Riders In The Sky Part 18

you know where I live Good Lord, what an idiot.

He hadn't just asked for trouble, he had begged for it, dared it, waved a red flag, thumbed his nose, did just about everything but take a swing at the jerk right then and there just to get things in motion. Hindsight suggested that's exactly what Stump was after, that he had no intention of taking the first step. A setup a blind man could have seen coming a mile away.

If he were smart, then, he would turn around and go home, prepare as best he could for the company he'd no doubt be having sooner or later-and probably sooner; if he were smart, he'd pack his bag, get on the bike, and get the h.e.l.l off the island, because any chance of things staying the same now had been reduced from slim to none. He never should have gone into town, never should have b.u.t.ted in at the newspaper; he never should have thought he could live a normal life again.

He couldn't; not now, not here.

He almost turned around, but with a one-sided smile he figured that no, he wasn't all that smart. For the time being the threat of crisis was over, and there was no sense worrying about what might come later. This was now, it was a beautiful day, and after all, there was a Thanksgiving meal waiting for him down at Betsy's, prepared by virtual strangers who had asked him in without knowing who or what he was.

Not smart, maybe, but he knew what was right.

2.

The sun was warm, the breeze comfortably cool, and his mood lightened considerably as he pa.s.sed the houses that marked the real beginning of town. Kids on the lawns, grandfolks on the porches, a touch football game in front of the school with boys and men some not yet out of then-Sunday best, leaves scooting along the street, a few birds in the sky.

It was, he judged, almost ridiculously perfect.

When a hand touched his shoulder, however, he stiffened instantly, went cold, and braced himself as he looked back angrily, readying for a fight.

"Mr. Chisholm," said Whittaker Hull, dropping his hand, stepping back quickly.

Casey cleared his throat, managed an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I was expecting someone else."

His daughter was with him, her red hair up and bound behind her head, an autumn dress and a sweater, stockings and pumps. He thought, for some reason, the outfit didn't look natural on her. "Miss Hull."

Hull waved a long-fingered hand, settled it on his tie. "I never did thank you for your intervention, Mr. Chisholm. It was rude of me. I should have done it sooner. I should have called or come out."

"You should have beaten the h.e.l.l out of them," Ronnie said to Casey, her face lightly flushed.

"Now, Ronnie," Hull said, a touch to her arm. A weak smile. "She has a temper."

Casey c.o.c.ked an eyebrow and answered, "So I see," as he walked on, Hull on his right, Ronnie on his left.

"You should have," she insisted. "They deserved it." She frowned at him. "More, if you ask me."

Hull sighed. "They haven't scared me off, though, have they, dear?"

"No, but that's only because you're too stubborn to take a hint."

Hull laughed loudly as he sent a playful poke at Casey's arm. "She doesn't tell you, of course, that it runs in the family. With, I might add, a few extra notches of intensity."

Casey, only vaguely aware of what they were talking about, kept silent. Although curiosity wanted him to ask why the Teagues had been in the office in the first place, he said nothing. Curiosity killed cats, not to mention other things. A quick look around, but he didn't see the young man who had been with them in church. Another question he refused to ask.

Hull slipped his hands into his pockets, suit jacket pushed behind him. He kept his gaze straight ahead. "We don't see much of you around here, Mr. Chisholm."

"No."

"A fortuitous visit, then. The other day, I mean."

"Yeah. I guess you could call it that."

Ronnie made a face. "Awfully coincidental, if you ask me."

"Ronnie, please."

"Well, Dad, he could have done more than show them the door. My G.o.d, they trashed the office, remember? They were going to beat you up."

"Ronnie, that's enough."

"Dad, he works for Cutler. It just seems to me-"

Casey stopped suddenly, and the Hulls moved a few steps beyond before they realized he wasn't with them. Whittaker lifted a hand in apology for his daughter's temper and accusations; Ronnie just glared.

"For one thing," Casey said, keeping his voice low and calm, "I really don't appreciate being talked about as if I were invisible. And for another, Miss Hull, I'm not much more than a glorified handyman. I hammer nails, I rake leaves, I throw a paintbrush around. Cutler pays my salary, such as it is, yes, but if you don't mind me saying so, I think you're way out of line here, if you're trying to put me in the same company as the Teagues."

She wouldn't back down, staring at him as if her expression alone would break him into telling the truth-that he'd gone easy on the Teagues because they all worked for the same man.

"Ronnie," said Hull sharply, "I think that's quite enough. Mr. Chisholm extricated me from a dangerous situation and for that, Mr. Chisholm, I am eternally grateful. If there's anything I can do ... please. Name it."

Casey only shook his head, and made it clear by his stance that he wasn't moving until they did. And he wouldn't be joining them.

Ronnie didn't seem to care. One last stabbing jut of her chin as if to punctuate her remarks, spoken and unspoken, and she walked away. Hull pa.s.sed a hand over his forehead, fumbled for something else to say, an apology, an explanation, and finally hurried after her, catching up only when she began to cross the street at the next corner.

Well, Casey thought, you sure could have handled that better, don't you think?

Maybe he could have ... h.e.l.l, he certainly could have. The young woman only wanted to protect her father, and wanted his protectors not to stop halfway. It was understandable, her reaction, but he wished she hadn't picked today of all days to confront him.

He was beginning to regret not going straight home. It seemed as if the world was out to get him, one way or another, either in punishment for leaving the house, or for not leaving it sooner.

Less than a minute later, however, the day and the neighborhood soothed his mood once again. Still, he couldn't help wondering just what it was he had missed, burrowing himself away out at the end of Midway Road all this time.

In the old days he would have made a pest of himself, asking around, looking for reasons why Stump Teague and his brothers were out to get an old man like Hull; in the old days he would have used his influence, if he could, to find out exactly what Norville Cutler had to do with it-he doubted very seriously that the Teagues were acting on their own. He didn't think they were stupid, not by any means, but he doubted they left their home in the marsh to ha.s.sle and frighten folks just for the h.e.l.l of it, for free.

Which made him recall that deputy's reaction to the news of the attack, and that threatened to set his temper off again.

In the old days he would have marched that smug little man by the scruff of the neck over to the newspaper office himself, badge or no badge.

In the old days ...

A noise much like a growl deep in his throat. The old days, he reminded himself sternly, were exactly that-old. Past. Gone. If not forgotten, definitely irretrievable. He was a different man now. He was a n.o.body, exactly as he'd planned it. Exactly as he wanted it.

Yet he couldn't rid himself of Ronnie Hull's disdainful voice, or the sneer that had split Stump Teague's thick scruffy beard on the church walk. It nettled. It grated. It was, in many ways, a familiar itch he couldn't avoid scratching.

Okay, so maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask a question or two once he reached Betsy's. It wouldn't be laying the groundwork for interference; it would be a simple information gathering exercise, so he'd know better who to avoid. A way of protecting himself, so he wouldn't get sucked in.

But it's tempting, Case, ain't it, he thought as he pushed open the sandwich shop door; you gotta admit, it's awfully d.a.m.n tempting.

3.

It was a simple meal, just the basics-turkey, mashed potatos, fresh-baked bread, dressing, vegetables. A bottle of inexpensive wine for each table. Portions average, not huge. The food good, not exquisite.

He was placed at a table near the back, Gloria and her brother fussing silently around him, embarra.s.sing him when he finally understood that they had heard what he had done for Whittaker Hull. Treating him, for some reason, like some kind of local hero. Junior apparently wasn't working today, and there weren't many other diners, mostly old men and old women who obviously had no desire to stay at home, eat alone on Thanksgiving, and the Nazarios treated them like family. From the greetings, the mild banter, this was evidently an annual tradition.

There was quiet laughter, then, and soft conversation, and it didn't take long to see that the register had been locked up; today there would be no money exchanged. And though he got the occasional glance, no one spoke to him, which was fine until he had finished his dessert and realized how badly he missed it sometimes-the conversations, the good-natured teasing, the arguments, the debates... the contact.

In the old days.

This, he decided glumly, was turning out to be a really bad idea.

Still, he took every opportunity to do a little shameless eavesdropping and, as Gloria or Hector cleared away the tables, ask a few questions he hoped sounded harmless. It was Hector who gave him the most information once all was done, sitting with him for a while to have a cigarette break, a gla.s.s of wine, cool off from being in the kitchen all morning.

Bad times, you know? Bad times, Mr. Chisholm. I am speaking only what I hear, you understand. People talk, I can't help it if I have big ears. But you must see it too, Mr. Chisholm, out where you are. n.o.body lives there except you, yes? One by one the houses are sold, and they don't get sold again, true? A place like this, all the ocean and the beach so close, they could be sold for a lot of money, I think. Even the little ones. But they don't. They just sit there now, empty, falling apart. Even Junior's father, they want him to sell, but he won't. He say he got no place to go, but still they try, always they try. Once, I hear, they came after him with some clubs and things, and he chased them away with a shotgun, maybe a rifle. They still bother him, but they don't get so close anymore.

Now some people say there gonna be a big casino out there, maybe a hotel, maybe a lot of big fancy houses like down at the Hook. Drain the marsh, you know? Fill it in, that wouldn't be too hard, it ain't that big. n.o.body knows for sure. The mayor say he don't know nothing about it, he too wants more people living here to help the business places like ours. But he's a rich man, Mr. Chisholm, and like all rich men he wants to get richer. Maybe him and that Cutler, they want the island to themselves, I don't know.

But some people don't like that, they talk about it, they get hurt sometimes. Mrs. Essman, you don't know her, I think, they bother her so much she die, but n.o.body say it's anybody's fault. And Mr. Hull and his paper. Mr. Hull, he keep saying we in for big trouble, and they keep trying to stop him, but they can't do that yet. Some day, maybe, they will. I think it will happen that some day it will come.

"Hey," Gloria said, giving her brother a playful slap across the back of his head. "You retiring? You clean the oven already? All the dishes done?"

Hector laughed heartily, shook Casey's hand, and hustled back into the kitchen, a good-bye wave over his shoulder.

Casey sensed then it was time to leave. He rose, patted his stomach, and thanked her for her kindness and for the delicious meal. It was, he told her, the most pleasant Thanksgiving he had had in a long time.

"You just come back," she told him, walking with him to the door. "And I am very sorry for the way-"

"It's all right," he a.s.sured her. "Really. I think I'm beginning to understand."

"Maybe," she answered doubtfully. "You just come back, I'll be nice next time."

When the door hissed shut behind him, he inhaled deeply, smelling the warmth and the sea, feeling the comfortable weight of the meal in his stomach. He walked slowly northward, the streets empty now, a pleasant autumn silence broken only by the sound of a light wind in his ears.

He tried not to think about what Hector had told him. It was, at the least, none of his business. Land speculation, the little guy getting forced out, big fish in little ponds maybe thinking to get bigger-old story. A very old story. Big city, little town, nothing changed, and certainly, absolutely, nothing to do with him.

He pa.s.sed a little gift shop and glanced in the window, at a display of humorous cards touting the approaching Millennium, at a pyramid of books-some novels, some nonfiction-predicting the various miraculous changes or unmitigated disasters the new Millennium would bring. There didn't seem to be any middle ground. It was either a new Eden or the Apocalypse, pick one and live with it, pick the other and prepare to die.

He walked on.

None of it had anything to do with him.

Not anymore.

By the time he reached the Landward intersection, the blinking red light pale in the bright sun, he began to wish he had brought the bike anyway. Still a good three miles or so go, and his legs were already feeling a little wooden. As he reached the town hall he glanced over his shoulder, hoping to spot a car heading in his direction. Another block had him praying for a newfound ability to fly.

A piece of work, Casey; you're one piece of work.

A grunt, a self-pitying sigh, and he moved on, pa.s.sing a wide empty lot thick with trees, although the weeds near the sidewalk had been recently cut down, their stalks left to rot on the ground. He had almost reached the far side, when movement near a low shrub made him pause.

Soft burbling, like birds muttering in high branches.

The paperlike rustling of wings.

Curious, he sidestepped until he could see past the shrub, and it took a few seconds for him to understand- several large black birds stood around something lying in their midst. Pecking at it. Tearing at it. Ripping pieces of it away and raising their heads to slide those pieces down heir gullets. He could see red, some white, and what looked to be fur. When he took a step toward them, they stopped their feeding and looked up.

Good Lord, he thought, and pressed a hard hand to his stomach.

They were crows or ravens, he wasn't sure which, but he was pretty d.a.m.n sure neither had bright blue eyes like these birds did. Before he could decide whether it was actually true or just the light under the trees, one of them puffed its wings and strutted toward him, c.o.c.king its head, ordering him away. At the same time, another hopped backward pulling at something pink and stringy, just far enough for him to see the squirrel's head. Its blinking eyes. Its trembling mouth.

He swallowed hard and quickly backed onto the sidewalk, suddenly turned and grabbed a lamppost, leaned heavily against it, swallowed, and gulped air in a desperate effort not to lose his dinner.

The squirrel was still alive.

They were eating it alive.

He could hear the crows' soft voices, almost as though they were talking to themselves, could hear the flutter of wings, one annoyed squawk, the snap of a beak. He shoved away from the lamppost and nearly ran up the street. Swallowing. Gulping air. Blue eyes and a live squirrel-please, G.o.d, it had to be the light.

When he looked back from the next corner, he couldn't see them, couldn't hear them, and told himself there was no question but that it had to have been the light.

A few yards farther on, his stomach finally calmed, the taste of acid in his mouth gone when he spit twice into the gutter and wiped his lips with the back of a hand.

Blue eyes? he thought; oh, brother, what next? They going to wear top hats and tap dance for you?

He didn't notice the cruiser until it pulled over to the curb.

"Need a lift?" the sheriff asked, window rolled down, elbow on the ledge, sungla.s.ses on.

Casey didn't think twice; he nodded, and the back door opened as if a switch had been thrown. "Thanks," he said gratefully as he slid in and pulled the door closed, stiffened when he realized Deputy Freck was in the front, too.

Oakman pulled away, swinging into the proper lane, keeping to the speed limit. A glance in the rearview mirror: "Hope your friends don't see you," he said with a chuckle. "Looks like you've been arrested."