He grinned, tipped his cap to the sky, and reached for another beer. From inside the boathouse he heard Reed start to whistle, then laugh, then swear at a canoe that wouldn’t fit into its slip.
No customers today, but who gave a damn? The drought looked to be on the way out, and the tourists would be back, his retirement would be saved, and maybe even the damn bees would start making honey again.
He toasted the blasted oak.
He toasted the mist.
He toasted Reed when the boy came onto the dock, but Reed only nodded absently and hurried to the dock’s far end, dropped to his hands and knees and looked over.
“Micah, look.”
Micah rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen fish before, boy.”
“Micah, come here.”
Making a loud noise that would do a martyr proud, he pushed off the piling and walked over. “What?”
“Look.” Reed pointed.
So the water was a little oily, a little slick. So what? It wasn’t unusual when the river was low. It—
He looked again.
“Holy shit.”
It wasn’t an oil slick; it was bees floating on the surface, their wings spread to catch the dim light, in numbers so great he couldn’t see the bottom.
* * * *
Nate couldn’t stand it anymore.
He had left the house early that morning, hoping Kay would be back from wherever she’d gone. But when he found the shop still locked the way he’d left it the night before, he decided to try to find her. First he went around the corner to her house on Sycamore Road, but all the doors were locked, the shades were down, and no one answered his knock at either the front or back. On a hunch he continued on down the street to the Palmer stables; no luck there, either. In fact, both Sissy and Ed were too busy with nervous horses to do more than shake their heads when he asked about Kay. She still wasn’t at the house when he returned, and the garage door was locked and the windows so dirty he couldn’t see inside. By that time he began to feel guilty about deserting the shop, so he opened it, and sat behind the counter, pleased with himself because business became oddly brisk until shortly before three.
Then he saw the mist.
Not five minutes later Mabel Jonsen walked in and said, “You’re a witness, Nathan Dane. I’m going to kill that bald bastard.”
And she pulled a gun from beneath her shirt.
* * * *
Arlo spun around three times on the end stool, moved to the next one and spun three, four at the next one, two at the next, and couldn’t stand long enough to sit on the next, had to flatten his palms on the bar to keep from sliding off. He slid off anyway.
His laugh was a high cackle shot through with hiccups, and lasted until he was able to grab a stool and haul himself up. From there he flopped over the bar, hands dangling in the dry sink on the other side.
“Oh, God,” he gasped, and hiccupped. “Oh, God, I think I’m going to sick.”
“Then you can clean it up.”
He cackled, squeezed his eyes shut, snapped them open and shoved himself onto a stool, grabbing the bar’s surface when the seat began to revolve. “No sweat, man, no sweat.”
Kay Pollard sat at a table farthest from the door, a shadow in the faint light, features obscured, only a pale smudge where her face was. “Is this some kind of ritual or something? You do this before, you open up?”
Arlo took off his glasses and cleaned them with the tail of his Hawaiian shirt, put them back on, and reached behind his head to be sure his ponytail hadn’t shaken loose. “No offense, movie lady,” he said with a stupid grin, “but when the hell are you going home?”
“Never.”
“Bad news, man, bad news.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” The smudge vanished for a moment, and he heard the sound of her purse dropping onto the table. “So are you open yet?”
As much as his monumental hangover would permit him, he shook his head.
“Damn,” she said. Then, in an eerie falsetto she asked, “Mackey, do you think I’m sexy?”
Tact kept him from laughing. Instead, he stared hard at the ceiling so he couldn’t see her face, back there in the gloom.
“Arlo, I asked you a question.”
“Damn,” he said, and slipped off the stool, cleaned his glasses again, and looked up. “Well... damn.”
“Damnit, Arlo!”
“Damnit yourself, movie lady,” he snapped. “Some bastard’s stolen my protection.”
He heard her chair scrape across the floor, felt her at his side. “What do you mean?”
He pointed.
The peace sign on the ceiling was gone.
There was nothing left but a ragged circle where the plaster gleamed like new.
* * * *
Todd Odam poked his head through the serving gap, scratched his head, and smiled. “Hey. Am I nuts or is that rain?”
Rina crawled into an empty booth, cupped her hands around her eyes to cut her reflection off the window, and grinned a yes over her shoulder.
“More like a mist or fog,” declared Vinia Leary from the counter.
“Who cares?” he said. “It’s better’n nothing.”
Mrs. Racine lifted her cup of coffee and sipped. “It’ll make the roads slick. Too dangerous to drive.”
Who cares? he thought, and wondered if the new people were ever going to come out of that house. He had half a mind to wander over, just taking a stroll, and see what he could find out. It would certainly be better than waiting around here for someone to come in who had some decent news.
He scowled at his hands.
First he catches Bobby walking across the street with some woman, then sees Enid getting carried off by Casey toward the clinic. Normally he would have sent someone along to find out what was what, but the diner had been so busy, he’d barely, had time to get the meals done, much less figure out who had done what to whom.
It was driving him nuts.
It was driving Rina nuts too, he could tell, and when she finished taking care of the customers in the booths, and only Vinia was left at the counter, he beckoned her with a finger, leaned over and said, “Haul ass to the clinic.”
She didn’t have to ask why; she dropped her towel on the shelf, dropped her order pad in his hand, and was gone before he would ask her to sneak up the block and see if she could find out where Bobby went.
“Drizzle,” said Mrs. Racine, sipping.
“Better than a heavy rain,’’ Vinia answered. “A heavy rain won’t soak in, it’ll just run off and take half the topsoil with it.”
Down to the left, two families from the Crest, arguing over which movie they were going to watch first, interrupted their debate with a clamor for service. Todd smiled stiffly and backed out of the gap, rolled his eyes for patience—and maybe, if it wasn’t asking too much, Helen to show up— and pushed into the dining room just as Bobby slammed through the back door. He heard the racket, looked through the gap, and saw her pick up his guitar.
“Hey!” he shouted.
“You bastard!” she yelled, and smashed the guitar on the grill. Twice, before he could get to her, and once against his hip, knocking him to the floor.
“Bastard!” she screamed, flung the battered instrument against the wall, and was gone before he could get to his feet. He leaned heavily against the butcher block, panting, only vaguely aware of an ache in his side until he touched it and stared dumbly at his palm.
At the blood.
* * * *
5
Casey stood with his back to the wall, chin tucked toward his chest. To his left he could see down the short hall to the examination room where Enid lay asleep. Tessa appeared in the open doorway, fussing then vanishing, reappearing to leave the room for one of the other of the three at the rear of the clinic. No more trouble there, he hoped, and didn’t believe it for a minute.
He lifted his gaze to Mel, who sat on a couch opposite him, beneath a print of Paris in the autumn. The man look
ed much older than his years now, his lab jacket rumpled, black hair curling across his brow. The couch against the entrance wall was just as long, and Helen looked as if she wanted nothing more than to stretch out and close her eyes. Above her head was a long window, fogged with falling mist.
“You know,” Mel said, his voice rumbling slightly, “it isn’t your fault.”
They both looked at him, and he laughed quickly. “Okay, neither one of you, all right? Consciously or unconsciously, she blew it.” He rubbed a finger against the inner corner of one eye, and lowered his voice. “I’m more concerned about Tessa, if you want to know the truth.”
“Hell to pay,” Helen agreed wearily. A sour smile at Casey. “You think I can sleep in your office tonight? Home is definitely not going to be any fun.”
Casey didn’t answer; he was still thinking about the horse Enid claimed she saw.
It was stupid, and he knew it. She was delusional, nothing more, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind.
Suddenly the door slammed open, making him jump aside, bringing the others to their feet as Todd stumbled in, a bloody towel folded and pressed to his temple, his apron streaked with fresh blood.
“Jesus,” Mel said, and called, “Tessa! Tessa, get Two ready, we’ve got another one.”
Casey had no time for questions, but as the two men turned the hall corner, he heard Tessa yell, “She hit you with what?”
“That’s it,” Casey said to Helen. “I’m gone, outta here.”
“I’m with you,” she said quickly, following him out the door. “I’d better get to work. Rina’s probably having a breakdown.” She touched his elbow. “Come with me, okay? You still need something to eat.”
He exaggerated a frown. “What, are you my momma or something?”
“Something,” she said, bumped him with a hip, and whirled when they heard Nate call out.
Mabel Jonsen was on the sidewalk, stomping furiously off the Crest, Nate dancing hysterically behind her.
Casey saw the gun.
“Oh, Lord,” Helen said.
“Out of my way!” Mabel yelled even though she was still half a block away. “Out of my way, I’m gonna shoot that bald bastard!”
Casey nudged Helen to one side and stood on the sidewalk, hands loose at his sides.
Mabel waved the gun and her free hand wildly, her hair matted by the drizzle. She didn’t pay any attention when Nate darted around her to cut across the lawn, still bouncing on his toes, desperate to do something and not knowing what to do.
“Mabel,” said Casey sternly.
She stopped immediately, squinted, and startled them all by throwing up her hands and shrieking, “You’re here! My Lord, you’re here!”
The gun flew from her hand and landed at Nate’s feet He gaped at it, made to pick it up, changed his mind, and sat on it instead.
Mabel raced to Casey—”You’re here, you’re here!”—and embraced him tightly, making him grunt and nearly lose his balance.
“Mabel,” he said to the top of her head. “Mabel, it’s me.”
Squinting she looked up, blinked the water from her eyes, and stared.
He smiled. “Just me, Mabel, just me.”
“Oh.” But she didn’t let go. “Oh.”
His grip became a hug, and he rubbed her back gently. “It’s okay, Mabel, it’s okay.” He looked over at Helen and Nate. “I’m getting the message white isn’t my color.”
A flush spread across the woman’s cheeks, and after a moment’s muttering and sniffling, she nodded that she was all right. He held her a second longer, one more rub, a tender pat, and lowered his head, lowered his voice as their arms dropped away. “You want to go home? You want someone to go with you?”
She shook her head, too embarrassed to speak.
“How about a cup of coffee?”
She tried to smooth her shirt, fix her hair, and gave him a sheepish smile. “Sure. Sure, okay.” But her face changed as she walked around him. “I’m still gonna shoot him, though, that sorry son of a bitch.”
At his nod, Helen caught up with her, her head cocked as she listened to whatever had set the woman off. When they reached the corner, Casey walked over to Nate, gave him a hand up, and picked up the gun.
“Is it loaded?”
“I don’t know, son, I don’t know.”
“You could shoot it to see.”
“Nate.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve done just fine, and I thank you for the warning, but aren’t you supposed to be at the Pavilion or somewhere?”
Nate scuffed one toe on the grass. “I guess. Yeah.”
Casey laughed, grabbed the side of the boy’s head and gave him a gentle shove. “Then go to it, boy, go to it. I’ll make sure they know you’re the hero again.”
Nate grinned self-consciously and trotted off without looking back.
Casey watched until he reached the slope, then looked up the street and over. The steeple seemed much taller, much brighter in the mist, and he started toward it, hunching his shoulder briefly as he recalled Enid’s bitter accusation, heard the despair, felt the guilt. It wasn’t until he was halfway up the walk that he remembered the keys were back on the bedroom dresser.
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Idiot.
He turned and saw the couple in the street, staring at him. No; watching him.
* * * *
6
Stan couldn’t see the man very well. Water kept getting into his eyes. But the guy was big, no question about it, all that white kind of smearing, like he was standing behind a curtain or something.
“Is that him?” he asked, refusing to believe this was the one that was supposed to give them a problem. He was big, sure, but he wasn’t that big.
Lupé said, “Yes, I think so.”
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “Can I help you with something?”
Stan swallowed, finally thought to shake his head.
That voice. My God, he thought, what the hell was that voice?
The man took a step toward them. “Are you sure?”
“Madre Dios,’’ Lupé whispered. “Madre Dios.’’ She grabbed Stan’s arm and dragged him away.
He didn’t argue.
There was no way he wanted to be anywhere near that giant.
Especially not if Lupé was as scared as she sounded.
* * * *
7
Casey watched the curious pair hurry down the street, suddenly remembered the little man who had pretended to help Enid.
“Hey!” he called.
The couple broke into a run, scattering the mist around them, fading into it before they reached Mackey’s.
Casey didn’t hurry. He knew where they were going.
Outrage fueled him as he swung onto the sidewalk, trying not to speculate on what that man had or had not done to terrify Enid so. But whatever it had been, he would find an explanation.
The drizzle lightened.
The breeze returned.
He glanced over his shoulder when he thought he heard the sound of an engine, thinking maybe Petyr was on his way back to pick up his wife. But the road was empty, and when he passed the clinic Balanov’s car wasn’t at the curb.
He felt the weight of the water in his hair.
He felt the crawl of water down his neck.
Nervously, without knowing why, he rubbed the ball of his left thumb over the tips of his fingers.
At Mackey’s he swung north into Hickory Street, hadn’t reached the end of the bar before a woman stepped into the road, some ten yards away.
A different woman.
He stopped, and she said, “Good afternoon, Reverend Chisholm.”
A little startled, he ducked his head. “Good afternoon.” A glance toward the only house on the block with lighted windows. “I think I may have upset a couple of your friends.” He smiled. “I wanted to apologize.”
“No need,” she told him easily. “I’m sure they understand.”
They do if they’re guilty, he thought.
“The man,” he said. “A friend of mine, Mrs. Balanov, said that young man sort of frightened her.”
The woman shrugged. “Yes?”
He kept his voice flat. “Why?”
Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01] Page 28
