Riders In The Sky Part 17

"My Lord, you are beautiful," Lyman says from the doorway.

She blushes and waves at him-go on, tell me another.

Once, in another lifetime, she had won a beauty pageant in North Carolina, and the experience had excited and terrified her so much she'd never done it again. But her looks had stood her in good stead, as a grade school teacher, and as the preacher's wife. While it raised some minor problems, it smoothed over a whole lot more.

"Listen, dear," Lyman says, standing behind her, arms around her waist, hands clasped at her stomach, "I'm thinking of taking a look in at that Chisholm fellow up the road. I'm pretty sure he hasn't seen a doctor."

"Ly, you worry too much."

"I can't help it. I mean, Kit, he slammed into my car!"

"I know, dear. You've told me a hundred times."

She covers his hands with one of hers and squeezes gently. "Leave him be, honey. Leave him be."

He sighs into her hair. "I suppose."

They stand for a long while, silent and still.

"The horses," she says at last, disengaging herself from him, fussing with her ap.r.o.n.

"What?"

"If you want to do something useful, find out who's been riding those stupid horses up and down Midway all night. You know there aren't-" She stops when she sees the expression on his face. "What, Lyman? What's the matter?"

So he tells her what he had seen after the collision with the big man, Chisholm, how he'd pa.s.sed it off as a combination of adrenaline and shadow, a freakish spurt of imagination.

"But that's not the same," she tells him, shaking off the s.h.i.+vers his story had given her. "What I hear is real, and I don't like it."

"I know, dear," he says. He takes a second. "I've heard them, too."

13.

The tide slams against the jetties, artillery fire from the mouths of deep-bore cannon that seem too loud to be natural. Foam bubbles in cracks; water boils over the boulders; the moon has turned everything a lifeless silver, except the black clumps of seaweed scattered across the sand at the farthest reaches of the waves. Sawgra.s.s trembles away from the wind. Sand hisses down the slopes of the dunes. A candy wrapper bounces and twists along the beach until it b.u.mps into a shoe torn at the toe, coming apart at the heel.

Dub Neely reaches down, picks the wrapper up and stuffs it clumsily into his coat pocket, and walks on, into the trees and along a narrow path worn by those who sought the sun in summer. His head is down, his gait unsteady, moonlight reaching the ground in fits and starts as bare limbs sway and pine limbs quiver, and it isn't long before the off-and-on light makes him dizzy, makes the beer in his empty stomach begin to work its way up to his throat.

He doesn't bother to fight it; it's only a matter how far he can get before he has to stop.

Ten yards before he grabs hold of a bole with one hand and vomits, closing his eyes as his throat turns raw, wiping his mouth with an already stained sleeve. Ten minutes before he moves on, shuffling, ignoring the tiny knife points of sand that dig into his soles through the gaps in his shoes, thinking only of the cot he has waiting in the empty house near the swamp and the blanket that will cover him and protect him against the cold. Nearly tripping over an exposed root. Sc.r.a.ping his shoulder against a trunk that has no business being where it is, so he slaps at it angrily, snarls, spits, and walks on, concentrating on not stumbling, because if he falls he knows he won't get up until the sun rises again and his bones will ache and his head will swell and he'll be in no condition to beg for Thanksgiving dinner. Which, if he's lucky, will be more than a few sc.r.a.ps. And when he stumbles again, he decides the h.e.l.l with it, the h.e.l.l with Thanksgiving and the h.e.l.l with food and he might as well die now because there's no sense anymore, there's just no sense. He'll end up as he should, like that tiny skeleton over there, the skeleton of a small bird that lies beside a pile of other tiny bodies, more birds the insects and crows have cleaned to the bone.

When they move, he isn't surprised.

He's more drunk than he's been in months, so it makes perfect sense that those little skeletons can move, can rise on skeleton legs and skeleton claws and waddle and hop toward him. In and out of the moonlight. No eyes. Just beaks and bone. A fascinating example of biology gone mad, and he grins as they gather at his feet and begin to peck at his shoes.

It isn't until the first one draws blood that Dub Neely begins to scream.

PART 3.

1.

1.

I.

t had been a long time since Casey had been in a church, and it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as he'd feared. A little strange, perhaps, but not uncomfortable. At least there were no signs of impending lightning or other manifestations of Divine disapproval for his absence. For which, he supposed, he ought to be grateful, all things considered.

The church was crowded, and experience had taught him to arrive early so he could sit at the far end of the back pew. Unfortunately that allowed him to become the target of curious stares, a few cautious nods and, to his guilty delight, three outright glares of hostility as the three Teague brothers filed in, each wearing a blue serge suit a good full size too small. Mayor Cribbs and his family were there, Norville Cutler and Mandy Poplin-the woman from his town office-Hull and his daughter and a young man Casey didn't know, but from his gait appeared to be more at home on a boat than on land.

The others, most of them, were just faces. Faces he recognized but had no names, or names that did not come readily to mind; faces of strangers; but the faces he enjoyed the most were the faces of the children. Clearly most of them didn't want to be here. It was Thanksgiving. They were supposed to be home, taking in the smells, stealing nibbles from platters, annoying mothers in kitchens, ready to eat and watch football and maybe play a little touch or tackle in the yard before the sun went down. They definitely weren't supposed to be in a stuffy old church.

He smiled to himself, and now and then lowered his head to hide the pain memories set upon him.

For the life of him he couldn't explain why he was here. It had just happened. He'd awakened, showered, and found himself dressing in the best clothes he had. Not a suit, but decent grey slacks and a white s.h.i.+rt and dark tie, and shoes he hadn't worn in... too long. Too long. A dark wind-breaker, not the denim jacket, and the next thing he knew he was outside in springlike sunlight, walking south, taking his time, standing for a long while outside Baylor's church before sighing, shrugging, and finally going in.

Candle wax and polish; a vaulted ceiling whose thick exposed beams represented the hull and keel of Noah's ark; several tall windows down each side-frosted, not stained gla.s.s; above him, a gallery for the organist and choir; whispers and coughs and the creak of wood.

As he sat there, alone despite the couple squeezed in beside him, he tried to remember the last time he'd been inside a church; two years, at least. He tried to remember the last time he'd held a Bible; two years, at least.

I don't belong here, he thought suddenly, but suddenly it was too late.

The organ sounded the first note, the congregation rose, and the service began. The hymns, some familiar; the prayers, some familiar; the faces of the strangers, and the faces of the children. Sprays of wheat and trays of fruit and gleaming vegetables; warm sunlight through the high, wide window behind the simple wooden cross suspended from the ceiling; autumn flowers and a large pumpkin and the faces of the children.

I don't belong here.

Reverend Baylor was a curious, pleasant contradiction. He seemed stiff, almost formal, until he sang; he seemed uncomfortable until he climbed into the pulpit, looked out over his congregation, and gave them such a smile that Casey nearly wept.

I don't belong here.

Lord, he thought, I think I know what You're doing, but You know as well as I do that I don't belong here.

Not anymore.

The sermon held no admonitions, no threats of h.e.l.lfire and brimstone, although Casey had to admit that's exactly what he had expected; it was brief, humorous here and there, somber in a plea to pray for those souls under attack physically and otherwise. No mention of the Millennium, but he didn't have to say the word, just caution his flock that a little introspection as the year comes to an end would do no harm, a little acceptance of the man who had hung upon the cross would help in the coming times.

Casey didn't know the hymn that ended the service, knew only that it was anything but solemn, a loud and joyous prayer of thanks that in a smaller church in another place would have had the congregation clapping and swaying in time to the music.

He was out of the pew before the last note had faded, out of the church and into the fresh air before anyone else thought to move. He hurried down the walk toward the street, breathing heavily, deeply, trying to decide if he should go home for his bike or just head on into town to take advantage of Gloria Nazario's kind invitation. There was no temptation not to go; she had offered, and he would accept, and with luck be able to apologize to Junior for scaring him like that.

He looked right and saw Midway Road stretch too far north. Nope; no bike. By the time he got home he'd be sweaty and unfit for civilized company, and a shower and change of clothes would get him to the restaurant too late. Better just to go on; it wasn't all that far, maybe he'd get lucky and someone would offer him a ride. And if he was too early, it was a beautiful day; he could stroll around a little, take in the sights, check out the seasonal decorations.

Behind him the chatter of the congregants leaving the church, the cries of impatient kids to hurry up, some laughter, someone clapping an order to a child. He didn't turn to look; he didn't want to see.

"Mr. Chisholm!"

d.a.m.n, he thought, but he couldn't ignore it.

As he turned, Reverend Baylor waved from the top step, a request to wait a while, until he'd finished greeting his people. At the same time a young woman strode toward him, stunning and blond, a smile just for him.

"Mr. Chisholm?" she said, holding out her hand.

He took it and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

The smile broadened. "I'm Kitra Baylor. My husband almost killed you the other day." And she laughed.

Casey couldn't help staring, and couldn't help noticing that she didn't seem to mind the rudeness; he realized immediately she was used to it.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," he said, just barely stopping himself from scuffing a foot on the ground. "A little bruise on my shoulder, that's all, nothing serious."

People flowed past them, and Kitra greeted with ease those who greeted her without once making him feel as if he were being ignored.

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"No need, Mrs. Baylor. Really, I'm fine."

"Well, you should have," she scolded lightly, a shake of her head. "You never know about these things." She leaned closer, lowered her voice. "Lyman is feeling so guilty, I'm hoping you'll stay a moment and ease his mind. That is, unless you have an appointment?"

He grinned. "No, ma'am, I sure don't. Not for a while, anyway. I think, though, that-"

He stopped when the Teagues came up in a phalanx behind her. Stump and Cord in front, the third brother behind. Casey knew that one had to be Billy Ray, as tall as Cord but bulldog thick rather than whippet thin. They had the same stringy dark hair that tried pathetically to look halfway combed, the same narrow-eye stare meant to intimidate and cower. They looked enough alike to be twins.

He touched Kitra's arm to encourage, her to move her off the walk and out of their way, but surprisingly she wouldn't budge. A simple nod, a simple, "Good day, Mr. Teague," to Stump, and she turned back to him and said, "Do you have dinner plans, Mr. Chisholm?"

Cord and Billy Ray moved on and waited by an expensive-looking small sedan with a handful of dents in the pa.s.senger door and along the rear fender. They folded their arms loosely, arrogantly, across their chests, tucked in their chins, paid no attention to the kids who raced by and stared. Stump, however, brushed past Casey, paused, looked up, and said, "Well, well, well, look what crawled out of his cave."

Kitra's face went blank. "Mr. Teague," she said coldly.

"Didn't figure you for a churchgoer," Stump said, showing his teeth. "Thought you'd be stinking by now, you know? Thanksgiving beer and all that?"

"Mr. Teague," Kitra snapped.

"Ain't talking to you, lady," he said without looking at her. "Talking to the big r.e.t.a.r.d here."

Casey looked over Kitra's head and saw Reverend Baylor watching them anxiously as he spoke with the mayor's family. Then, before he knew what he was doing, he took hold of Stump's arm and pulled the man toward his car. Teague tried to yank free, but couldn't; tried again, and Casey, still smiling for those who were pretending not to stare, said in a low voice, "Keep it up, Teague, and I'll pull it out of its socket and beat you over the head with it. Go home, get drunk, I don't care, just get the h.e.l.l out of here before someone gets hurt."

He released Teague just as the man tried a third time to get free, which made him stumble into his brothers. Cord taught him clumsily; Billy Ray straightened instantly, his arms hanging loose and ready at his side.

With a careful shake of his head, Casey warned them not to be foolish. "Gentlemen, this is a real bad time, in case you hadn't noticed." He looked straight at Cord, who couldn't hold his gaze. "Go away, boys. Don't ruin these nice people's day. You got a problem with me, you know where I live."

He turned his back, still smiling, and returned to Mrs. Baylor's side, softening his expression to tell her everything was all right, there'd be no trouble.

"Mr. Chisholm," she began.

"I think I'd better leave, ma'am," he told her. "I'm having dinner with the Nazarios, and I don't want to be late."

Tires squealed; someone shouted an angry warning at the driver.

"Please tell your husband that really, I'm okay, no need to waste a doctor's time. Thank him for his concern. I really do appreciate it." He shook her hand. "You have a good day. I hope I'll see you and your husband again soon."

Without giving her a chance to reply, he cut across the lawn, long strides and swinging arms, clumsily dodging a chaotic game of tag, grinning at a red-cheeked baby in the arms of her mother. Once on the street he kept to the gra.s.sy shoulder to let cars pa.s.s, was grateful neither Mrs. Baylor nor the reverend tried to catch him.

His chest was tight; breathing didn't come easily.

You, he told himself, are a G.o.dd.a.m.ned idiot.

"You know where I live," he whispered, mocking the deep voice he had used, and he grimaced. "Good Lord, man, are you nuts? You think you're some kind of cowboy?" He shook his head at his foolishness, pushed a hand through his hair, sensed a car pulling up and moved onto the gra.s.s.

The automobile, glaring gold in the sunlight, paced him.

He finally looked.

Mandy Poplin gave him a polite smile and a quick wave, while Cutler just stared, the shadow of a smile under narrow watching eyes. If it was a signal or a message, Casey didn't get it, and didn't try; instead he nodded, smiled back briefly, and looked away.

The gold car paced him for another twenty yards.

Casey resisted the urge to look again, to demand an explanation; instead, he stopped. Gently ma.s.saged his left shoulder. Rubbed the back of his neck. Checked the painfully blue sky, saw a single dark bird riding a current, the shape of its wings telling him it was a hawk.

The car moved on, slowly, Cutler watching him in the rearview mirror until Mandy nudged him and he returned his attention to the road.

See you, Casey thought, sighed, and walked on.

Another hundred yards before the curbs and sidewalks began. He moved off the road, still disgusted at the way he had behaved back there.