Riders In The Sky Part 39

It wasn't much fun a lot of the time, Reed had said, plucking absently at the sling that bound his arm to his chest. I mean, we saw a lot of things we wouldn't have seen otherwise, I guess, but it wasn't like we were on vacation. Well, sometimes it was. Sometimes we knew Reverend Chisholm wasn't anywhere around, so we used the time to build up our money. It was hard, though. I mean, Cora kept getting fired all the time.

Hey, she said.

Well, you were. She never took anything from anybody, you know? I don't think they want that kind of att.i.tude in a waitress. No offense, Lisse.

None taken, Yank.

He grinned then and started to laugh, sputtered to a halt, apologized, and laughed again.

No, Cora warned.

One time, he said, we were camping out in I forget where it was, in some trees anyway someplace, and the next morning Cora gets up to go ... you know ... you know? ... and I'm getting stuff ready to cook breakfast when she comes screaming back like she's being chased by monsters, pants down around her ankles, and I... oh, G.o.d ...I...

Turkeys, she said grumpily. It was turkeys, okay? You happy?

But she soon enough began to smile in spite of herself, had to cough away a laugh.

I wasn't looking where I was going, got myself all settled, and there was a whole flock of wild turkeys who I guess kind of took exception to what I was doing.

You know, those d.a.m.n things are big, Reed said. Then he grinned even wider. I bopped one with a flying pan. I learned to cook turkey that night.

My hero, Cora said sarcastically.

d.a.m.n right, he said. You're G.o.d d.a.m.n right.

All the food was stored in the kitchen except for what they took back to the living room to eat right away. As they did, Casey told them how he'd been attacked, drugged to keep him in bed, and how he really didn't know exactly why it had all happened.

"All I can figure from some of the old newspapers, and from what I heard while I was in bed-what I remember, that is-is that there's some kind of big land deal thing going on. Everything on this end of the island has been bought up, except for a place owned by a guy named Raybourn. There's a few blind corporations involved, and the speculation is, they're run by the mayor and ... well, my boss."

"I don't get it," John said. "Where do you fit in?"

"I don't, I don't think. I mean, I'm just the handyman. I don't have any interest in any property, the mayor can't be mad at me because I've never met him ... h.e.l.l, I just don't know. But people in the way are getting hurt. The story is, an old woman was, essentially, murdered for her house, there's been vandalism against those who talk too loudly about it-"

"But somebody wanted you out of the way, too," Reed said. "Not as in dead, I mean. I mean, like, with all the drugs and stuff."

"Again," Casey began, and stopped. Frowned. "Well, there was one thing."

He told them about the newspaper and the Teagues, but even that didn't make much sense in the long run.

"So I ticked them off and they beat the c.r.a.p out of me. That doesn't justify getting a doctor involved in keeping me flat on my back. That's serious business. That's, at the least, some form of criminal malpractice."

He spread his arms. "I don't know, guys. I do not know."

He watched Reed struggle with a plate and his sandwich, and couldn't take it any longer.

"Reed," he said, standing, "when did you get hurt, Thanksgiving, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get up."

"Huh?"

"Come on, get up, boy. On your feet. Someone go into the kitchen and get me a pair of scissors or a good sharp knife."

Reed looked bewildered, and uneasy, as Cora hurried out of the room, and he flinched a bit when Casey clamped his hands on his shoulders.

"You're milking it, son," he said gently, with a gentle smile.

"I'm ... no!" Reed protested. "There was ... muscles got ripped up and they had to put everything back together. They said it would take-"

"Hush," Casey whispered. And squeezed. "Hush."

When Cora returned, he wasted no time cutting away the sling and the broad bandage wrapped around Reed's shoulder. Gently he pulled it away from the skin, grimacing once at the smear of disinfectant that made it seem as if the whole area was one huge bruise.

Then he took Reed's hand. "Straighten your arm."

Reed shook his head. "No, Reverend Chisholm. I can't."

"Sure you can. You can brain a wild torn turkey with a p.i.s.sant frying pan, you can straighten your arm." His voice deepened, and he stepped back. "Do it, Reed. Slowly. Be careful. But do it."

Reed's face contorted in antic.i.p.ated pain, but when Casey held out his hand, shaking it impatiently to tell him to grab hold, Reed bit down on his lip, levered the arm away from his chest, an inch at a time, a hiss and a held breath, a grimace when something inside pulled and hurt. But eventually he did it-he grabbed Casey's hand.

"All right!" Cora said, clapping. "Someone else to do the dishes." Reed touched the scar on his upper chest, twisting neck and head so he could look at it. "I'm healed," he said in delighted disbelief. "Wow. I'm healed."

Casey laughed. "No kidding, son. I think you've been healed for a while already."

Reed, rubbing his shoulder gingerly, look around excitedly as Casey headed for the kitchen. "No kidding, really. Look! I'm healed! Reverend Chisholm, you-"

"Stop it," Casey ordered. Looked back, glaring. His voice, while not loud, filled the room. "Stop it, Reed. No more. I didn't do a thing."

Casey, beer bottle in hand, stood at the back door, looking at the yard, seeing nothing.

From behind him: "What was that all about?"

"I don't want him thinking something's true that isn't. He grabs for things, John. He's been through a lot, but he hasn't changed. He needs explanations and sometimes grabs the first one he finds."

A footstep; the sound of the refrigerator opening.

"Casey, you and I, we don't know each other very well-h.e.l.l, we've only met twice before-but it seems to me there's more to it than that."

Casey brought the bottle to his lips, lowered it again slowly, without drinking. "No," he said. "No, there isn't."

"Okay."

Footsteps leaving.

Voices in the front room.

No, he thought; no, there isn't.

3.

1.

L.

ate Monday morning Casey took them down to the harbor, where they stood near the slip where the Lucky Deuce had been destroyed. There wasn't much of it left, a portion of the bow was all that remained above water. A handful of nearby boats showed signs of fire, others of the blast itself-one's mast had been snapped in half; on a second the mainmast was gone entirely. Crime scene tape snapped and bent in a slow wind; in one place it had torn, and the ends coiled endlessly on the ground like a headless yellow snake. No one else was there but a few kids poking around, one of the deputies standing on the dock watching them but saying nothing.

In the bay were three rowboats-in one were men taking down the raft tree, in the others men still scouring the surface for clues to the previous day's explosion.

As far as Casey could tell, none of the closest houses had been badly damaged, but a couple of trees showed charred bark. He walked around for a few minutes, but he didn't see Rick.

"What was he?" Reed asked as they headed back for the car. "Some kind of drug dealer or something?"

Casey shook his head. "No, he's one of the people trying to find out what Cutler's up to. I think his girlfriend is the newspaper editor's daughter."

"d.a.m.n," said Lisse, "these boys play rough."

John took her arm. "They must think it's worth it."

Cora looked back, s.h.i.+vering. "A good thing he wasn't on it."

"Maybe they thought he was."

Casey hung back. He couldn't help thinking of Jordan, the man's whole livelihood gone in an instant. There was probably some insurance, but he had a feeling, looking at the other, newer and larger boats, that it might not be enough to keep him in compet.i.tion.

Amazing, he thought; the world's blowing up in every corner, and there are still some men who'll fight over one lousy piece of land on one not so very big island. Amazing.

"Lunch," he announced when they reached the car.

"I'm not hungry," Cora said.

"You'll eat," he told her with a grin. "Or just have a coffee, I don't care. I, however, am starved, and I need to find out a few things."

Her frown quickly became a grin of her own. "Gossip."

"Bingo."

"But you hardly know anyone, you said so yourself."

"I have ears to hear. And a cook who loves to talk."

The lunchroom wasn't full yet, and they took a table at the side wall in Betsy's. Casey introduced the Nazarios as a pair of those who had looked after him after the beating- Gloria seemed embarra.s.sed at his fulsome praise of her help; Hector just beamed and excused himself back into the kitchen.

Not long after they ordered, the other tables and the counter began to fill. Talk was of the explosion, the fires, and the inevitable tales of close calls and heroism. A propane tank theory was scuttled when a fisherman regular insisted Jordan never had one aboard, spontaneous combustion made the rounds, a spark near the fuel tank, clear-sky lightning, kids fooling around to disastrous effect.

No one mentioned Norville Cutler.

Casey never thought they would; he paid more attention to their expressions and tones than their words, and that told him Cutler was at the top of their most wanted list. What bothered him was Stump Teague-the man didn't seem the type to have knowledge of sophisticated explosives, and even if the device turned out to be a crude one, he doubted the little man could use it without blowing himself up.

Personal attention was his style, not destruction from a distance.

By the time the second wave of diners came in, he had heard enough; and besides, the topic had changed to the winter storm that would probably make hash of New Year's Eve. He had one more stop to make, and he didn't want to waste any more time. While John paid at the register, he leaned into the kitchen to say good-bye to Hector and thank him again. Junior, standing at the grill, waved over his shoulder.

"I have a new sweater," he said, pointing proudly at his chest.

"Looks good, Mr. Raybourn," Casey said. "You watch that grease, now."

"Yes. Yes, sir. I can do that. I can watch the grease."

Casey winked at him and turned to go, paused when Hector held up a finger-wait a minute-and finished the platter he had been a.s.sembling. As he carried it to a small table near the door for pick-up and rang a small bell, he said, "I heard something this morning, Mr. Chisholm."

"Something good?"

"No, not good at all." He kept quiet until the waitress took her order. "I heard they brought in someone."

Casey frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, they brought in someone. From the mainland. To take care of business, Mr. Chisholm. Like, maybe, what happened to Mr. Jordan." He tapped a light finger against Casey's chest. "And I think I saw him, too. I think he had breakfast here, him and another man, I think maybe he was his partner." He smiled, but it was a poor effort. "I didn't like him, Mr. Chisholm. He was ..." He smiled again, shrugged, and headed back to his cutting board.

But Casey didn't miss the movement of the man's hand-he had been unable to put a word to his feelings about this stranger; nevertheless, he had crossed himself, kissed the tips of his fingers.