Riders In The Sky Part 51

"Yes. You and me, Dwight. Let's hope the Indians don't attack, or we're up p.o.o.p creek."

Salter laughs and shakes his head. "That's not the way I heard it, Verna."

"Yeah? Well, you heard it that way now." She reaches for her slicker and floppy rain hat. "I'm going to ride around a little. Maybe I'll get lucky and run Stump over." She grins as she jams the hat on. "By accident, of course. Purely by accident."

"What about the prisoners? They're complaining about not getting any lunch."

"Lunch?" She pauses at the door. "d.a.m.n. Give *em an hour, then give Hector a call, have him make something up. Christ," she mutters as she pushes the door open, grunting against the wind that tries to break into the room, "you'd think he was still the G.o.dd.a.m.n mayor."

The storm clouds bulge and contract, black patches and grey, as they speed over the island on their way north. Far off the coast a waterspout bounces over the surface, bending, swaying, finally collapsing in silver sparks. A few minutes before noon, a rain shower slaps the streets and windows, and ends as suddenly as it began. A few minutes later parts of the cloud-sky turn a vivid ugly green, sign of a tornado that doesn't appear.

Whitecaps on the bay spit foam and spray.

The sea rises, and the waves rise with it.

Although Hector is at Betsy's, he hasn't bothered to open. No one's going to be out today unless they absolutely have to be, and he might as well keep his promise to Gloria and get himself off the island before the tide and high seas cut him off.

Resolved as he may be, however, he can't stay away from the window. He can't stop watching the clouds, listening to the wind. Gloria will think he's loco, that's for sure, but there's something odd about this one and he doesn't want to leave until he figures it out.

Besides, if the causeway's flooded, that means wrestling with the car, and his shoulder still aches from the kick it received when he shot Ronnie Hull's extra rifle at that sc.u.m of the earth, one of the Teagues. There's a bruise-it looks like he's collided with an anvil-and he can barely lift the arm. Steering that old car ... he shakes his head, and sighs.

He's stuck, and thinks, Gloria's going to kill me.

Despite warnings from the cops, the firemen, and just about everyone else who had an opinion, Ronnie has spent the whole morning sifting through her father's office, and their apartment, looking for things to salvage.

The fire, started with a few gallons of gasoline and a match, has left little for her to use. She knows that, after the first of the year, the whole building will have to come down; she knows that the storm will drown anything left behind.

She's not looking for anything special. A keepsake, a utensil, a photograph, a ballpoint pen...she doesn't care; as long as it was hers or Daddy's, she doesn't care.

Every hour or so she takes a break, pulls off her work gloves and climbs over the debris into the front room, where she stares through the shattered window at the spot where her father died. Remembering how Stump looked when he saw her riding down on him, how her father looked as he was cast aside like an old rag; remembering the voice of the preacher, the one they all thought was nothing more than a thick-neck handyman, and the look on his face, such sorrow; remembering what she had said, and that he'd prayed for Daddy anyway.

She looks, and she remembers, and then she returns to the ash and char and sodden paper and crumbling walls, and looks again for something she can bring out, so she can remember.

Kirkland Stone sits on the loveseat, his feet propped on the chipped coffee table. In the corner is his bloodstained s.h.i.+rt, thrown there after Lauder cut it off him. He inhales deeply as one finger brushes over a vicious bruise across the front of his neck. Then he smiles around the room before suggesting to Stump Teague that the next time he wants a battle, he use something less primitive than a shotgun, so he can be sure he'll win.

"Did the job," Stump says, not in the least impressed with either the man or his speech.

"Yes, perhaps, but a good machine pistol might have saved the lives of your brothers."

Teague starts from his armchair, then shrugs and slumps again. "Lucky shots."

"If you say so."

"Whether or not," Lauder calls from the kitchen where he is trying to put together a decent lunch from the larder discovered in this empty house's pantry. "Remember, we still have work to do, Mr. Stone."

"I realize that, Dutch, I realize that. The question is, exactly what are our priorities, and how do we go about achieving their completion?"

"The f.a.ggot preacher," Stump says without hesitation. "I don't care what you guys do, but I'm getting that preacher."

"Well, so are we, Mr. Teague, so are we." Stone crosses his legs at the ankles, splayed fingers across his chest. "But how?" He nods to the window, to the early darkness outside. "It isn't going to be easy moving around in this weather. We don't have transportation now that our... benefactor has been eliminated from the operating equation."

Stump squints at him. "What?"

"We need a car, you jacka.s.s," Lauder calls angrily.

"Why the h.e.l.l didn't you say so? I got a car."

"Really," says Stone.

"Really," Stump answers, sneering. "When do you want it?"

"As soon as we eat, if that would be convenient."

"You got it, Stone."

"And after we get your preacher man, Mr. Teague, may I a.s.sume you will a.s.sist us with our own little endeavor?"

"Which is?"

Lauder walks into the room with a tray loaded with sandwiches and bottles of imported beer. "I," he says, setting the tray on the coffee table, "want to shove a stick of dynamite up that porky mayor's a.s.s."

"Mr. Lauder," Stone scolds with a coy smile.

Stump shrugs. "Sounds good to me. What about the money?"

"Finders keepers, Mr. Teague. Share and share."

"Better and better. Then, what? We come back here for the night?"

"Heavens no. My friend and I are leaving the island as soon as we're finished."

Stump looks from Lauder to Stone and back again. "He's kidding, right?"

"He seldom kids," Lauder informs him.

"Whatever." Stump grabs a sandwich, takes such a huge bite it makes Stone wince. "But I sure as h.e.l.l hope you guys can swim good, *cause it's the only way you're gonna get off this piece of s.h.i.+t today."

The vanguard of the storm system has nearly completed its run, and Rick has decided that he isn't going to stay in the Tower one second more. The structure, solid enough to last through any number of hurricanes and other winter storms, sways with each gust, enough that he's beginning to learn what it's like to feel seasick. Not to mention the incessant throbbing behind the lump in the middle of his forehead, Where his skull met the steering wheel when he crashed into Teague's car. Not to mention the slight sprain his left wrist suffered.

Trifles, he figures, compared to what will happen to him if he stays here.

He can see the rain on its way, a dark grey curtain that stretches from cloud to ocean; he can feel the subtle change in the wind's direction; he blinks each time lightning snakes through the clouds; the thunder is still too far away to be more than a grumbling.

That much he supposes he could stand if he had to stay.

It's the ocean itself that bothers him.

He's been watching the waves as they roll toward sh.o.r.e, and it took him a while to realize exactly what he was seeing-the presage of a storm surge.

He has already called as many people as he can, asking them to spread the word. Within the last hour his binoculars have tracked at least two dozen vehicles speeding up Midway toward Landward and the causeway. Islanders know the drill-pack and run before the causeway's flooded. Money and clothes, people and pets, the h.e.l.l with everything else.

A normal surge might bring water all the way through to Midway, flood a few cellars, knock down a few old trees, raise the level of the harbor and damage a few boats, unpin a pier or two-nothing that hasn't happened a dozen times before.

But from the looks of it, the feel of it, he's convinced this one is going to be a monster, and has no compunction about telling folks this, If he's wrong, the worst that will happen is that he'll look like an idiot, and Ben Pellier will buy him drinks for a week just so he can poke a little fun.

If he's right...

The Tower sways sharply, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"That's it. I'm outta here."

He grabs the binoculars and the cell phone, opens the trap door, and double-checks to make sure he's left nothing important behind. Then he starts down the ladder, favoring his left hand, looking around at the dipping treetops, gaping once when he thinks he sees scarlet lightning over the water.

Then the trees are around him, the wind's power has lessened, and he's thinking about sliding the rest of the way down when an explosion overhead throws him off the ladder.

d.a.m.n lightning, he thinks, just before he hits the ground and the tower buckles around him.

Lyman Baylor stands at the living room window, hands twisting at his side. "Kitra, have you seen this?"

"I've seen storms before, Ly. Come help me find the candles. We never have them ready when the power goes off."

"Kitra, please, just look."

"Ly, I just told you I haven't got-Lyman Baylor, where are you going?"

He has grabbed his raincoat from the coatrack in the hall and is hurrying to the door.

"Lyman!"

"Reverend Chisholm," he calls over his shoulder. "I have to see Reverend Chisholm."

He's gone before she can protest or stop him, but he hopes she takes the time to look at the sky.

At the red lightning.

At the green fire that dances within the clouds.

It's happening; he knows it's happening, and Chisholm, he's positive, has something to do with it. By the time he's opened the garage door, he's praying harder than he's ever prayed in his life.

Hector watches the increasing play of red and green in the sky and crosses himself, backs away from the window when it s.h.i.+mmers in the wind.

Gloria, he thinks, is definitely going to kill me.

"What is it?" Ben asks softly, standing at the Teach's small front window. "What is it, Peg?"

Pegleg is on the bar, out of his cage, bobbing his head. Muttering to himself.

"What's going on out there, Peg? What's going on?"

3.

Casey can't keep away from the porch, despite the wind, despite the cold.

After he'd climbed off the jetty, almost falling in several times, he was positive he knew where the battleground would be. Just before he left, he had seen, behind closed eyes, what looked like a dark wall where the clouds met the sea. But the wall moved, and it grew, and when he narrowed his eyes and looked harder, he realized it was a huge wave rising slowly, blackly, out of the water toward the clouds. Scarlet fire laced and twined inside it, and emerald sparks flared and popped where the crest should have been.

And on the top, amid the fire and sparks, were the Riders, their mounts cantering easily over the surface, manes and tails flying in the direction of the wind. Smoke from their nostrils, flame from their hooves.

He recognized Susan, and his stomach contracted; the little one must be Joey, and the old woman, Eula.

The one slightly ahead of the others he could barely see at all, but he knew this too-that this was the Rider who would bring the world down.

h.e.l.lo, casey, he'd said, across the miles, across the sea; heard you killed a man today.

Now he stands on the porch, tapping a nervous heel, trying to think. The other had accepted the vision without question, almost hopeful now that they had something concrete to work with. But it was clear they hadn't thought about it very long. How can he-they-fight something like that? The wave would sweep them away before they even met the Riders.

Was the vision wrong?

Was there some interpretation he was missing? Had he seen it all wrong?

"Casey."

He shakes his head angrily. Not now. Not now.

He shuts his eyes, tries to bring the scene back, but there is only darkness, and tiny points of light.