Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Page 6

  He didn’t know how, but the island wasn’t the same.

  He didn’t know why, but he was fairly sure he knew when it had changed:

  It was the day Casey Chisholm had walked out of the sea.

  * * * *

  At the end of the alley Ronnie turned right, barely slowing down, stopping only when she came to the Midway Road intersection, and that was only because there was a pedestrian couple stepping into the crosswalk. She smiled brightly at them, received a warning glare in return, and wondered as she waited if maybe she ought to stay home for a change.

  Daddy had been acting a little strange lately. More introspective than usual, and more testy, if that was possible. It had nothing to do with his latest crusade against Sheriff Oakman; that had been going on for the past ten years. Not even the increasing harassment from Cutler and his boys had stopped it. Besides, if it wasn’t the sheriff, it would only be something else. Development of the shoreline, dredging the bay at South Hook to allow larger ships to dock, new motels, the sorry state of the school... he’d once, only half-jokingly, suggested building a wall across the series of causeways that connected the island to the world, thereby preventing Camoret from being, as he’d put it, despoiled.

  She had once laughingly and lovingly called him “Crusader Rabbit,” which had hurt him deeply until she realized he’d thought it a comment on his ears, not a reference to a TV show now in repeats on cable.

  Lately, however, his heart didn’t seem in the fight. He was just going through the motions.

  Daddy, don’t tell me you’ve caught this Millennium bug, too.

  Don’t be foolish, child, that’s a fiction, I deal in fact.

  But still, she wondered; and in wondering, worried.

  A rap on her window made her jump, hold her breath. When she looked, she saw a man in a deputy’s uniform step away from the pickup, grinning as he mimed rolling the window down. She did, reluctantly.

  “Evening, Miss Hull.” He hooked one thumb in his gleaming black gunbelt, the other hand tipped his hat.

  ’What do you want, Freck,” she said wearily.

  “Well,” said Billy Freck, looking back the way she’d come, looking ahead across Midway, “I was wondering if you were counting on setting up housekeeping here. I do believe there’s a law against that.”

  A number of comments came to mind, all of them bordering on the outright obscene, but she hustled them back where they were born and made a contrite face instead. “Sorry, Deputy, but I was thinking.”

  He stepped closer, the grin now a smile as smooth as his youthful face. Even with his black hair slicked back and shining, she had to admit he was a fairly good-looking man, muscles in all the right places, courteous as all get-out, with all the right words.

  She couldn’t stand him.

  He reminded her of a snake oil salesman she had seen once in a Western, charming money and virtue from all the town’s ladies without suffering even a minor twinge of conscience. His goal was conquest, not love or even friendship, and the harder he worked on her, the more stubborn she became.

  A glance into the pickup’s bed. “I see you’re heading for work there, Ronnie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You need some help maybe?” The Serious Concern Look, now. “Swamp’s no place to be poking around at night. It’s Wednesday, you know. The Teague boys’ll be looking to get some spending money for the weekend.”

  “Why, thank you, Billy,” she said, “but I’m not going in very far. Just a scouting mission for a change.” She blinked rapidly, close to batting her eyelashes. “But if you know those boys are going to be out, why aren’t you there waiting for them? Be a feather in your cap, I’d guess.”

  The smile slipped away for just a second, and when it returned it was as if it had never left. “Why, don’t you worry, Ronnie, I got things well in hand.” Another check of the streets before he leaned a little closer. “Thing is, you see, I got a plan.”

  “Ah.” She nodded and, unable to stop herself, sat a little straighter, smoothing out her shirt just enough to make him strain to look without staring. “Sounds dangerous.”

  He shrugged. “Nah, not really. Stump’s a blowhard, we all know that. All talk, no action, you know what I mean?” He braced his hand on the roof. “Tell you what, when you get back from your scouting, why don’t I treat you to something sweet at the Teach, tell you about it? To be honest, I could use a little of your swamp expertise. Secret paths, stuff like that.”

  And damn if he didn’t wink.

  A moment of feigned consideration before she shook her head ruefully, actually gave him a little pout. “Sorry, Billy, but I promised Daddy I’d be home right after. You know how he gets when the paper’s coming out.”

  “No problem, Ronnie, no problem.” He stepped back and tipped his hat again. “You take care, hear? I’ll catch you another time.”

  Not while I’m still living, she thought, smiling as she pulled away, laughing aloud as she swung around the corner and headed north for Landward. If nothing else, he got points for never giving up; and she checked the rearview mirror, just in case he got it into his little head to follow.

  That wouldn’t be good.

  If he did, she actually would have to go to the marsh, and do some pretending-to-work until he went away. She felt badly enough, lying to her father; she definitely didn’t need Billy Freck finding out what she was really up to.

  * * * *

  Freck settled himself behind his cruiser’s steering wheel, not bothering to watch the bitch take the next corner practically on two wheels, not even pausing for the blinking red traffic light hanging over the street. He didn’t care. Tonight wasn’t to be, that’s the way it goes, win some, lose some.

  It wasn’t as if he was exactly starving for affection.

  He set his hat carefully on the passenger seat, pulled down the sun visor, flicked on the vanity light, and checked his hair, making sure there weren’t those stupid indentations along the sides of his head. A wink at himself, the visor back up, and he made a careful U-turn and headed south at a near crawl.

  It being the middle of the week, there weren’t an awful lot of people out, taking air. Mostly tourists looking for bargains at the shops that still kept late hours, and a few kids no doubt trying to pass their fake IDs at every bar on the Road. He smiled and nodded, or gave a short wave, to those he knew, kept Mrs. Gumber’s too-dumb-to-live dachshund from climbing a tree after a cat, watched a couple of black-mask gulls squabbling over a hamburger bun and wondered why they weren’t nesting down at the marina, took a tour of some of the side streets, checked in with Dwight Salter, who was working dispatch tonight, and finally, just after eight, pulled into the graveled parking lot at the side of the Edward Teach Bar and Grill, parked in the one spot the outside lighting barely reached, turned off the engine, grabbed his hat, and slid out of the car.

  Hitched up his belt.

  Polished the toes of his black shoes on the back of his trouser legs.

  Then he hauled open the heavy oak door and stepped inside, holding his breath against the smoke, the smell of liquor, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

  Along the front and down the right wall were a dozen high-back booths, a dozen round tables stretching to the back in the floorspace on his right; the bar was on his left. The walls were paneled in rough dark cedar and cluttered with crossed sabres, netting, and prints of famous pirate ships. A low, raw-beamed ceiling, a pair of pool tables in back, dart boards on the back wall, sawdust on the bare-plank floor. Behind the bar, a huge skull-and-crossbones flag, and the thing he hated most—a six-foot gold cage that housed Pegleg, a grumpy, mangy parrot that dared people to feed him so he could bite their fingers off.

  One of these days, he promised himself, he was going to blow that friggin’ bird’s head off.

  A slow look around—not much to see, just a few drinkers, a few diners, no one at the games in back—a friendly nod to Ben Pellier, the owner and bartender, and when he was sure th
e general sobriety was high enough to preclude trouble for now, he moved to the bar, where Pellier met him. They exchanged polite greetings as the bigger man reached under the bar to pull out a paper bag slightly stained at the bottom.

  “Best fries in town,” Freck said, making sure the bag didn’t touch his uniform.

  “Glad you think so, Deputy.”

  Freck grinned, gave him a mock salute, and left. Took a welcome deep breath of the night’s cool air, returned to his patrol car, and before he slipped in, opened the bag and reached in, rooting among the greasy fries until his fingers touched the thick envelope at the bottom.

  Well, Ben, he thought, it looks like you get to live, you stupid bastard.

  He closed the bag and got in.

  A woman sat in the passenger seat.

  “Hey,” he said, tossing his hat and the bag into the back seat, checking the area to be sure no unwelcome eyes were watching.

  “Take me in, Deputy, I’ve been a bad girl.”

  After wiping his hand on a rag, he started the engine and backed quickly out of the lot. “Not as bad as you’re gonna be, honey.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she said, and when he finally looked over, he realized she wasn’t wearing a stitch.

  * * * *

  Ben Pellier scratched vigorously through his thick black beard, adjusted the black patch over his right eye, counted to thirty just to be sure Freck wouldn’t be returning, then ran a palm over the freckled hairless pate he washed and burnished every night before coming on duty, and said, “Mari Cribbs.”

  The four men at the bar gaped, then whooped with laughter. Money changed hands. High-fives were offered and accepted. One of them headed for the men’s room, staggering because he was laughing so hard. Two more settled their bill, wiped their eyes, and left. Still laughing.

  The last one counted his bill’s change as if it were all he had in the world, then carefully tucked it away in his jeans pocket. “How did you know?” he asked, sliding off his stool.

  Ben grinned and reminded him that less than an hour ago, there had been three women in the Teach, each of them alone. “They drink, two of them leave, Mariana said she’s afraid her daddy’s on the prowl tonight, can she use the back way.” He spread his hands—easy deduction. “I happen to know, though, that Daddy is on the mainland sucking up to the governor. And this is about the time Freck comes in every night. She was probably tucked in by the Dumpster.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “No, Rick, I am just a humble proprietor of a humble tavern who happens to have an eye for his customers.”

  The parrot squawked.

  Rick Jordan laughed again and waved over his shoulder as he headed for the exit, a faint limp in his right leg.

  Ben watched him go, sorry to see the young man leave so early. He liked Rick. A hard-working kid who just couldn’t seem to catch a break. Unlike that arrogant, son-of-a-bitching deputy, who was panting so hard for the sheriffs job Ben was surprised Oakman didn’t have to change his uniform twice a day, just to get rid of all that drool.

  On the other hand, life ain’t fair, especially these days.

  At least he was shut of Cutler for another month. Assuming Freck didn’t do something stupid with that money.

  After filling an order for one of his waitresses, he walked to the low end of the bar and stared at Pegleg. One black eye stared back at him.

  “What?” he said softly, sticking a scarred finger through the bars to stroke the bird’s back. “What’s the matter, Peg, you ain’t said a word all day.”

  All week, for that matter, he thought as he turned away. The vet claimed nothing was wrong, the old bird was just fine, but Ben knew better. Pegleg was one of the main reasons folks came in here, but no one had been able to get a rise out of him for days. Not even Billy Freck, who didn’t need to say a damn word, just walk in.

  Working on automatic, Ben washed glasses, checked the draft kegs, checked the levels of the liquor, wandered into the kitchen where he joked a while with his cook, Senior Raybourn, until Alma, his blessed wife, chased him out with a flap of her apron.

  The thing was, he didn’t want to stay behind the bar tonight.

  The thing was, if he did, he’d sooner or later have to look at that bird.

  Who would be sitting on his top perch. Still as an old statue.

  Staring at the door.

  Squawking softly to itself.

  * * * *

  3

  “Gone,” said Senior Raybourn, standing at the back door, watching the patrol car peel out of the lot, spitting gravel. He wiped his hands on his apron.

  “Good.” At the griddle Alma Pellier flipped a hamburger patty over and pressed it down, squeezing out the grease. “Can’t stand the man.”

  Raybourn agreed but kept it to himself. It didn’t always pay for the help to voice an opinion around here. Especially an old coot like himself. Especially an old black coot. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Alma or Ben; he did, without question. It was habit, that’s all; strong one, like breathing. Get to talking out of turn, you might do it in front of the customers, and the wrong person might hear. Like Mr. Deputy Kiss My Feet Freck. The Pelliers understood, and they knew him well enough to know what he was thinking anyway.

  Alma, her hair so pale some thought it was white, turned away from the stove and wiped a cloth over her face, sighed loudly, and headed for the front. “Keep an eye, Senior, okay? I want to talk to Ben.”

  Senior nodded, took his place at the stove, glancing over the order sheets, making sure everything was on track. No microwaves here. Ben insisted the food be cooked right, not warmed over, one of the reasons Senior liked working here. Some had called his skills magic, and that pleased him. Wasn’t magic, of course, just a lot of years’ practice. The real magic had been in Luella’s hands, but she was long gone now, trading recipes with angels; it was just him and his boy, Junior. He just plugged away best he could, and if folks liked what he done, praise the Lord, that was just fine with him.

  Check the griddle, check the oven, check the stove. Stubby fingers, short arms, a stomach that signaled he tested his cooking a little too often, a thin horseshoe of white hair around a perspiration-bright bald pate. A face scarred under the eyes and across the broad nose, signs of a time half a century ago when a Birmingham gang wielding razors had caught him alone in an alley.

  He and Luella had found the island by mistake. She’d called it God’s plan, and he hadn’t argued, and hadn’t left since. Now she was gone, only Junior to remind him she ever existed, and now he was afraid he’d lose the only real home he’d ever known.

  “Senior?” Alma at his side, tugging his elbow, concerned. “Senior, the burger’s charring. You okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry,” he said, shaking himself back.

  No, ma’am, he thought; I ain’t right at all.

  * * * *

  4

  There are three ways to get to Camoret Island when the weather is decent and the sea doesn’t mind:

  There is no airstrip, but seaplanes often land on the bay at South Hook—businessmen whose companies have the wherewithal and the ego, a handful of weekly tour excursions, and once in a while a private aircraft;

  by the sea itself, in chartered ships and fishing boats and those touring the Inland Waterway;

  and by the three-stage Camoret Causeway.

  The causeway’s first stage leads from the mainland to Hawkins Island—barren, mostly rock and scrub, a half-mile wide west to east. The second stage crosses the water to St. James—barren, mostly rock, a long, low pink-painted Quonset hut on either side of the road, both of them named Cutler’s Last Stop in script neon on the roof. If it can be made out of shells and the bleached bones of washed-ashore fish, Cutler sells it, and they serve as foul weather way stations for those who don’t want to take the last leg in rough seas.

  One lane in either direction, each half again as wide as an ordinary highway lane. The first two legs rise in easy humps over the
water to let all but the highest seas pass beneath it; the third leg is nearly flat, nearly a mile long, with sixty feet of rock and cement for shoulders, each shoulder’s oceanside edge bordered by fencing made of outward curving, thick iron pipes theoretically able to break up damaging waves before they swamp the road and wash it clear.

  On a grey day, a foggy or rainy day, if you sat at the western end, the traffic looked for all the world as if it were climbing out of the sea, speckled with water, straining for solid land.

  * * * *

  “Do you know how long it’s been?” Ronnie Hull said, sitting cross-legged in the bed of her pickup, a blanket around her shoulders, a wool cap pulled down snugly over her hair. So far, a steady breeze had kept insects from her face and hands, but she doubted that grace would last much longer.