Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Page 11
Chisholm closed his eyes tightly, snapped them open and stared at him, clearly dazed. A hand brushed across his forehead, then back through his hair.
Lyman, fighting to regain some use of his lungs, put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You wait right here, Mr. Chisholm. I’ll phone—”
“No.” Chisholm shrugged the hand off, and winced, inhaled sharply. “No, it’s ... I’m okay.” He managed a smile, then a waggle of his hand, a help-me-up gesture Lyman was slow to obey. But once on his feet, the big man brushed grit and dirt from his legs and smiled again. “My fault.”
Lyman wanted very much to believe it, found it easier when he saw the two six-packs still in the bike’s carrier basket. “I was thinking,” he offered by way of weak apology.
Chisholm nodded. “Yeah, so was I.” He took an unsteady step back, half closed one eye, and examined the car’s back door, right hand absently massaging his left shoulder. “At least I didn’t dent it.”
Lyman couldn’t help it—he looked as well, and felt a flush when he heard Chisholm laugh. “Yes. Well.” He pointed at the bike. “Will it work, do you think?”
“I sure hope so. It’s a long walk, otherwise.” The big man took a step toward the curb, froze a moment when balance seemed to leave him, then leaned over and hauled the bike upright. A swift examination, and he nodded. “Looks fine.” He straddled the seat and took a deep breath. “Listen, Reverend, I’m sorry. It really was my fault. I would have seen you if I hadn’t been so preoccupied.”
“That’s all right,” he said, relieved. He started for the car, hesitated, looked back, a pointed stare at the beer. “Listen, Mr. Chisholm, if you, uh ... I don’t know, want to talk or something ... you ... well, you know where to find me.”
Chisholm’s sudden smile made him uncomfortable; there was no humor in it at all. “No thanks,” the big man said gruffly, and pedaled away before Lyman could say anything else.
Curious man, he thought as he stood by the driver’s door and watched Chisholm go. Kitra swore he was hiding from the police, and a few of his parishioners had suggested he was just a simple man, as in simple in the head. Lyman didn’t believe either theory, but he was intriguing, no doubt about it. Perhaps an unscheduled visit... whatever the man was, it was clear he was troubled. A grimace, then, as he chided himself for not insisting Chisholm see a doctor immediately, if for no other reason than to further dampen his conscience.
He shook his head, was about to slide in behind the wheel, when suddenly he straightened and looked over the car’s roof. Squinted. Looked back the way Chisholm had gone, and shook his head again.
Odd, he thought.
For a minute there he could have sworn he’d heard the clear sound of hoofbeats.
Nerves, he decided immediately; the aftershock of the accident, and a good dollop of guilt.
Nevertheless, as he backed the rest of the way into the street and turned the car toward the center of town, he checked the rearview mirror just as a strong gust of wind rocked the vehicle and lifted a cloud of dust and dead leaves from the street.
For a minute there he heard the hoofbeats again, and saw in the swirling cloud the hazy figure of a riderless dark horse walking slowly away.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly until the wind died and the dust settled, and there was nothing left in the road but Casey Chisholm on his bike.
Guilt, he decided as he drove off, shaking slightly; most definitely guilt.
* * * *
4
Jasper Cribbs loved politics. He had no illusions about his place in the larger Georgia scheme of things, but considering the hoops those boys in Atlanta had to jump through just to get something done in their districts, he wouldn’t change places with any of them for any amount of money. He’d rather be a big fish in a little pond, a bullfrog in a spit puddle, than some self-important, I-got-higher-ambitions asshole’s lackey.
He considered being mayor of Camoret Island much like being in the entertainment business, and he was one of those slash people that Hollywood was so fond of these days. Actor/director. Writer/producer. Fact was, he was probably a double-slash man these days—acting the part of the small-town Southern mayor, complete with the hick name and the suspenders and an ample belly, directing the town’s welfare from his position of power, and producing the whole thing from behind the scenes, where very few knew what the hell he was up to.
Which, considering what he was up to, was the best place to be these days.
The perks weren’t so bad either.
Being who he was, and making the money he did, he was virtually guaranteed that Mary Gwen was always happy. Nothing more that woman liked than to spend his money, run a few committees, and stay out of his way. In his eye, the perfect marriage.
It gave him a house on the bay at South Hook, a miniature antebellum, four-acre estate already paid for, and something else to keep his wife happy, and out of his hair.
Daughter Mariana was another matter entirely. How such a child could have sprung from his loins was a continuing mystery. He loved her dearly, but he sure didn’t understand her. She did and said the right things at the right times, of course, he wouldn’t have it any other way. A beautiful child, looked just like her mother when her mother could still fit into that honeymoon bathing suit, but the girl was as stubborn as a stump. Still, unlike her mother, she had the instincts of a barracuda, and that made him proud.
Most days, though, the most satisfying part of the job was his office. Sitting on the top floor of the town hall in his brown leather swivel chair, doing all his acting and directing and producing. Healthy leafy plants in big pots, nice paneling, pictures of him and whoever on the walls, nice carpet, a desk big enough to be the mayor’s but not so big as to intimidate the little folks.
But the best feature was the lightly tinted fan-shaped window, near high as the ceiling, divided by white-painted wood strips into something that looked like a peacock’s tail, curved at the top, all joining at the base.
At three stories, Town Hall was the tallest building on the island except for the watch tower on the ridge at South Hook. So he could swing his chair around, put his feet on the low sill, and look down at Camoret without anyone knowing he was up here. It wasn’t a great view, not the bay or the fancy houses, not even high enough to let him see the ocean, but it let him see the people who elected him. Keep an eye on them, so to speak, help him more than once prepare for surprises.
Like just a few bits ago, watching that caretaker lunk come out of Whittaker’s office, not looking all that happy. He spotted Deputy Billy and nearly ran across the street, did some pointing with a newspaper back at Hull’s office, and Jasper figured he already knew what was going on. A point for the deputy—he never moved. A nod, a couple of words, and the next thing Jasper knew the lunk was on his way out of town, pedaling like the Devil himself was after him.
Good work, he had mouthed, and as if Freck had heard, he kind of glanced up in the mayor’s direction, gave a small salute, and walked away. Not going, Jasper had been pleased to note, anywhere near that old man’s place of business. A minute or so later one of those damn little Japanese or Korean or some damn thing cars comes hauling ass up the street, turns onto Landward without stopping for the light, and vanishes.
He recognized the car as Stump Teague’s, and had grinned. Message delivered.
Things like that just made his day.
He sighed contentedly, checked over his shoulder to be sure he really had finished all the work his secretary had piled on his blotter, then hooked his thumbs under his green tartan suspenders and pulled them away from his chest, dared himself to snap them loose, and chuckled when he refused. Mariana had done that enough when she was little; he didn’t need to revisit that kind of pain.
Against the far wall by the room’s only visible door, a grandfather clock chimed the hour. He checked it against his watch, sniffed, scratched absently around the beginnings of his jowls, and pulled lightly at his second chin as he squinted back
down at the street.
A slow humorless smile.
Wouldn’t be long now. Deadline was the end of the year, and he didn’t see many problems meeting it. Probably do it early, as a matter of fact. He had done some checking just that morning, had taken a surveyor’s map from his safe and looked over the extent of his and Cutler’s project. There were only six properties left, and three of those abutted Cutler’s rental shacks, mostly easy pickings. One of the remaining was already in negotiation, and the other two ... well, people do change their minds once in a while.
He grunted a laugh.
Hardest one, he figured, would still be Senior Raybourn. That man couldn’t, wouldn’t see reason. Hell, he was only a goddamn cook, for God’s sake, but he held onto that stupid little house like it was some kind of gold mine. Cribbs could make him rich with one stroke of his gold-tip fountain pen, but that old black bastard wouldn’t sell. And after the Essman woman’s death, they had to move carefully. Quietly. Besides, he sure as hell didn’t need some sniffing-around, civil rights fancy suit jackass lawyer kicking up dust. The fact that the Raybourns were the only blacks on the island made them too conspicuous. For now. Later, though, if push came to shove and he had to move in a hurry, all the damn marches in the world would be a world too late.
What he needed now was peace. What he needed was to make sure Hull didn’t sniff out the truth. That old man, and who would have thought it, had already stirred a few embers that threatened to become a fire. Damn editorials had some important people talking. If today’s little message didn’t sink in ...
Maybe it was also, time to see that others didn’t get to feeling bigger than their britches, as his daddy used to say. Time to make sure Oakman doesn’t develop a sudden case of conscience and an affinity for upholding the Law; time to have a quiet word with Billy Freck, make sure he truly knows who runs things around here, and it ain’t, no disrespect intended, that little dandy, Norville Cutler.
His and Norville’s silent partner would not take lightly to such a situation.
He squirmed a little at the thought.
Not from guilt; he hadn’t minded taking the man’s money at all. Especially when it was clear there were tons of it to go around.
He squirmed because he wished, devoutly wished, he knew what the man looked like. So far it had only been a voice on the telephone, a special delivery package, an unexpected deposit in one of his bank accounts. Norville, of course, didn’t give a damn as long as the checks didn’t bounce. He, on the other hand, liked to know who he was dealing with. Want to look into a pair of eyes, see where the lies hid, see where the truth kind of bent and twisted a little.
One of these days, he decided, not too strenuously; one of these days he was going to demand a meeting.
He laughed aloud.
“Jasper, don’t you have better things to do than looking to behead the golden goose?”
Like, it was probably time too to see what could be done about the Reverend Baylor’s increasingly disturbing Sunday sermons. That Bible wimp had been listening to Whittaker too much. Jasper didn’t think it would take too much to back him down, but—
He straightened, and scowled.
“Well... hellfire,” he muttered. “Speak of the goddamn devil.”
Lyman Baylor’s car came to a lurching halt right down below him. A minute later he climbed out of the car and hustled across the street, right into the Weekly office.
“Whittaker,” he said quietly, “you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your damn big mouth shut.”
And he sighed when the preacher soon stormed outside and marched back across the road, ignoring a van that nearly ran him down, nimbly dodging a scatter of kids sweeping by on their bikes. He held his breath until Baylor vanished inside the sheriffs office, expelled it in a silent whistle. The call would come soon enough, Oakman asking what he should do; meantime, there was a breather. A chance for him to think a little.
The wind picked up, strong now; he could almost feel the chill through the glass. The shadows were growing long, the day’s warmth slipping away with the sun. He watched as a few leaves blew over the rooftops across the way, spilled out of the alleys and tumbled into the street. The traffic light swayed.
A faint shiver; he rolled his shoulders.
Directly opposite was the barbershop, an old-fashioned, sit-in-a-high-leather-chair-and-let-the-man-do-his-work place, not one of those new-style salon things that catered to both men and women. He loved that barbershop. A place where a man could unwind, let old Farelli or his son do all the talking while you nodded and dozed and forgot the world for a while. Jasper touched at his thick dark hair, thinking maybe it was time for a trim. Time to pick up on a little gossip.
He blinked.
The roof, like all the roofs on the island, was slightly peaked to let the rainwater rush off, A lot of leaves up there now, spinning and lifting. Same with the gift shop just to the left, with the drugstore between it and the newspaper.
He frowned, not quite sure what he was looking at.
The wind picked up in a brief roar, enough to startle him, enough to send all those leaves flying.
One plastered itself against the window, and Jasper stared at it, amused, studying its underside, the points and the veins. Watched as it was joined by another. By a dozen. By a score of them, and more. Pinned by the wind to the glass-feather panes. Light dimmed in the office, and movement made him look up, and look behind him.
The shadows of the leaves trembled on the walls around him, magnified, shifting.
Crawling, he thought, and abruptly laughed aloud.
When he looked back at the window he could barely see outside. The leaves, dead and all colors, left hardly any glass uncovered, and above the wind he could hear them as they vibrated against the panes, shifting as though seeking firmer purchase, seeking a way in.
He could hear them.
Scratching.
His imagination, of course, yet he couldn’t help stretching out a hand toward them, feeling the cold seep through the glass, almost feeling how brittle, how frail the leaves were.
Scratching.
He pushed the chair back slowly, not stopping until it bumped up against the desk.
Scratching.
The room nearly dark.
He licked his lips, tried to smile, wished someone were in here with him, just to see what he saw. Hear what he heard.
All those leaves, and their faint, insistent scratching.
Suddenly a handful fell away right in front of his eyes, and the light that broke the wall nearly blinded him. He put up a hand to shade his eyes, realizing the wind had calmed, watching as the leaves skittered down the panes and vanished below the sill, leaving only a few behind.
It took a long time.
And when a soft voice said, “Mayor Cribbs?” he yelled and jumped to his feet, tripped over a leg of the chair and nearly fell against the window.
“Mayor Cribbs?”
He stared dumbly at his desk, panting, touching his face with the fingertips of one hand, while the other shook so hard he had to clamp it against his chest.
The intercom; it was the intercom.
“Sweet Jesus on His throne,” he whispered, and dropped heavily into the chair, leaned heavily against the desk, and fumbled a bit before he pressed the right button.
“Mayor?”
“Yes, Mrs. Grummond,” he answered, acutely aware of how high his voice sounded.
“There’s a call for you, Mr. Mayor,” his secretary said. “Sheriff Oakman.”
“I’ll call him back, take a message.”
“He says it’s important.”
“Take a message, Milli. I’m busy right now.”
He took his finger away and placed his hand on the blotter, pressing down until the trembling stopped. Breathing deeply. Smiling uncertainly. Staring at the desk because he didn’t want to look at the wall and see a small shadow there, crawling slowly toward the ceiling.
Toward him.
Once decided, he relaxed.
A touch of the real world, that’s what he needed. The perfect solution. Maybe he’d even tell Mary Gwen about it, let her laugh at him a little, make a little fun.
Just what he needed.
Briskly he rubbed his hands together. He adjusted his jacket, smoothed his hair, made sure there was nothing on the desk that needed signing, and stood. Posed for a moment for an invisible audience, practiced a smile, and went to the coat tree next to the grandfather clock, where he took down his topcoat, draped it over his shoulder, and opened the office door, not once looking back at the glass-feather window.