Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01] Page 9

  There were no tree frogs.

  * * * *

  8:45 p.m.

  Casey wondered if, in canon law, there was a loophole which would, when activated, permit him to strangle a bride-to-be. It was wishful, no doubt sinful, thinking, but he couldn’t help it.

  From the moment Mabel had walked into his office, it was clear this wasn’t going to go as well as it should have. Moss was no help, either. All he did was sit there and grin, nod, and grin again.

  They sat in the easy chairs, Mabel with her hands prim in her lap, Moss suited, slouched, and comfortable, his bald head gleaming as if he’d just shaved it. Which, Casey figured, he probably had.

  On the desk was a typewritten schedule of the way Mabel wanted the service to go. When he glanced at it a third time, just to be sure it said what he feared it did, she smiled warmly.

  “You like it?”

  He leaned back, the gold cross sliding across his chest. Since returning from what Kay had called his “rounds,” he hadn’t had a chance to change. He should have. He should have changed into a Corvette and sped the hell out of here.

  “Well?”

  “Mabe,” he said, careful with his tone, “while this is certainly an...original concept—’’

  “They told me, you know.” She looked to Moss, who nodded solemn agreement. “Told me how it was to be. To make it right.”

  “Yes. Well, be that as it may, I’m afraid...” He made sure his expression and slight shake of his head implied strong regret as well as sympathy. “Let’s put it simply, okay? No sense beating around the bush. There are specific liturgical reasons why, for example, I can’t wear ...” Beneath the level of the desk, his right hand dug into his thigh, to keep the laughter stillborn. “Silver.”

  Mabel’s hands fussed in her lap. “But they said, Reverend.”

  “I’m sure they did, Mabe. But you have to understand that, while I’m allowed a lot of flexibility here, there are some things I’m forced to stick with. My robes are one of them.”

  Disappointment pushed her back into the chair, and she stared at the ceiling while working her lower lip between her teeth. Moss nodded, and Casey took a second to glare a scolding at him for going along with this nonsense. The man only winked, with the eye away from his intended.

  Okay; he was on his own, no help from the groom. He cleared his throat and sat up.

  “Look, Mabe, consider it like this: your friends want more than anything to understand us, am I right?”

  “Of course, Reverend. It’s not like they want to zap us or anything.” Her lips twisted in disgust. “That’s only in those stupid movies you see on TV.”

  “Of course. So what better way to know how we think, how we feel, than to witness one of the Lord’s most solemn ceremonies?” He spread his hands to encompass both the schedule and his Bible. “Marriage is a sacrament. And since it’s the first time for both of you, my own feeling, without meaning any offense, is to do it up brown, as my momma used to say. Full-blast organ, my fanciest vestments, fresh flowers all over the place, bridesmaids and red carpet... and when it’s done, we’ll ring those bells right out of the belfry. Mabe, I guarantee you there won’t be a town up and down the river that won’t know what’s going on and won’t be celebrating right along with you.” He looked squarely at Moss. “And you, you lucky dog, you’re going to be absolutely amazing in your morning coat.”

  “My what?”

  “Tuxedo, silly,” Mabe told him, close enough to giggling to make Casey wince. “It’s a kind of tuxedo you wear in the daytime, ain’t that right, Reverend?”

  He nodded.

  Mabel shifted to the edge of the cushion. “What about the music?”

  “Your choice, darlin’,” he said. “Fancy classical, traditional, contemporary, a combination . . . just let Helen know so she can start practicing.”

  There was a moment, then, when he thought he had put his big foot square in his equally big mouth. The two women weren’t exactly the best of friends, although he didn’t know why, and he hoped mention of Helen didn’t ruin the spell.

  Mabel smiled sweetly. “Of course. I’ll head on over as soon as I get changed.” She stood, gripping her small purse in both hands. “Reverend, I can’t thank you enough.”

  He rose, waited for Moss to get glumly to his feet, and guided them into the church rather than the short hall that led to the vestibule. He wanted her to see it as it would be—the carpet, the flowers, the afternoon sunlight through the stained glass, and to hear the music soaring to the rafters. He could tell by her eyes she was doing just that. He said nothing. He followed them up the aisle, bade them good-bye at the inner door, and watched as they left.

  Then he faced the altar. “Lord, forgive me, I am shameless, and I know it. But if You’ll forgive me again, no way am I going to wear a silver spaceman jumpsuit.”

  * * * *

  9:15 p.m.

  Arlo sat at a corner table, watching Bobby the Beautiful Barmaid wipe down the bar as she chatted with two couples who had thought they could cross the river here, and had decided to stop for a drink before finding their way back to civilization. Polo shirts. Bermuda shorts. Colors he thought had died with his flashbacks. Matching tennis shoes, for crying out loud. They flashed the green, though, so as long as they didn’t start singing, he supposed he could stand them a while longer. Besides, the men had their eyes practically glued to Bobby’s chest and the buttons that barely held her white shirt together, which was why he had hired her in the first place, not being exactly young anymore but not being a total idiot either. The fact that she could run the business better than him was, he figured, a miraculous bonus.

  His left hand ran a quarter deftly over his knuckles, around his fingers. It happened automatically; he was barely aware he was doing it. Parlor tricks he could do in his sleep if he had to.

  A glance around, and he sighed contentedly.

  The other tables were taken, two dozen or more locals stopping by after strolling in the unaccustomed cool or finishing a late meal and sick of reruns on the tube. The Weavers on the jukebox, crossing the River Jordan. Concert posters on the wall, Jimi Hendrix and Janis. Joan Baez and scruffy Bob, harmonica forever caught in his mouth. Look up and there’s a faded white peace sign painted across the whole ceiling.

  It promised to be a quiet night.

  Until a man came in, open-neck shirt, slacks, polished oxfords. He found Arlo right away and walked over, sat without speaking, and stared.

  “Peace,” Arlo said calmly.

  “Up yours, too, Mackey.” A man of clear Hispanic descent, with a sharp widow’s peak, and a long face pocked with the scars of a hard adolescence. Long fingers that slipped around Arlo’s beer bottle and brought it to him. Arlo did nothing but signal to Bobby to bring him another pair.

  “Christ,” the man said. “It’s dark in here.”

  “The better to see you with, my dear.”

  The man grimaced and drank, and said nothing more until Bobby had brought the order and left. Then he emptied his bottle, picked up another and used it to point.

  “Now you listen to me, you old fart.” Voice low, smooth, a crocodile’s smile. “My office got a call this afternoon from that doctor—what’s his name, Farber?—wanting to know how come he’s getting money and there’s nobody in his house.”

  “A natural question for a man who rents property.”

  “He wanted to know what was going on.”

  “A natural question.”

  The bottle pointed again, beer slopping from the mouth. “A natural question, you shithead, investigators will be asking when this is over. You were supposed to be writing letters, remember? You were supposed to be covering.”

  Arlo’s expression didn’t change. “You drove all this way, man, just to tell me that?’’

  The man sneered as he fingered the top button of his shirt. “Look, you screw this up, hero, you aren’t going to converge with Arizona or Mars, you understand? That’s what I came to this dump to
tell you. In fucking person.”

  Arlo shook his head sadly. “Bad vibes, man, bad vibes.” He gestured toward the Make Love Not War posters on the walls, the lava lamp on the table between them. “A place of peace, that’s what this is. I don’t like anybody disturbing my place of peace.”

  The man laughed without mirth. “Shit, where you’re going, you old fart, if you screw me over, you’ll get all the frigging peace you want, comprendé?” He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So what’re you going to do about it, huh? How you going to fix this?”

  The move was smooth and unhurried.

  Arlo snatched the bottle from the man’s hand and brought it down alongside his skull. Unlike the movies, the bottle didn’t break; unlike the movies, there was blood on the table as the man slipped to the floor.

  “Bobby,” he called in the midst of the resulting confusion, “get hold of Doc Farber, okay?” He looked at the floor. “Seems this dude has had himself an accident.”

  * * * *

  9:35 p.m.

  They sat on the bench under the fringed awning at Tully’s, Reed on the end, Nate beside him, Cora and Rina on the other end. Watching the street wind down. Watching the heads in the Moonglow. Micah Lambert drove up in his pickup, parked in front of Mackey’s and waved to them as he walked in.

  “I. Am. So. Bored!” Cora announced. “Why didn’t we go to the movies?”

  Nate stretched out his legs. “Because we went last weekend, and there isn’t anything new playing.”

  “You’re so lame, Dane.” She plucked at her T-shirt. Despite the night, the heat had crept back, and with it the humidity that encased the streetlamps in faint fog. “That’s not the point.”

  Nate shifted, but Reed nudged him, don’t bother, she’s still pissed we got caught. He sat forward, clasping his hands, resting his arms on his thighs. He couldn’t get Dimitri out of his mind, the kid’s fright and his flight. That wasn’t like him. Maybe he was too pretty to be a boy, but Reed and Nate had spent a long time teaching him to defend himself. Which, as they’d seen in the grade school yard, he could do pretty well for a shrimp his size.

  So what had frightened him so much?

  “So the least you nerds could do is buy us something to eat.”

  “Not hungry;” Nate said, and glowered when Reed nudged him again. “What?”

  Reed puffed his cheeks in exasperation. Nate was his best friend, and could, like the Reverend says, shoot the eye out of a gnat flying south on an eagle, but sometimes he was so dense, Reed wanted to scream. Didn’t he see the way Rina looked at him? Christ, did she have to strip in the middle of the street to get his attention? It wasn’t like he already had a girlfriend, for God’s sake, was it?

  He blinked.

  Did he?

  Nate said, “You know, I’ve seen The Thing, the Carpenter one, nine times?” He snapped his fingers. “And I’ve seen the giant-carrot one almost twenty.”

  “Life,” Reed muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Life.’ “

  “What about it?”

  Reed looked at him. “Get one, for God’s sake.”

  Cora stood and stretched, making sure they saw how much flesh she could expose between the cut-off T-shirt and her shorts without exposing too much. Then she moved to the curb and wrapped an arm around a lamppost. “I think we ought to try again.”

  Reed’s head snapped up. “Oh, no. No way.”

  “Well, we know he’s not home now, right? He’s sitting right over there with Gorn and the slut.”

  “Her name is Tessa,” Nate said stiffly. “She isn’t a slut.”

  “Oh, right.” Cora swung around the post. “She walks around in halter-tops all day, her boobs practically right out there, and I’ve seen her practically throw herself into Odam’s lap a zillion times.” She spat dryly. “You guys are so dense, you know?”

  “I think ...” Rina said quietly. “I think Nate’s right.”

  “Oh, Jesus, you too?” She spun around twice and flopped to the curb, elbows on her knees, hands on her cheeks.

  “Thanks,” Nate said.

  Reed wanted to strangle him. Thanks? That’s it? He turned slightly and tried to catch his friend’s eye. What was wrong with him? But Nate refused to look; instead, he hooked his left foot onto his leg and started to pick at the sole of his deck shoe. Reed saw Rina shift. Tall, too skinny for his taste, with long brown hair parted in the middle and hanging straight down to the middle of her spine. As long as he had known her, she had never worn anything as tight as Cora did, or as revealing. Everything hung on her loose and easy.

  Nate found his shoe too fascinating for words.

  “So, Rina,” Reed said loudly, “did Nate tell you how he single-handedly saved that lady the other day? The one the guy nearly drowned?”

  Rina looked at him shyly, hair falling over her eye. “No.”

  “Who cares?” Cora said. She nodded toward the clinic across the street, a small stucco building, three windows and all of them lighted. “I want to know who smashed that guy.”

  “So go ask,” he said.

  “Maybe I will.”

  He made a face—big deal—and tried to get Nate to tell the story. He had heard it a million times already, but he figured that even if Rina had heard it too, she would want to hear it from Nate anyway. The way it was going, though, neither one of them was going to say anything. Unless the jerk started on movies again.

  Cora rose, dusting her rump slowly. “I’m going over.”

  “Okay.” He grinned when she looked. “I’ll watch for the cops.”

  She stuck out her tongue, said, “You coming?” to Rina, and started across the street.

  Rina didn’t move.

  Reed scratched through his hair, wondering what Cora was trying to prove. At least she had dropped the idea of trying to get back at Reverend Chisholm. What she hadn’t been able to see was that their colossal failure had been funny. Sneaking through the woods, sneaking up to the porch, and getting the crap scared out of them when Reverend Chisholm jumped up like that. He wouldn’t admit it, but he had almost pissed his pants. That voice booming out of the dark, just like on Sundays. No microphones for him; he could probably be heard all the way to Philadelphia.

  What he didn’t get was this thing she had against the minister. It was getting a little intense; it made him uneasy. The main reason he had gone along the other night was to keep her out of trouble—Cora Bowes, walking in the woods alone, would have probably ended up in the river. For a kid who had lived here most of her life, she had absolutely no sense, or sense of direction.

  “What happened, Nate?” Rina asked, sliding over an inch.

  Reed stood, ignoring Nate’s panicked expression. “Don’t leave anything out, okay? I’m gonna see Cora doesn’t get into trouble.”

  He trotted across the street, watching as Cora hopped over the curb and stood indecisively for a moment before ducking into the trees in the wooded lot beside it. He rolled his eyes and followed, knowing she had heard when she jerked a look back. She didn’t stop. She eased closer to the drive that separated the lot from the clinic, aiming for a lighted window at the rear corner.

  That’s all the light there was.

  Nothing else but trees and shadow.

  He stood behind her, relieved and disappointed that the blinds were closed; they couldn’t see a thing.

  She leaned into him, taking his right hand, pulling it to her stomach. Raised it a little. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  He held his breath.

  She twisted her head around; he could almost see her face.

  “We could do it right here, and nobody would notice.”

  A little higher.

  “Cora...”

  She pressed her buttocks into his groin.

  His hand drifted farther across her stomach, and there was faint buzzing in his ears. He pressed, she sighed, and suddenly winced and broke away.

  “What?” he said. Head down,
she headed for the street, but he caught her arm. “What?”

  When she looked up, he couldn’t see her eyes, but he could see the tears.

  “He hit you again, didn’t he.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Never where anyone could see it, she had told him once, swearing him to secrecy; never where anyone could see and make a fuss. Which was why she was with Rina tonight— she’d be spending the night there.

  He took her hand and squeezed it, let her lead him out of the trees and up the street, away from Nate and Rina, Nate’s hands gesturing while Rina’s floated around her hair and lap.