Riders In The Sky Part 9

Discouraging visitors-a skill he wasn't exactly proud of, but he'd also gotten pretty good at it over the past couple of years, here and elsewhere. He was, and had been for a long time, no longer the local curiosity, just some kind of weird guy who preferred his own company.

He snorted, shook his head at a major understatement- at most, he went into town once a month, to stock up on groceries for the next three or four weeks ... and spoke to no one; at most, the only people he saw out here were those who drove past or those who rented the houses under his care... and he spoke to them only when courtesy demanded it.

He knew little of what went on around the rest of the island, and until now, he hadn't particularly cared.

Alone was what he had wanted, and alone was what he had achieved.

He wasn't sure why, but now that had changed.

His place was one of a cl.u.s.ter of eight, all the same save their colors, four on either side of the road, and the only one occupied at the moment, which meant his work was pretty much done for the day. He could, of course, hit each house one by one, see what cleaning had to be done, if his latest repairs still held or if something new wanted fixing, but that would imply an initiative he didn't feel like tapping into just now. It wasn't that he was lazy, and it wasn't that he wasn't a little proud of how he had handled the responsibilities he'd been given.

It was just that he didn't feel like it.

Not today.

Today was for lazing.

like h.e.l.l, Chisholm, give it up, you*re stalling.

Today was for hanging out, for appreciating the weather and the scenery and the constant smell of the sea in the air. For laughing at the gulls as they squabbled over nothing, maybe walking over to the marsh to watch the herons strut their stuff in the shallows, maybe hike on over to the beach, sit on Daddy Whale's head and watch the silhouettes of fis.h.i.+ng boats skimming slowly across the horizon.

Whatever he would do, though, work wouldn't be it.

stalling It was, all in all, a pretty sweet deal, this job of his. He was, for the most part; his own boss. As long as he did what he was supposed to do, when he was supposed to do it, days like today could be taken without guilt.

His landlord had proposed the arrangement when Casey had been sent to him to inquire about a rental. In retrospect, it must have looked like a bizarre conversation. Norville Cutler barely came up to Casey's chin, yet he acted as if he were a good foot taller.

"No sweat, I think I can help you. Man, you're a pretty big guy. Handy at all?"

"I'm no expert, not much good at plumbing, but... I can work, yes. If it matters, I learn fast."

"Good. Got some places up on Midway, that's the main street in case you ain't figured that out yet, the only one that goes one end of the island to the other. They aren't much, the houses, but they pay their way. Had a guy, stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h, couldn't find his a.s.s with a map and a flashlight, he cut out on me last month, the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d, didn't even give me notice. So I'm figuring . . . you want to work, keep them in shape, keep the tenants happy, you know the kind of stuff I mean, you can use one for yourself."

"Sounds good to me."

"It is, mister. It's d.a.m.n good. Better'n most deserve. Best part is, I won't bother you hardly at all. I'll know if you're not doing the work, don't have time for inspections, but you know what I mean. You do your bit, I'll stay outta your hair."

"I get a choice of places?"

"h.e.l.l, no, I'll show you which one. Except for the tenants, and that's only late spring to maybe October, the only neighbors are behind you. Some old lady, a couple of nig-black guys, an old man and his son, they won't bother you at all, you won't even know they're there most of the time. You're not from around here, am I right?"

"Right."

"Kentucky... no, Tennessee, am I right? You spent some time elsewhere, but I figure ... yeah, Tennessee."

"That's not bad."

"What do you do?"

"What?"

"You made a living before here, right? You didn't just pop out outta the ground, right? So what do you do?"

"I... nothing. I don't... nothing."

"The law after you?"

"The law? No."

"Well, Mr. I Don't Know Nothing, you take care of me, I'll take care of you. Off the books, the whole nine yards. Just don't stiff me, pal. People around here, they'll tell you, I don't like it when someone stiffs me."

A cool breeze touched his face, and Casey was grateful for the slight s.h.i.+ver it caused, and he was suddenly tempted to forget the walking, the beach, and just go inside, take a nap, let the rest of the day slide by. Like all the other days since he had arrived on the island. Let them all slide by and behind him, forget him, make it seem possible that he had never been anywhere else, never done anything else but slap paint on walls and hammer nails into boards and rake yards and replace s.h.i.+ngles and wash windows and weave mesh patches into screens torn by age and nosey squirrels.

And when he awoke, it would be nearly dark, time to begin the process of trying to get a good night's sleep.

Without the dreams.

Without the nightmares.

of a church bell tolling, no one at the rope A process that generally began with supper. Out of a can or out of the microwave. Then, weather permitting, a half-mile hike through the trees to the beach, and another hike along the wet ap.r.o.n. Listening to the ocean, listening to the birds, dodging the waves trying to snare and soak his feet. Once in a while, if the tide was low, climbing clumsily out to the end of a jetty where he could see nothing but water ahead of him, nothing but sky above.

Where he could be alone.

Where he could feel small.

Too small to matter.

explosions.

He was close to five inches over six feet, his shoulders and chest broad, arms and legs to match. His hair was thick and long, brushed back and curled black to his shoulders. High cheeks and a dimpled chin, heavy brows and a nose that time had left something less than sharp. A face, all in all, that made no apologies for the beatings it had taken, physical and otherwise, and was all the more imposing for it.

Or so others had told him. He wasn't sure about the imposing part, but he had often used the size, and a grumbling voice that sounded born in a deep canyon, to good advantage in his former life.

the law after you?

No, but my dreams are.

maybe so, but you*re still stalling.

a ghost-white car gliding out of the fire * * * *

He grinned and shook his head.

Stalling indeed, and making a bad job of it, too.

He slapped his leg lightly with the shears, told himself there was no need to rake up the debris he'd snipped from the hedge, told himself there was no need, right now, to oil the hinges on the porch's screen door, and certainly no need to sweep the porch itself. Or vacuum the living room. Or dust what little furniture he had.

By the time he was upstairs he was laughing aloud; by the time he had taken a shower and changed his clothes, he was almost excited.

For the first time since he had exiled himself to this end of Camoret, he was going into town with no other purpose than to walk among the living.

He stood in front of the low, white pine chest of drawers in his bedroom, hairbrush in one hand, checking his reflection in the slightly warped mirror hanging on the wall above it. He had gotten used to the distortion. Somehow it seemed to fit.

The idea for the trip had come to him only last week, as he returned from the grocery store with his latest batch of provisions. With virtually all the tourists gone until spring, the only people he had seen were locals. And something about them had sparked his curiosity: a feeling of tension, unease, behind the faces that either smiled blankly at him or glanced at him with no more than a pa.s.sing curiosity. For days he had pa.s.sed it off as his starved imagination; and for days he had been unable to forget it.

Yesterday he had actually straddled his bike and pedaled a hundred yards down the road before anxiety turned him around in a spray of dust and pebbles.

None of your business, he'd told his shadow as he raced back for home; none of your business, and you're probably wrong anyway, so let it go, keep on keeping on with what you're already doing.

Hiding.

This morning he had stood at the sink in the tiny kitchen and said, "From what?"

During each monthly grocery run, he usually treated himself to lunch at either Betsy's or the Tide, where he eavesdropped unashamedly and, if he was lucky, grabbed an old copy of the Camoret Weekly. This way he was able to pick up some of what was going on around the island. So, as far as he could tell, there had been no unusual spike in the death rate, violent or otherwise, the famine had evidently had little effect here, the plague had mercifully left them untouched, and thus far they had escaped the current turmoil that swept across the mainland.

From what? he asked the reflection, and it gave him a disgusted look that told him not to be so stupid, he knew d.a.m.n well from what.

ghost-white Nevertheless, it was time.

Well past time.

He put the brush down, ran a hand across his chest, and reminded himself this was only an experiment, not a complete change in habit. The recluse was only checking the landscape, not surrendering the safety of his cave.

He hurried out of the room to the landing, and paused at the top of the narrow staircase. His bedroom was on the right, in front, a second bedroom on his left. Behind him, on the right, was the bathroom, and on his left, another room he used for storage.

The door was ajar.

"d.a.m.nit," he muttered harshly, and took a step down, trying to ignore it.

He couldn't.

He returned to the landing and pushed the door open, stepped over the threshold and looked to the right, where another door, a closet, was open as well.

His eyes closed briefly and he took a deep breath. The house was poorly constructed, he knew this. Doors sometimes opened on their own, the frames weren't always true. Once he'd understood this, he was determined not to read anything into it. Yet, as he kicked the closet door shut and for good measure whacked it with the heel of his hand, he decided it was past time to nail the d.a.m.n thing shut.

He didn't need this.

He didn't need this at all. Especially not today.

The first thing he had done after Cutler had shown him around and left, was drag his rope-bound suitcase into the storeroom. There he had emptied most of it into the closet, and hadn't been back since.

Except to close the G.o.dd.a.m.n door.

He glared at it now, daring it to defy him, then left the room, slammed the outer door behind him, and took the stairs down one at a time. Five minutes later he was on the bike and on his way. He grinned into the faint wind of his own making; he laughed at a blackbird that tried to hop beside him, gave up, and soared away; he coasted and laughed again and wished he had done this a long time ago.

It was an odd feeling, this good feeling; not until now did he understand how much he had missed it.

How much had been lost by being so alone.

3.

Between the sheriff's department and a redbrick building that served as town hall and courthouse was a large pocket park, gra.s.s and high trees and a public bicycle stand where Casey locked up his bike. Wiped nervous hands on his jeans, scolded himself for acting like a kid on his first date, and headed south.

Three blocks later he stopped.

Unlike a number of other eateries on the island, Betsy's didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was-a simple sandwich shop, no frills, no fancy summer prices. A few tables, a few booths, a short counter along the left-hand wall for those who wanted nothing more than a slice of pie and a cup of coffee. A pine forest mural along the back wall that had always amused Casey because whenever someone popped out of the kitchen, it seemed as if they were walking out of a tree. Open at six for breakfast, closed at seven. Having established it just before the turn of the century, the original Betsy and her family were long gone, her several successors not bothering to change the name.

Gloria Nazario was the current owner, a pleasantly rotund Cuban refugee whose brother, Hector, did most of the cooking while she did most of the serving and a black man named Junior Raybourn did most of the sweeping up.

Casey sat on the first stool nearest the door. Although the room was nearly full, no one had done more than glance up when he'd entered, which was fine by him. Today he wanted to listen as much as eat; with his back to the room, he was, he figured, about as invisible as someone his size could get. And with the long mirror on the wall behind the coffee urns and other counter paraphernalia, he was able to watch most of the room without having to stare.

The waitress, a too-thin young woman with too much makeup and bottle-blond hair that needed touching up at the roots, took his order without speaking, despite his awkward attempts at conversation. She wrote, she checked a price on the menu, and walked into the kitchen.

Not a word.

Not a look.

All right, he thought; so I'm a little out of practice.

Yet he couldn't help a check in the mirror, just to be sure he still looked presentable. There had been a few times, after pedaling home, when he'd noticed things sticking in his hair-bits of leaves, once a spider, once a feather that the wind had tucked behind his ear. The image of what people must have thought had made him laugh then; he didn't laugh now.

There was nothing wrong that he could see.

All right, no problem, she's having a bad day.

Nevertheless, as he waited for his lunch, he was puzzled by the glances people gave him when they thought he couldn't see them-not really unfriendly, just... wary. Suspicious. Not that the reactions surprised him very much-he was, after all, the stranger who lived among them. Curiosity was to be expected when he sidestepped his routine.

Still, he was more than relieved when the meal finally came and he was able to concentrate on fueling his body, not his imagination.

Not to mention, he reminded himself, a little judicious eavesdropping if he could, picking sentences and fragments out of the conversations that filled the shop.

It wasn't that difficult; it was as if he weren't there.

In the booth by the entrance three men, suits and ties and briefcases, argued about the Ausso-Indonesian War, debating the moral ambiguities of New Zealand desperately trying to keep herself neutral despite the deaths of her citizens in the initial incident. Other island-cl.u.s.ter nations had begun to declare for Indonesia. China was concerned. Australia was puzzled that no one, yet, had officially declared for her. Race rather than right had entered the propaganda, and the continent nation couldn't understand why she had been left to stand on her own.