrance, pushed inside, and stood dripping on a narrow piece of rubber welcome mat. Panting. Wiping his face with one hand, while he opened the jacket with the other.

  There were only a couple of overhead lights on, one at the end of the building to his left, one right above him. To the right the display cases and walls were uncomfortably indistinct, as if the fog had turned black.

  “Bad time to be on the road,” a voice said, and Rick turned his head so fast he felt a painful twinge in his neck.

  Cutler stood behind the last case, a gleaming, stuffed barracuda on the wall above him. His coat was on, he held a hat in one hand. “If you’re thinking of buying, I’m closed.”

  “Just getting in out of the rain,” he said. “Can’t last long, not at this rate.”

  The building vibrated.

  The surf sounded like thunder.

  Ric
k slipped his hands into his pockets and turned around, to look through the glass door. He could barely see the truck; he couldn’t see Cutler’s car at all. Just his luck Mandy wasn’t working here today—she was a whole lot easier on the eyes than this jerk.

  “Heard you got real friendly with Chisholm,” Cutler said, his tone making easy conversation, two guys caught with nothing to talk about.