Riders In The Sky Part 35

5.

"Bulls.h.i.+t!"

They had turned around, late morning sun now in their faces, shadows trailing behind. No one had said anything until Cora, her face red, her hands bunched into quivering fists, took a few running steps, turned, and walked backward, her face twisted in anger.

"That's bulls.h.i.+t, Re-Chisholm. You don't just hang it up just because ..." She spit dryly to one side. "All this time for nothing? We were ... all this time for G.o.dd.a.m.n nothing?" She shook her head violently, faced forward. "No," she yelled at the sky. "No, that's bulls.h.i.+t!"

Reed had drifted away from his side.

John and his lady had done the same.

He didn't know what else to say. He was more sorry than they could imagine that they had come all this way for nothing, to hear his sad story. It was frustrating because they clearly believed there was something he was supposed to do. And whatever that was, they would have a part in it. They couldn't possibly know how often he'd sat on the porch at night, smoking, having a beer, trying to figure out the same thing for himself.

He knew what was happening.

His part in it, however, had ended years ago.

Reed hurried to catch up to Cora, saying something to her, Cora shaking her head vehemently, shaking off the hand he tried to put on her arm.

They were, he thought suddenly, so old. So d.a.m.ned old. The last time he had seen them they had been teenagers, priming themselves for graduation, for letting loose on the world what energy and dreams they had. And now their journey, whatever they had suffered, had stolen all that. Had brought them to him.

And he couldn't heal them.

He couldn't give them back what they had lost.

He should have been angry. He should have demanded an explanation of their expectations so he could ... what, Casey? Tell them how wrong they've been? Tell them what a waste of time this was?

He slowed. No anger, only a deep wrenching sadness that settled on his shoulders and made his chest and legs heavy. That made him stare at the ground as he walked, because the sun was too d.a.m.n bright in his eyes.

Lisse moved on to catch up with the kids-he couldn't think of them as anything but that-and John couldn't find anything useful to do with his hands. They burrowed into his pockets, fussed with his hair, rubbed his face, his chest, the back of his neck.

Casey couldn't stand it any longer. "You think it's bulls.h.i.+t, too?"

Bannock shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know because I don't know what's going on, not really."

"Yeah, you do."

A lopsided smile. "Then maybe I still don't want to believe it."

"No one does, John. It's the nature of the beast."

At the top of the bend they watched the others talking in the street. Cora pulling at the ragged cut she'd made of her hair, as if demonstrating a sacrifice she'd made, Reed hanging back as he spoke to Lisse, Lisse herself bowing her head and kicking at invisible pebbles on the tarmac.

As Casey approached, they separated, Cora glaring defiantly at him.

"I am not," she said, "staying in there." She pointed at his house.

Casey nodded his understanding, held up a hand to keep her where she was, and went inside, opened a kitchen drawer, and pulled out two sets of keys. Back on the street he tossed one to her. "These are for that one," he said, indicating with his chin the house directly across from his. The other set he gave to John, told him he could stay in the house next to his.

"The electricity and water are still on. Bedclothes and things are up to you, for however long you plan to stay."

"What about the owner?" Reed asked, his tone anxious to keep things calm.

"He won't care. And if he does, I'll fix it."

Cora immediately went to John's car and stood at the trunk impatiently, until John unlocked it. She grabbed a battered duffel bag from inside and lugged it across the street. "Come on, Reed. Let's see what we've got."

With an apologetic shrug, he grabbed his own bag and followed.

Casey couldn't think of anything to say despite the urge to run after them and shake them both until they at least pretended they understood.

Then, at the foot of the porch steps, Cora turned and yelled, "Hey, Chisholm, I forgot-merry Christmas!" before she disappeared inside.

He didn't move.

He didn't respond.

Without bothering to close the trunk lid, Lisse took the keys from John and drove the car down to the house they would use. After she parked, she only looked back once before beginning the ch.o.r.e of unpacking her own things, pausing as she did to watch a pair of black-mask gulls soar low over the yard, complaining to themselves.

John poked at the hedge, pulled his hand back with a mild curse. "Sharp," he said.

Casey smiled. "That's what thorns do."

"Yeah. I guess so." He examined a drop of blood gleaming on the heel of his hand, wiped it off on his coat and stepped away, his head darting toward him and away like a bird examining something odd on the ground.

"Think of this, Casey," he said at last. "I had my son, and you had that woman."

Don't, Casey thought.

"We both know which one is riding now. No brain surgery there."

Don't.

"But did you ever wonder if there was somebody else? When you heard about all those people dying in the streets, all those old folks and all those children, did you ever wonder if there was someone marked for the one who spread the disease? Now that you've seen me, are you wondering if that person, whoever it is, if that one survived too?"

Casey finally looked at him, his expression blank, uncaring.

"We're here, Casey. G.o.d knows why, but we're here. What are you going to do if that other one shows up? Are you going to tell him that he's wasted his time too?"

"Not my problem anymore," he said flatly. "And it's not yours either."

John walked away, half turned as he did, and said, "Maybe so. Maybe you're right. I'll believe you a lot better, though, if you can tell me with a straight face that you haven't heard the horses."

PART 5.

1.

1.

T.

he car was so dark it seemed to absorb the night.

When it reached the first leg of the Camoret Causeway, the driver said, "Just a few more minutes, Mr. Stone."

In the backseat a man held a crystal gla.s.s half filled with rye. In his more playful moments, he called it rotgut, just to see if anyone knew what he was talking about. He wore a dark suit, a dark cashmere topcoat, on the seat beside him a derby he brushed clean every night. The suit was Saville Row, the shoes Italian, the s.h.i.+rt French, the leather gloves Spanish, the watch one of a kind from a small shop in Montreal.

"Remind me," he said, his voice baritone smooth.

"Cutler," the driver answered. "Norville Cutler. His partner is the mayor, Jasper Cribbs. An obstacle to what they implied was a land development deal. An old man and his r.e.t.a.r.ded son."

"An old black man, right?"

"Yes."

Stone held the gla.s.s up, examined its contents. "Are we politically correct these days, Dutch?"

The driver's laugh was a series of high-pitched chokes and wheezes.

"I didn't think so. I a.s.sume they have local boys?"

"Yes, sir, they do. Apparently, not as effective as they'd like."

"Obviously." He took a sip, and mock-shuddered. "Is there a timetable?"

"They'd prefer Monday."

"What's the matter with tomorrow?"

"It's Christmas."

"So?"

The driver shrugged.

"And I suppose the next day is out because it's Sunday."

"I suppose so, sir."

"Oh well. They pay the bills, they can call some of the shots." He laughed. "As it were."

The car slid over Hawkins Island and rumbled onto the next leg. Starlight shone off the sea on either side; Camoret's lights shone like stars straight ahead.

"The local law," the man said.

"A sheriff who's on his way to retirement."

"Ah, my favorite kind."

"One deputy on our side, the others too scared to stand one way or the other."

"Ah, my favorite kind."

The driver wheeze-laughed. .

"Local opposition?"

"We're not going to be lynched, sir, if that's what you mean. Evidently there's been a lot of noise, the usual kind-people complaining about land being taken off the tax rolls, suspected big money moving to take over the island, a few editorials in a weekly newspaper not big enough to wrap a fish in ... that's about it."

"This," the man said, "is almost too easy." He took another sip. "We'd best be careful, Dutch. We don't want to get overconfident or careless."

"No, sir."

"Right. So turn on the radio."

"It'll still be Christmas carols."

"I don't care. I'm in a good mood now. They won't spoil it. In fact, I'm feeling right in the mood."

When they reached St. James Island, the man looked at the Quonset hut stores on either side of the road, his lips pursed in distaste at the hot pink paint and signs. "The same Cutler, Dutch?"

"I think so."

"Call him."

The driver used one hand to dial a number on a cell phone, then handed it over his shoulder. The man in back took it with murmured thanks and held it to his ear, sipping as he waited for the connection to be made.