Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04]

by Charles L. Grant

  Rick shrugged. “Helped him pass the time, that’s all.” He didn’t like the way his reflection faded in and out, the way the rain struck the glass, shattering into starbursts. But he didn’t want to look at Cutler, either. He was sure that pose under the fish was deliberate, and if he thought about it long enough, he’d probably start laughing.

  Cutler wouldn’t like that.

  Not that he’d do much about it. Not physically, anyway. The man usually picked on people who couldn’t really fight back. The fishing community, such as it was, was pretty tight. Go after one, you go after them all. Even Stump Teague wasn’t that stupid.

  Of course, there were other ways of fighting—a whisper to the bank here, a word to the mayor there ... a friend of his tried to get friendly with Mandy a year or so back, next thing the guy knew the sheriff and Freck were climbing all over his boat. Violations up the ass that drove the man first into bankruptcy, then off the island.

  Still, standing under that dead fish, those sideburns puffed, that hair so salon perfect... he wished Ronnie could be here to see it.

  “You like helping ex-cons, do you?”

  Rick closed one eye, turned his head. “Ex-con?”

  “Yep. Attempted murder, grand larceny. North Carolina, I think it was.”

  He looked back to the storm. “Huh.”

  “Gotta be careful, you know.” Slow footsteps; the back light went out. “Some folks don’t like to charter with folks who run with ex-cons.”

  The air lightened outside, less like night now than late afternoon. The wind had stopped.

  Rick tugged at his cap. “You know, Cutler, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that was a threat.” He looked over again, and Cutler was still at the last display case, no definition now, just a form in the dark. “No kidding.”

  Cutler laughed quietly. “Purely an observation, my boy. Purely an observation. Perception, Mr. Jordan. It’s all in the perception.” The snap of a cigarette lighter. “Just a word to the wise, that’s all. Businessmen like ourselves, we have to watch that perception.”

  Rick grunted a laugh. “Cutler, the only things that perceive me are the fish, and they don’t give a damn because they’re already practically dead anyway.” He brushed some condensation off the door. “No offense, but I talk to who I want.”

  “So I notice.”

  The center light went out.

  Rick took his hands from his pockets, flexed his fingers, leaned closer to the door, squinting as he looked east. The rain had eased to a heavy drizzle, and he could see breaks in the clouds.

  And something else: “Hey, looks like someone’s coming.”

  From right behind him: “Tough. I’m closed.”

  He jumped, jumped again when a hand reached around him and pushed the door open.

  “Any time, Mr. Jordan. Any time.”

  Another tug on his cap, his jacket closed again, and he hurried to the pickup just as a car pulled in behind it. And as much as he wanted to get out of here, to get home and call Ronnie, tell her what Cutler had said, he walked over to the passenger side just as the window rolled down.

  Four people in there, and Jesus, he thought, they look like they’ve been through a goddamn war. Bandages and bruises, the guy in back with his arm practically molded to his chest, the lady in front with a small bandage on her neck, not enough to hide the fading bruise there that ran practically all the way around.

  “Hi,” he said, leaning over so he could see the driver better. ‘The place is closed, sorry.”

  The driver, a clump of dark hair falling into his eyes, smiled wanly. “Just our luck.” He glanced into the backseat, rapped the steering wheel a few times, and nodded. “So ... maybe you can help us,”

  “Whatever I can.” He just wished the guy’d hurry up. The rain was dripping down his neck, and the damp was beginning to seep into his bones.

  Cutler’s, automobile pulled out of the lot, just short of spitting gravel and grit.

  The driver watched it for a few seconds before: “We’re ... we are on the right track for Camoret Island, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He straightened and rubbed at the small of his back. “Don’t want to disappoint you, though,” he said, raising his voice so the man could hear him. “We’re just about closed down too, for the season.” A polite smile for the woman. ‘The days are still kind’ve warm, but the beach is still pretty chilly when the wind gets blowing.”

  The man said something he didn’t catch, and the woman, looking as if she was afraid to turn her head, said, “Motels or anything?”

  “None that are open.” He squatted then, fingertips of his left hand balancing him against the door. “You’re Louisiana, huh?”

  Her smile was bright, though her skin was sickly pale. “That’s right. You from there?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Had a girlfriend once, though, she was from Baton Rouge. She—”

  From the back an impatient cough.

  Rick took the hint, figured it was the girl, not the guy in the sling. “Anyway, if you folks are needing a place to stay, I really don’t know how to help you. The guy that just left, he’s got about the only office that stays open all year.” He wiped a hand over his face, shook the rain off. “I can tell you how to get there, if you need to.”

  “I’d sure appreciate it,” the driver said. “We’ve been a long time getting here, and from the looks of it, that’s no small island you have there.”

  Rick never thought of it as small, or large, or any size at all. It just was. Shining wetly now as the sun rammed gaps in the swift-moving clouds.

  Then the young guy said something, and he frowned. “What?”

  “Casey Chisholm,” the guy repeated. “You know a man named Casey Chisholm?”

  Rick stared at him for a moment. “Well, as a matter of fact, I kind of do, yeah.”

  He didn’t think he would have gotten a more astonishing reaction than if he’d up and handed them each a million-dollar bill. The girl in back started crying, the boy whooped, the driver closed his eyes and grinned, and the woman with the auburn hair took a sharp deep breath and started to laugh. Her hand waved an apology, but she couldn’t seem to stop, and he rose slowly, not sure what he was supposed to do next.

  “Hey,” the boy said, leaning over to see him better, “can you tell us how to get there? To where he lives, I mean. Can you show us?”

  Rick wasn’t sure. It was pretty obvious these people had nothing to do with Cutler, so that was all right. On the other hand, Chisholm was far from being a hundred percent, and maybe didn’t want surprise visitors just now. But the looks on their faces, the kind of look usually saved for that big Christmas present in the corner, that made him think again.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m fixing to go over there now, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you just follow me. It isn’t hard, but... just follow me.”

  Without waiting for a response, he returned to the pickup and slid into the cab. Once inside, he yanked off the cap and tossed it aside, told himself he smelled like a dead wet fish on a hot dry morning, and started the engine.

  He didn’t want to think about what he was doing.

  He wasn’t looking forward to seeing the expression on Chisholm’s face.

  Nevertheless, he had a pretty good feeling about this. A pretty good feeling that he was doing the right thing.

  And if he wasn’t... hell, it was no skin off his back. Chisholm wasn’t a friend, wasn’t a neighbor; he was just someone Rick had helped out a little because Ronnie had asked him to. He’d just go there, deliver the message the mainland pharmacist had given him, and go home. Call Ronnie. Have dinner with her. Let her pump him for information.

  He grinned as he pulled onto the road, checking the rearview to be sure the strangers were following.

  So Chisholm gets mad at him. So what?

  Ronnie was going to be awfully happy about what he knew, and he knew just how to dole it out.

  Damn, he thought, laughing aloud; damn,
sometime I just step in it, you know what I mean?

  * * * *

  4

  “Because I watched them, Jasper, that’s how I know ... follow them? How the hell was I supposed to follow them? My car’s the only gold one on the island, Jordan would have spotted it in a minute...Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Jasper, he turned left on Midway and waved for them to follow along. The only reason he’d go that way is to see Chisholm ... no, I don’t know who they are ... no, I didn’t talk to them, I was already gone ... Good Lord, you are the most... no, I didn’t count them, for God’s sake, it was raining! There’s a passel of them, though, I could see that much . . .

  “Look, Jasper, you’re not getting the whole picture here. Think about it: they were not supposed to get this far. We were assured they’d already be taken care of, and Chisholm would be on his own. Assuming our boys hadn’t already stomped his ass into the next century, that is. So now he’s not alone, and I don’t think our friend is going to be very happy when he finds out. I think maybe you and I, we ought to get a little creative around here ... you know damn well what I mean, and if you’re taping this, Jasper, so help me God, I’m gonna skin you bald, you hear me?

  “All right, all right, don’t get all huffy. Just watching my back, same as you, and don’t tell me you’re not. The thing is, we got exactly two weeks, am I right? Now surely we can come up with something in two lousy weeks. Put your brain on the boil, partner, see what you can come up with. Meanwhile, we got another problem ...

  “Right. Exactly right. Our friend doesn’t want to wait any longer. Time to stop screwing around here, time to make that old black bastard see the light. If you know what I mean. Can’t use Stump again, he’s got no finesse. We gotta have finesse this time, and I think I know just the man.

  “Best thing about it is, partner, the son of a bitch works cheap.”

  * * * *

  3

  1

  T

  he minute the rain stopped, Casey grabbed his jacket and left the house. He didn’t intend to go very far, only wanted some clean fresh air and a good strong walk to help clean out his system.

  As soon as Jordan had left, he had made his way back upstairs, stripped, and stood under a hot shower, bracing himself against the tiled wall with one hand, letting the heat and the steam do its work. He stayed there for so long his skin began to redden, but he gave himself no complaints. It felt good. Almost sinful.

  Afterward, he shaved, brushed his hair, and dressed. He sang loudly to the empty house. He walked from room to room and looked out the windows, not to see anything in particular, just to walk, to give his legs some exercise. The storm frustrated him, but it also allowed him time to sit for a while between his wanderings, for which he was grateful. He knew that if he’d gone out right away, he would have walked himself right back into bed—too much, too soon.

  He ate as large a lunch as his stomach would take, bemoaning how much better Hector’s touch was.

  He considered a cigarette and changed his mind, walked the house again instead, taking his time, working up a sweat that had him back in the shower—no luxury now, purely utilitarian—and into a fresh set of clothes.

  That was okay.

  He felt good. He felt clean. He felt somehow less vulnerable for feeling so ... good.

  Once he stood on the porch steps, feeling the light breeze feather-touch his face, he realized he was in danger of being convinced he was back to normal.

  Still, the rain-cleared air smelled wonderful. Intoxicating. Cold enough to make him rub his hands together, not so cold that he had to fetch gloves or a hat. Brisk, he decided; he and the air felt brisk.

  And it reminded him, suddenly and powerfully, of the day he had left that North Carolina cell for the last time, the day he had walked through that high, sliding, pocked-with-rust iron door into the free world. The same intoxication, the same feeling of power, the same feeling of such immense giddy relief that his knees had almost buckled.

  A feeling of such immeasurable sadness, for the time he had lost and could never regain.

  He adjusted his coat, pushed stubborn hair away from his brow, and strode down the walk to the street. An automatic look left, a check right, and he crossed over, angling toward the narrow path that would, if he had the strength, take him to the beach.

  No hurry, he cautioned; no hurry, Case, either you get there or you don’t.

  No hurry.

  * * * *

  He rested under a fat-bole evergreen whose lower branches had been stripped away, those remaining looking as gnarled as a man’s arthritic knuckles. There was no wind, just the sand and the tide marks and the roll of the surf.

  A sky too large and too high, too clear of clouds after such an abrupt and nasty storm.

  He could see the stone whales a hundred yards off to his left; to his right a tall dune that, he seemed to recall, had been much taller when he’d first arrived on the island. A pair of gulls strutting on the wet apron, wings out and legs dancing whenever a wave swept its foam toward them. Broken shells. The faint darkened rim that marked a long dead bonfire from a long forgotten party.

  He wanted to go out to the jetty, feel the ocean’s power beneath him, but he knew he wouldn’t make it. The sun was on its way down, the sawtooth shadow-line of the trees crawling toward the darkening water. So he leaned against the tree and listened to the sea.

  After a long time, he whispered, “I know what you want, but I can’t do it. You know I can’t do it.”

  The unbearable sadness of something never retrieved.

  He didn’t turn, didn’t start, when he heard cautious footsteps behind him, softly crackling over the dead leaves and needles that lay thick and thin on the ground.

  Even here, he thought; even here, I can’t be alone.

  Eventually a man came up beside him, barely reaching his shoulder, his oversize coat too thick for the weather, his hair unkempt beneath a pushed-back watch cap that looked as worn as his face.

  “You listening for them?” asked Dub Neely.

  “For what?” Casey said.

  The faint smell of liquor.

  Neely smacked his lips loudly. “They got me, you know.”

  Casey did look then, and looked down. The man’s shoes were wrapped and wrapped again with duct tape, but he could see dark stains on the bottom of the trousers, and when he took a step away from the trees onto the sand, dark stains spotting his bare ankles.

  “Looks like you walked through the briar patch.”

  Neely shook his head. “Them birds is what it was.” He looked over his shoulder, eyes rimmed red and pouched. When he smiled, there weren’t many teeth. “Them birds got me.”

  Casey didn’t understand and didn’t ask.

  “Dead birds,” Neely said, as if that would explain everything. “Walking bones, you know? Came right at me.” He lifted one foot a couple of inches off the ground. “Damn near bled me to death.”

  Casey nodded, tilted his head, pulled his lips briefly between his teeth so he wouldn’t smile.

  “The thing of it is,” Neely continued, facing the ocean, idly flicking something off a sleeve, “I wasn’t as surprised as I ought to have been once I realized what was happening. An astounding bit of nature gone hog wild, and it was, in its awful morbid way, rather fascinating. The prerogative of a drunk, Mr. Chisholm; being able to observe the impossible without losing his mind.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Damn straight.” Neely rolled his shoulders, smoothed his cap down into place with both palms. “Son of a bitch, you look at that?” He pointed toward the water. “Some fool, looks like he left a perfectly good can of beer out there. Idiots don’t know what they’re missing, you know what I mean? Ain’t got no sense the good Lord gave them, and what they do got they ain’t got a clue how to use it. Stupid bastards. Hell of a storm. Had to hide under somebody’s porch, man. Could’ve gotten pneumonia, something like that. Hell of a storm. The phrase, I believe, is gully-washer, right? No matter. A hell of a
storm.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask, shook it next to his ear to gauge its content, then twisted off the top and took a quick drink.

  “Hell of a storm, man. Walking bones. Damn near killed me, but I got away. Close thing, but I did get away.”

  He took another drink and put the flask away.

  “Weird shit, man. A perfectly good can of beer all by its lonesome.”

  Casey, saying nothing, pushed off the tree with his shoulder, put his hands into his pockets, and started down the trail toward home. The treetops had begun to blend with the sky, lowering it, and the tide on its way in had begun to snarl and roar. Considering the way weariness had begun to slip over him, it would be a good idea to get home before full dark.