Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01]

by Charles L. Grant

  He grabbed the nearest one, the largest one, with a roar that froze half the city, picked the kid up by his leather lapels and carried him easily to the corner.

  And held him there, two feet off the ground, until a cruiser came by and took the kid away.

  They told him later he hadn’t said a word.

  The cops told him later the kid had begged them to lock him up, to save him from the giant.

  There is great violence within you, the bishop had said, speaking to him in his office once the incident was over and the meeting had broken for the night.

  Casey had apologized; the bishop knew the whole story.

  Funny, the old man had said, beringed fingers tented beneath his chin, sometimes I think you‘re closer to Him than most of those prigs out there. But there’s great violence in there, son. It’s a frightening thing.

  Casey agreed, and wondered what Episcopalians did with their bad seeds—excommunicated them, banished them, scourged them in print and drove them back to civilian life, Bible tucked between their tails?

  So, Case, how would you like to live in the woods for a while?

  Casey had accepted readily, gratefully, to escape the dreams and the politics and the perfect-haired ladies and unctuous dark-suited men who traded in preachers the way they traded in old cars, to get back to the kind of place where he had spent most of his life.

  Until tonight, so far so good.

  Good grief, don’t worry about it, he told himself as he crushed the cigarette out on the seat beside him; it’s the damn heat, boy. It would drive a saint crazy.

  A bird sang briefly, in a tree he couldn’t see in the yard.

  Sleep, he decided, or you’ll be a zombie all week.

  He laughed, shook his head, and thought of the kids, his kids, and that made him laugh again, all the way to his bed.

  * * * *

  3

  1

  T

  here was a routine, and it seldom varied:

  Casey unlocked the church’s front doors, switched on the air-conditioning, set it to low, then propped open the doors to the sanctuary and said, “Good morning, Lord.”

  Sunlight on the pews and altar, on the brass cross, tinted light from the stained glass reminding him, for no particular reason, of a calliope’s music, and every so often a wasp or bee bumping angrily against the ceiling or one of the panes.

  Every day of the week.

  “A lousy day,” he said amiably, moving down the center aisle, hands in his pockets. He wore black—jeans and a loose, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up twice—because it was expected of him; he also wore it because it was easy. A blind man could dress this way and not worry about anything not matching. But he only wore the collar on Sundays and whenever he took Communion to the hospital and the shut-ins. He hated that thing. It was like a starched noose. On the other hand, he could be a Presbyterian and have to wear a stupid tie.

  “Too hot again; are You maybe thinking about sending some rain soon? The creek’s near dry, and Your little guys in the woods sure could use some water. A long drink about now would spare them a lot of misery.” He sniffed, and rubbed his chin, coughed into his fist. “A lot of dying out there, Lord. And the birds aren’t the only ones going crazy from the heat.”

  An automatic check of the pews, the hymnals in their slots, noting worn spots on the aisle carpet, a few places where plaster had to be replaced on the walls.

  “Speaking of crazy, do You have any ideas for me? Like who was fooling around in here last night?”

  A palm brushed across the altar rail as he made his way toward his office.

  It was a small room, just large enough for a wardrobe, desk, two easy chairs, a filing cabinet, and a wall-long bookcase. A single window overlooked the yard in back and, beyond it, the graveyard, with headstones that, on occasion, were dated before the middle of the last century. A door to the outside seldom used. When he was sure nothing had been disturbed, he sat at the desk, opened the center drawer on the left, and pulled out a Bible.

  The cover was pebbled black leather, the pages onionskin, and he opened it carefully. It was his first Bible, the one his mother had given him, the one that had taken its time showing him what he was supposed to do with his life, his size, that voice of his. It was the one used for his ordination, and when he had buried his mother on an autumn hillside in Tennessee five years ago. King James. He didn’t care about the scholars or the accuracy or the bringing of his church into whatever century they claimed it was these days; he cared about the poetry, and about the comfort it brought to those who needed to hear it.

  He read for half an hour, no specific verse, no particular chapter.

  When he finished, he returned to the nave, knelt in the aisle and prayed for the day’s ration of strength.

  Ten minutes later, he rose, dusted his knees, and looked around one more time.

  Maybe he’d go up to the Crest, and on over to the end of Sycamore Road, where Ed and Sissy Palmer had a small stable. Go riding for a while. Let the horse do the work while he thought a little. Take one of the trails down to the river and shoot the breeze with Micah.

  He coughed hard, and shook his head.

  Maybe not.

  His shoulders rolled then, dispelling a faint shiver.

  It was an odd thing, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a chill in here, one that had nothing to do with the central air.

  It was vaguely damp, vaguely disturbing, so vague in all respects that he scolded himself for not getting enough sleep the night before.

  But when he stepped outside, the relief wasn’t vague at all, and he couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

  * * * *

  2

  The Moonglow, by design, was not a breakfast diner. The people who lived up on the Crest generally left for their commutes too early, and those who stayed behind ate at home. All of which was fine with Todd Odam, who never could see the benefit of starting his day in a strange place, with strange food, with strangers trying to engage him in idiot conversation about the weather or the Yankees.

  For him, however, the Moonglow was home, at least as far as the kitchen was concerned. When he bought the diner fifteen years ago—a thirtieth birthday and ex-wife go to Hell present—it hadn’t been much more than a worn-out shack with a balky refrigerator, stove, and a couple of rickety tables. He gutted it, expanded it, faced it with dark brick, ditched the tables in the junk yard, and made sure he never had to walk more than six steps in any direction to get what he wanted while he did the cooking.

  The dining area was as simple: six dark-brown booths along the single front window, three more along the Hunter Street side, and a twelve-stool counter with the register on the end. The windows were tinted to keep out the glare, and the shelf in the wall gap between his domain and the customers’ was wide enough for him to rest his arms on so he could gossip and watch people eating, and high enough so he wouldn’t crack his head.

  During the day, he took orders himself; Helen Gable came in at four. When it was real busy, little Rina Doyle lent a hand. Most of the time, it wasn’t.

  Right now, the booths were empty, and probably would be until the first batch of tourists came back from riding the river. He didn’t expect any others today. Despite optimism on the radio, the heat wave hadn’t broken. Ten o’clock in the damn morning, and it was already in the low eighties, Black Oak was deserted, and not even the squirrels he fed in his backyard had bothered to come around for nearly four days.

  The yuppies on the Crest claimed it was global warming, and Mabel Jonsen countered with UFOs.

  Todd didn’t give a shit; he just wanted to get cool.

  Arlo Mackey, slightly paunchy and tie-dyed from loose shirt to baggy jeans, sat at the counter’s far end, nursing a cup of coffee, humming to himself. His long, gray-shot red hair was pulled back in a shaggy ponytail that reached the middle of his spine, his granny glasses forever slipping to the end of his sunburnt pug nose. Todd waited f
or the day they’d drop into his cup; he didn’t think the man would notice.

  The reverend was the only other customer. He was on what had become by default and use his personal seat—the last one by the register—polishing off the last of four eggs over medium, four pieces of toast, six slices of bacon, hash browns, and, for God’s sake, a tall glass of milk.

  No wonder the man was so goddamn big.

  “You keep a noisy church there, Case,” he said mildly, arms folded on the shelf, looking around as if there were a dozen people to keep track of.

  Chisholm looked up from his plate without raising his head. “It keeps the pagans at bay, Todd. They sneak up on you at night sometimes.”

  “Keeps me from my beauty rest is what it does.” He scratched through his thinning hair, far too short to be fashionable. “A man in my food service position has appearances, you know.”

  The reverend grinned, but said nothing.

  Todd grinned back. He knew he wasn’t a good-looking man. He was too thin, with too many planes in his face and angles in his limbs, his eyes too dark and too deep in his head, and his voice sounded edged with pieces of sharp tin. Still, there were some from the opposite, God love ‘em, sex who were attracted to that not-quite-desiccated look, and he wasn’t, at his age, fool enough not to take advantage.

  Last night, however, he had been alone when the bell had tolled, and it had scared him half to death.

  He didn’t know why.

  He suspected Reed Turner and his friends, out of school and bored, but it hadn’t stopped him from sitting up half the night, waiting for something dark to ride on horseback down the road.

  “You figure it was the kids?”

  Chisholm shook his head. “Doubt it. I checked. No one was there.”

  “No offense, Padre,” Mackey said, voice nasal and high, “but they’d be like there and gone before you even got out of bed. You being sick, I mean. You’re still moving kind of slow.”

  The reverend shrugged.

  “Not that I mind the voice of the Lord and all, you know, but it was kind of late.”

  “They’re kids,” Chisholm said calmly, staring at the coffee urn, sipping his milk. “If this is the worst they can do, you should be grateful.”

  “Little ones need love, man, a little respect, you know what I mean?” Mackey said, fat smile all white teeth and chubby cheeks as he pushed his glasses back up his nose, touched the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “In my day, they protested righteous. Today, all they do is whine and use spray paint.” He made a deep-throated noise of disgust. “Hard to take sometimes, Padre, you have to admit.”

  Chisholm held up the peace sign.

  Mackey nodded solemnly and returned the favor.

  Todd, wishing the hell the sixties would just die and be done with it, retreated into the kitchen, running his fingers over the polished stainless steel, touching the instruments of his creations, unnecessarily checking the larder in the pantry and walk-in refrigerator.

  He was nervous, hand like a cat’s tail, twitching, never stopping. He knew it was the Landing. For months now, some weird shit had been going on, and he had an idea, not much more than a little instinct.

  Nearly ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers and the state had had this plan—dam the upper Delaware, flood the nearby lowland into a lake, bring on the tourists, make a ton of money. Land was bought, people were moved whether they wanted to go or not, the plan died. One of the areas most vocal in its opposition had been Maple Landing, Casey leading the charge. The state hadn’t liked it then, and he didn’t think they liked it now.

  Instinct, suspicion, nothing more.

  Water contaminated last fall, a house or two burning despite all the precautions, a few folks on the Crest and a few down here suddenly jobbed by the state’s income tax bureau. Roads not plowed after the worst winter in memory. Forestry Service honchos coming around in spring, checking things out, wondering out loud what this would be like if it were wilderness again.

  It wasn’t the heat; maybe it wasn’t anything at all.

  Nevertheless, he didn’t like it.

  Finally, his wandering done, he stood at the screen door in back, staring across the top of the eight-foot hedge separating the diner’s short service driveway from the house beyond. All he could see was a dormer window on the second floor, curtains fluttering in the lifeless breeze.

  Are you there? he asked silently; come on, babe, are you there?

  * * * *

  3

  Arlo Mackey slapped a two-dollar bill on the counter and walked out, peace sign to the preacher, sandals slapping the checkered linoleum floor.

  Humming. Always humming his own private tune.

  He closed his eyes against the heat, welcoming it, absorbing it, then ambled diagonally across the street without bothering to look.

  Nothing to see anyway.

  He had come here about the same time Odam had, thinking the trees and the flowers, the simple life, the river, would take care of him until he died. Don’t bother me, I won’t bother you—that was the way of it, that was his rule.

  It had pretty much worked out that way, too, except for once in a while one of the traveling young would call him “quaint” and want to take his picture. Not that he really minded. If that was where their heads were at, as long as they didn’t ask him if he had been at Woodstock, what did he care?

  Life was like that.

  Peace, with a few bumps along the way.

  What he hadn’t figured on was winning the bar in a poker game and having to actually work to make a living. Not that he worked very hard at it. Bobby the Beautiful Barmaid Karnagan did most of the hard stuff anyway. And in a tucked-away place like this, crowds were something he only saw on TV.

  He unlocked the stained oak door and stepped inside, closed his eyes, and felt the cool, the dark, absorbed it and welcomed it before heading over to the pay phone by the restroom alcove.

  He slipped in a quarter and dialed.

  He said, “Peace, love, all that good shit. I’m getting too old for this crap, man.” He looked blindly around the room, dust motes hanging, the smell of beer and polish. “Sure, sure, you got karma, I got karma, all God’s chillun got karma, big deal. Swear to God, I must’ve been a mass murderer in my former, you know what I mean? What goes around, though, I suppose. So get to the point, man. Just tell me when, I don’t want to be here when it comes down.” He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, a wood match from his jeans, and frowned at them both. “Nobody gets too hurt, dig?” He lit the match on the wall, lit the cigarette, inhaled, and coughed. “What?” He coughed again, into the receiver, and grinned. “So get another ear, you got two, right? Lord, sometimes I wish I wasn’t so damn smart. Just do it, man, okay?—you got your money. Next time you see me, I’m in Arizona. Harmonic convergence gonna expand my mind, make me One with the Universe and the president of the local bank.” He laughed. “Believe what you want, man. Millennium’s coming and I ain’t gonna be here when it happens. Do what you’re told.” He stared at the door. “Just do what you’re told.”

  He hung up and wandered over to the bar, took the first stool and stared at the smoke curling from the cigarette.

  It was a shame, when he thought about it, which was as seldom as possible; a real shame.

  But survival was something you either rode easy or got killed by. Sometimes a Child had to become a Man for a while, and do what had to be done.

  You didn’t reach Nirvana by sitting on your ass.

  * * * *

  4

  At the foot of Black Oak Road, the blacktop widened into a parking-lot apron at the riverbank, large enough to hold a half dozen vehicles. On the south end was a long shed that served as a boathouse, and beyond it a small log cabin high enough above the water to escape the occasional spring flood. A weathered dock thirty feet long, with twelve indentations, each deep enough to hold one canoe, merged with the blacktop under a stout rope fence.

  An overturned nail
keg against the shed’s north side was Micah Lambert’s throne, where he watched the river’s level, the woods climbing the hillsides on both banks, and the fools who thought they knew how to handle a canoe. He wasn’t a guide, and he wasn’t an historian. He took the money, made sure the canoes were equipped with paddles and life jackets, made sure the waivers were signed, and did little else.