Riders In The Sky Part 33

"Christ," he mutters, and stamps over, kicking aside a chair on the way, reaches down to snap the switch off, and freezes.

It is off.

So is the speaker's red light.

But the whispers still slide from behind the speaker's grill, and he knows, he just knows, they're talking about him.

4.

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned."

Rick kneels near the bow of the Lucky Deuce, staring at the water. There's the usual amount of flotsam there- plastic rings, some kind of food, bits of plants-but he also counts at least a dozen dead fish.

He stands, looks around, then walks to the end of the dock and follows the boardwalk along the water's edge.

"d.a.m.n," he says with a shake of his head.

He doesn't bother counting the number of dead fish.

He couldn't anyway; there are too many.

5.

Norville Cutler sits on a park bench, arms spread along the back, topcoat open, hat on the seat beside him, watching old man Farelli fuss with the string of Christmas lights that outline the barbershop window. From down the street he can hear the tinny sound of carols carrying on the easy wind. Gold spiraled streamers are strung across Midway Road from the tops of the streetlamps, intertwined with tiny bulbs that will, he admits, look pretty nice once the sun has gone down. The street isn't crowded, but there are enough pedestrians to make the town look alive. He suspects that the shops down by the harbor are just as busy. It's times like this when he wishes he had gone into one of those businesses instead of peddling the tourist c.r.a.p he does. Maybe someday he'd figure out how to sell it to the locals, really add to the pot that's blossoming in the bank.

He belches then, and laughs at himself. He's just had lunch at the Tide, wants very much to go home and change into something more comfortable, but Mandy has decided to wrap presents today and has ordered him out of the house for at least another hour. Last year she did the wrapping naked, which meant she didn't get a whole h.e.l.l of a lot done, but this year, for some reason, she's taking the season seriously. He has a bad feeling she expects him to pop the question, which he has no intention of doing. Not this year. Not next. Not ever.

Old man Farelli has gone inside.

Cutler glances at his watch, thinks for a second or two, and decides he's had enough sitting around, waiting around, even though it's only been a few minutes.

It's the deal.

He knows it's the deal.

Time is almost up, his incalculable fortune just about made, and it's making him nervous. Anxious. More so when Stump didn't do the deed the way he was supposed to.

"You didn't say kill him."

"I said take care of him, what do you suppose that means?"

"Didn't think it meant kill him."

Jesus. Working with idiots like that, it's amazing he and Jasper have gotten this far. One more place, though. One more place. And Freck already has his marching orders.

Once that's taken care of, he's pretty sure it won't make any difference whether Chisholm is dead or alive. That end of the island will be all his, and his partner will have nothing to complain about.

It would be nice, of course, if he could find out what the man wanted with all that property. Prime land, but as far as he could tell, no sign of development activity, no matter what Hull claims to have dredged up in Atlanta.

He taps the fingers of his left hand thoughtfully against his chest, considering Hull, thinking maybe, just to keep the old man honest, it wouldn't hurt to have the boys pay him another visit. It wouldn't be, he thinks with a laugh, as if Chisholm would be able to step in again.

Another check of his watch and he gathers his coat closed with one hand, uses the other to push himself off the bench.

Time to go.

Time to see what kind of damage Mandy has done to his bank account-a.s.suming she lets him open the presents early.

He picks up his hat, sets its carefully in place, and walks the straight path to the sidewalk, where he nearly collides with Dermot Alloway.

"Jesus, Dermot," he says, "you ever look where you're going?"

Alloway, his cheeks flushed, his eyes nearly invisible behind a pair of heavy-frame gla.s.ses, purses his lips in disapproval. "I could say the same for you, Mr. Cutler." Then everything about him sags, and he looks to Norville like a weary, hunted rabbit. "I have some news."

Cutler eases him away toward the curb, smiling and nodding when several people recognize him and greet him by name. "What news?" Still smiling.

"He knows."

"Who knows?"

"Chisholm. I had a call from a friend on the mainland. Chisholm knows about the medication."

Cutler waves at old man Farelli just leaving his shop. "And so..."

"And so what if he tries to do something about it? My G.o.d, Norville, I could lose my license."

Cutler b.u.t.tons his coat, claps the doctor heartily on the shoulder. "Not to worry, Dermot, my friend. Not to worry. Anything comes up, it will be taken care of, you have my word on it. Now you have a great Christmas, you hear? My best to the little woman."

He walks away, head up, back straight. There are those who studiously ignore him, those whose sideways glances are less than friendly, but he doesn't care. Chisholm knows. So what? Anything he starts, I can finish. In this case, the man's size was too obviously deceptive.

A smile no one can see.

He walks by the sheriffs office, thinks it might do him well to have a word with Deputy Freck, and looks through the gla.s.s door just in time to see Freck smash the dispatch radio on the floor.

6.

There is a great stillness in the marsh, despite the steady wind that blows overhead. Ronnie stands in a broad-bottom skiff, poling toward the landing where she's left her truck. On the seat that spans the middle are her laptop computer, a thick three-ring binder, and a large canvas sack tied snugly at the top.

She checks the trees she pa.s.ses under, studies the water and the land that pokes out from the reeds and weeds and the knees of cypress that have been stunted by salt.w.a.ter seepage. She is afraid that once she sends in this last report of the year, her job will be finished. They'll send someone out to check, they always do when they think she's blown it, and each time it happens, she's able to smile and be gracious as they apologize for the intrusion.

Not this time.

This time they're going to see that she's right, but after the holidays they'll send out an army of researchers and biologists and what-all, and they won't have any need for her. Especially when she tells them she has no idea what's going on, that she has, despite the tests she's run, the quick autopsies she's performed, no idea why the snakes are all dead.

As far as she can tell, every last one of them is dead.

Floating on the surface, caught in the reeds, stretched and tangled on the ground, a few dangling from branches in what was left of the Spanish moss.

It had taken almost all day to realize something else- that none of the bodies had been eaten, even nibbled at. Neither the birds nor the insects had touched a single one.

She probably could have stood that, could have stood seeing all the serpents dead, could have taken it with only a raised eyebrow, a puzzled grunt. . She could have; she knew it.

If it hadn't been for the great silence she couldn't even break by slapping the pole against the water.

7.

In the Methodist church, the cross stops swinging, but something creaks just the same.

In the Edward Teach, Pegleg ignores the fruit and nuts Alma has given him, and stares at the door, muttering to himself.

In the sheriff's office, Billy Freck grabs his cap, checks his revolver, and hurries outside, while on the floor, in a hundred pieces, there are whispers. And there is laughter.

On the beach, waves pound the jetties and sawgra.s.s quivers in the wind, seagulls dive for food, a lone cat prowls the dunes.

And Dub Neely sits cross-legged on the head of Daddy whale, every so often taking a sip from his flask. He seems to remember talking the other day with the giant who works for Cutler, but he can't remember what he said, can't remember if the giant answered. He thinks it may be important, but he can't remember why.

It's almost Christmas.

He's alone.

That may be the reason he's crying.

But he can't remember why.

6.

1.

W.

hen Casey opened his eyes, sunlight pus.h.i.+ng at the bedroom curtains told him it wasn't the same day he had walked out of the woods. The question was, how long had he been asleep?

Carefully, testing each limb, aware of a lightheadedness that threatened to undermine his equilibrium, he tossed the covers aside and sat up. On the chair in the corner were his s.h.i.+rt and jeans. By the nightstand were his shoes. He stared at them for a long time, as though he wasn't sure what they were, then stood, waited, and headed straight for the bathroom.

Weak or not, there were some things that didn't pay attention to how he felt.

When he checked the mirror and saw the stubble on his cheeks and chin, he figured it had to be Wednesday, good Lord don't let it be Thursday.

It wasn't until he was in the shower that he remembered it all.

As best they could, they had manhandled into the house. Someone, it might have been him, insisted on lying down in his bed, and they lugged him upstairs, undressed him, covered him up, turned out the light, and ...

And nothing.

But the fog was gone.

He rinsed and dried quickly, opening the door just a crack so he could listen for voices, for sounds of movement. If they were still here, they would know he was awake. If they were still here.