“I was hoping the birds would be gone by the time I went home. The surgeon’s already written my release for tomorrow.”
Nate lowered himself into a molded plastic chair. “You’re doing OK, then?” He glanced at his friend’s left leg encased in plaster, signatures scrolled over its white surface. Surgery to insert two pins would have kept Nate whining for weeks, but not Chet. “Sure you don’t want to wait until you can chase the nurses around the bed before you leave?”
“I wonder where they’re coming from?” Betsy mumbled.
Nate grinned. “The nurses? Want me to go ask for addresses?”
Betsy curled her nose at Nate, and then she turned to her husband. “Sorry, buddy, but no running for you for a while.”
“I can get addresses for later…”
Betsy stared at Nate in mock-anger. “Doc told Chet he can go home if he stays off his leg for another week before putting any weight on it.”
Chet didn’t like to lie around. He didn’t like to ask for help, either. The next seven days would be a battle of wills: husband versus wife.
Nate grinned. His bet was on Betsy.
“After a week, the doc will re-X-ray the bones, and then he can start walking a little bit at a time. But for now, its crutches.”
Chet’s head sank into his pillows. “You want her now?”
Nate held up his hands. “I think you need her more.”
“Knock, knock.” A chipper voice sounded from the door. “Supper’s here.” A woman dressed in a coral-colored uniform and sporting a white hairnet entered carrying a brown plastic tray.
Betsy rose from the recliner and took the tray from the lady’s hands. “I can help him.”
“Appreciate it, love. I got twenty more to deliver. Just let me know if you need anything, ya hear?” She disappeared out the door.
“Let’s see what you get tonight or if I’ll have to make another hamburger run.” She lifted the insulated lid. “Looks like pot roast.”
Nate’s stomach growled. “Smells good, bro.” Sad when hospital food smelled better than what was in his cupboards at home.
Betsy liberated a salad from the plastic wrap, took the paper lid off the iced tea, and buttered the roll.
“Lucky thing you have a servant-wife. I don’t see any fair maidens in my future dropping grapes into my mouth.”
A sugar packet flew past Nate’s head and hit the wall. “Wait until I get home,” Chet said. “I’ll have to beg for help. She’ll be too busy taking care of Chip to remember she has a helpless husband on the couch.”
Nate picked the packet off the floor and pitched it under his arm toward the bed. Chet intercepted and returned it, sending the packet back to the floor, where it was retrieved by Betsy and tossed into the trash.
“Really, boys.” She washed her hands at the sink across the room.
“Speaking of Chip, where is he?” Nate liked the boy. Mostly he avoided three-year-olds, but Chip was different. The kid was smart. One night, he had watched Chip make Lego dinosaurs that looked real enough to roar.
“He’s with my mom,” Betsy said.
“I miss the kid.” Nate glanced at Chet, knowing his friend missed the boy even more. Though adopted, everyone said Chip looked just like Chet, a fact that made Chet puff with pride. Someday, Nate would like to have a family, but that meant meeting the right girl. A face appeared in his mind‒the girl at the courthouse. He shook the memory off. Definitely not the right one.
A middle-aged man dressed in khakis and a blue shirt entered the room. “Looks like I got here at suppertime.”
Chet held out his hand. “Hey, Carl, come on in.”
Carl shook Chet’s hand and then turned. “How you been doing, Nate? The new paint on the teen’s Sunday school room looks nice, by the way.”
“Thanks. I plan to hose off the front porch before Sunday. The crows have made a mess of it.” He grimaced. “And I would be doing better at work if Chet would get off his lazy behind and come back.”
Carl turned to Betsy. “Linda told me to ask if you need anything. The girls can sit with Chip once they get home from school if you need them.”
“Thanks. My mom’s got Chip.”
“Word has it you’re going home tomorrow.” Carl raised his eyebrows. “Ladies of the church are planning on bringing a few meals.”
“Thanks, Carl,” Betsy murmured.
“Chet, you probably won’t make it to church on Sunday.”
“He isn’t going out of the house until he sees the doctor in a week.”
“I don’t need to ask you.” Carl turned to Nate. “When’s the last time you missed a Sunday?”
Chet laughed. “I think he lives there.”
“I don’t‒”
“Just glad you’re a godly man.” Carl stepped toward the door. “Linda probably has supper waiting.” He waved. “You be sure to call if you need anything.”
Nate got out of the molded chair. “I’m headed home, too.” He had planned to drive by the courthouse after leaving the hospital and see if the girl and blind man were still on the steps, but it was almost six; they were probably gone by now. Leaving the hospital with its recycled oxygen, Nate took a deep breath of good ol’ fresh air, replete with the scent of fast food. A semi rounded the corner, adding diesel fumes to his olfactory pleasure.
Reaching the parking lot and his truck, he stopped and groaned. White drippings lay splattered across the windshield. He shook a fist toward the sky. As irrational as it seemed, he knew the birds targeted his truck. Several crows watched him from the tops of parked cars. He never saw the birds eat. They never crowed. He never saw them do anything except get in his way.
Overwhelmed at work with his main help lying in the hospital, preoccupied because of a girl he didn’t even know, and crows that, quite honestly, creeped him out; life felt out of control.
6
Monday, May 20
From his place on the courthouse steps, it seemed to Charlie as though the world was ending. He rubbed his hands on his pant-legs while sirens sounded from all directions. Fragments of conversations from passersby reached him: angry words laced with confusion. His dry tongue worked back and forth in the gap between his teeth.
He had been right; the crows were the first clue. The black-winged creatures had gathered to watch. Now, more than ten days since he had sensed their arrival, grains of sand lay thin at the top of the proverbial hour-glass. The countdown was ending. He turned sightless eyes toward the direction Ruth would come, but it wasn’t time for her. Not yet. Urgency gripped him. Soon, his time with her would be over. He would have done all he could to help her, and this knowledge frightened him.
She had been excited for her trip to Columbia, but when he asked her about it afterward, her answers were evasive. For the past ten days, she had seemed edgy, not her usual high-spirited self. He pulled his brow together as he thought of her, so innocent yet head-strong. Strange how a southern girl could reach out to an old loner like him but be so insecure around others.
The sound of angry voices shot across the four lanes of asphalt. Footsteps on the sidewalk in front of him hesitated and stopped—a female most likely. Thin heels. Cars slowed. Muffled conversations drifted from across the street, from the old church. Chains? He tipped his head, straining to hear through the noise. Increased angry voices. Scuffling feet. Sirens. Doors slamming. More voices; more anger.
He lowered his head into his palms as the last grain of sand fell. The show was beginning, whether Ruth was prepared or not.
~*~
“I need you to go pick up supplies.” Harold Evans, leaning against his truck at the Miller Street site, worked his hand in and out of his pants pocket.
Nate waited, sensing the man had more to say.
The older man raised his chin toward the house. “Nice job finishing that roof, by the way.” Usually Mr. Evans spoke his mind, but today the boss seemed distracted.
Nate stifled a yawn. Eventually, dreams of the girl would stop, and
he would wake rested again.
A stream of cursing rolled from the house.
Nate looked toward the opening that would soon hold insulated windows. “Probably O’Reilly hit his thumb again. Sounds like his voice.”
Mr. Evans rubbed his jaw. “I don’t like the cussing. Calm the man down, or he may find himself without a job.”
Nate shifted his feet in the sandy soil. “Everyone’s a bit edgy today. Don’t see a storm coming; air’s heavy, though.” The sun stood west of midpoint in a cerulean blue sky. “The men feel it when the barometric pressure’s dropping.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the weather. Just some heavy air passing through.”
There might be nothing wrong with the weather, but something pressed against his shoulders like cement blocks loaded too heavy.
O’Reilly was a nice enough guy. He had a wife, a mortgage, and two kids. Came in drunk about once a month; nothing Nate couldn’t work around. He had already talked to O’Reilly about his drinking and temper. It would be a shame to lose a good worker because of habits.
Nate heaved a sigh. “I’ll talk to him about it again, boss.”
“Good. Good.” Mr. Evans continued to work his hand in and out of his pants pocket. It had been a long time since Nate had seen the man this antsy. Either something was up, or the boss felt the effects of the heavy air more than Nate and the men. Evans stared at the house. “With plumbers and electricians still working, there’s no sense in you starting the drywall. Most likely, you’ll just be in the way.”
Nate wiped the sweat off his forehead. Only the end of May and already it was blazing hot. How did the crows do it, sitting out in the sun hour after hour with those black feathers, not moving, not seeking shade? Just waiting. But waiting for what?
Mr. Evans cleared his throat. “Let’s be honest, Nate. I know you want a business of your own.” The boss gazed at the field beyond the house, seeming to look everywhere except at Nate. “You don’t need to be working for me. There’s a good head sitting atop your shoulders, and I think you could make a go of it. More than that, you have ethics.”
Nate managed a series of tight breaths. Was he being fired? His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth‒he couldn’t even ask. Had the boss been softening the blow by praising him for finishing the roof? Man, he needed this job. Nate pushed damp hair off his forehead. He had worked hard for Evans Construction‒for this?
“Just think about it. I don’t need an answer today.”
What, Evans was giving him a choice over being fired? Nate’s face reddened as he stifled the sharp words that filled his mouth.
“I’m thinking of retiring and selling the business. I can’t think of anyone I would rather turn it over to than you.”
Nate’s jaw fell slack as he stared.
Mr. Evans finally looked his way. “I’ll give you a good deal, but it’ll still cost you some money. I have over a hundred thousand in equipment alone.”
Nate choked out a throaty laugh. “How much money do you think I’ll need?” His mind raced. He had never considered buying out Mr. Evans. Most of his thoughts, while mowing grass at the church, or doing some other mindless job, centered on having to compete for customers with a man who had been a mentor to him. But now…could he do this? He had a small savings and a few matured bonds stashed in the dresser at home.
“We can talk about money later. I’m not ready to quote you a price, but check with the banks and see if you qualify for a business loan. I can provide a letter if they want.” Mr. Evans cleared his throat and spit on the sandy ground. “Glad to know you’re interested. Go on now; get at the list I gave you.”
Loose gravel spun as Nate pulled from the temporary driveway onto the paved road. He put a hand to his chest, willing his racing heart to stay put behind his ribs. His own business! But first, the errands Mr. Evans had given him: pick up a vanity and toilet, match the brick sample with the stone mason, and get a building permit for the Hill Avenue project. His mind leaped back to Mr. Evan’s news and euphoria bubbled again. His cheeks hurt from the stretch of his smile. Should he go to the bank first? Mr. Evans expected him to check on a loan during work time, didn’t he?
Jittery fingers thrummed on the steering wheel. Maybe pick up the building permit first, while he was somewhat clean. He’d be grimy before he left the stone mason’s, so he’d hit the bank while he was in town. The mystery woman wouldn’t be at the courthouse yet. He hadn’t been able to see her since the first unexpected meeting, but he couldn’t wait for her today.
Cars crawled along Main Street and Nate scowled over the delay. Heat shimmered off the blacktop. By mid-June the stickiness of the tar seeping from the pavement would cling to his shoes, flip onto the backs of his legs, and coat the bumper of his truck. In front of the courthouse people loitered in tight bunches on the sidewalk. Several media trucks sat empty. There must be a big case being tried today. He never listened to the news; too depressing. Two blocks further he found a parking spot. He jogged back to the courthouse.
The old man sat in his usual spot. “Afternoon,” Nate said as he gripped the man’s shoulder in passing.
“Wait. Please.”
Nate stopped. Impatient fingers tapped against his leg. “Something I can do for you?”
“Tell me. How many crows do you see?”
Nate groaned. He wanted to leave the man and his wandering mind, but civility held him in place. Any other time, and he would have asked the blind man about the girl who’d sat with him on the steps, but the urgency of his task pushed him forward. “I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe close to a hundred.” He took a step toward the building.
“More than yesterday?”
Crows lined the tops of most of the buildings and perched on the ornate fretwork and gabled balusters that had been nailed in place a century earlier. Electrical wires bowed under feathered weight. Greenish-white streaks marred Main Street’s brick buildings. Now that Nate thought about it, the town smelled odd. Moldy. “Yeah, I guess there’re more birds today.”
The man’s lips tightened. “Look across the street.”
First Street Church, Nate’s church, occupied the block opposite the courthouse. In times past, Main Street had been called First; the street had been renamed, following the trend of the day. The church had not bowed to tradition.
Nate widened his eyes. Then he squinted. A chain hung between the handles of the church’s two front doors, the end links secured with a padlock. Media personnel sporting cameras and microphones dotted the church’s grass like ravenous wolves ready for the feed. Nate’s heart lurched as he saw Pastor Clark, hands cuffed behind his back, being led toward one of the cruisers parked at the curb.
“What do you see?” Impatience edged the blind man’s voice.
“I see trouble!”
Nate bolted toward the street with the sound of blood roaring through his head. Weaving across four lanes of cars, he kept his gaze fixed on Pastor Clark. “Stop! Wait!” Reaching the opposite sidewalk, Nate glared at the two officers as breath huffed in tight streams from his mouth. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t interfere with police business, Nate.” The officer’s voice was low and angry. “Just get out of the way and let me do my job.” The badge on the man’s shirt identified him as Officer Turner, but to Nate, the officer was just Zachary, a kid a year ahead of him in high school and who played basketball, but mostly sat on the bench. The uniform gave Zach the respect he never earned on the court. Officer Zachary Turner had his hand on a gun‒or was it a taser?
Either way, Nate took a step back. “Pastor?”
“It’s a misunderstanding,” Greg said.
Pastor Clark had served at the First Street Church for the last ten years, and Nate had never seen the man look more beaten. His drooping mouth and quiet voice caused Nate’s muscles to tighten even more. Pastor Clark had baptized Nate and most of his buddies. As Nate watched, Zachary put a beefy hand on Pastor Clark’s head and guided the pastor into the backseat of
the car. The cruiser pulled away from the curb. Pastor Clark focused straight ahead as media crews scrambled for a better angle.
Nate stared until all that was left was the wailing of the fading siren that mimicked the angst inside his own body.
“You must know the priest.”
Startled, Nate turned to find a woman dressed in a navy skirt and white silk blouse. A younger man stood behind her, his long hair pulled back at the base of his head. Sweat stained the underarms of his flannel shirt—obviously dressed wrong for the weather. The man shifted a camera to his shoulder as the woman thrust a microphone toward Nate’s face. “Do you know what’s happening here? What can you tell me about the arrest of the priest?”
“He’s not a priest,” Nate said through clenched teeth. “He’s our minister.” Nate felt like he was one of the colored chips inside a kaleidoscope, and someone was turning the handle, changing the shapes. None of this made sense. The church locked? His pastor hauled away by Zach? Nate stared hard into the woman’s eyes. Brown, and thickly lined in black. Green eye shadow. “Get out of my face before I say something I’ll regret.”
Breathing heavily, hands balled into fists, he turned toward the church, his gaze pulled to the chained doors. The whole scene felt unimaginable, like a script from a movie, or something that would happen in the Middle East. This was America, for goodness sake.
Two policemen rounded the side of the church building. Nate darted up the cement walkway and grabbed one of the officers by the arm. “Can you tell me‒-”
In less time than it took to blink, Nate found himself on the ground jerking in pain, a gun pointed at his head, and four cameras, lights blinking, recording what would become that night’s news.
~*~
Nate hobbled past the blind man the second time in an hour. This time he didn’t stop to speak nor to touch the man’s shoulder in civil greeting. Fire raged through Nate’s body, igniting a depth of anger he never knew possible. He reached the mayor’s suite.
Light of Logan Page 4
