In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02]

by Charles L. Grant

  “You wanted people,” Lisse said after sticking her head in, stepping back and grinning. “There you go.”

  “People, not a mob,” he answered sourly. “Hang on, I’ll be back.”

  Inside; there were ferns hanging and potted, faded jazz festival posters on the back wall, lazy ceiling fans, and a jukebox that played zydeco and country almost loud enough to be heard. From the look of it, he figured most of the patrons were local, with just enough tourists to keep the prices decently high. A beer-and-a-shot place; asking for a margarita here, or even a hurricane, was an unspoken taboo even the newcomers sensed.

  He ordered two beers in tall styrofoam cups; anything stronger, he decided, would crush his resolve.

  Once outside, he handed one of the cups to Lisse and leaned against the wall. “To mysteries,” he said, raising his drink to his lips.

  “I hate mysteries,” she answered. “How about to a kid who can’t throw a punch worth a damn.”

  “Whatever,” he said, drank, sighed, and wondered how he could have ever complained about the winters at home. The afternoon temperature had climbed, the breeze from the river didn’t reach this far, and the beer wasn’t all that cold.

  It wasn’t all that good, either, but it wasn’t the brewer’s fault.

  He kept seeing the eyes—crow’s eyes; pirate’s eyes.

  Joey’s eyes.

  He drank again.

  Across the street was a dusty-paned antique shop. Above it, a balcony on which sat two black men, dressed in black, reading newspapers, smoking cigars.

  Crows, he thought.

  “Let’s walk.”

  “Where?” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I know. People.”

  It wasn’t hard to catch the strain in her voice, or, when he glanced over, to miss the taut muscles in her neck.

  Then she shifted her cup to her left hand, hooked her arm around his left elbow, and said, “It is possible, even in this city, to talk and walk at the same time.”

  “And?” he said cautiously.

  She hugged his arm more tightly. “What happened out there, John? I mean, I know what I saw, but...what happened?”

  He didn’t have the vaguest idea.

  He hadn’t been lying when he had told her he had never been in a fight before, but when that kid had regained his feet, those eyes suddenly big and glaring, he had moved without thinking. All he had wanted to do was keep those filed knuckles from slashing his throat; grabbing the wrists was pure self-preservation, not part of some plan.

  He had heard nothing but his own breathing, felt nothing of the strain as he pulled the kid to him and spread his arms; but he did feel the kid’s struggling, his head down, grunting, snarling, trying to outmuscle him. John’s fury wouldn’t allow it. He was more than ready to pull those arms out of their sockets, more than ready to toss the kid into the river.

  Then the kid had raised his head, and John had seen the eyes.

  He couldn’t help it—he had whispered, “Joey?”

  Then the kid screamed and passed out.

  John stared into the cup, drained it, and tossed it into a city trash bin. Lisse threw hers away as well, but he noticed she had hardly drunk any beer at all.

  They walked, and her hand drifted away from his arm.

  They walked, and she reminded him they had to make their statement to the police.

  She found them a taxi, and they said nothing on the way; two hours later they were on the street again, officially forgiven, the only information they were allowed was that the kid had suffered a concussion when Lisse had yanked him to the deck. He would be fine. They could go, with another warning about taking on street hustlers and thieves.

  Again she found them a cab, and again they rode in silence. But once they reached the hotel, she stopped him before he went inside. Her head shook as she tried to find the words, and the expression to go with them, and after a few seconds he couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “It’s all right,” he said, forcing a knowing smile. “If I had been with me today, I wouldn’t want to be with me anymore, either.” Before she could make any gestures of protest, he held her shoulders and kissed her cheek, winked, and stepped back. Then he held up a finger. “Nuts, I forgot. When the banks open tomorrow, I’ll get your money. I can ... I’ll put it in an envelope and leave it with your friend in the office there, all right?”

  She nodded, gave him a quick wave, and hurried away.

  He didn’t watch.

  As soon as she turned, he went inside, stood in the empty lobby and stared at the bar, its double doors open, soft music inside. The air-conditioning made him rub one arm slowly. His stomach told him he was hungry. His eyes told him the clerk at the front desk was trying to get his attention, waving with one hand while pointing to a stack of paper with the other.

  But it was the man in the white suit and Panama hat that got his attention, sitting in a fan-back rattan chair beside the staircase.

  Watching him.

  If I go over there, he thought, I will probably lose my temper; if I don’t go over there, I’ll probably never know.

  The old man tilted his head in greeting ever so slightly, crossed his legs, put his hat on his knee, and folded his hands in his lap. Patient; he was in no real hurry.

  John considered his empty room, the dim comfort of the bar, the demands of his complaining stomach; there was no real competition, no true debate. The way things had gone today, they sure as hell couldn’t get any worse.

  He started across the floor, and changed his mind when he reached the fringed edge of the carpet. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said quietly, and as the old man nodded, he went to the front desk.

  “Your printing, Mr. Bannock,” the clerk said. “I had to get more paper, but it’s all done.”

  John glanced at the closed manager’s door. “Any problems?”

  The clerk snorted.

  “Can I leave this here for a minute?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  John picked up the top page and scanned it, leaned his elbows on the counter and said, “That man in the suit back there.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  John pointed at the page. “So who is he?’’

  There was a hesitation before the answer: “Lanyon Trask.”

  “Oh, really? Who’s that? Somebody important?”

  The clerk grunted a laugh. “He thinks he is.”

  “Politician? Hotel management?”

  “Hell, no, a preacher.”

  John didn’t react. He replaced the page on the stack, pulled a folded twenty from his pocket, and slid it across the counter, not bothering to blink when it vanished before it reached the other side.

  The clerk slid the stack to the end of the counter. “Just pick it up when you’re ready, Mr. Bannock. I’ll see that nobody touches it.”

  “Thanks.” He straightened, used one hand to pat his hair into a semblance of neatness, and said, “Well, guess I’ll go see what he wants. Maybe get saved in the process.”

  He hadn’t gone three steps before the clerk muttered, “Not in this lifetime.”

  John didn’t look back, but he stifled a laugh and walked over to the old man, who pushed himself smoothly to his feet and held out a hand. “Lanyon Trask, Mr. Bannock. Reverend Lanyon Trask.”

  John shook the hand without speaking, pulled an armchair over and sat facing him, doing his best to breathe evenly as not to betray his nervousness. Trask was stout indeed, but unless that tailored suit was a miracle of concealment, there wasn’t much soft about the man. His face was creased and wrinkled in just enough proportion to the natural smoothness of his cheeks and chin to signify age and wisdom, without losing strength. His hair was thinning, as white as his suit, professionally tucked in gentle sweeps around his ears and above his collar.

  And his eyes were as Lisse had said—gray and pale, disturbingly so, as if they were, for the right people, transparent.
r />   “What do you want, Mr. Trask?” he said evenly.

  Trask didn’t blink at the deliberate avoidance of his title. “You, sir. You.”

  A professionally trained voice as well, John figured; professionally deep, professionally Southern. Modulation on command, to suit the climate or the pulpit. He suspected the man had never played good ol’ boy in his life.

  “Meaning what?” he asked, just shy of being rude.

  Trask set the Panama on the table beside him, a deliberate movement, as was easing back in his seat, settling himself for comfort, clasping his hands loosely across his abdomen. Inhaling slowly, deeply.

  John had little patience for the display, but he hoped his irritation didn’t show. He had had enough for one day. Enough, he figured, for a lifetime or two. He felt battered, immensely weary, and the only reason he was here, now, was because he was too tired to do anything else.

  “You probably don’t know me,” the minister said. A self-deprecating shrug. “I am not the kind of man who seeks the limelight.”

  John waited; the man was lying.

  “Oh, I do have a small following, of course. I do find myself on occasion appearing in the media. But—” A vague wave; a dismissal. “It is, as they say, of no consequence.”

  Suddenly John pointed. “Television. I saw you on television this morning.”

  Trask nodded modestly. “One of many, I’m sure.”

  This, John remembered, was the one who spoke of the Beast. White robe, huge church, several hundred in the congregation, a monster pipe organ ranged behind him.

  He couldn’t help it: “You don’t seek the limelight?”

  “No.” Trask smiled, carefully. “My forebears in the ministry used wagons and tents, then radios and auditoriums. No one listens to the radio anymore, so I use the next generation of communication, Mr. Bannock. Can’t be faulted for that, now can I.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I already told you, sir.”

  John closed his eyes briefly, wishing he could sleep, wishing he could open his eyes and find himself in his room, in bed, packed and ready to get out of New Orleans and get home again. Wishing he could open his eyes and see Patty and Joey standing on the lawn, waiting for him.

  Four men and a woman hurried into the lobby from the outside, heading loudly for the front desk where, loudly, they demanded directions to the best casinos in town. Their voices echoed.

  John watched them for a moment.

  “Are you a believer, sir?”

  John bridled as he turned back. “Don’t start,” he warned.

  The minister’s palms snapped up high. “I didn’t mean offense, Mr. Bannock, not at all. Just asking, that’s all.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Laughter from the five at the desk.

  “Perhaps not, sir, perhaps not. But I think, believer or not, that I can help you in your quest.”

  It was as if a plug had been pulled. Strength and energy drained, and John sagged, grinned, chuckled as he shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Trask, and frankly, I don’t care. You’ve been following me around, asking questions about me, and I want to know why. If you’re going to tell me, fine. If not, I’m on my way home.”

  Trask seemed maddeningly unperturbed, so much so that John had a frightening urge to throttle him. Instead, he drew a heavy hand over his face and said, “Good-bye, Mr. Trask.”

  Trask held up a hand. “Your work.”

  John sighed. “What about it?”

  Trask moistened his lips, glared at the commotion at the front desk, and bowed his head for a moment. “First, I must apologize for seeming to know more about you than perhaps I should, considering we have never met. I have...” He looked up at the ceiling, two floors above their heads, lips moving as he sought the right words. Finally: “My congregation, Mr. Bannock, is rather ordinary in terms of size. Certainly not when compared to the...let’s say the more high-profile ‘stars’ of my profession. But what my people lack in numbers, they more than make up for in their undying belief in the Gospels.

  “They trust me, Mr. Bannock. They trust me not to betray that trust. And because of that trust, they tell me things. In confidence, of course. In the certain knowledge that what they tell me will be put to good use.”

  “Spies,” John accused before he could stop himself.

  “Gatherers,” Trask corrected.

  Right, of course, how foolish of me, John thought, and refused to meet the man’s gaze. Those pale eyes disturbed him, and for no reason he could think of, he was relieved when he finally saw the man blink.

  Yet he couldn’t move, couldn’t leave.

  A part of him commanded his legs to take him up, his voice to say farewell.

  Yet he couldn’t move.

  A part of him shrilled that Lisse was right, that he was only a CPA, for crying out loud. A man who worked numbers. A man who figured taxes. Nobody special; just a guy who wanted to get his butt home and get his family back together and get himself a life again. A real life. No books, no articles, just numbers on a form.

  Yet he couldn’t move.

  The guests left the lobby as noisily as they had entered, one brushing against the back of his chair, apologizing, and moving on in the wake of his friends’ laughter.

  The chime of the elevator.

  The clash of plates in the café as a busboy cleared a table.

  “Mr. Bannock,” said Reverend Trask, “you’ve been talking to murderers, listening to their stories.”

  John blinked rapidly, hands gripping the armrests tightly.

  “I have no doubt you have seen firsthand the devastation in our heartland. The empty fields, the flooded fields, the fields that no longer produce what we as a nation require.”

  John swallowed.

  Trask leaned forward, hands on his knees, lowering his voice as if in fear of being overheard. “Believer or not, John Bannock, I know that you know this isn’t natural. This isn’t right. This isn’t the plan our Lord has put forth.”

  John swayed as he sat.

  “Tell me, John,” Trask whispered. Smiling kindly. Grandfather and preacher rolled into one. “Tell me, John. Tell me you do not believe the Antichrist walks among us.”

  John stared at him, gaped at him, felt a bubble of giggles expand in his throat.

  “I can help you, John.”

  John forced his gaze away from those eyes, concentrating on the ceiling fans, picking a single blade to follow its revolution.

  “I can help you, John.”

  Swallowing the giggles, feeling back in his legs and arms.

  “Tell me.”

  You know something, Ace? Patty said from the staircase; this guy’s not all there, you know what I mean? Looney Tunes, man, he’s Looney Tunes.

  He nodded, swallowed again, and stood quickly, so quickly the lobby tilted for a moment.

  “Tell me.”

  When equilibrium returned, he looked at the preacher and shook his head slowly. “No.”

  Trask sat back. Still smiling. Still confident.

  “There’s nothing to tell, Mr. Trask. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Trask raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so, Mr. Bannock.”

  “Good for you,” and he walked away, taking his time, making sure his knees weren’t about to buckle, making sure he didn’t laugh in the man’s face.

  And he didn’t turn around when Trask said to his back, “We’ll meet again, Mr. Bannock. We’ll meet again. Because the truth is ... you need me.”

  * * * *

  Part 2

  * * * *

  1

  T

  he sky was clear over Vallor on Monday morning, such a regular occurrence over the past three months that letters to the local paper were almost taken seriously whenever they suggested sending to South Dakota for some Indians to do whatever it was they did to bring back the rain. Most of the leaves on the great oaks and maples had already t
urned and fallen. Water wasn’t close to being rationed, but the restaurants no longer served glasses of it automatically. And there was a peculiar fondness for stories of the good old days, two years before, when the Ohio rose, the Mississippi flooded, and Oakbend Creek left its bed with a vengeance for the first time in forty years.