Riders in the Sky - [Millennium Quartet 04] Read online

  Beside her in the roadside clearing, Rick Jordan sat on the lowered tailgate of his own truck, a much more dented, scratched, and beaten version of hers. “Haven’t a clue.”

  “A month,” she told him, then forced herself to cough to clear an obstruction in her throat. “At least a month.”

  They faced west, parked just out of reach of the two goose-neck streetlamps fixed on either side of the causeway’s end. The clear sky allowed them to see the low arc of mainland Georgia’s glow at the horizon, as if it were burning. Between here and there, however, there was only the night, and the longer they watched it, the more it shifted and rippled, a black satin curtain that rose out of the sea.

  Invisible waves slapped against the rocks and fallen trunks that lined the shore. Trees that lined the road whispered to themselves; something splashed in the marsh behind them; something flew overhead.

  Night noises.

  “Impossible,” he said.

  She glanced over, could barely see him. Working his boat had darkened his skin, sun glare and wind and the life that he led had added a few lines. Not yet thirty, four years younger than she, and he looked ten years older. Seemed that way, too, sometimes.

  “You can see for yourself.” She waved a clipboard at the causeway. “Almost a month, and once the sun goes down no one comes over.”

  He grunted.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You think I’m wrong?”

  “I think I don’t see what difference it made.” He shifted. “Who cares? So what?” He shifted again, and the track creaked, softly. “Ronnie, it’s a scary drive in the dark. I don’t do it myself when I can avoid it.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Guess I don’t.”

  “Rick, pay attention—when the sun goes down, the island’s cut off.”

  He said nothing for a long time, then: “Actually, you’re wrong, you know.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What about the newspaper?”

  She glared at him and looked away. “Okay. So the paper gets delivered. But nothing else, Rick. No one else.”

  When he didn’t respond right away, she pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders and stared at the causeway. Four times in the past five months, the delivery truck made it this far before, according to the various drivers, a bunch of drunks whooping and yollering stopped it and grabbed most of the bundles. No one was hurt, and one of the drivers even thought it was kind of funny.

  She didn’t.

  No delivery meant no sales, and no sales ...

  Finally, after the last incident, she had made it a point to bring herself and her rifle here each delivery night. If the Teagues tried it again, they were going to be in for a seriously unpleasant surprise.

  And Rick, the poor sweet dope, had volunteered to keep her company.

  “Spooky, though,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the causeway.

  Yes, she thought, it is.

  But it’s not so spooky that somebody, some time, wouldn’t make the trip.

  * * * *

  Night noises:

  In a patrol car parked behind a dune on the beach, squeals and giggles and a long muffled groan;

  In the kitchen above the newspaper office, the soft ticking of an oven clock and the buzz of a cooking-done alarm;

  In the sheriffs department office, the mutter of static on the dispatch radio, and cards slapping on a desk, a complicated game of solitaire that’s been running for weeks;

  At the marina, boats rock and creak at their moorings;

  On the beach, the steady paced crunch of boots in the sand;

  Over the island the distant rumble of an airliner heading for Atlanta;

  In the Edward Teach, an old parrot in a gold cage, staring at the door and squawking softly to itself.

  * * * *

  5

  1

  A

  lmost autumn; close to midnight.

  A cold wind blows off Lake Erie, hushing through stunted grass that fights to live a little longer; an arrowhead of geese calls under the stars, soon followed by a flock of ducks whose calls aren’t quite so lonely; a streak of pale smoke from a wood stove, a curling plume from a fireplace, a stubborn mist that floats at the base of a dead tree, resisting the wind, shredding anyway.

  An L-shaped motel on a small country road not far from a small town that crawls up a small hill; twelve units in all, slowly filling with hunters asleep long ago after filling the bar; one open door, one light in a room large enough for two beds, a chest of drawers, a table and chair, no more; backed to the door is a large dusty car, its trunk open, the bulb burned out six months ago and never replaced; the interior roof light is on because the passenger door is open, and exhaust puffs from the tailpipe in time to the soft grumbling engine.

  And on the car radio, barely loud enough to hear, a man sings of cattle whose brands are still burning and whose eyes are made of fire.

  * * * *

  2

  A tall man the dark contrives to make much thinner than he is slams the trunk lid shut and winces at the sound. A silent apology to no one in particular, and he slides in behind the wheel, rubbing his hands together, adjusting the dashboard vents to catch as much warmth as he can.

  The room light turns off, the door closes, and a moment later a woman takes her place beside him and watches their breath begin to fog the windshield.

  “Are you sure, John?” she asks, Louisiana clear and smooth in her voice.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the pizza. I ate too damn much.”

  They watch the road beyond the parking lot, but nothing passes, nothing moves.

  “I have to tell you something,” she says, still looking straight ahead.

  “Okay.”

  “I think... I think I’m more scared now than I was before.”

  He doesn’t answer; he can’t.

  They watch the road, listen to the geese.

  “John.”

  “Lisse, I couldn’t tell you any more than I already have.”

  “It’s been almost two years.”

  “Ah.” He reaches out, takes her hand, squeezes it, lets it go. “You want to know why now, right?”

  “I want to know why anytime.”

  “I couldn’t answer that one either.”

  He reaches out, turns on the headlamps, turns the parking lot grey. Waits for her to tell him to turn them back off, unpack the car, let’s get inside where it’s warmer, where we can go to sleep and forget about driving in the middle of the night to a place we’ve never seen except in a dream.

  His dream.

  If she asks, he will do it.

  And he knows she won’t.

  She won’t because they’ve seen too much together, been through too much, watched too many people die in more ways than one; she won’t because she’s seen the carrion crows with the bright blue eyes; she won’t because she’s seen what a nightmare can do when it doesn’t wait for sleep.

  She won’t because she’s listened to the tapes John had made while writing his book. Interview tapes of murderers waiting to die. Tapes of murderers who killed dozens, friends and family and strangers, for no other reason than just because they were in the mood.

  One of them was John’s father-in-law.

  “Well.” John rubs his eyes, rubs his shoulders, pretends to slap himself awake. “Into the breach, I guess.”

  “Whatever you say, Prez.”

  He snarls.

  She laughs. His height, the way his unruly hair strikes his brow, those deep-set eyes and slightly high rasping voice ... once, in college theater, he had been given the part of a young Abe Lincoln, and the resemblance had been so uncanny he had been tagged “Prez” until he graduated. He probably wouldn’t have minded, but she’s seen how people look at him oddly once in a while, trying to place the face, thinking they know him, or somebody like him.

  Untrue.

  As far as she knew there is nobod
y in the world like John Bannock.

  Who else, she wonders, has a son who causes famine?

  * * * *

  He puts his hands on the steering wheel, thinks again about not going, and shakes his head. Not because he has no choice. Not because he’s as frightened as Lisse. Not because he believes he’s finally gone insane.

  He has a choice, but it doesn’t matter.

  There’s only one place to go, and once he finds it he knows that he’ll find explanations. That’s all he wants. Peace, and explanations.

  Finally he leans over awkwardly and kisses her cheek, settles himself and releases the brake. The car drifts onto the highway, drifts almost silently in its lane until at last he feeds it gas, and the motel is left behind.

  Lisse turns off the radio; there’s nothing there now but murmuring static. “Will he be there do you think?”

  “He better be.”

  “Will he know you? You only met him... what, twice?”

  “Something like that.” He grins. “Terribly auspicious. It was on death row, in Rahway Prison, in the lovely and hospitable Garden State of New Jersey.”

  “Now there’s a recommendation.”

  What he doesn’t remind her of is the phone call, the one at the hotel in New Orleans where he had met her, when Casey Chisholm called him and said, “God help you, John. God help you, you’re marked.”

  And disappeared.

  Until last night, in the dream, and John saw him again and couldn’t explain why, but he knew they had to leave.

  Miles later she yawns and groans and whispers, “I love you.”

  He glances at her in mock horror. “Uh-oh, that means trouble.”

  She punches his arm, “No, that wisecrack answer means you got to tell me the truth.”

  “Who said?”

  “An old bayou tradition. You don’t say ‘I love you’ back, you got to give me an answer and it’s got to be the truth.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Lisse.”

  “Good.”

  “So what’s the question?”

  No sound but the engine, and the old tires on the road.

  “Are we going to die?”

  * * * *

  6

  1

  A

  lmost autumn; between midnight and dawn.

  Two different cars on two different roads—one moving slowly, the other taking its time. One travels in moonlight that’s lifeless, cold, and damp, the other through a rainstorm that produces no wind; one crosses a prairie speckled with early snow, the other climbs a wooded hill while the valley below burns end to end.

  They travel at an hour that has no real name. Some call it Saturday morning, the rest call it Friday night.

  It didn’t matter.

  It’s the dead time.

  * * * *

  2

  The prairie doesn’t seem quite so wide in the dark, its expanse not so forbidding.

  A good thing, too, because the driver is bloody sick and damn tired of looking at a horizon that’s always too damn far away. Her fingers are stiff from gripping the steering wheel, her butt is numb from sitting so long, her brain is on automatic because she dares not think too hard about too much. She and her companions have been on the road for just over a year, spending almost all their money, taking jobs to make more to spend more, finally returning to the city they had fled. Just in case. Just in case she was wrong.

  She hadn’t been.

  In fact, she knew she hadn’t been, but for months all that thinking and dreaming and wondering and grieving for the loss of her husband had almost convinced her that she had made a huge mistake. That she, and those with her, were truly destined to remain in Las Vegas, let the rest of the world take care of itself.

  Wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  The dreams, when they began, were at first only unnerving. Then frightening. Then terrifying. Then ... revealing and oddly comforting.

  On the road again, she sings silently to herself; I can’t wait to get back on the road again.

  A bitter snort of a laugh. A fearful glance around to see if she’s disturbed the others. A self-pitying sigh because no one asks her what’s the matter, are you okay, Beatrice, is everything okay?

  No, she answers anyway, everything is not okay, but thanks for asking.

  Beside her a woman sleeps, her head resting against the window. Her face is covered with a soft cotton veil that begins just below her eyes, and every so often, in her dreams, she twitches, moans, a finger brushing the veil as if making sure it’s still there. In the backseat are two girls, one now twelve, the other now thirteen, with the most improbable names the driver has ever heard in her life— Moonbow and Starshine. Equally improbable is the way they’ve managed to sleep for so long, curled tightly against each other, making no noise at all.

  The driver smiles, flexes her fingers, ducks and twists and tilts her head to stretch and ease her neck, rubs each shoulder in turn.

  Once in a while, although not so frequently anymore, she turns to say something to her husband, and it isn’t until she sees the veil that she remembers that her husband’s gone. That she’s a widow. That he was murdered.

  She blinks each time, and bites softly on her lower lip. These days there are no tears; they were shed and are gone. These days there’s only anger, the only reason she’s in the car, forever driving.

  In the morning the girls will wake and want to know if they’re there yet.

  In the morning she’ll have to tell them that she doesn’t know.

  She has to force herself to remember how long it’s been since they left Las Vegas for the second time, and most of the time she doesn’t bother because it doesn’t matter. A month, a year, who cares, her husband is dead, and so is the man who tried to save him, and all that’s left now is the progression of the sun, rise and set, and the procession of traffic that passes them every day, and the wondering if this town, this city, this farm, this crossroads, will be the place.

  If her husband were here, he’d know.

  But he’s not.

  All she can do is head east.

  And trust the dreams.

  * * * *

  3

  On the far side of the hill, the sky glowing above it in spite of the rain, the road becomes a switchback, and the driver takes it slowly, carefully, wondering why in hell they just didn’t make the thing straight. Up and over, none of this twisting and turning and mentally crossing a few fingers that some idiot isn’t barreling down on her from the opposite direction because, really, there’s no place to pull over. No shoulders, just trees, and a narrow two-lane road.

  Actually she doesn’t really mind it, but it seems such a waste, all that work following someone’s pioneer winding trail instead of heading directly into the next valley, no curves, no obstacles; they haven’t even named the road, so the pioneer’s work was all for nothing.

  She sighs.

  She sniffs.

  The rain eases, and mist begins to form tiny clouds that drift between the tree trunks onto the road.

  Beside her, a large woman bundled in a green coat hums softly in time to the windshield wipers’ sweep. Some kind of gospel tune, the driver supposes, but she doesn’t know what it is, and she doesn’t want to ask because Eula Korrey, for some damn reason or other, expects them to know the name of every blessed tune in the book, and spirals off into a pouting huff when she discovers they don’t.

  And don’t particularly care.

  A soft noise behind her, and she checks the rearview mirror. She can’t see very well, there are no lights along the road, but she can make out a small figure tucked under a blanket. On the back shelf is a cowboy hat; she has a feeling the little guy has left his boots on.

  “Be dreaming,” Eula says quietly, white-gloved hands folded in her lap.

  “I guess so.”

  “You know what he dreams of?”

  “No, and I don’t ask.”

  Eula shifts, and the driver, whose name is Susan, sees
a flicker of pain across the woman’s gleaming black face.

  “You still aching? It’s been over a year.”