Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01] Read online

  He couldn’t help it.

  * * * *

  4

  Midnight was long gone when Casey opened one eye, listening to the dark.

  Dreaming, he figured; the church bell hadn’t rung, a single peal that seemed heavier than the humid air.

  The eye closed.

  Not dreaming, he decided miserably.

  He groaned and sat up, grabbed his jeans and boots and a shirt from the closet, stumbled into the front room and dressed. Taking his time. There was no real hurry; whoever it was would be gone when he got there, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he checked. Those kids were going to be the death of him; the shit trick didn’t work, so now they weren’t going to let him get a decent night’s sleep.

  He lit a cigarette, grabbed his keys, and walked out to the road, walking down the center of the blacktop in a half-formed dare for someone to try to run him down. It made him smile. A dare was a kid’s thing, but this place had done that to him. He wasn’t sure why, and he wasn’t complaining. He was lucky to be here at all.

  He was lucky to be alive.

  That had nothing to do with good health or the Lord; it had everything to do with the man who had held the gun to his head so long ago it seemed now to be a fragment of a nightmare, nothing substantial, nothing real, nothing to do with the late winter night he had walked into the food mart in South Carolina and raised a blue-cold fist to the poor child behind the counter. It might as well have been a gun the way she cringed and wept as she fumbled to open the cash register, the way she trembled and leaned heavily against the counter when he asked her politely to hurry, the way she screamed when the door crashed open and the cop crashed in and the gun jammed against his temple and drove him to his knees before he had a chance to turn around and tell the man he was sorry, he didn’t mean it, he was just so goddamn hungry.

  So goddamn cold.

  Boots on the blacktop still soft from the day’s heat.

  The last of the cigarette dying in orange sparks beneath his heel.

  The night had weight, but he refused to bend.

  The night watched him, he felt it, but he looked directly ahead, seeing the houses appear and fade, drifting past him.

  Knowing every one, inside and out.

  * * * *

  5

  Maple Landing had begun as a settlement tucked into the edge of state forestland, mostly hunters and fishermen who never stayed the year round. When they did stay, finally, they renovated, but only enough to suffer the seasons hot to cold.

  The original section was little more than a straight downhill road with six straight streets branching off it, none the same length, none completely developed, all ending in the grip of the forest. The road leveled to a broad step where a handful of businesses found a hold and held on. A second, shorter slope leveled just long enough below Casey’s house to accommodate a wide meadow on the north side, a place for deer and buzzards and wandering black bear; a place for watching the stars without trees to block them; a place that had no name.

  When the road, Black Oak, dove a third time, below the meadow, it didn’t stop until it reached the Delaware, and the maple-choked landing that had given the hamlet its name.

  Before the slope began, up over the crest, newer houses had been built, development-style and a handful of prefab log cabins, and a small grade school, a coin laundry, a video store, deli, the volunteer firehouse with its single creaking engine.

  Unequal sizes; but equal reasons for living in a place that had been ordered by the state not to grow anymore.

  A hideout, Casey believed; in here, buried in the forest, visited only by tourists looking for a ride on the river, some fishermen and nature lovers, the world didn’t much matter.

  It was out there when you needed it; that’s all the Landers needed to know.

  * * * *

  6

  He walked on, through the intersection with Hickory Street, glancing at the darkened Moonglow on the corner to his right, Vinia Leary’s pharmacy on his left; checking Mackey’s Bar on the corner across Hickory, attached to Tully’s hardware store and gun-and-tackle shop, Mabel Jonsen’s grocery on the right. A wooded lot past Mabel’s place, then Mel Farber’s clinic and an empty shop whose window was blinded with sun-faded posters of fishing contests and rock concerts. Past the empty shop and a second empty lot to Ozzie Gorn’s gas station, where a black shepherd once spent the nights guarding until Ozzie got tired of climbing out of bed to calm the animal down—it barked at every kid, every critter, every twist of the breeze. Casey couldn’t remember its name; he could only remember its eyes as it barked, wide and frightened. Tail wagging and fangs bared.

  He might have taken it for himself had not Ozzie been quicker, with a bottle and a gun.

  Houses again, set back from the road, and on the left, in the center of a well-kept lawn bounded by a low, gateless picket fence, Trinity Church, a small white building with a steeple and belfry, behind it an ancient graveyard surrounded by a low stone wall. The building had been a meeting house in the original community; someone bought it, sold it, and now, with the steeple and the bells, it was a place to talk to God; for some, another hideout.

  He stopped and looked at it, shaking his head as if weary of scolding a mischievous child. Cora? he wondered with hands on his hips. He checked the belfry as best he could from below, half expecting to see one of the boys dangling helplessly from the slate roof, a little disappointed when he didn’t.

  The death of him.

  Absolutely.

  He crossed to the flagstone walk, took the three steps to the broad stoop, unlocked the right-hand door, and stepped into the vestibule, a fair-sized room with a long pew bench against the front wall, a table near the entrance to the sanctuary for handouts and such. On the left, a narrow door that opened onto a winding staircase to the choir loft and belfry, another that opened on the sexton’s closet, used to house what was needed to keep the place clean; on the far right a door that led to the changing room and behind it, the office he seldom used.

  He switched on the overhead light and checked the nave first, walking slowly down the wine-carpeted center aisle, glancing into the pews, turning to look up at the loft, turning again when he reached the altar rail. Polished wood and polished brass, catching the light and holding it like trapped brass stars.

  He scratched his head, glanced at the cross on the simple altar draped in white cloth, and shrugged.

  Empty.

  And not quite empty.

  He wasn’t sure if an animal had gotten in—it wouldn’t be the first time, raccoons and skunks were maddeningly canny— or if someone was hiding somewhere in the building, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t alone.

  The half dozen stained-glass windows along each wall were closed; the rose window above the loft was undamaged. With a brief frown, he lifted the center rail and passed in front of the altar to the right; the door in the back wall was locked. He opened it, and stepped into his office, standing in the dark, listening.

  No one here.

  Back in the church he almost smiled as he checked the hollow beneath the tall, ornate pulpit, a gift from the estate of a woman he had never known. It more rightly belonged in a cathedral, but he liked its solid feel when he leaned on it to preach, liked the bas-relief carvings of saints and symbols that shone even when the wood hadn’t been touched by polish.

  No one there.

  He returned to the vestibule and switched off the inner lights, leaving nothing behind but the faint glow of the cross.

  The choir’s changing room was empty, and no one cowering in the wardrobe.

  Empty.

  Not quite.

  He opened the staircase door, and flicked the wall switch.

  Nothing happened.

  “Great,” he muttered. He hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight.

  The vestibule’s light took him up the four steps to the landing, but it didn’t reach around the corner. He peered into the darkness above, shook his
head at the waste of time, and began to climb, the cracked plaster walls nearly touching his shoulders, the single railing sliding damply beneath his palm. Halfway up he lit a match, and climbed again, scowling as the flame danced near to extinction, filling the walls with the hulk of his shadow. Just before his fingertips burned, he snapped the match out and lit another, which took him to the top and the low door on the right.

  He tested it; it was unlocked, as it should be.

  He pushed it open, climbed two more steps, and stood in the belfry.

  Nothing moved.

  The match went out.

  There was enough glow from stars and streetlamps to let him see the three heavy bells several feet above his head, bolted to a single thick pipe at the end of which was a large wheel. A rope from the wheel dropped through a small hole in the floor, all the way down to the cleaning closet. When the rope was pulled, the segmented pipe turned over, each segment in turn. The bells rang, one at a time. Not a carillon, but music nonetheless when the church needed a voice.

  It was impossible for only one bell to ring.

  He grunted.

  He stepped gingerly around the tiny space, only eight feet on a side, taking care not to look through the pointed openings in each wall, each wide enough and tall enough for a man to walk through, and fall through if he had a mind to. It was a beautiful view, he’d been told; you could see over the trees straight down to the river. He took their word for it; heights were not prime on the list of his phobias to conquer.

  Eventually he reached the rope, touched it, brushed it, pulled it slightly and felt the mechanism that turned the pipe prepare to follow through. The three bells shifted. He released the rope and wiped his face with a forearm.

  What the hell was going on around here?

  He supposed somebody could have used something, a stick or a bat, to give the largest bell a whack, but that wouldn’t have sounded right. It was also possible a stick or broom had been used to give the clapper a hard enough swing to make it strike, but whoever it was would have had to be quick and strong enough to stop it from striking twice, even three times.

  It was possible, though, he thought, lighting a third match and peering into the bells’ mouths. They were only a foot or so above the reach of his hand. It was possible. It was also an awful lot of work just to ring a stupid bell. Cora couldn’t have done it, Nate hadn’t the strength, and he didn’t think either of them could get Reed in here on a bet.

  So who the hell was it?

  He descended quickly, and checked the closet door—it was locked, and except for the sexton, he had the only key. He looked in anyway, just in case, and found only the rope dangling to its coil on the floor, a pail and mop, a pair of brooms, and a shelf of neatly arranged cleaners and polish, a stack of clean rags, a box of short candles.

  “Well, hell,” he said as he relocked the door.

  He turned off the lights, stood in the dark, puzzled because he had been so sure he wasn’t alone in here.

  Unless, he thought as he went outside, he was just plain tired. Still a little fuzzy in the head. That would do it. He had definitely heard the bell, but the rest was all fancy. He yawned, locked up, and headed back down the street, the keys bouncing thoughtfully in his right hand.

  Another fancy: he wore a gunbelt, spurs, and a pulled-low hat with a sloping brim, walking through his town, making sure the bad guys knew he was there, and knew he’d be trouble if it was trouble they were after. A tall man in black. With flowing black hair.

  Less a fancy than a vanity, and one difficult to control. This wasn’t his town, but it felt like it; the people didn’t depend on him for protection, but it felt like it; there was every chance he wouldn’t be here until retirement, but it felt like it. And he wanted it.

  A place to call home.

  A place to hide from the demons.

  He looked down at his feet, and noticed the way his arms hung, away from his sides, fingers curled, wrists slightly inward, everything ready to draw when they came.

  He laughed, his head back, face to the stars.

  Black Casey Chisholm, wanted in fifty states, dead or alive. Your reward in the next world; there’s not enough money in this one.

  The laugh was easy, slipping to a grumbling as he stuck his hands in his pockets. Coughed once and cleared his throat. Whistled a single note, high and sweet. Kicked at a pebble, and chased it, kicked again, trotting now and not minding the sweat that broke across his face. Black Casey Chisholm, heading straight for the goal, feet deft, herding the pebble without missing a beat until he reached his gate.

  He kicked hard.

  He scored.

  He held his hands high and laughed again at the stars.

  And when the bell tolled, just once, he told it to go to hell.

  * * * *

  7

  The dream hadn’t come in almost five years.

  Ponytail girl, all angles and bones, red-checked shirt and fake satin slacks, scrabbling at the cash register drawer, tears dripping from her chin to the floor, lower lip trembling as she whispers, please don’t hurt me, please don’t kill me, please don’t, please don’t, until he wants to scream.

  A dollar bill flutters to the counter, slips to the floor.

  Panicked, she looks at him helplessly, can’t see him for the tears, streaks of mascara like claw marks on her cheeks.

  Please don’t, please don’t, Jesus save me, please don’t.

  He hears what sounds like a hundred mirrors breaking, and lowers his fist as he half turns toward the door.

  When she screams, he can see her teeth and her tongue.

  When the gun mouth clamps itself to his head, he falls to his knees without having to be told, chin clipping the counter’s edge on the way down, blood from his lip, light shimmering before his eyes.

  Goddamn bastard, the cop yells; goddamn bastard, lie down, hands behind your back.

  He’s too dizzy, his mouth hurts, the girl is still screaming, and the gun presses hard, forcing his head to one side, a cramp teasing the side of his neck.

  Goddamn bastard, lie down!

  He lies down awkwardly, swallows blood, feels a sharp knee in the small of his back, feels rough hands and handcuffs, a kick to his ribs, his left shin, the girl screaming softly.

  Keening.

  The gun to the back of his head.

  Goddamn bastard.

  His head begins to vibrate with anticipating tension as he waits for the bullet, listening to the girl sobbing now, saying, please don’t, please don’t hurt him.

  The cop doesn’t care.

  The last thing he hears is the explosion in his brain.

  * * * *

  8

  Casey sat up, sweat on his chest and back, tears on his cheeks. He wiped a hand across his mouth, across his eyes, and fumbled his way into the living room, into the kitchen where he stood in front of the open refrigerator, letting the cold wash him, not minding the shivers as he grabbed a pitcher of water, and grabbed the empty glass beside it.

  He poured and drank.

  The cold hurt; it gave him a headache.

  He drank another glass, found his cigarettes, and stood on the porch, testing the morning that looked too much like night.

  Five minutes gone before he lit the match.

  Then he said, “Dear Jesus,” and dropped limply onto the swing.

  A couple of hours to dawn, he figured, which wasn’t soon enough.

  The last time he had had the dream was the year the Delaware had backed up because winter’s ice hadn’t melted, great blocks of it stacking atop each other, flooding the lowlands all the way down to Philadelphia; the year Todd Odam at the diner had been clubbed with a loaf of stale bread by Mabel Jonsen for laughing at her UFOs; the year the bishop down in Newark had agreed that Casey could stay on in Maple Landing for however long he wanted.

  He smiled then at the last memory. The liberals in the Church had been relieved and hadn’t hidden it; the conservatives had been dismayed because Cas
ey, they claimed, was a mortal danger to his parishioners’ souls and shouldn’t be anywhere near an altar at all.

  A felon.

  A near-murderer.

  A man of the cloth who hardly ever wore the cloth, spoke to God as if He were one of his neighbors, and ...

  The smile broadened, and he blew a smoke ring at the night.

  He supposed he shouldn’t have done it, that night outside the cathedral, but no one else had moved.

  There had been a meeting, budgets and new members and how to fight the TV evangelicals who were promising more than a mere Episcopalian could offer, a mere Methodist, a mere Presbyterian. Promising heaven for a check instead of a prayer. A summer night muggy and threatening thunder in the middle of Newark. A gang of a half dozen swept down upon the clerics standing outside the small cathedral’s doors, laughing, asking for money, jostling and shoving, until Casey finally lost his temper.