A pause at the corner, no cars in any direction, and he crossed over, feeling the heat gathering in his cheeks again. His initial plan had been to confront the mayor directly, but Reed and John had calmed him enough to extract a promise that he’d take the step most others would first.
He swung into the sheriffs department, shoving the glass door open with a smack of his palm. Deputy Freck took one look at him and yelled, “Jesus Christ!” He leaped to his feet, got tangled in his chair, and stumbled backward, grabbing frantically for something to keep him from falling. Verna had turned to snap at him, but when she saw Casey her voice became a short-lived squeak.
“Is he in?” Casey asked, grateful for the chance to smile for a change.
“He’s ...” She waved vaguely. “Busy.”
“No, he’s not. But thanks anyway.” A grin as he pushed through the gate and headed for Oakman’s office.
“Stop, please,” Verna called after him.
A clatter and curse told him Freck had met his match in a wastebasket and had finally landed on the floor.
The smile was still there when he opened the door and stepped over the threshold, put up a cautionary hand to keep the startled sheriff in his seat, and stopped only when the desk got in his way.
“Two men,” he said. “The two men who killed Senior were seen going into the Town Hall. As far as I know, they’re still there. Get up, get over there, and put them in jail.”
“Now wait a minute,” Oakman said, shaking his head, his own hand up to hold off the giant who loomed over his desk. “I can’t just go into—”
“You can,” Casey said. “You will.”
“Sheriff?” Verna called from the other room. “Are you all right?”
“He’s fine,” Casey answered without turning around. “You are fine, aren’t you, Sheriff?”
The instant the man paled, Casey knew it was a lost cause. Oakman, however it was done, was too compromised to act. His voice softened, but his eyes didn’t. “It would be nice to have you with me when I pay my next call,” he said. “And just so you know,” he added, tapping the white collar with his finger, “this came after prison, not before. Sometimes, Sheriff, it works out that way.”
He left, saddened when he didn’t hear the man leave his chair, angered when he saw Freck back on his feet, hand on his holster. He glared, and Freck unsnapped the flap, but his hand shook so badly he couldn’t get it out of the way.
As he pushed back through the gate, he said, “Sorry, ma’am,” to Verna, who smiled automatically before she realized what she’d done and snapped the smile off.
Are you going to shoot? he thought as he headed for the door without pausing; come on, Deputy, are you going to shoot a priest in the back?
On the sidewalk, he took a deep gulp of refreshing cold air, slapped his hand against his thigh, and turned left, toward the Town Hall. Footsteps ran up behind him, and flanked him, and he said as he went in, “Keep them under your coats. I don’t want any shooting unless they shoot first.”
“Are you sure you’re a priest?” Lisse asked softly.
He laughed, a single explosion that filled the marble-floor lobby.
A single elevator at the far end, and an open staircase that spiraled gently all the way up; he took the stairs.
He reached the top long before the others, stepping into a wide, carpeted reception area. A bosomy woman in her fifties stood at a long narrow desk, a large purse in one hand.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said, “but the mayor’s in conference right now and can’t be disturbed.”
Casey glanced at the only door. “In there?”
“Yes, Father, but I told you, he’s busy.” Her eyes shifted from him to the others as they filed up the stairs behind him. “Now look, this is awfully irregular. You people—”
He leaned over her desk and, with a smile, pointed at the intercom. Flustered, she dropped the purse, bent over to pick it up, changed her mind, and dropped into her seat. “This is most irregular. I could get in trouble, you know, I really could.”
“Please,” he said.
A trembling finger pressed a button, lit a white bulb. “Mayor Cribbs?”
“God!” a tinny voice yelled. “Damnit, Milli, I told you I was busy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing fearfully at Casey, “but there’s a gentleman out here to see you. Three gentlemen, actually, and a... a lady.”
“She had to think about it?” Lisse muttered indignantly.
“I don’t care if the damn President is out there, Milli, tell him to get the hell—”
Casey reached out and gently pulled Mrs. Grummond’s hand away from the intercom. Then he picked up her purse and stepped away from the desk, holding the purse out—a clear suggestion that this would be a good time to leave for the day. She fussed and fluttered, but she didn’t refuse him, and he wished he could think of a way to take the terror from her eyes when Reed escorted her to the elevator and pushed the button for her.
“Milli!” the intercom voice snapped.
The elevator door opened.
“Milli, damnit, did you get rid of them?”
The elevator door closed, and Casey pushed the white light button: “No.”
He imagined the confusion in there as he crossed the room and took hold of the doorknob; he imagined as he tried to turn the knob that just about now would be the first stirring of concern. But with the door locked, he did the only thing he knew might work—he reared back and kicked the door just above the lock as he bellowed wordlessly.
The door splintered as it flew in, and one of the hinges snapped.
“Who the damn hell,” the mayor shouted from behind his desk, “do you think you are?”
Casey marched across the carpet, seeing Cutler off to the left, two men to his right. One wore a derby, the other a balmoral, and both wore long open topcoats that brushed across the tops of their shoes. Both reached into their coats as Casey swerved instantly toward them, ignoring the red-faced mayor, who had taken to pounding a fist on his desk as he demanded explanations at the top of his voice.
“Don’t,” Casey said to Stone and Lauder, who continued to draw their guns.
Too late.
His hands grabbed their throats and, still walking, shoved them into the bookcase. Lauder dropped his weapon immediately when his elbow struck the edge of a shelf; Stone, mouth twisted as he fought for a breath, grabbed Casey’s wrist with one hand while the other brought the gun up between them.
Too late.
Casey released the shorter man and grabbed Stone’s gun, twisting it so violently to the side that Stone’s knees buckled, and his yell had no force behind it—it came out a wheeze.
“Don’t,” Casey heard John warn from the doorway.
“Guns?” the mayor sputtered indignantly. “You’ve brought guns into this office? How—”
Casey backed up, and Stone had no choice but to follow, sagging to his knees, both hands now trying to remove the grip on his throat. Reed had already picked up Lauder’s gun; John remained in the doorway with Lisse just behind, hands in their pockets, no guns visible but the implication was clear.
“This is intolerable,” Cribbs said weakly. “Intolerable.”
“Sit,” Casey ordered.
The mayor looked to Cutler, and sat.
Casey opened his hand, and Stone fell to the floor, unconscious. Then he pressed his palms on the desk and felt no compunctions at all about using every trick in his book, from the voice to his face, to his size.
“These men killed Senior Raybourn.” A light slap on the desk that made the mayor flinch. “They nearly killed Junior.” Another slap, another flinch. “They tried to kill me.” He lifted his hand, and the mayor flinched. “They work for you.”
No sound but Lauder’s faint choking, gasping.
Casey watched, then, as Cribbs’s expression changed in small stages, from terror and outrage to a man freed from persecution, his deliverer before him. His eyes actually glittered
from a tear that formed in each.
“These men,” he said, glaring at Lauder, “these men do not work for me, although I can certainly see why you would think that.” A twitch of a smile, testing. “That bluster and thunder earlier? Upon your arrival? For them, sir, for them, so they wouldn’t kill us out of hand. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cutler? Isn’t that right?”
Cutler, who had positioned himself midway along the wall, nodded. “Damn right. Came in here waving guns and demanding who the hell knows what.” Courage regained, he stepped away from the wall. “And who the hell are all those people in my houses, Chisholm? You think you can run some kind of commune or something out there without my knowing about it?”
Casey ignored him. “A victim, Mr. Mayor?”
“Absolutely,” Cribbs said, nodding solemnly. “Mr. Cutler and I were preparing for the annual New Year’s Eve celebration, which he so generously funds each year, and—”
“You’re fired, Chisholm. You and your people get the hell off my property.”
Cribbs shook at finger at him. “Now, Norville, let’s not be too hasty here. The reverend has saved us from a terrible situation, and perhaps we should show him some charity, don’t you think?”
“Jesus, Jasper, what the hell—” And he jumped when Casey slapped the desk again and straightened, looked over to be sure Reed still had Lauder covered, then walked around toward the mayor.
Cribbs scrambled out of his chair, hands up in front of him. “Now listen, there’s no call—”
Casey grabbed him by the shirt, kicked his chair around, and shoved him into it. Then he waved a hand at the peacock-feather window. “Do you feel like God up here, Mr. Mayor?”
“Now really, that’s—”
Casey swung his head around. “Do you feel like the puppet master? The man who pulls the strings and makes people jump? Makes people ... die? Is that what you do up here, Mr. Mayor? Do you decide who lives and dies?”
Panic, and fear, as the mayor looked futilely to Cutler for help, looked back to the window, unable to meet Casey’s glare.
Casey shifted to stand behind him, hands gripping the top of the chair. Swinging it slowly, very slowly, side to side.
“A friend of mine,” he said, sounding a bit puzzled, “suggested that maybe you’re not in this alone, Mr. Mayor. Nor you, either, Cutler.” He leaned forward slightly, stretching his neck as if searching for something down on the street. “She suggested there’s someone else, someone who doesn’t live on Camoret, someone who... I don’t know quite how to put it.” He chuckled. “Made you an offer you can’t refuse?”
Cribbs’s hands fought with each other in his lap, but he kept his silence.
“The theory goes, Mr. Mayor, that—Reed, if Mr. Lauder moves again, be a gentleman and put a bullet in his brain?”
“Yes, sir, Reverend Chisholm,” Reed said.
Casey glanced over and smiled as Lauder, who had been carefully moving to sit on his heels, dropped back to the floor with a you-got-me smile. Stone groaned, but didn’t move.
“The theory goes, Mr. Mayor, that you and Cutler aren’t planning anything at all up at the north end. You’re just clearing the land, so to speak. Making a few bucks, socking some away, using the rest to invite people like these two to help you when somebody else gets too nosy.” He leaned over quickly, tilting the chair back so that Cribbs was forced to stare at him upside down. “Am I close, Jasper? Am I really close?”
“Son of a bitch, how did you know?” Cutler whispered. “How the goddamn hell did you know?”
Casey released the chair so it snapped forward and nearly dumped the mayor into the window. “Because, believe it or not,” he said, “they don’t care about you. Your friend and his partners. They don’t care about the island. They don’t care about the money.” He looked over his shoulder. “They’re after me, Cutler. And if they get me, nothing in this world is going to save you.”
* * * *
4
The tail end of twilight, the beginning of dusk, when streetlamps and headlamps glared, not glowed; when shadows had razor edges; when nothing was ever as close as it seemed.
The wind skated a leaf across the peacock window, and Cribbs darted from his chair as if scorched, stood panting at the desk corner as a hand and his lips tried to find a way to explain.
Casey wanted an explanation, but movement outside distracted him. A car pulled up in front of the Weekly building, the man behind the wheel keeping the engine running as two others left the vehicle in a hurry and ran into the office. Casey squinted, almost lifting a hand as if it could wipe away the dusk to let him see the car more clearly.
“Now listen,” Cribbs said, composure under control, “I think perhaps this can be—”
The Weekly door opened, and Casey nearly rose off the - floor.
“Damn!” he yelled as he saw Stump Teague and Billy Ray dragging Whittaker between them, each with a shotgun in one hand. “Damn!” he yelled again as he whirled to face Cutler. “You!” and he pointed. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”
Cutler could have done anything, could have reacted in any one of a hundred ways, but it was obvious he knew what Casey meant, and at the same time as his hands came up in a posture that claimed he knew nothing about anything ... he smirked.
Casey’s temper broke.
“John, get downstairs, they’re after Whittaker,” he ordered, and said to Cutler, pointing, “Don’t you dare move, little man, or I’ll crush you where you stand.”
Cribbs had moved over to the window, watching as the old man struggled with the Teagues. “My God,” he whispered. “My God.” And then, “Oh, no.”
Casey looked down.
Sheriff Oakman was at the curb in a half-crouch, his gun drawn. Casey couldn’t hear what he said, but from behind the wheel Cord pulled a weapon of his own and fired, dropping Oakman to his knees, firing back wildly. Almost at the same instant, a pickup roared up the street, Ronnie Hull standing in back with a rifle in her hand. She fired, and Billy Ray spun to one side, leaving Stump to handle the old man alone.
A car tire blew.
Stump clubbed Whittaker with the shotgun’s butt, spun it into his hands and fired at the onrushing vehicle just as Billy Ray, leaning against the window, brought his gun up and fired as well.
The windshield became spider-glass, and Ronnie snapped forward, tumbled backward, when the pickup slammed into the back of the parked car, lifting it off its rear wheels. When they came down, the truck’s hood was on the car’s trunk.
Someone fired from the pickup and Billy Ray went through the plate glass window.
A second car tire blew, and the rear window shattered.
Standing over Whittaker’s body, Stump pumped and fired again, pumped and fired, and Oakman fell back over his heels and lay still, arms outstretched, staring at the sky through a dark mask of blood.
Gunshots in swift succession sent Stump diving behind the car, Cord scrambling over the passenger to climb through the window and drop beside his brother.
John, Casey thought.
And Reed cried, “Reverend Chisholm!”
* * * *
He turned to see Lauder bring up a second gun and slam it against the boy’s wrist; the crack of the bone couldn’t have been any louder.
When Casey charged around the desk, Cutler was already at the door, had a hand out to shove Lisse aside, when he was shoved aside himself by Billy Freck, who charged in with weapon drawn.
“Down,” he screamed at Casey. “Get down, you son of a bitch.”
Casey didn’t stop.
Freck pulled the trigger as he moved, but the shot went over Casey’s shoulder and punched a small hole in the window. Before he could fire again, Casey grabbed his arm in both hands and spun him around with a roar.
Let him go as he staggered backward and lost his footing.
Watched the deputy fly over the desk as he landed on the floor.
Watched him hit the window with his back. Arms out to either side. Mouth
open in a silent scream as the window cracked. And he went through.
The scream wasn’t silent now, and it didn’t last very long.
* * * *
He couldn’t move.
He sat on the carpet and he couldn’t move as the wind stormed into the office, lifting papers and twisting them, spinning them, mixing them with dead leaves that dropped the mayor to the floor, cowering and whimpering.
Lauder went to his partner and helped him up by an elbow, his gun darting between Reed kneeling and holding his wrist, and Casey,
Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Page 38
