Riders In The Sky Part 43

He heard Lisse gasp.

He saw again the two men leaving the house. Not hurrying. Casual visitors on their way home.

He heard Senior protesting but unable to stop them from taking him away. "Preacher," he called, and then he sobbed loudly.

Casey looked at his hands as the cold strengthened and made his spine rigid, his neck muscles bulge. He flexed his fingers. He thought: I don't dare, this isn't right, I don't dare. Flexed his fingers again.

The siren grew louder, more than one now.

He braced himself, fighting the cold, fighting the memories, fighting the helpless anger; braced himself until he couldn't restrain it any longer, couldn't hold back the cold that began to turn to fierce heat that broke sweat across his face, that made his throat and eyes dry.

He sagged abruptly, bowed his head and shook it, then placed a palm over Junior Raybourn's back, spreading his fingers as if to cover all the holes. The voices he heard became unintelligible, a buzzing, nothing more; the man below him became a figure in a thick grey-black fog. His lips moved in a prayer he hadn't uttered for years, but he hadn't forgotten the words, and he whispered them again.

Someone knelt beside him.

He didn't look; he pressed harder.

A hand on his shoulder; he didn't look; he pressed harder, prayed again.

A woman's voice, through the buzzing: "I think he's dead."

And he said, "No."

Not rocking anymore; still now, moving his fingers without moving the palm.

Sirens, and more voices, commands and demands, protests and more demands.

"Please," the woman said.

Another voice: "You'll have to move away, sir, we'll take care of him now."

His lips moved, his fingers moved.

"Sir?"

The woman said, "Please."

A strong hand tried to tug him away, but he shrugged it off easily and said, "Wait. Wait a second."

"Come on, sir, you can't do anything, you're not a doctor, right? Come on, sir, please move."

The woman said, "Please."

A shudder that made Casey s.n.a.t.c.h his hand away, and Junior Raybourn moaned, shuddered again, kicked a leg that hit a wall, and was still.

"That's it, get the h.e.l.l out of the way before you do any more damage."

"Please," the woman said, and he allowed her to pull at him gently, back to his heels, up to his feet. Immediately, the paramedics roughly shoved him farther away and swarmed around Junior, snapping soft orders to each other as they a.s.sembled their equipment.

The cold was gone; the heat was gone.

Numbed and bone-tired, he stumbled to the back door and through it, to the stoop. Took in huge gulps of the night's air. Put the heel of one hand to his forehead and moved it around in circles. For one terrifying moment he thought he was going to throw up; for one terrifying moment he thought he was going to pa.s.s out.

"Are you all right?"

It was the woman.

He nodded. "Yes. Yeah, I think so." He looked over as he said, "I guess I should thank-" And he stopped.

She stood under the shattered porchlight, her hair in easy waves and angel-wing bangs. She was, at that moment, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Casey Chisholm," he said weakly.

She smiled. "Yes. I know. I'm Beatrice Harp, and I think I've been searching this whole b.l.o.o.d.y country for you."

4.

1.

T.

he night was endless: Casey sat in the living room, jacket draped over his shoulders. Chills regularly walked his spine, and his head felt as if someone had jammed it full of damp cotton.

Freck had been the first to arrive, came into the house with gun drawn, followed immediately by the ambulance crew. Now the ambulance was long gone. As soon as the paramedics had uncovered the extent of the victims' injuries, they had radioed for a medevac, then took the Raybourns to the beach to meet the helicopter that would take them to Savannah. Casey heard one of them doubt that Senior would last the night, and Junior's chances weren't much better.

"Let me get this straight," Sheriff Oakman said, notepad in hand, pure skepticism in his tone. "You saw two men come out of Raybourn's house. They spotted you, they fired at you, they didn't hit you, and they ran away."

"Close enough."

From the doorway, Freck folded his arms and snorted outright disbelief.

The sheriff ignored him. "Four guns by your count, and they didn't hit you."

"It was dark. Mostly dark, there was some moonlight. I dropped to the ground and"-he gestured wearily at John and Lisse-"they fired back. The two men ran, got in their car and drove off."

"You had no weapon of your own."

"No."

"You heard shots and you ran over here with no weapon of your own."

"No. I mean, right. And anyway, I'm an ex-con, as you keep reminding me. Where would I get a gun?"

"Ex-cons have ways," Freck said, slipping a toothpick between his lips.

"I didn't have one."

Oakman said, "So unarmed, you ran straight into a gun battle.", "By the time I reached the yard, it was over."

"Until they started shooting at you."

"Yes."

"You didn't know them."

"Nope."

"Never saw them before in your life."

"No, I haven't."

"So what you're saying is, two men, who were probably professionals by the sound of it, came fully armed to the house of an old man and his r.e.t.a.r.ded son, shot them and the place up, you were on the scene in seconds, and you have no idea what was going down here."

"Pretty much, yes."

"Don't go away, I'll be back."

Sometime during the interminable interrogations, the murmur of deputies photographing the rooms and taking measurements, Casey looked up and saw Reed and Cora on the porch. He walked over to the open living room window and said, "Thanks, guys. That was quick."

"For what?" Reed said.

"For getting the sheriff."

"We never called anyone."

"What?"

Reed looked to Cora. "John was already out of his house, we didn't have the car keys." He shrugged. "Someone else must have done it when they heard all the shooting."

He turned to Beatrice and said, "Who are you?"

"Later," she said, smoothing the jacket over his shoulders. "I think you're a little busy right now."

Lisse knelt in front of him, lowered her head, lowered her voice. "I thought he was going to shoot you," she said, a quick glance indicating Freck.

"I didn't see him."

"Casey, I saw him go in the house, and if those men hadn't been here, I swear he would have killed you."

John, already questioned by Oakman but told to stick around, hunkered down in front of him, put a hand on his knee. "You okay?"

"I don't know. I think so. And what the h.e.l.l are you doing with guns?"

"We've been on the road a long time, Casey. You don't travel like that, through places we've been, without protection, believe me."

"Well... thanks."

"My pleasure."

"This'll sound awful, but I wish you'd gotten one. For the sheriff, anyway."

John grinned. "I carry the gun, Case. That doesn't mean I can use it."

Oakman flipped his notepad open again. "They said you obstructed the medics' attempts to revive Junior."

"I was trying to help."

"They said you weren't doing anything."

"I was ... I was praying."

Freck s.h.i.+fted the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Oh, that's right. They say you're a preacher. What were you trying to do, do one of them TV evangelist things? Bring him back from the dead or something?"

"I was praying," he repeated flatly.

"Man, can you beat it?" Freck laughed snidely. "Ex-con and preacher, a h.e.l.l of a combination. What did you do in prison, Chisholm, pray for their souls while they lined up in the shower and bent you over and-"

Casey half rose, and the deputy's hand went immediately to his gun. Beatrice grabbed his arm; the sheriff didn't move.

"You got here awfully fast," Casey said to Oakman.

"We pride ourselves on quick responses around here," the sheriff told him. "Now let's go over this again."