Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04]

by Charles L. Grant

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded, her hands instantly going to her hair. “So it’s cut. So it looks like ... it looks awful. It’ll grow back.”

  “Wasn’t even thinking of it.”

  “Yeah, he was,” Reed said from his other side. “I could hear it.”

  Casey’s elbow snapped him in the ribs, and he grunted, bent over, hands on his stomach.

  “I don’t know, Reverend Chisholm,” he managed between gasps. “I don’t think you’ve changed all that much.”

  Oh, my boy, he thought; you have no idea.

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, the trees’ shadows drawing over them in regular sweeps, a disturbing strobe effect that had John squinting until Lisse, with a sigh, pulled down his visor for him.

  “See what I mean?” she said to Cora. “Like it says, you can’t live with ‘em, and you can’t damn shoot ‘em.”

  John grumbled, and made a deliberately sharp turn in order to park in front of his place. There were protests, laughter, and Casey, the last one out, was about to ask someone to wake him up in a couple of hours, when he saw Lyman Baylor waiting on the porch.

  The others hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “It’s all right. If you feel like it, why don’t you visit the beach for a while. Good stuff out there if you know where to look. Reed, that’s the trail over there. You can lead.”

  “I thought you weren’t a counselor anymore.”

  He gave him a look; Reed backed off.

  “Okay, okay, but I’m getting a warmer coat.”

  Casey walked away then, letting them sort it out themselves. Lyman lifted a hand in greeting as Casey came around the hedge, but Casey didn’t like the expression on his face.

  This, he thought as he forced himself to smile, is not going to be good.

  * * * *

  4

  The cottage just off Landward Avenue hadn’t been occupied for a number of months. It smelled musty, damp, and of the sea, faint echoes of furniture polish and perfume and something Kirkland Stone couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Not that it mattered.

  He wouldn’t be here all that long.

  He sat at the kitchen table which had been draped with a lint-free white cloth. His leather gloves had been exchanged for white cotton ones, his suit jacket was off, his sleeves meticulously folded up to the elbows.

  Opposite him, Dutch Lauder stared glumly at the pile in the center of the table—springs, grips, barrels, slides, the field-stripped components of two revolvers and two pistols all gathered into a jumble. He had been through this before any number of times, but he still didn’t like it. It made him feel as if Stone didn’t trust his ability to do what was necessary—either here, or in the field.

  “This,” he said, pulling on his white gloves, “is an awful lot of stuff for an old black guy with a retard for a kid.”

  Stone flashed a humorless smile. His long face was severely pocked from cheek to cheek, the edges of each scar smoothed over the years by washing and shaving and a habitual rubbing that often brought people’s attention to the condition—which usually led to a chastisement, either from his fists or his guns. His hairline had receded into a prominent widow’s peak; there was, somewhat incongruously, a large dimple in his chin.

  “Dutch,” he said, “that old black guy has a shotgun, and I’m told he’s quite good with it. The son is in his late thirties, early forties, and despite his apparent mental disability, I would not discount his ability to assist his father in time of need.”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, it’s still a lot of firepower.”

  Stone smiled again. “I like the noise.”

  Lauder shrugged—whatever turns you on.

  “Time,” Stone said suddenly, and their hands moved to reassemble the weapons.

  “So,” Stone said conversationally, “what do you think of artificial turf?”

  “I think it’s a joke. Guys getting hurt more on that than on real grass, the owners don’t give a damn, they got insurance, and the fake stuffs easier to keep up.”

  “Convenience, my friend, is a virtue at times.”

  “Tell that to the linebacker who keeps spraining his toes, can’t get a start on the guy with the ball. Next thing he knows, he’s traded because he can’t get the job done.”

  “A fate that comes to us all, Dutch.”

  “That a threat?”

  “I never threaten, you know that. I act”

  “Then act this,” Lauder said, grinning and pointing a Glock at a point not far from the top of Stone’s head. “Win again.” Until he looked down and saw a Glock and a Smith & Wesson pointing at his gut.

  “Shit.” He shook his head in admiration. “Man, you’re good.”

  “Yes, we are, my old friend. Yes, we are.” Slowly he took his hands off the weapons and pushed his chair away, from the table. As he peeled off his white gloves, he said, “So. Who gets the old man and who gets the son?”

  * * * *

  5

  Casey stopped at the foot of the porch steps. To go up, to get on the porch would be an implicit invitation he did not want to extend. He did not want to be rude to the young minister, yet neither did he want the man to feel—

  “Good afternoon, Father Chisholm.”

  Casey closed his eyes briefly.

  It was out.

  “Not ‘Father,’” he corrected tonelessly. “You’ve probably gathered I’m not in the game anymore.”

  Reverend Baylor gave no indication of either his approval or condemnation. He also seemed to understand what was expected of him, and with a disappointed glance at the door, he left the porch. He did not, however, take all the steps down. He stopped when he was at eye level, and Casey almost smiled.

  Not bad, he thought; a position of strength. Or at least equal strength.

  “You’ll have to admit,” the young cleric said, “that you must understand my curiosity.”

  “Sure.”

  “But...” Baylor smiled ruefully. “But that’s all I’m going to get, isn’t it.”

  “No offense, Reverend Baylor, but it’s really none of your concern.”

  “I would argue that, you know. And please, call me Lyman. Or Ly.”

  Casey did smile then. “Probably. Won’t do you any good, though.”

  Baylor glanced over Casey’s shoulder. “It must have been a great tragedy, Maple Landing.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “It would be a sore test for any of us.”

  Casey sniffed, kept the smile. “You live on an island, Lyman. You should know better than to fish with a harpoon.”

  Baylor laughed and nodded. “I’m still working on that particular skill.”

  Casey shifted so that he stood sideways to the man, facing down the road. “From what I’ve seen, you do very well. They like you here. A lot.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Fishing again?”

  “No. A little daily prayer.”

  Casey glanced at him, looked away, tucked a hand into his hip pocket, and cocked a hip to shift his weight. “I’m about to take a nap, Lyman. I’ve been moving all day, and I’m still not a hundred percent.”

  “Forgive me.” But Baylor didn’t move out of the way. “And forgive me again ... Casey? ... but I can’t just leave without knowing something. I’ve been trying, you know. Ever since I found out, and since your... your injuries, I’ve been trying to understand why someone like you would deliberately turn his back on—”

  “Stop,” Casey ordered harshly. “Before you say anything we’ll both regret, Lyman, please stop.” A slow deep breath, a measured exhalation. “All I will tell you, all you’re really entitled to know and I’m not so sure about that, is that I have not turned my back. Not on what you think, at least.” He turned his head slowly. “There are things, Lyman, you—”

  “Actually, I think I do know,” Baylor answered, slipping a hand into a pocket, his gaze not leaving Casey’s face. “How could I be what I am and not at least suspect? I’m
not sure it’s true, but I’m not entirely blind.” A hint of a smile. “I do have to live in this world as well, Casey. I turn on the TV once in a while. I read the newspapers.”

  Casey wanted to laugh, knew he would sound too bitter. “At the service,” he said, being careful with his words. “At Thanksgiving, I didn’t notice you sounding like Paul Revere.”

  “There are plenty of those folks out there already. No one’s listening, or not many anyway, but they’re out there. I... think it’s too late for him anyway. The British have already landed, am I right?”

  Casey said nothing.

  “If... Casey, look, I have my work. You more than anyone know what that means. I have, not to be too mawkish or old-fashioned about it, a duty, an Obligation to protect my flock from the ... from whatever’s coming. If I can protect them, that is. Somehow.” He paused. “Can I?”

  Casey kept silent.

  Lyman came off the steps, slowly, head down in defeat. “If I could just know—”

  “You can’t know,” Casey said, almost snarling.

  “Of course, I can’t know,” Lyman retorted loudly, showing temper for the first time. “How can I know? I’ve been here, not up there in Maple Landing. I’ve been fighting battles here against men whose pockets are being lined with money and the lives of some very good people. I haven’t seen what you’ve seen, and I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

  “No,” Casey agreed, “you can’t.”

  “But I’ve heard the horses, Casey.”

  Casey watched as the minister stopped in front of him, eyes narrow with anguish and a shadow of fear. “Kitra has, too. There are others.” He studied Casey’s face. “Who are you, Casey? Why are you here?”

  Impassive, Casey returned the man’s gaze until Lyman took a step back, another signal of defeat, and started for the road. At the hedge he paused.

  “Tell you something, Casey,” he said. “You’ve had a lot more experience at this pastor thing than I have, I guess. But I think I know something you don’t.”

  “Good afternoon, Reverend Baylor.” He took the first step up to the porch. “I’m late for my nap.”

  “You can stop going to church, and you can put away the clothes, the collar, maybe you can even stop praying.”

  He reached the porch, reached for the doorknob to let himself in the house.

  Lyman spoke louder: “But you can never stop being what you are, Reverend Chisholm. God help you, this is one job from which you can never retire.”

  * * * *

  Casey stood in the hall and stared into the storeroom, one hand in a tight fist at his side.

  As he watched, the closet door opened.

  Just a little.

  But it opened.

  Bed, he ordered silently; forget it, go to bed.

  He did, but it took a long time before his eyes stayed closed.

  And when they did, he, saw a darkness that had nothing to do with the sleeping, a woman not much older than he with hair in easy waves and angel-wing bangs and eyes that looked right at him and knew him and fluttered closed, a spiral of lights spinning on a crimson axis, a church that stood among winking steaming embers, a brown hillside, a brown sky, the darkness again more like the dark in a vast lightless room than the dark where sleep usually held him and rocked him and took him away.

  In his sleep he rolled onto his back.

  In his sleep the closet door opened wider.

  * * * *

  6

  Senior stood in his kitchen and looked around, shaking his head with a smile. His son, home from work early, had decided he would make his daddy a late supper, something Senior usually threw together himself. The mess that surrounded him was testament to the effort, a monument to the meal that was never made, because Junior got too frustrated, had a tantrum, and threw things.

  Mostly, it was flour.

  From the doorway: “It was supposed to be a cake.”

  Senior laughed. “Hell of a cake now.”,

  Junior took the cue and laughed himself, went to the closet next to the basement stairs and took out a broom. “I can clean now, okay?”

  “You know, boy, I think this gonna take both of us all night.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Well, I am. Lots of folks drinking tonight, they kept me on my toes.” With a foot he shoved aside an empty egg carton; at least the eggs were in a bowl, as yet unbroken. “Maybe we just tend to the floor, leave the rest till the morning.”

  Junior nodded agreeably. “Am I in trouble?”

  “A little, I think.”

  His son’s lips pursed in a rebellious pout. “Not my fault.”

  Senior laughed again. “Then who did this, boy? Some ghost?”

  “I did,” Junior answered. “It’s not my fault you were late. If you came home on time, I wouldn’t be in trouble.”

  “Slower, boy,” Senior said as a cloud of flour billowed ahead of the broom. “Don’t rush it, nudge it.”

  He watched his son work the broom more carefully, nodded, and ordered his aching back to wait for a while, until he had picked up the silverware scattered across the floor, a handful of cartons, some napkins he thought he had tossed out months ago. He rolled his eyes at an empty cereal carton, grunted as he held onto the table and reached under for the small tray he used to hold the salt and pepper shakers.

  When he straightened, massaging his side with one hand, he glanced at the wall clock and groaned aloud.

  “Daddy, you okay?”

  “Fine, Junior, keep working. Just later than I figured.”

  Almost midnight. Probably some after, the way that old clock ran. This was one of those times when he was glad he didn’t have a job that required him to get up bright and early. He was already dog-tired; by the time this mess was gone, he’d be ready for an early grave.

  From the living room he heard music, a radio station he picked up once in a while that played real music, not that hip-hop rock ‘n’ rock, talking-without-singing crap supposed to pass for black music. This was real music. The Duke. The Count. Bessie and Billie. Billie singing now, and it amused him to notice Junior sweeping in time with the song.

  He almost didn’t hear the knock on the door.

  * * * *

  Reed stood shivering on the porch. “He’s gonna be ticked.”

  Cora peered through the living room window. “I don’t see him.”

  “He was only supposed to sleep for a couple of hours.”

  “I heard you the first time, an hour ago, Reed.” She opened the door, stepped quietly in. “Don’t sweat it, okay?”

  Reed nodded, but he didn’t look very convinced.

  * * * *

  John sat in the living room, television on, sound low, only a single lamp burning on the end table beside him. He heard Lisse before he saw her.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said as she wandered sleepily into the room.

  She squinted at the screen. “So you’d rather watch people blowing each other up than lie in bed with me?”

  He would have said no, but she would have asked if he didn’t then care about what was happening in the world, and he would have had to look a long way up from the bottom of the ditch he hadn’t known he was digging.

  “Sorry.” He pointed. “Seems some hotheads launched a couple of missiles into India.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “No response yet.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  * * * *

  Senior moved to the kitchen door, frowning, trying to listen over Billie’s lament, another bad man snaking into her life. Maybe he was mistaken. Might have been the wind, except, he thought, there was no wind. Least none that mattered.

  The radio switched Billie off, put Marty Robbins on, and Senior glared at it, shook his head in disgust. Singing about Texas when poor Billie’s got the blues. Some kind of sacrilege, that’s what it was; some kind of goddamn cowboy sacrilege.

  “Almost done, Daddy.”

/>   “That’s good, boy. That’s good.”

  This time he heard it, and he checked the clock again.