Todd slipped into cooking mode, hands moving, eyes watching, half an ear on the conversation outside.
Grease spattered on his wrist.
He swore and wiped it off, just as another shower aimed at his face. He danced aside on one foot, swearing loudly, scowling when Rina glanced inquiringly through the gap.
Shit, if he kept this up, he’d be dead before dessert.
Then he heard Reed say, “Has anyone seen Reverend Chisholm?”
As if a spell had been cast, the Moonglow fell silent, not a sound except for the meat cooking on the grill.
Hissing, like a snake.
Then Tessa, her voice slow and too steady, said, “The last time I saw him, he was on his way home from the clinic.” She stared at Todd, but he knew she didn’t see him. “He didn’t look so hot.”
“Mr. Odam?” Rina waved at him. “Mr. Odam, the meat’s burning, I think.”
He shook his head, once and quickly, and went to work with the spatula, filling the plates, slamming drawers, until he heard Enid say something about a miracle.
“Son of a bitch!”
He stomped through the swinging door so fast, it slammed back against the wall.
They stared, all of them, at the spatula raised shoulder-high, and the look on his face.
“There was no miracle,” he said to Enid carefully, feeling his cheeks burning, his eyes abruptly dry. “There was no fucking miracle.”
She paled, spread fingers covering her mouth.
He glared at all the others. “You hear me? There was no miracle. I was there. I saw it. Jesus Christ!” He marched back into the kitchen, grabbed the plates and slapped them onto the gap counter, snarling until Rina picked them up and hustled away.
There wasn’t, he thought as he returned to the grill.
There wasn’t, he insisted as he began to scrape it clean.
Then he howled when the handle snapped in two, and his knuckles skidded across the grease. Whirling, eyes wide with rage, when Tessa slapped the door open and hurried in, grabbed his wrist and tugged him to the sink.
“Hey!”
“Cold water,” she ordered flatly, turning the handle, forcing his hand under the flow.
“Jesus,” he whispered, lips pulled away from his teeth. “Jesus damn!”
He tried to pull free, but she held him firmly, clucking at the furious red that spread across his knuckles.
“Damn.” He tried again to get free, and again he failed.
“Will you hold still? God, you act like you lost your fingers, for God’s sake.”
He glowered at the top of her head. “It hurts.”
“Well, yeah, it hurts, you dope.” She grinned up at him. “Is this what you guy-types mean when you offer a knuckle sandwich?”
Rina giggled.
Todd glared her away, and tried to force the tension from his arms and neck.
The burning subsided.
Finally Tessa released him with a poke that told him to keep his hand where it was. “Rina, I think the kitchen’s closed for the night.”
“What about my steak?” Mabel complained.
“The cook is out of service.”
“Hell, I can do it myself, no big deal.”
Before Todd could answer, Tessa leaned through the gap. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Jonsen.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You know how he is about people touching his stuff.”
He couldn’t hear the response; he had sagged against the sink, eyes half closed, feeling his hand growing blessedly numb. A deep inhalation when he heard her return.
“Listen, Tessa,” he said, “I—”
“Shut up,” she told him. “Just shut up, okay?”
He turned to apologize for whatever it was that had gotten her temper up, and froze when he saw the cleaver in her hand.
* * * *
4
The car drifted around the bend.
Out of the woods, purring.
Escobar took his time, not wanting to hurry, wanting to be sure there were as few people around as possible. Wanting to be sure he would enjoy what was coming.
Lights in the houses, no one in the street. A few heads in the laundry, a night-light soft over the counter in the video store, the deli closed and dark.
“This is a foolish thing, Diño,” Miguel said, and said no more.
The car stopped at the top of the slope, headlights reaching out above the street, and drowning in the dark.
Maybe, Escobar thought, Miguel’s right; maybe I shouldn’t let that stupid old man get to me like this. In a week, maybe two, it would be all over, and surely, after all this time, he had the patience not to take his reward early.
He turned to Miguel, to tell him he had changed his mind; the movement was a mistake. Fire began to burn under the bandage when skin and hair pulled across the gash the bottle had put there.
The pain nearly blinded him.
When Miguel looked back at him, Escobar’s lips pulled away from his teeth. “You ready?”
After a moment, Miguel nodded.
* * * *
5
“No. Casey, please ...”
Helen pushed him away easily and slid off the wall. She looked at the church, the graves, and shook her head helplessly.
“No. I’m sorry, Case, but...”
He didn’t speak, and didn’t try to stop her when she hurried cross the grass to the street, brushing at her clothes, fussing with her hair. As it was, he was having a difficult time breathing, and he had a feeling that anything he said now would be absolutely the wrong thing.
When she was gone, he slumped against the wall and slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting for his heart to stop racing.
Waiting, with a small smile, for the lightning to strike.
Your timing sucks, Case, he told himself, allowed himself a chuckle softer than a whisper, and pushed away with his arm. He might as well go over to the Moonglow, get something to eat, and kill a few rumors.
Helen was nowhere in sight when he reached the street.
We’ll pretend it didn’t happen, he thought as he walked toward Black Oak; we’ll pretend that nothing happened, just a kiss between two people too afraid to do more.
He checked the sky for stars and moon, sighing long and loud in case anyone was listening. As a lover, he was something less than a stud, and he supposed his ego ought to be smarting about now. On the other hand, there was no question she was right. Between a church and a graveyard, was hardly the right place for either lust or love.
It courted the lightning.
He looked up again, and shrugged with his eyebrows.
At the corner he stopped, suddenly apprehensive. Maybe he shouldn’t go after all. If Helen was there, it might make things uncomfortable, and he doubted anyone took the rumor of his leaving very seriously, if at all. She was probably exaggerating.
Still, the diner’s glow spread comfortably over the street, a neon and fluorescent welcome he sure could use about now. Take some ribbing. Take a few jibes. Make them laugh. The wise thing to do: Make yourself the fool and help them forget.
He reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette and made a face. He’d left them in his office. He started back toward the side door, and paused when he saw a car parked just this side of Mackey’s. A tilt of his head. Nobody drove to the bar around here, especially this late. Then the brake lights flared and died.
He watched.
No one climbed out.
The lights flared and died again.
The streetlamps were too dim, he couldn’t see inside, but he started walking anyway; the cigarettes could wait.
* * * *
“It’s dirty,” Tessa said, dropping the cleaver onto the counter beside the sink. “Jesus, Todd, what’s the matter with you now? You look like death warmed over.”
* * * *
Arlo stood by the bar’s narrow front window, peering through the neon haze at the car sitting at the curb just up the street. He couldn’
t see the driver, but there were two in the front seat, and he didn’t need a stargazer to tell him who it was.
Should’ve killed him when I had the chance, he thought ruefully; the boy’s just gotta have his revenge now, can’t wait his turn.
Like he ever really thought they would let him actually get away to Arizona clean and happy. But he didn’t figure they would come at him so soon, the season barely begun, the money barely warm in the bank.
He rested his shoulder against the wall and checked the room. Bobby was behind the bar, washing glasses; Kay Pollard was at a corner table, empty shot-glasses ranged like votive candles in front of her; the Palmers were finishing up, Sissy already on her feet, Ed meticulously counting out the exact change to lay on the table, plus an exact fifteen percent.
Everyone else had left.
He checked the car; it hadn’t moved.
Man, he thought, I don’t need this shit.
He pushed away from the wall with a silent sigh and bade the Palmers a good-night as they left, stopped in front of Kay and waited until she looked up.
“Looks like early closing tonight, movie lady,” he said, smiling his smile.
She didn’t react; she only stared.
He gestured at the empty room. “Gonna hit the sack, if that’s okay with you.”
She stared, a single tear caught on the ridge of her cheek.
His shoulders sagged, and he dropped into the chair opposite her. “You got a problem, movie lady,” he said gently, “maybe you ought to see the preacher man, huh?”
She fumbled in her jeans pocket for a tissue, blew her nose, tossed the tissue on the table. “I don’t think so, Arlo.”
“Then maybe you ought to sleep it off, it’ll be better in the morning.”
“Won’t. . . won’t make any difference.”
He scraped the chair back, making it squeal across the floor. When she winced, he held out a hand. “Come on, Kay, time to go.” He winked. “Bobby wants to get a man tonight.”
Kay stood, and swayed a little, but she didn’t smile. “Then tell her to fuck a baby. That’s what I just did.”
* * * *
Reed looked out the diner window, only half listening to Cora complain about all the stupid rules Rina had at her house. He had seen the strange car pull up a while ago, and when no one had gotten out, he couldn’t help thinking there was something not right. It just sat there in the dark.
“Cora, shut up,” Nate said wearily.
That was another thing—Nate hadn’t said more than two words at a time the whole night, most of them “shut up.” Reed knew it wasn’t anything at home. Of all of them, Nate had the most normal family, even if his father did spend most of his time traveling. Asking, however, had only gotten his head bitten off.
Shortly after he saw the Palmers head up the street, he straightened then, and smiled. “Hey.”
“Dane, bite me,” Cora said.
Nate only shook his head in disgust.
“Hey, you guys, look.”
Cora rolled her eyes. “What?”
“It’s Reverend Chisholm.” He pointed at the figure slipping out of the dark. “There he is. See?”
“Well, big whoop.” Cora picked up her soda glass and glared at the contents. “Did you really think he’d run away? Because of a couple of stupid bees?”
Reed ignored her. “Rina,” he called; she was behind the counter. “Tell Mr. Odam he’s back. Reverend Chisholm, I mean.”
He looked out again, wondering if he should go out there, and this time his eyes widened. “Hey.”
Cora slid out of the booth and headed for the ladies’ room.
“Hey!”
A few heads turned.
Reed pointed. “That guy.” He kept pointing as he shoved Nate out of the booth. “That guy. Over there by the car.”
Moss looked. “Jesus damn, he’s got a goddamn gun!”
Nobody moved, nobody spoke.
Todd, his right hand wrapped in a towel, pushed out of the kitchen and leaned over Reed’s table.
“My God,” he said.
* * * *
“Company,” Escobar said calmly.
Miguel looked over the car roof and saw the wide-eyed faces in the diner. He smiled a terrible smile and aimed his revolver at the first woman he saw.
* * * *
Enid Balanov screamed.
Todd yelled, “Drop! Everybody drop!” just as someone turned off the lights.
Enid screamed again.
This time she wasn’t alone.
* * * *
Casey hesitated when he saw the short stocky man point at the diner, and stopped when he realized the man wasn’t pointing, he was aiming.
When the taller one strode almost casually to the bar entrance and stepped in, he still didn’t move.
When the man with the gun turned and followed his partner inside, Casey still didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
please
He had no weapon but his hands, had no one to back him, had nothing he could use that would stop a bullet if a bullet came his way.
please don’t
He took a helpless step forward, right hand in a tentative fist at his side, then another step toward the curb, thinking to head for the diner and its telephone.
Until the Moonglow’s lights went out.
Alone on the sidewalk, being watched, not moving.
I don’t have a gun, he thought; it’s okay, I don’t have a gun.
He didn’t move again until the shooting began.
* * * *
It didn’t last long.
* * * *
It was over by the time he reached the bar at a full run, and with a glance over to the darkened diner, he shouldered open the door.
Immediately, he was slammed aside when someone barreled into him, cursed, and swung something that caught him square in his stomach. Unprepared for the blow, he gasped and doubled over, and was punched just behind his ear, toppling him to the pavement on his side, gulping for air, twisting his head around to see two men fling themselves into the car.
He tried and failed to get to his hands and knees, grunted, tried again and made it as the engine caught and the headlamps glared on, catching Reed squarely as he sprinted across the street.
No, Casey thought.
Reed froze.
The rear tires spun smoke and a squealing.
No.
The car surged forward as Reed leapt for the curb, barely missing him as it U-turned in the intersection and raced up toward the Crest.
Casey braced a hand against the wall and hauled himself to his feet. Reed called his name and ran over, yelling startled surprise when his feet skidded out from under him. Casey tried to catch him, but he could barely move, and the boy landed on the base of his spine.
“Jesus!”
Reed groaned and slowly curled his knees toward his chest, looking up, angry, then looking at the sidewalk and groaning. He scrambled away as fast as he could.
Casey frowned until he saw the blood.
“You okay?” he asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. As the Moonglow’s neon flickered on again, he clamped a hand across his aching stomach and pushed inside Mackey’s.
“Arlo!”
He thought the room was empty.
Voices outside, calling, demanding.
“Arlo?”
Bobby Karnagan rose from behind the bar, a hand trembling at her throat. “Reverend Chisholm?”
“It’s okay, Bobby, I’m here. Where’s—”
Mackey moved out of the far corner, a shotgun in one hand, his other arm around Kay’s waist. “We’re okay, preacher man,” he said, his voice shaking. Suddenly he sat hard in the nearest chair, bringing Kay slumped onto his lap, “Hell of a mess, man. Hell of a mess.”
Casey grabbed for the back of a chair. “Are you all right?”
The smell of gunpowder.
Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01] Page 16
