Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04]

by Charles L. Grant

  Oakman said, “So unarmed, you ran straight into a gun battle.”,

  “By the time I reached the yard, it was over.”

  “Until they started shooting at you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t know them.”

  “Nope.”

  “Never saw them before in your life.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “So what you’re saying is, two men, who were probably professionals by the sound of it, came fully armed to the house of an old man and his retarded son, shot them and the place up, you were on the scene in seconds, and you have no idea what was going down here.”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “Don’t go away, I’ll be back.”

  * * * *

  Sometime during the interminable interrogations, the murmur of deputies photographing the rooms and taking measurements, Casey looked up and saw Reed and Cora on the porch. He walked over to the open living room window and said, “Thanks, guys. That was quick.”

  “For what?” Reed said.

  “For getting the sheriff.”

  “We never called anyone.”

  “What?”

  Reed looked to Cora. “John was already out of his house, we didn’t have the car keys.” He shrugged. “Someone else must have done it when they heard all the shooting.”

  * * * *

  He turned to Beatrice and said, “Who are you?”

  “Later,” she said, smoothing the jacket over his shoulders. “I think you’re a little busy right now.”

  * * * *

  Lisse knelt in front of him, lowered her head, lowered her voice. “I thought he was going to shoot you,” she said, a quick glance indicating Freck.

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Casey, I saw him go in the house, and if those men hadn’t been here, I swear he would have killed you.”

  * * * *

  John, already questioned by Oakman but told to stick around, hunkered down in front of him, put a hand on his knee. “You okay?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. And what the hell are you doing with guns?”

  “We’ve been on the road a long time, Casey. You don’t travel like that, through places we’ve been, without protection, believe me.”

  “Well... thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “This’ll sound awful, but I wish you’d gotten one. For the sheriff, anyway.”

  John grinned. “I carry the gun, Case. That doesn’t mean I can use it.”

  * * * *

  Oakman flipped his notepad open again. “They said you obstructed the medics’ attempts to revive Junior.”

  “I was trying to help.”

  “They said you weren’t doing anything.”

  “I was ... I was praying.”

  Freck shifted the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Oh, that’s right. They say you’re a preacher. What were you trying to do, do one of them TV evangelist things? Bring him back from the dead or something?”

  “I was praying,” he repeated flatly.

  “Man, can you beat it?” Freck laughed snidely. “Ex-con and preacher, a hell of a combination. What did you do in prison, Chisholm, pray for their souls while they lined up in the shower and bent you over and—”

  Casey half rose, and the deputy’s hand went immediately to his gun. Beatrice grabbed his arm; the sheriff didn’t move.

  “You got here awfully fast,” Casey said to Oakman.

  “We pride ourselves on quick responses around here,” the sheriff told him. “Now let’s go over this again.”

  “I’ve already told you four or five times.”

  “Then tell me a sixth. Make me happy, Chisholm. Tell me again how you managed not to get shot when two guys, who were professionals, were firing four guns right at you.”

  * * * *

  “You got a license for those weapons?” Freck asked Bannock.

  John nodded.

  “Let’s see it.”

  John opened his wallet and pulled out two pieces of tightly folded paper, handed them over, and watched as Freck took them to the nearest lamp and studied them carefully.

  “These are Illinois. I don’t think they’re good in Georgia.”

  “Trust me, Deputy, they’re good anywhere.”

  “You’re a friend of his,” Freck answered disdainfully. “I don’t trust you at all.”

  * * * *

  “He thinks I’m involved,” Casey said in stunned disbelief.

  “Yes, it does sound like that, doesn’t it,” Beatrice answered.

  “I’m not.”

  “I know.”

  “Who are you?”

  * * * *

  The sheriff flipped his notepad shut and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Go home, Chisholm. Stay there. Have your friend bring you to the office first thing in the morning. I want your statement, a description of the men and the car, and a damn good reason why I shouldn’t hold you.”

  Casey nodded, looked up. “You know, you guys came so fast, I’m surprised you didn’t see that car yourself.”

  Oakman adjusted his hat. “Lots of side streets between here and there. Get up, get out of here, we have work to do.”

  A pause before Casey rose. The jacket slipped off his shoulders and he caught it in one hand before it hit the floor. He looked around at what was left of Senior’s house and, as he passed Oakman, he leaned over and said quietly, “I hope this was worth it, Sheriff. I really hope this was worth it.”

  Oakman said nothing, but Casey saw the look in his eyes, the abrupt intake of air.

  He brushed by Freck, whose hand went instinctively for his weapon again.

  Casey stopped. Stared out the front door. Didn’t turn his head when he said, “That’s three times, Deputy. How many chances did they give you before they get someone else to do it right?”

  He did look then. Not a smile. Not a blink.

  Freck, sneer still in place, tried to stare him down, couldn’t and looked away.

  Once outside, Beatrice said, “It seems, Reverend Chisholm, you can be a very scary person.”

  His smile was brief. “So I’m told, Miz Harp. So I’m told.” Then he looked down at her and said, “Who are you?”

  * * * *

  2

  Stone sat at the kitchen table, his shirt off, a bandage wrapped tightly around his upper left arm. “What do you think, Mr. Lauder?”

  Lauder, rinsing blood off his hands at the sink, shrugged. “I think we got ‘em. Not the other guy, though.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” He rubbed absently below the bandage. “I’m also thinking I am not happy. Messy. It was very messy.”

  “Not our best,” Lauder agreed.

  “Far from it.”

  “We didn’t count on the effing cavalry.”

  “No one does, Dutch. No one does.”

  Lauder turned off the water, dried his hands on a small towel.

  Stone lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling. “I don’t like loose ends.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Storm coming, you know.”

  “I heard. One of those winter jobs.”

  “Yes. So, I’m thinking then that perhaps we ought not to leave as planned.”

  Lauder smiled, stroked his mustache.

  “I’m wondering if our employers would mind if we took care of those loose ends.”

  “Screw ‘em,” Lauder said.

  Stone smiled. “Thank you, Dutch. My thoughts exactly.”

  * * * *

  3

  Mayor Cribbs stared at the ceiling, trying to keep his mind from running off the rails. Beside him, Mary Gwen slept contentedly, snoring lightly, her right hand lying on his thigh. He wanted to go down to the small office he kept in the house, but if he did, she’d wake up, and Lord, that woman was insatiable. Better he remain where he was, figure things out, deal with them in the morning.

  The Raybourns were as good as dead; Chisholm was still alive.<
br />
  Cutler’s call had been quick and furious, and with Mary Gwen lying right there, Cribbs had no opportunity to calm him down, get him to see the good sides.

  And that was his problem as he stared at the ceiling— trying to find the good sides.

  Of which, he suddenly decided, there were quite a few.

  He smiled.

  After all, they still had until Friday, and it was only some godawful hour Tuesday morning. A lot could happen in four days. Long as everyone kept cool, a whole lot could happen.

  * * * *

  4

  Casey paused at the foot of the stairs.

  There were people in the front room who had saved his life tonight, people in the front room he had never seen before. For nearly an hour after they’d returned, there had been excited chatter amid cautious introductions, but when the inevitable lull arrived, he could think of nothing he wanted better than to sleep, wake up, and find himself alone and life returned to what he had redefined as normal.

  He wondered who the woman with the British accent was, the woman who wore the veil, the two children; he couldn’t stop thinking about tonight, all the blood and the smell of gunpowder and Senior begging him to help his son and Freck and the sheriff and ... Junior.

  “In the morning,” he said, and climbed the stairs, went straight to his room, and fell onto the bed. A few minutes later, without sitting up, he undressed, grunting, swearing, finally pulling the covers up to his chest.

  Staring at the ceiling.

  Blinking once, and it was daylight, and Lisse was in the doorway. “Time to go.”

  If he slept, he didn’t feel like it; if his brain was in reasonable working order, it didn’t feel like it.

  It was difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, a chore to move, and impossible to sort through all the images and voices that clamored for attention in his mind, every one of them demanding a decision of some kind, but he didn’t know what it was and didn’t want to know.

  What he knew was, he ate something that might have been a quick breakfast, allowed Bannock and Lisse to take him to the sheriff’s department, where he was questioned again in the presence of a uniformed woman who took his statement down, typed it up, and waited for him to sign it.

  There were no further accusations of complicity, or, if there were, he didn’t catch them; evidently the gunmen had not yet been found and were assumed to have left the island.

  What he knew was, Billy Freck was nowhere around, and Vale Oakman refused to look him in the eye.

  What he knew was, Whittaker Hull tried to interview him on the street, and he had been curt, almost rude, giving gruff one-word answers that left the editor frustrated and disappointed, unable to think of ways to change Casey’s mind.

  What he knew was, something had changed.

  * * * *

  5

  When he returned home and climbed stiffly out of the car, he saw two girls on the porch. They watched him for a moment, then ran inside. He put a hand to his eyes as if shading them. He propped his forearms on the roof of the car, hands clasped, and told John and Lisse to go ahead, he’d only be a minute. When they were gone, he studied the simple house and saw nothing special there, checked the sky and saw nothing of the storm that was on its way; he spread his hands on the roof and felt the cool metal, lowered his shoulders and felt the cool breeze tuck in under his collar; he stared blindly at the thorned hedge and with an effort shunted aside all the voices and the questions.

  A pale face in the window, made more so through the porch screen.

  When it vanished, he leaned back, let his arms fall to his side, let his legs carry him up. the walk to the front door.

  Easy, isn’t it, Chisholm, he thought as he went in; once you figure it out, everything else is easy.

  What he had figured out was what had changed, but there was nothing easy about it at all.

  * * * *

  He paused at the foot of the stairs and said, “I have to do something. Come or not, I don’t care,” before taking the steps two at a time and hurrying into the bedroom. He didn’t permit himself to think—he took a sweater from the dresser and pulled it on, returned downstairs to grab an old denim jacket from the hall closet. And left without saying a word. Halfway to the beach he heard them following, not voices but footsteps crushing dead leaves, scuffling sand, kicking pebbles. He didn’t look back; it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. He kept his gaze straight ahead, kept his mind as blank as he possibly could, and when he left the trees behind, he headed straight for the jetty.

  A cold wind slapped his face, forced him to tighten his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. With arms out for balance, he climbed awkwardly over the rocks, slipping only a few times, going down once on his knees and hissing at the pain. By the time he reached the end, one hundred yards from the beach, the jacket was speckled damp, droplets of seawater shone in his hair.

  He pulled his collar up, and stood on the last boulder, legs apart, braced against the thunder that trembled beneath him.

  “All right,” he whispered. “All right.”

  no sign, case

  Rhythmic explosions from twenty feet below as the cold December sea tore itself apart against the uneven boulders. His hands burrowed into his pockets, only once in a long while slipping away to clear the cold spray that dripped from his face. With no hat for protection his hair ducked and twisted in the wind.

  no sign, case; there won’t be a sign and you know it

  He faced the horizon and looked at the water and saw nothing but waves rolling steadily toward him. Rising as if taking his measure, falling as if needing less distance before they could rise again, and crest, and drive him at last into the slick and jagged brown-black stone.

  No clouds.

  Distant sun.

  No gulls on the currents, scolding him, warning.

  He stood for an hour, waiting.

  He stood for two hours, waiting.

  Only the sea, and the sky, and the thunder of the waves, the explosions, the mist, and the ragged hasp of his own breathing.

  Finally there was a long deep breath, a long and slow and shuddering exhalation while his eyes closed and his shoulders slumped and his lips moved in a silent prayer he feared wouldn’t be answered.

  no sign, case; no sign.

  it’s just you, and now you know it

  * * * *

  He raised his head slowly to face the horizon again, and for a brief moment, a flicker of an eyelid, the waves rolled instead of crested, the thunder died, and he was alone despite the people who were on the beach behind him.

  “All right,” he said aloud, and nodded. And sighed. “All right.”

  A brush of his hands over his jacket, and he made his way back to the beach. The others had already left, he could hear them ahead on the path, whispers now and muted speculation. He reached for a pine branch and missed it, reached for another and closed his fingers around it, pulling the needles off, scattering them on the ground.

  Midway was empty when he reached it.

  The cold wind had softened, blocked by the woodland, warmed by the sun.

  He shrugged off his jacket as he entered the house, dropped it over the newel post before walking into the living room. He stood in front of the window, hands behind his back. Lisse, John, and the British woman were on the couch; the woman with the veil sat in the armchair, the two girls flanking her. Cora sat on the floor at John’s feet. Reed looked around, hurried into the kitchen, and brought back a towel, and a chair which he set in front of Casey.

  “You’re scaring the kids,” he whispered. “It’d be better if you sat, you know?”

  Casey stared at him, finally understood, and nodded. Once he was seated, passing the towel over his hair and face, and Reed was on the floor beside Cora, he looked at Beatrice Harp and said, gently, “Tell me.”

  And she did, saying, “His name was Trey Falkirk, and unlike you, he didn’t make it.”

  * * * *

  When the tellin
g was over, he leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs, hands loosely clasped between his knees. He stared at the floor for a while, glanced up only when Cora got to her feet and left the room, trying to be as quiet as she could. Then he turned his attention to Jude Levin and her daughters.