Lowland Rider

by Chet Williamson

  "Do?"

  "You said they're looking for me. Are you going to tell them you found me?"

  "I . . . don't know. I hadn't thought about it."

  "You'd better." He turned toward her, resting his thigh and knee on the seat. "What do they want me for?"

  "For questioning, I think. I mean . . ." She laughed uncomfortably. "After what happened. Your. . . wife and daughter—I was so sorry to hear—and that man they found."

  "Rhoads?" Jesse asked quietly.

  "Yes, him. But the other one. The Spanish man. No one knows what really happened. No one knows where you went."

  He nodded. "I went down here."

  She frowned as if she did not understand. "You're . . . living down here now."

  "Yes."

  "I don't . . . why, Jesse?"

  He leaned back, looked up at the ceiling. A moment passed before he spoke. "What happened. Because of it. They were. . . killed. I wasn't. Maybe I should've been. Maybe not. I don't know. But this seems, somehow, like the right place to be."

  She nodded. "Inexplicable."

  "That's the word."

  "And you're staying?"

  "I am."

  The door at the front end of the car opened, and a transit policeman walked in. He paused as he neared Claudia and Jesse, pursed his lips, and made it plain by his expression that he thought the well-dressed Claudia should not be sitting so near such a disreputable character as the heavily bearded skell at her side. But Claudia disarmed him with a smile, which he gave back grudgingly, and he walked out the rear door.

  "What did that mean?" Jesse asked.

  "Sorry?"

  "Did that mean you're not going to turn me in?”

  “Is there any reason I should?"

  "In God's blind eyes, no."

  "Then I won't. On one condition."

  "Which is?"

  She interlaced her fingers as if praying, tried to appear sincere, even though she knew that what she was making was a deal, and looked full into Jesse Gordon's eyes. "Let me ride the trains with you."

  He frowned, and his eyes squeezed nearly shut in concentration. "What?"

  She told him then about the story she wanted to write, about her fascination with the lines and the people who rode them, about her desire to turn over the rocks and uncover the mysteries of the skells. When she finished, he laughed softly.

  "There aren't any mysteries. Not one thing or two or three, at any rate. They're down here because they want to be, or because there's nowhere else to go. If you're looking for something you can say in one sentence, or one paragraph, or even one article to sum it all up, you won't find it. If there are ten thousand skells, there are ten thousand reasons."

  "I'd like to find some of them."

  "And you want me to help you."

  "Yes."

  "And you'll turn me in if I don't."

  Claudia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. "No," she said finally. "I won't turn you in." She looked at Jesse with as much hardness as she could show. "But I hope you'll help me out of gratitude."

  "Oh yes," Jesse said, nodding. "I've got a lot to be grateful for."

  He smiled at her. It was a crooked smile, the smile, she thought, of a man whose mind is not right. But why would he be down here otherwise?

  CHAPTER 9

  Duke Sinclair's thigh ached. He'd been chasing a couple of graffiti artists who'd pulled out cans of Krylon right in front of him and started bombing the outside of a car at the Chambers Street station. He was wearing what he called his Superpimp getup black/white shoes, tight dark jeans, a green satin jacket, shades, and a white felt broad-brimmed hat with a peacock feather band—so naturally the kids figured he was one of them or at least sympathetic. But as soon as the first burst of Day-Glo paint shot from the nozzle, he'd yelled, "Police! You're under arrest!"

  Now that had dog-hearted them. They'd frozen for an instant, looking so scared that he would have sworn they weren't going to kick up a fuss, but he was wrong. He'd walked toward them, one hand in his pocket, as though his gun were in there, instead of behind his back, tucked into his waistband. "Okay, fellas, let's just…”

  That was when they moved. One leapt for him, aiming the spray paint at his face, but Sinclair threw up an arm and caught the wetness on his sleeve instead. When he looked back up, the boy who had sprayed him was twenty feet down the platform, the other twice as far. Sinclair started to run after them. He reached behind him for his gun, then stopped himself. All I need. Bag me a motherfucking graffiti writer, it’s all over. But at least he could bluff.

  "Halt!" he cried. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

  Bullshit. Bombers weren't good enough to excuse a warning shot. Especially not down here. He had only once heard a shot fired in the five years he had spent in the transit police, and he never wanted to hear one again. His ears had rung for a week.

  "Goddammit! You fucking hold it!" Sinclair was gaining, and he thought he could at least catch the one in the rear before he hit the street. They were through the exit now, and the boy was only a few yards in front of him, heading for the steps to Chambers Street. Then, on the stairs, the boy turned and hurled the can of Krylon as fiercely as he could at Sinclair.

  The policeman threw himself to the side, but the can struck his leg and clattered off down the steps. Sinclair yelped and staggered, and when he looked back up, he saw the boy disappearing around the side of the street level kiosk. "Shit!" Sinclair snarled, ignoring the sharp ache in his thigh and pulling himself up the last few steps.

  The street was as empty as a 4:00 A.M. station, the boys nowhere to be seen. He heard footsteps echoing somewhere, but could not pinpoint their location. He was as angry at himself as at them. Stupid bastards. He probably wouldn't have chased them if they'd just started to run, but that damn kid had to spray him first. A hundred dollar jacket shot to shit. He'd twisted his ankle, and his thigh hurt like hell where the kid had dinged it, and all he had to show for it was a spray can of Day-Glo orange Krylon. He could almost hear Montcalm laughing at him now.

  Montcalm. Sinclair gingerly pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. At least the paint hadn't gotten it. Forty-five minutes until he had to meet the man, and it would take him that long to get over to 34th Street. Hell, even if he had nabbed those kids he couldn't have booked them. Montcalm hated for him to be late, no matter what the reason. Sinclair sighed. A crap day all-around.

  Montcalm was waiting for him, naturally. He was sitting at the bar of the Oyster Bar as if he owned the place, frowning when he spotted Sinclair. "You're late," he said. "And you're limping." Disgust wrinkled his mouth. "What's that shit on your arm?"

  He told Montcalm what had happened, and when Montcalm laughed Sinclair felt self-satisfied with his prediction, angry, and a bit relieved. It was better to have Montcalm laughing.

  "You want a drink?" Montcalm offered.

  "I'm on duty."

  "Fuck it, I'm your boss. Beer over here!" He turned back to Sinclair. "Want you to do something for me.”

  “Sure."

  "There's gonna be a little dealing on the Fulton Street line the next two, three days. Not exactly sure when—nobody is—but it's arranged that it'll be on your time." The beer came, and Sinclair sucked off the foam and took a short swallow. Montcalm waited until the bartender moved away before he continued. "You see anything going down from now till Tuesday, look the other way. After that, bust 'em up, because they won't be our people."

  "Got it."

  "Not all you got." Montcalm reached out with his right hand, and Sinclair grasped it and shook it, palming the wad of bills the bigger man had given him. "Two hundred," Montcalm said, smiling.

  "That's, uh . . . less than I usually . . ."

  The smile froze and broke. "Yeah, well, it's less than I usually get too. Times are. tough. But there'll be more. These deals go the way they're supposed to, we'll have a nice bonus, okay?"

  Sinclair nodded. "Okay. Sure."

  "One more thing. Our fri
ends are getting a little pissed at the . . . freedom with which the competition's doing business in their territory. Our territory. And that means your territory."

  "I can only bust 'em if I see 'em."

  "Then keep your eyes open, Duke. The narcotics boys rule everywhere else, so down here it's up to us to make sure it all stays clean. That's our job, right?"

  "Right."

  "Except for a few exceptions." Montcalm stood up and put three singles op the bar. "That'll take care of it. Finish your beer. I gotta go."

  Left alone, Sinclair looked at the multicolored bottles on the bar and at his own black face reflected in the mirror behind them. He noticed he was scowling, and hoped he had not been doing so when Montcalm was there. He'd been wrong to kick about the two hundred. Montcalm wasn't the type to be swayed by complaints. Next time he'd be likely to give even less just to teach Sinclair a lesson. Yeah, a crappy day all around.

  Sinclair wondered if Montcalm was starting to suspect the other deals he'd gotten into, and hoped he wasn't. That was all he needed—for Montcalm to learn that he'd been playing both sides against the middle. But what the hell, it wasn't like he was doing anything wrong, cheating the dealers by turning a blind eye to the other dealers. Not that it mattered anyway—if he took them off the street or out of the tunnels, it'd be barely a day before somebody else took their place. Like cleaning out maggots from a dead elephant. A thankless job, so why fight it? Get the thieves and the rapists, the slashers and the hoods, but fuck the dealers. Besides, they paid him well. He'd made five thousand tax-free dollars from Montcalm last year, and half again that from the guys he did business with on his own. More could keep coming in, as long as he played it cool. Maybe he'd ask Travis to do some deals up above for a while, just long enough to mellow out Montcalm's people. He wouldn't get any payoffs, but he wouldn't get any hassles either. After all, he was a cop.

  CHAPTER 10

  How can blood be so hot?

  Baggie always asked herself that after a killing. In winter, when the stations were cold, the warmth felt good on her hands, and once the bastards had stopped moving, once they couldn't bite with their animal teeth or scratch with the animal claws their rough, horny, prying hands had become, she would sometimes, if her fingers were very cold, let the blood flow over them and warm them. Once they were warm, and once the blood started to dry so that her fingers looked coated with flaking rust, she washed them off so that no one would notice the blood on her hands and take the sons of bitches away from her. One time, when there had been no bathroom or water fountain nearby, she had licked the dry scaliness off her fingers. It had not tasted bad, and, in a way, she had enjoyed it, sucking her fingers until they were clean, until her flesh was pale again.

  But in the summer, on nights like this, when she sweated beneath her clothes, and every movement slid wet cloth against wet skin so that she felt taut and slippery, when the moisture made her dress adhere to the hair beneath her arms, and press itself up between her buttocks so that the cloth seemed to seek entrance like some filthy man she had not yet killed, on these nights she tried to keep the blood from touching her. It burned on summer nights. When it got against her, she could see it steam, and when she washed it off, some red marks stayed, just like a burn, like the mark on her breast from the coat hanger one night years before.

  It was on her now, and she rubbed at it fiercely, feeling it eat into her. The sweat in her dress diluted it, made it only a pink smear that grew lighter and lighter, and then disappeared. She sighed in relief, then drew the bag nearer and looked into it. She thought she recognized the bastard. One of those Marines, that's who it was. That nigger marine that night at the Ansonia. Well, it served him fucking right, after what he'd done to her. He had hurt her like they all hurt her, but she'd get back at them, she had time. They always came. They always smelled it, just like they'd claimed they could smell her cunt, like it was sending out a message, like she was some animal. Some bitch in heat.

  Only she wasn't an animal. She'd never wanted them. They'd smelled what they wanted to smell, the sonsabitches, seen what they'd wanted to see, taken what they'd wanted to take. But she'd pay them back. She had time to pay back all of them. All of them.

  She looked up from the bag and saw God standing before her.

  God was dressed all in white, a pure, cool, bright white that nearly blinded her, but that made her feel at peace with herself and everything around her. She thought, as she looked into his beautiful face, that she had seen him years before, just catching a glimpse of that same face through the glass of the car in which they'd found the dead man. She thought it had been him, but she wasn't sure.

  What she was sure of, though, was that she loved him. He was not, she could tell, a man like other men. There was something beyond sex in him, something divine.

  "My God," she whispered. "Oh my God."

  "My name is Enoch," he said gently, smiling at her.

  "I saw you . . . once, years ago." Her voice cracked.

  "Yes."

  "You . . . look the same."

  "I do not change."

  She felt choked, as though a great bolus that might have been her heart was swelling, growing in her throat. "What can I do. . ."

  "Do?"

  "To. . . serve you. Anything. Anything."

  "Would you kill for me?" His smile did not fade.

  "Yes." She took the handles of the shopping bag and slid it in front of him.

  "No." He shook his head. "Not your creatures. Not your bastards. Others. Before they disguise themselves. While they are still in their true form."

  "Yes. Oh yes."

  He rested his long-fingered hand on her hair. It felt cool and soothing. "Do you know what it means to kill men?"

  The curtains parted for a moment, the power of her god's presence destroying the illusions she had nurtured, the lies she had lived, so that she saw herself as a killer of animals, soulless things, creatures of no importance or worth, and a great sorrow at the waste of her life overcame her. "No. I don't know."

  "You will."

  "Yes. For you."

  "Would you die for me?"

  "Oh yes," she answered so that the word echoed in the empty station. "I would, my Lord."

  "Live now. And serve me." His face lost its smile, and was transfigured by a look of such deep and abiding love for her that she wished with all her heart to die at that moment, in the fear that she would never know such joy again. "Serve me, my darling little Sunny. My Sunny girl."

  It was a name no one had called her in half a century, the name her mother had called her before The Fall. My Sunny. My Sunny little girl. And she saw daffodils yellow as the sun clutched in her hand, smelled the sharp sweet smell of high grass after rain, heard the songs of robins, felt her mother's caresses upon her hair, knew that somewhere all was as it had been, and that Mother still loved her, still waited for her Sunny.

  "Don't cry. It's all true. It's all there. All the love."

  But she couldn't stop. She cried and cried, the tears of decades cascading over her cheeks, falling from her whiskered chin in a tattoo of droplets, one after another, caught in the hollow of her Lord's hand.

  When she could see once more, when the haze that had smeared her vision was cleared, she looked up and found herself alone. Although she could still feel the cooling touch of his hand, he was not there. The station was empty of even the sound of a train rattling somewhere far off. She was alone, filled with a love more thrilling and more violent than her hate.

  "Enoch," she moaned, feeling his name in her mouth, feeling the goodness and rightness of it.

  "Enoch." It was a prayer, a litany, a love song all in one word, beginning with an outward breath, opened by the humming N, ceasing abruptly, like a command from God.

  "Enoch!" And the joy drowned her as she worshipped him, adored him, and shivered with the excitement of what she would do for him.

  For him, she would savage the city.

  CHAPTER 11

  "Aw
shit, man," said Rags, peering through the graffiti-smeared glass that covered the subway map. "Son of a whore."

  "What is it?"

  "You know where we goin'?"

  Jesse nodded. "Bergen Street, right?"

  "Wrong. They messin' with the tracks again. We goin' out on the shithole Fujton Street lines. Oh well . . ."

  "Oh well my ass. Can't get turned around till we get to Broadway—East New York, and then we gotta get over to Eastern Parkway station. Damn. What shit."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "Montcalm's line, for one."

  "The skell hater."

  "Right."

  Jesse shrugged. "Well, we're stuck on it. Just have to keep a low profile."

  Rags's face crinkled. "Huh?"

  "Lay low. Pretend we're not here."

  "Yeah, sure. Montcalm or his boys get on here, all the pretendin' in the world don't stop us from gettin' whomped."

  Jesse laughed and sat back on the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. Rags joined him, but sat erect, looking at the rear door of the car, then at the front, and back again incessantly, as if at some subterranean tennis match. "You gonna see that girl again?" he asked after a while.

  "Yeah."

  "Shouldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "She ain't one of us, Jesse. She's just snoopy, nosin' around, what the hell she wanta know anyway?”

  “I guess what makes us tick, Rags."

  "None of her damn business. She jes' better stay out of my face, I tell you that."

  Jesse laughed. "Or what, Rags? You gonna mess her up?"

  Rags gave a series of unhappy grunts. "Well, maybe. I just ain't gonna say."

  "You wouldn't hurt a fly," said Jesse, shaking his head.

  "You forgettin', Jesse?" Rags asked, his mouth grim. "You forgettin' I killed a boy?"

  "That wasn't killing, Rags. You did the world a service."

  "She makes me nervous, that's all. Knows who you are, where you are, knows what you done…"